I prepared as I always do, dressing in clothes appropriate for practicing high magic. I avoided metal where I could, even substituting my traditional bra with steel fasteners for the pull-on sports variety. Over that went a fitted button down tee shirt. I insisted on blue jeans, although they had brass buttons, zippers and rivets. Brass isn’t as offensive as ferrous metals, and a pair of modest panties ensured I could shuck the jeans if absolutely necessary.
Sports socks, canvas sneakers and my ASCI hat rounded out the outfit. I’d found the hat at the American Sports Center International and as a computer programmer thought that the block letters were funny (ASCII stood for American Standard Code for Information Interchange in my line of work.) I’m a computer programmer but only 9-5. On my own time I’m Draoi. One of the wise. And this is how I dress. Sorry to disappoint, but wizards do not wear robes and pointy hats. Anyone who tells you different is lying. High and common magic alike are best practiced in comfortable clothing.
I threw a few items into my backpack: a ziplock full of cemetery dirt, sports bottle containing virgin water, deflated latex party balloon (red) and a small box of kitchen matches represented the four classical elements. For the eldritch tools I needed a sword, staff, cup and coin. Rather than a literal sword, my Grandfather’s swiss army knife served as my blade. It’s cold iron, true, but Intended as a tool rather than a weapon, so that helps. Besides, some things just can’t be avoided. I didn’t have a staff, but rather a wand shaped from a broken softball bat. Ash works particularly well. For my cup or chalice I stowed an old chipped ceramic mug proclaiming the bearer "World’s best Mom." I’d bought it for my mother years ago, but it found it’s way back to me after the cancer took her. The last tool is referred to as a coin, or disk but shield would be more accurate. Many practitioners simply use a symbolic shield since real ones are hard to acquire and transport. Pentacle amulets are effective, but I had found something with more Intention in it then that. An old US Marshal badge off eBay. It incorporated both the pentagram and shield designs and was Intended to represent protection.
A canister of Morton’s iodized salt and some chalk for casting circles rounded out my magical gear, but I also needed to prepare my spirit and body. That was accomplished with some trail mix, and a pair of headphones leading to my iPhone.
"Play," I instructed the device, and at once the soothing tones of the Wallflowers seemed to fill the space between my ears, washing away the cobwebs. My father named me Dillon after his favorite artist, but where Dylan’s are concerned I prefer Jacob to Bob.
Checking the mirror on the way out always makes me sigh. God might not make lonely girls, but lots of us end up that way. After 21 years of practice I still couldn’t get my hair right. It was straight and limp, perpetually caught in that awkward stage where it was too long to leave down and too short to put up. Too brown for blonde and too light for brown it just came off as dirty -- which it wasn’t, honest. I stuffed it under my ball cap. My tiny square wire-rims made me look bookish as they sat on a button of a nose that could at best be described as cute. The sports bra flattened my already unimpressive chest, and I was too thin to have appropriately feminine curves. At five-two the thin didn’t come off as lithe, but rather as small.
I’m not beautiful. I’m not even pretty. Not ugly either, just average. Unnoticeably average. I was never asked to the dances in High School. Today however I had been asked.
Saturdays were usually my day to study magic, either with my Book of Whispers, or with Valentine, my tutor. I wasn’t sure if Valentine was his first name or his last. I was scheduled to meet him later this morning. Dawn actually, but that left about an hour of darkness. Now I was on my way to a dance. I wouldn’t actually dance myself - that was far too dangerous, but there were few mortals that had the opportunity to even watch damhsa sídhe. I had found their mushroom circle a month ago, and patience had earned me a glimpse. The sídhe love to dance, and even more so when a mortal is involved although mortals often danced to their deaths. Faeries are not usually evil... just sort of unaware of the mortal condition. Our need for food, water and rest is quickly overrun by their music and magic. I would accept their invitation but only so far as to watch.
I slung my backpack into place and headed out into the early morning darkness. Excitement soon had me jogging toward the nearby park with its mushroom ring and dancing.
The local park was a small affair, maybe five acres carved out of the surrounding forest. The grass was cut neatly and there were some swings and playground equipment for the kids. Technically closed between dusk and dawn the only security was a length of chain stretched across the path. Ducking under the chain I headed toward the soft glow beneath the swings.
At fifty yards it could have been my imagination or a diffuse reflection of star light. I knew that the only thing under those swings were last seasons decaying mulch and a circle of mushrooms. Nothing to reflect the light. At twenty-five feet the light was certain and sure. I could see small shapes darting and dancing clothed in incandescent motes. And the music, aha the music. More complex than that of the most genius baroque master, but lilting like the Irish lullabies my mother used to rock me to sleep.
