Could those revenants reanimate themselves again?
Abigail sighs, walking away from me. When she reaches the archway to where I came from, her fingertips trace the symbols in the stonework. After a moment, she says, “The last time soulless roamed Windhaven—you say thirty years ago…to me, it feels but a blink of the eye…” Her gaze extends to one of the other tunnels before she walks back over to me. “It took the combined efforts of our family, the Gilberts, the Cranes…and another to overcome their torment. Your father, gifted though he may be, did not possess a tenth of the innate ability you bring forth. So, he had to rely on the talents of others.”
The blood drains from my face and I swallow hard. That’s a lot of magical power. Thirty years ago, all of those families were far more skilled than any of us. Even my father has been more in the know than myself.
“I wish Dad was home. He’s gone away and I don’t know when he’ll be back. How am I meant to do this without him? Are you saying we’ll need to round up the Gilberts and Cranes again? Or—? He could have helped with all of this,” I mutter, trying to ignore the surprising well of anger from his absence and lack of technological know-how.
“Your father would be an ineffective teacher. While he may retain much knowledge, it is but abstract to him in many regards,” she says. “This challenge, it is one you must face through experience. Your gifts will guide you, as will I.”
“Great,” I say, biting my lower lip. As if there isn’t enough to worry about right now. “And how exactly are my gifts going to know what to do?”
She tips her head to the side, walking away from me again. It’s like she can’t stand still for longer than two seconds. “Those bodies, once reanimated, will never cease. They are abominations, and they will never stop hunting. What is worse, more will come unless you find the conjurer and put an end to their misconduct. This will require much skill on their part and yours. Based on what you’ve relayed, any new graves made above ground will need to be sanctified by someone with holy virtue. Someone blessed by death, but who does not wish to control it.”
I snicker to myself. “Yeah, because that’ll be easy to find.”
“You may be surprised,” she says, casting me a sideways glance.
The space between my eyebrows tightens.
“You are still so innocent, Autumn. How I do miss those days,” Abigail smiles softly. “You will learn there are many others, existing on many planes, who come and go. Each caring for the delicate balance between life and death. Be not fooled. We are not the only ones graced with the ability to orchestrate the heavens.”
“But…” I sigh. “Orchestrating the heavens? I don’t even know what I’m doing, Abigail. This is all so new and, truth be told, my mind is kind of exploding right now. I mean, how do I know what I’m meant to do? Or how to find the help I need? I don’t even know if I want any of this…”
“Do not let the challenges unhinge your confidence. Time will test you, as it always does. Here, this may be of some assistance,” Abigail says, sweeping her arm out, palm side out.
Behind me, in the center of the circular room, the middle stone shifts. I turn around as a pedestal materializes before my eyes. Resting on top is the oldest-looking book I’ve ever seen.
“Wh—what is that?” I ask, unable to take my eyes off of it. It resonates with a power that pulsates in this small room, emitting a low hum that’s both peaceful and ominous at the same time.
Abigail walks forward, gently flipping open the enormous tome. “This, my dearest Autumn, is the Blackwood family grimoire.”
My eyebrows rise and I take a step forward. I’ve studied grimoires at Windhaven Academy, but I’ve never seen one this old.
“If you are to be successful in vanquishing the soulless, you will require the assistance of the spells held within these pages,” she says, running the palms of her hands over the splayed leaves.
Stepping up to it, I look from her, down to the book. The pages seem to glow from the inside out, with no other source of illumination or light being directed at the grimoire itself. Each page is worn, possibly through centuries of use. The ancient-looking texture and beautiful scrawling of the words and symbols draws me in, begging me to consume its secrets. However, none of it makes sense.
My forehead wrinkles and I bend in even closer, narrowing my gaze. “What language is this? I can’t make out these words. How am I meant to use it if I can’t even read it?”
I turn to her expectant gaze, and she shoots me an apologetic look. “This is written in our family’s cipher. Had our training not been disrupted in your youth, you would have learned how to read and write it. I am gravely sorry this could not take place before now. But we shall have to start some training post haste, in order to make this possible.”
“That all sounds well and good, but what about the stuff that’s happening right now? How do I handle them?” I say, trying to be reasonable. If things are as bad as she says they are, surely getting on this is pretty important.
“Your job right now, this very moment, is to find the conjurer and gather your alliances. The soulless must be brought here as quickly as possible by you and you alone. The disruption is growing and will only become more distressing,” she says. “Do not worry about the grimoire. When the time comes, you will have the enlightenment you seek. One way or another.”
“Well, that’s good. Because I’m pretty clueless,” I say, flipping
