I’d rather be dead.
So betrayal or not,Imust go on.
My gaze goes at once to the center of the room, where theForbiddenGrimoirerests on its own carved stand of white oak.Thebook is enormous, bound in dark green leather so old it has gone almost black.Strangesilver clasps hold it shut and faint symbols glimmer across the cover like dew lit by moonlight.
Around it shimmers the alarm ward—a perfect, translucent bubble cast in rainbow hues.Itshifts and glows softly, throwing glimmers of pink and blue and gold spell-light over the moss floor.
I step up to the book and stop at the edge of the alarm ward and swallow hard.
The alarm spell is not there to be subtle.IftheGrimoireis opened without permission, the whole temple will know within moments.TheSistersmight pretend gentleness in some matters, but not where forbidden magic is concerned.Timeweaving, especially, is the kind of craft they would sooner burn from the page than let a young acolyte play with.
I flex my fingers at my sides and try to calm my breathing.Mymagic isn’t strong—not compared to theSisters.Iknow enough to tend plants, coax vines where they ought to grow, strengthen seedlings, and sense the shape of older workings.Ihave a few cantrips…a few prayers that are answered if theGoddessis willing.
But lately…lately my magic has felt different–stronger somehow.It’sas though something inside me is stretching awake.
I only hope it’s strong enough to pull off whatI’mgoing to try.
Closing my eyes,Iwhisper a quick prayer under my breath.Itought to comfort me, but instead guilt stings me like an angry bee.Iam not at all certain theGoddessis listening to me anymore.NotafterTheron.Notafter the soundsImade in his arms, and the wayIcame apart for him like a shameless thing as he touched me.
The memory makes me feel hot and cold all over, butItry to push it away.Ican’t be thinking about that–not now.NotwhenIhave to concentrate.
I open my eyes, take a steadying breath, and lift both hands toward the shimmering bubble.Thesilence spell is small wheneverIpractice it—just enough to muffle the sound of my own steps or quiet a squeaking hinge.ButtonightIhave to make it large–larger than the shimmering bubble of magic that encloses theForbiddenGrimoireand strong enough to hold whileIread and memorize the spell.
I wet my lips and whisper the cantrip:
“Hush now, wind–hush each sound,
Let silence spread on sacred ground.
Make still the cry, make soft the air,
Till not a whisper lingers there.”
At onceIfeel the magic leaving me.
It always comes as a surprise—that first rush.Likecool water pouring through opened gates.Itflows from somewhere deep inside my chest and down my arms, out through my hands and into the space before me.Ican almost see it–a trembling veil spreading outward in a wide, clear sphere.Thetiny hairs at the back of my neck raise and the moss at my feet seems to shiver.
The silence bubble expands slowly, straining as it meets the magic ward around theGrimoire.Igrit my teeth and push harder.Morepower streams out of me—more thanI’veever called before.Itfeels like drawing water from a spring with my bare hands and trying not to let any spill.
For one awful momentIthink it won’t work.Thenthe silence bubble swells past the rainbow ward, engulfing it completely.
My knees go weak with relief–Idid it!
But holding it there is another matter.
The magic trembles, quivering at the edges.Sweatbreaks out at the back of my neck.Ican feel every inch of the spell…every place where it might thin if my concentration slips.Idon’t know how longIcan keep it going.Aminute?Two?
It will have to be enough.
I step forward quickly and unlatch the silver clasps.TheGrimoireresists for just a moment, as though it does not want to be opened by me.Thenthe cover lifts and the rainbow ward bursts with a softpop.
The alarm begins at once.
It is not a bell, asIonce imagined, but a woman’s voice—loud and sharp and outraged.Evenmuted by the silence spell, it startles me so badlyInearly drop the cover.
“Unclean hands profane this page!
Wake, oh temple—mark outrage!