As I approached a sídhe broke off from the circle and darted toward me. At six inches tall her willowy frame didn’t carry much mass, but her comet like speed more than made up for it in the inertia department. I flinched but the small creature came to an abrupt halt just a foot away from my nose. Forward momentum threw a cloud of faerie ember into my face and I sneezed twice. The sídhe and I smiled at each other and shared a laugh.
Dryael’s laugh sounded like rain on a wind chime and next to her I may as well have been a snorting hog. Her pale luminescent skin was perfect and covered only by glowing faerie ember, which whirled about her in a translucent cloud. Her silky hair was a grey-blue sheen floating on a breeze that didn’t touch me.
"Hey Dryael," I offered. The sídhe bowed and pirouetted prettily. At human height she could have made any supermodel cry with jealousy.
Dryael warbled back in a musical voice which was one part piccolo, two parts songbird and a trill that reminded me of a young raccoon. She spoke in Fae, although sídhe have the capacity to learn mortal language like most faerie, they rarely did since their sing-song speech was universally understandable. Part of their special magic.
;
"You flatter me Dryael. I’m plain next to your stunning beauty." I replied laying it on thickly. The sídhe glowed brighter at the compliment, and shyly drifted toward my chest.
; she whispered, reaching out a miniature finger. ; She hesitated looking up at me until I nodded my permission for her to touch a plastic button.
Sídhe love buttons. I don’t know why.
;
"You know I can’t. I’m mortal, I can barely listen to the music and keep my head. Dancing with you would likely kill me."
The little creature folded her arms over her chest and pouted. ;
Just then another shooting star of faerie ember streaked over and inserted itself between Dryael and myself. This time I ducked slightly and avoided a face full of glowing dust. Raising my head I found myself looking at another sídhe, this one male and holding a blow-gun pointed directly at my nose. The weapon appeared to be a coffee stir loaded with a wicked looking pine needle.
Male sídhe are every bit as perfect as the female. This one looked to be carved of marble, with chiseled muscle just thick enough to make the average Abercrombie model scramble back into his shirt with horrified embarrassment. Aside from his small stature feather-like wings and ever present cloud on faerie ember male sídhe differed from human by the twiggy antler they grew each summer.
;
;
The little warrior backed a few inches, his confidence beginning to wane. ;
"I was invited to the dance," I replied. "of course I come peaceably, for even the Draoithe think it foolish to cross a sídhe warrior."
; he straightened a little, relaxing. ;
Dryael punched him in the side of the head. Ticktock pinwheeled off leaving a corkscrew of glowing motes behind him.
; Dryael shouted after him. Even her insults sounded like a chorus of happy song birds. ; She rolled her violet eyes. ; she sighed.
I nodded my agreement. "They’re all the same."
; Dryael twittered, ;
"Dryael!" The little faerie blushed and we giggled together like girlfriends at a slumber party. Sídhe mated for life, but didn’t have formal marriage ceremonies. Rather a stag would choose a doe by literally mating with her. There was some ritual, as the does fled and the stags gave chase. It was rare that a stag could mate a doe that didn’t let herself be captured. Dryael was suggesting that she might let Ticktock catch her.
;
"I can’t. Not today. Besides, it’s nearly dawn. I have to meet Valentine. Come with me. You’ve shown me some of your magic, let me show you some of mine."
; she smiled, and lovingly stroked the button at my breast. ;
"Fair thee well Dryael Sídhe. I will come again, and join your dance if ever I can safely do so."
The sídhe gave a mid-air courtesy and sped off to rejoin the circle in a blur of faerie ember. Dawn was practically here, I’d have to hurry to keep my appointment with Valentine.
I loped off in an effective if graceless jog headed for our meeting place, the parking lot of the local Baptist church. It was conveniently quiet at this hour, and sported an attached churchyard - hallowed ground. I was looking forward to today’s lesson with Valentine. He had promised some excitement when I spoke to him last night.
Valentine and I had met online. Funny what you can learn in the blogosphere if you find the right community. I had acquired a copy of the Book of Whispers and was asking the right questions to attract his attention.
Apparently there are a small number of copies of the Book of Whispers. Each is passed on from master to apprentice and the knowledge is protected from the uninitiated. Sídhe are neither the only nor the most dangerous of otherworldly characters running about, and the Draoithe didn’t really want the general public involved with such things. They keep close track of the books. Unfortunately every now and then one gets lost. A Draoi dies without an apprentice, or a thief steals what looks like a valuable old volume. Sometimes they are just misplaced. Usually it doesn’t matter much, since most people can’t read the books anyway, but in the wrong hands such information can be dangerous.
