I’d be amused if this situation wasn’t so dire. It seems Inana does not excel at telling stories unrehearsed. Yet the Shades give her their full attention. Even Pride, who refuses to acknowledge interest in anyone or anything, is reluctant to follow as I slowly make my way toward the wagon.
“He loved all kinds of acorns,” Inana says, “but the blue ones were his favorite. Yes, in this magical forest there were acorns of all shapes, colors, and sizes.” She’s hitting her stride now, her pacing more even.
From the corner of my eye, I see the Shade shift under the wagon, edging away from me to keep the campfire in sight. With unhurried motions, I reach into the wagon bed and retrieve Bard’s mandolin and Harlow’s sketching supplies. Then, just as carefully, I return to my crew.
“Every color of acorn had a different meaning,” Inana says. “The pink ones could lead one to love.”
I stop beside Bard and hand him the cloth-wrapped instrument, half expecting him to lash out at me for touching it. But he takes it from me with only the faintest of grumbles, then gingerly unwraps it. “Play something soft. Quiet. We don’t want to draw more Shades than we already have, but this will divide the attention between you so Inana isn’t bearing it all. There’s a reason Shadowbanes work with more than one Summoner.”
Bard begins to play, a simple yet playful tune.
I hand Harlow her sketchbook next, as well as her satchel with her ink and quills. “Draw pleasant images.”
“They can’t see what I’m drawing from where they are. What if that makes them want to get closer?” The worry in her voice makes her sound younger, closer to her seventeen years of age than the cynical, world-weary persona she’s displayed thus far.
“It doesn’t matter if they can’t see what you’re drawing. It’s the actof creating that matters. And if you’re infusing your work with calm, they’ll feel it. Draw something that evokes your own feelings of safety.”
With trembling hands, she opens her sketchbook, then sets out her inkpot and quill. I was impressed the first time I saw her ink drawings and am equally so now as she proceeds to set fine lines to her paper, starting at the center of the blank page.
I step back toward the wagon.
“You won’t let me watch?” Lust says. “What if she draws those sexy positions again?”
“We have a job to do,” I say under my breath, halting once I’m on the other side of the wagon. Its bed is between me and the campfire now, but I can still hear Inana’s story, her words weaving seamlessly into Bard’s tune. The Shade wearing my face remains beneath the wagon, fully entranced by my Summoners.
I unsheathe one of my knives and crouch down. Keeping my breathing steady, I press the tip to the earth and draw a circle. From there, I bisect it with a horizontal line. A hundred and eighty degrees, to represent the ground. Then I press the tip to the bottom of the circle and carve a diagonal line. I mirror that on the other side. Then I connect the lines, making them intersect at specific points.
Every line is precise yet second nature; I’ve drawn many ritual circles since I became a Shadowbane. We may be taught only a single astrotheurgical diagram, but it’s more than most Sinless know. The Sinless gentry aren’t allowed even the barest knowledge of astrotheurgy. The princes and dukes use solar magic—with a diagram almost identical to the one I’m drawing now—but they don’t cast their own circles. Instead, they perform a ritual using a pre-drawn diagram etched into the Holy Braziers. The only people who know the full scope of astrotheurgy are the priests, for the church serves directly under King Kaelum. Their knowledge makes them the most powerful humans on the continent, and they guard it with their lives.
My diagram grows more and more complex with every line, but it isn’t cluttered. It’s orderly. Symmetrical. A mathematical equation of elements, angles, and planetary symbols, meant to call down divineenergies from the heavens to reflect back on mortal earth in specific outcomes.
I complete the diagram by drawing the glyph for Bastien, God of the Sun. Then I retrieve a vial from my holster. One nearly empty, save for a single drop of blood. My blood.
“…the purple acorns, however, taste the best,” Inana says, continuing her story, “as everyone in the magical forest knows.”
The Shade beneath the wagon remains perfectly still.
“Creatures come from miles to the violet tree…”
I place the vial at the center of my circle.
Uncork it.
“…just to collect the purple acorns before sundown.”
The Shade scuttles to the side, then whips around.
I take a few slow steps away. My shadows, meanwhile, stretch before me, splaying across the dirt in black puddles to darken the path from the wagon to the circle.
The Shade sniffs. Once. Twice. Then it begins to crawl.
I ease another vial out of my holster, Calvin’s blood this time. Uncorking it, I bring a sip to my lips. The blood coats my tongue in a sickly-sweet richness with an iron tang, and I despise how pleasurable I find that taste. Heat rushes through my body, reacting to the flavor. The blood is an offering to my Sinless half, the half that was stripped of sin and filled with Bastien’s divine light. My very soul hums with euphoria, for in this moment, I am a sliver of a god.
The Shade extends a hand from under the wagon, then another. Inch by inch, it crawls toward the vial at the center of my diagram, the monster with my face drawn away from the campfire performance by the scent of my blood.
I press my thumb over my vial. Tip it until a dab of Calvin’s blood stains the pad of my finger.
The Shade now inches toward the center of the circle, its body wavering at the edges, losing its humanoid likeness until it’s a mass of dark smoke.
