“Because I need magick, and you have none.” When he grumbles, I clasp his shoulder. “I trust you to keep things calm here,” I say. “You are my right hand for the morning, all right?”
He nods, but the frown on his face tells me he isn’t exactly happy about agreeing.
“Grab your pack, Callan,” I say. “I need your help. And I think you’ll enjoy witnessing the unthinkable.”
“And what might that be?” Quickly, they fall into step beside me as I leave Rhonin and stalk deeper into the tangled, foggy wood.
I meet their hazel stare. “Believe it or not, I’m about to pray to Thamaos.”
II
OLD FRIENDS
7
ALEXUS
Callan and I walk through the slumbering forest.
I tune my ear, listening for Neri’s wolves, my neck bristling as I try to sense his nearness. This exercise could devolve into a disaster quickly if Neri scents what I’m up to. But I don’t feel him, for now, and there’s little sound this morning. Only that of a night bird’s mournful cry as dawn breaks over the stony clearing.
“This should do perfectly,” Callan says, their voice soft against the quiet wood. They shrug off their pack and withdraw a ritual knife, the wooden handle smooth from years of dedicated use. When they hand me the blade, I test the heft of its weight, the sharpness of its edge, promising in my hand.
“Ready?” Callan asks, their bronzy skin glistening in the misty air.
“As I’ll ever be.”
Inhaling the scent of rain and cedar, oak and pine, I climb onto one of the nine large rocks half embedded into the earth, each the width of a healthy stride. Carefully, I cross to the middle. The moss-slicked stones are worn flat by centuries of rain, their pattern reminding me of honeycomb.
It takes all that I am to do what I do next.
There, standing beneath the heavy canopies of mist-shrouded and ancient trees, I kneel.
Callan removes a pouch of blessed salt, a tinder box, and a small hammered-metal dish that sits atop a miniature brazier from their pack. They use these items to burn sage and sweetgrass, mugwort and juniper, for cleansing. Today they’re being used for a summoning.
In minutes, a flame burns inside the brazier, heating the bowl that will soon hold my blood. Callan takes my hand and pours a small mound of salt into my palm. They watch as I drag the ritual knife in a circle around myself, carving a line through the damp moss on the single stone beneath me. I seal the threshold with a ring of salt. A protective barrier. The first one. Between me and the space where Thamaos’s will have reign.
Callan acts as my ritual guardian, performing the same salt ritual on a larger scale. They walk around the nine stones, pouring salt, creating the second circle, one that will keep them and the rest of the world safe from Thamaos’s reach. A god’s consciousness is too powerful and manipulative for us to go about this summoning any other way.
“It isn’t required that he answer your call,” Callan says, closing the circle.
I rest my hands on my thighs and let out a breath. “I have a feeling he won’t deny me. But I need to make certain that I’m heard. Instead of three runes, I’d like to mark nine. Nine runes that all but demand his presence.”
Callan inclines their head. “So be it, Old One. You are the master.”
With great care, Callan marks runes of protection around the outer circle with salt. When they finish, I do the same to mine, then remove the bowl from the heat and set it on the stone. It’s been ages since I bled for Thamaos, but when I hold the ritual knife to my palm, my mind remembers exactly what to do. How to position my hand for the least damage. How deeply to drag the blade.
The pain is sharp but swift, yet it stabs with memory. After all this time, this rite is still ingrained in my bones.
I tilt my hand and squeeze my fist. The hiss and sizzle of my blood on hot metal stirs the darkest shadows tucked away in the deepest part of me. I repeat the action, squeezing over and over, until a crimson pool fills a third of the dish.
I dip my fingers into my blood.
“Connection,” Callan says. “Always first.”
Oh, how I remember. A rune to cross boundaries. Gods know that the separation between Thamaos and I, the space between the living and the dead, is vast. I draw the bloody rune on the north side of the stone on which I kneel.
“Faithfulness is next,” Callan says. “Then fealty.”