Hence Valentine. Valentine was asked to track down a copy of the Book of Whispers accidentally sold in an estate sale. By the time he had gotten on the scene I had already bought the book from a second hand bookseller and begun decoding it. I’d even cast my first circle. Usually the books would simply be reaquired but in my case Valentine offered to teach me.
If my clothes didn’t mark me as a wizard, neither did Valentine’s. Even in the warmth of summer he wore hooded sweatshirts and blue jeans. Sunglasses most of the time. I’m not sure if he is light sensitive, or what. His skin is pale and his hair perfectly white, but on the rare occasions when his sunglasses come off he has pale green eyes, so he’s not albino as I once suspected. Unless he wears contacts. OK, fact is most of what I know about Valentine is simply guesswork. He appears to be in his late thirties, but seems to have personal knowledge of events much further back. Occasionally I’d even hear him mumble to himself in a vaguely German-sounding language. I suspected it was Norn, but I couldn’t be sure. Norn was last popular in the fifteenth century. I could be wrong about the language, but I don’t think so-my research skills are pretty good.
When I got to the church Valentine was waiting in front of his car. It didn’t look like a wizard’s ride either, what with it’s bondo covered doors and chipped paint. Sídhe could sort of teleport around, jumping from place to place. Not so Draoithe. We needed wheels. Valentine tossed me his keys as I trotted up. He slipped into the passenger side of the beat up car.
"Do you mind driving?"
"No, where are we headed?" I asked sliding behind the wheel. I had to adjust the seat forward a bit, and tip the mirrors down.
"Interstate," he said, "north two exits." he produced a small charm and began polishing it, mumbling occasionally in Gaelic or his corse Norn. I let him take his time. When we were up to speed on the highway he finally started to fill me in.
"Do you know what a Witherwraith is?" I shook my head no. "It’s a being of darkness and death. They feed on fear, living on the fringes of society. Hiding in closets or dark cellars. Usually they aren’t much of a problem, but every so often one decides that they are destined for something greater.
"One of the creatures is in Green Rock posing as a human. That’s bold, being in plain sight. I’m guessing it plans to set itself up as a local deity, or failing that a politician." I regarded him skeptically, "It’s not so hard as you might think. You start with kids who are willing to believe, then as they grow older and more greedy you trade power for their favors. These wannabe gods push arcane power like it was a drug."
"Some experience there Valentine? You’ve never conned innocent young things into worshiping you have you?"
"I’ve never had too, they just seem to take to it naturally," he grinned in a rare flash of wit, "but honestly I prefer the young things that aren’t so innocent."
"Well I guess that’s two strikes for me. I’m neither experienced nor prone to worship strange men."
"I shouldn’t be a stranger at this point."
"I didn’t say stranger, I said strange. You’re a weirdo."
Valentine laughed. "There’s the exit," he pointed. "Now listen close. We need to get the creature alone. Once we do cast a circle, use Draft to defend yourself. Don’t worry about attack, I’ll take out the beast."
Draft was the basic substance of magic. It was a sort of eldritch energy - a byproduct of life. Much like a candle is meant for light but gives off heat, so plants and animals are meant for life but give off Draft. Draft carries with it an aspect of the life that created it... an emotional hue, and it can be manipulated to great effect by a draoi standing within a circle. This is high magic. Direct manipulation of Draft. Common magic is worked without consciously plaiting Draft, and doesn’t require a circle. I could sense Draft outside of a circle, but it seemed dull and distant. Inside a circle it became electric tendrils of neon connecting everything imaginable. If you could figure out the connections you could tug or plait the Draft twisting reality to your will.
There were rules of course, limits and such. Everything was defined by a complex set of mathematical equations. It was much too like my college statistics courses to suit me. It’s quite difficult to figure out exactly, but as a rule the amount of Draft you could access was mostly dependent on two things: the strength of your life-force or qi, and your creative ability to see connections in the Draft. My qi was average, much less than Valentine’s, but I could see connections like no other.
"You don’t want my help?" I asked.
"Think of this as a lesson. Keep your eyes open and observe, but most of all stay alive. I can take care of the Witherwraith, but I don’t know if I can protect you at the same time. Turn left here. Park at that meter over there."
I stepped out grabbing my backpack and fishing a quarter out of my pocket to pay for our space. Valentine was at the rear of his rusty car digging in the trunk. Right now I’m carrying a Victorinox swiss army knife and a wand. While a staff and maybe even a sword would be nice, it’s just hard to carry stuff like that in public. You can stuff them into a sports equipment bag - something designed to carry hockey sticks, or you might be able to hide them in a golf bag. Still you tend to be pretty obvious. Around here a rifle case might help you fit in better, but people still pay attention.
