“Never heard of it,” I lied, handing it back to him and averting my gaze. Was he educating himself?
He barked out a laugh, then hastily covered his mouth as if the sound surprised him. “Sorry. I’ve never seen anyone lie so poorly.”
I might’ve been offended, but the giggle that left him afterward stifled my irritation.
Five flights later, we finally encountered someone: a very old man humming atop a ladder, tucking an ancient tome into its place on a bookcase. The room was a mess of papers and books, almost reeking of neglect. At first, I thought we might slip past him unnoticed, but when he turned to me with a set of white clouded eyes, he revealed the efficiency of his other senses.
“It has been some time, Prince Nicolas Callan,” he spoke in a voice as dusty as the books that surrounded him. He shook with every movement, as though his bones would crumble to dust any minute now. “You’ve brought a woman.”
“Indeed I have, Maitre Teheran,” replied the prince, bowing despite the man’s blindness. The rank of sorcerer must have commanded considerable respect for even a prince to show such deference. “Please allow me to introduce—”
“Lady Alana Chastain.”
The voice came from behind us and made me jump out of my skin, but it didn’t surprise the prince. He straightened from his bow, turning to greetthe visitor.
She was a tall, lithe creature with eyes lined in dark kohl and warm, olive skin. Her hair was long, falling in natural waves past her shoulders with an untamed quality. Everything about her was too perfect for her to be entirely mortal.
“Alana, this is Maitre Florence,” said Nicolas. “I spoke to her of your condition.”
The sorceress’ lips curved in a way that could be inviting or dangerous. “Come away with me, dear. I would prefer to speak to you without the presence of men.”
I gave Nicolas an uncertain look, but he nodded his permission. Reluctantly, I followed Florence down another corridor, up another flight of stairs. The sound of wind against the building ceased abruptly at the top, filling the space with an unnatural silence. At its center stood a statue with two faces, one for each god, and the nearer we approached, the more repelled I became.
Florence turned to me with studious eyes. “Don’t be afraid. What you’re feeling is the mana pool. Most people cannot sense it.”
Still, I observed the statue with suspicion. Its surface was pocked from years of existence, grey and weathered and solemn. A tattered stone veil draped the goddess’ head, her gaze fixed to the sky with hollow, grief-stricken eyes that wept tears of shadow. Nestled against her left shoulder like a parasitic twin was a second head, masculine and equally anguished. His pupils were bottomless wells that watched me with unnerving intensity.
“What do you see?” Florence asked calmly.
“I see the gods,” I answered, swallowing my nausea. “The Lady of Day and the Lord of Night. They seem tormented.”
Florence smiled approvingly. “What do you know of the gods?”
“Very little,” I admitted. My parents had never been outspokenly religious. “The Lady serves all things feminine, the Lord all things masculine. As forces, they are considered neither good nor evil, but human action dictates whether the gods will bestow blessings or curses.”
Satisfied, Florence guided me away from the statue to an alcove painted by light from a stained-glass window.
“I understand that you were cursed before birth. What can you tell me of it?”
I chewed my lip in careful consideration, then revealed all to the sorceress. As I spoke, I could not pull my eyes from the haunting statue.
“My father believed Laetitia couldn’t curse me. It was said that she had no apparatus to focus her magic,” I concluded, recalling every detail in hopes that something might offer a cure. “A Banewight wrote to him in warning afterwards, saying that it was possible if the witch had carved the proper symbols into her own flesh.”
Florence nodded gravely. “An act of desperation, but not altogether uncommon.”
Standing, the sorceress approached the statue and lovingly caressed the Lord of Night’s carved cheek. Something in the air shifted, the oppressive dread lightening noticeably.
“I’m sorry to tell you this,” Florence began, barely glancing in my direction, “but a sorceress’ will is backed by the Lord. In order to revoke a spell, they must un-speak it. They cannot do so if they’re dead.”
My heart plummeted. I drew a shallow breath, looking down with defeat. It had been foolish to nurture hope. “I see.”
Pity filled Florence’s eyes as she sauntered back. “Don’t despair. You were cursed in the womb, which means that you would have been born with a link to the Lord of Night that would take others years to manifest. Mana flows through you; this is why you can sense His presence now.”
The statue stared with four empty sockets, but only the Lord had taken an interest in me. I frowned. “Why the Lord of Night? I thought the Lady served women.”
“Ah, but magic is a bastardization of nature. The coin flips. Sorcerers are bound to the Lady, and sorceresses to the Lord.”
Nodding, I returned my attention to the floor. “Forgive me, I had hoped to be cured.”