Valentine employed a different tactic. He emerged from behind the lid of his trunk with his staff in hand and rapier slung from a belt around his hips. A cloak completed his outfit and a second cloak he tossed at me. Valentine had timed our visit to coincide with the local medieval fair. His rapier was an anachronism, but the fair tended to be more about beer and fantasy than accuracy. I slipped into the cloak, tossed my hat into the car and we walked onto Main street, perfectly blending into the crowd.
"You want a corn dog?"
"You’re kidding right? We’re going after some creature trying to achieve godhood and you’re offering fair food?"
"No reason we shouldn’t enjoy the deep-fried goodness."
I wanted the corn dog. What can I say, I’m a nervous eater. I’d never gone up against anything like this before. Sure I’d taken on a few unseelie faeries, but small stuff: pesky pixies and naughty gnomes. Always with Valentine to back me up. Witherwraiths sounded like they were in an entirely different weight class. I was glad that Valentine would be doing the heavy lifting.
Valentine ordered a corn dog for me and a lemon shake for himself. He threw out the lemon and dropped in the charm with which he had been fidgeting in the car. It bobbed and spun then oriented itself like a compass. Valentine struck off in the direction indicated while I chewed my food and hurried behind.
The crowd was full of fantasy nerds, some with relatively authentic clothing and armor, others wearing ridiculous wardrobes cobbled together from whatever they could find. There were plenty of staffs, and lots of scabbards, but I expected that Valentine’s was the only one to contain a real sword. Most of them were pretty nerdy and as we quested through the streets I heard snatches of conversation debating the merits of Diablo 1 over Diablo 3, why Spock was a better science officer than Data and even a Batman vs. Rorschach argument.
Green Rock wasn’t a large town, but it’s geography made it a labyrinth as the streets twisted around glacial boulders the size of small mountains and bridged the winding creek where the rocks were in fact green. Valentine’s charm pointed towards the Witherwraith as a crow would fly, but the paths open to us did not cooperate. It took nearly an hour fighting the crowds before we zeroed in on the creature. She appeared human. Mostly. The Witherwraith held court on the banks of Green Rock Creek, sitting on a boulder that seemed to make a natural throne. No magic there, just a place where kids have come to sit for decades. She was pretty, not with the unnatural beauty of the Sídhe, but with something more subtle. Her costume consisted of leather pants and a corset of leather and steel that somehow suggested armor while leaving her shoulders and delicate clavicle exposed. She wasn’t immodest, but definitely sexy. The kind of sweet-innocent sexy that fathers don’t mind their daughters being and mothers don’t mind their sons dating. I couldn’t tell her age, young enough to be, well, young but old enough to have the confidence brought only by experience. I wanted to be near her, be her friend, no. That wasn’t it. I wanted to be HER.
Valentine fished the charm from his lemon shake and dried it on his cloak. It was roughly the size and shape of a quarter, but wooden, carved with sigils and containing an offset hole.
He handed it to me, "Here," he suggested, "take a look at her through this."
I held the piece to my right eye and looked. At first everything appeared the same but as I focused on the pretty girl I saw a brief shimmer. I poured a bit of Faith into the charm and the shimmer resolved. As I watched the girl’s shiny black leather clothing began to flow over her, viscous like maple syrup. It became her skin all wet black and flowing, tentacles of the syrup-skin lashing about like tiny whips before being reabsorbed into her body. A panther tail snaked from the base of her spine and as she laughed her mouth opened too wide, revealing a mass of broken square teeth tumbling out. She was still sleek and powerful, but now at the same time she seemed to decay before my eyes. As the charm performed its function powered by my Faith a thin strand of draft formed connecting me to the charm, and the charm to the decaying creature. She felt the slight tug and turned looking directly at me. To my side Valentine smiled and waved. I dropped the charm with a yelp and the frail magic letting me see through her projection collapsed. Her true form had been revealed to only to me.
She smiled sweetly at us looking past those around her, those who already owed her, her beholden. They turned with her growling quietly.
"Change of plans," Valentine said never turning his eyes to me, "cast your circle now. Keep her lackeys away from me."
We weren’t just dealing with a demigod, but also with her thirty odd acolytes. Those who had sold their loyalty for power. They would protect her to preserve that power, and as I watched I saw first one than another ignite their clenched fists in eldritch flame until they were all burning to protect her. It was a simple magic trick, but effective.
I dug into my pack for the salt and started casting my circle as the beholden advanced.