The Mirror of the Moon (Revenant Wyrd Book 2) (7 page)

“Wait!” Angelica exclaimed. “You said Porillon’s seeking revenge for the murder of her master. Yet you also said Arael had awoken in the Mirror of the Moon. Couldn’t it be true that Porillon intends to awaken Arael again?”

“I had considered that very thing after seeing her, and remembered you saying Amber was being taken to the Lunimara. However, you must also remember, as I did, that Porillon is not a necromancer,” Grace pointed out. “In order for her to bring back a soul from the dead she would have to possess necromancy.”

“How do you know she doesn’t?” Angelica insisted.

“Because there is only ever one living necromancer at a time. Cianna is now that necromancer, therefore Porillon cannot be one.”

“It could still be possible to call him back through ritual though, right?” Joya picked up where Angelica left off.

“It is only possible for a sorcerer to open the veil, to commune with those beyond, but it is not possible for a sorcerer to be able to call souls through the veil. But even the rituals for contacting the other side are difficult at best, though I am sure Porillon would have no problem with that.” Grace rolled her hand as if dismissing the notion.

“Wouldn’t souls be able to come through the veil by their own will if a sorcerer opened it?” Joya continued.

“No, a sorcerer cannot open it far enough for that because they do not have the power.”

“But she has Amber and the medallion,” Joya insisted as if Grace were just not seeing her point.

“Both of which do not possess a spark of necromancy. It is not that Porillon does not have a sufficient
amount
of power; it is that she does not have the right
type
of power.” Grace frowned. “The most important thing to remember is your mother killed Arael. I have been arguing with Jovian for some time that all of the grigori have been destroyed. On this you will have to trust me. Arael is gone, not to return. It is most likely, given all the odds of what Porillon is up to, that she intends on killing Amber for the reasons given before, and seizing control of the medallion.”

“How can you be sure that the grigori are gone?” Angelica asked.

Grace sighed. “Fine, I will tell you if it means putting a stop to this badgering. I know for sure that they are gone because we have a powerful source that tells us it is so.”

“Tells who?” Joya asked.

“Tells all of us involved: my sisters Sara and Annbell, Rosalee, and myself.”

“Who’s this source?” Jovian pushed.

“I cannot tell you for reasons of secrecy and safety. The source must remain unknown for reasons of concealment.”

All of it was so hard to believe after so many years of blissful ignorance.

“I don’t think I can honestly believe it, Grace,” Jovian said. “For all these years I’ve just been Jovian, the son of a wealthy plantation owner, and now you tell me that our ancestry goes back to the messengers Pharoh and Sylvie LaFaye?”

“You are still Jovian,” Grace said leaning forward with a compassionate smile on her face. She placed gentle hands on the arms of Angelica and Jovian, as they were closest to her. “You are, all of you, only who you are. You don’t have to feel powerful, courageous, or even significant for the truth to be what it is. It will take some time to get used to the idea that you are descendants of Sylvie LaFaye, but you will come to grips with it in time.”

But Jovian couldn’t help but wonder why they weren’t truly different—possessing some kind of wyrd that most humans didn’t. Angelica rested her hand on top of Grace’s, the same question plaguing her own thoughts.

“You don’t honestly think that you four are normal do you?” Grace laughed lightly as she read the skepticism in their eyes. “The mere fact that you are descended from Sylvie makes you anything but normal. Also know that sorcerers are rare now, and to have one born to a family is something of honor, let alone having two children, your two oldest children at that, be sorcerers. That is something nearly unheard of.”

“But what about us?” Jovian asked. “Angie and I don’t have any powers.”

“I feel compelled to remind you that your mother had no apparent wyrd either. Her skill was that of fencing, a skill she had beyond compare.” Grace patted their arms and leaned back in the chair. “Just because no powers have yet to surface does not mean you will not gain them in time. Sorcerers mature faster than most wyrders. In fact, sorcerers are the only ones that all mature at the same time: their twenty-first year. Even with that, however, they all gain their abilities at different times in their twenty-first year. Take Amber, for instance. She is already going through her change while Joya has not yet begun. This is not saying that Amber is more powerful, but it is saying all power matures at different times for each individual.

“It would also do for you to remember you are not only descended from an angel, you are also part human. Dauin, being your father, may have passed down more … mundane traits that might mark you nearly normal, though like I said before having even one parent that was an angel means you are very much not normal.”

“Can we stop calling mother an angel?” Joya asked.

“As a sorceress, Joya, you will come up against many truths you do not feel comfortable with. All of these you must take in stride; all of these truths you must accept and deal with in a fashion you may not like. Denying something, denying truth, will not help you one bit.”

Grace knew what problems could arise from denying truth; it could stifle growth. For the only way for the Neferis children to come to their full potential required they come to terms with their heritage. They were all part LaFaye, whether they accepted it or not—half angel, half human.

Yet acceptance for Joya was difficult. Finally she nodded, but didn’t say anything more.

“I know it is hard to grasp having lived a completely normal life. Porillon, however, told you something very important that night. Amber is already reaching her full potential because she understands something none of you do; she has grasped this truth and she is working with it. This is something Porillon is no doubt going to manipulate and use for her ends. Having known Amber, though, I doubt Porillon will be successful. Amber understands that you are all descended from Sylvie LaFaye, not Misha Neferis, and she has come to terms with it. This means she will advance faster than you do while you live in ignorance. She is accepting it, and you must also. Through acceptance you are able to harness your true potential.”

“But we’ve just learned the truth,” Angelica pleaded. “How do you expect us to just except it like that?”

“I am not saying you must accept it tonight, or even tomorrow. I am saying, however, the moment you understand what this means completely is when you will gain access to your full potential as the LaFaye offspring’s you are.”

“But Sylvie, our mother, did have a power. She was a werewolf,” Angelica said having obviously read further than those studies Grace had assigned regarding the twins. Joya gasped with sudden awareness as if there had been something under her nose that she had failed to grasp, something which had been eating at her for a while and she felt completely daft for not realizing it before.

“Mother was a werewolf, which is why aconite was marked in the herbal book you gave me!”

“Your mother was not exactly a werewolf, though that was her favored shape. No, Sylvie was a shape shifter; it was found that the same herb which kept werewolves at bay also helped stave off Sylvie’s unbidden transformation. As it turned out, seeing how she favored the shape of the wolf more, she slowly started taking on traits a werewolf would have, that being she had no control over changing on the full moon.”

They all sat in silence for some time contemplating this new information—their mother, a shape shifter. Grace puffed idly on a fresh pipe as they mulled over the truth of their family history—roots that went deeper and darker than any of them ever wished to know—and soon the only sound in the room was the distant hum of Dellenbore’s ivory mines, the inhalation of smoke, and the thump of Grace’s clay mug against the table time and again.

“Now,” she brought them all back from their contemplations, “I think it is high time we partake of the wonderful feast our gracious hostesses have provided for us.”

No further prodding was needed other than the grumbling of their stomachs. With that they all began to fill their plates. Maeven, who had come down some time before, had not been permitted near the house where he could hear the discussions. As part of his pilgrimage he had, instead, prayed at the feet of Dungan Steelbender and placed an offering of lilacs on the altar, a token from the Mother Goddess. It was only then, after his supplications, that he entered the house and feasted with them.

They ate together at first in companionable silence, and then later in joyous conversation, as they had never done before. Somehow their time among the elves, the atmosphere of Dellenbore, and the revelation of so many secrets seemed to work their charm. Under all this was the realization they were among part of the Wyrd Holdings humans rarely got to see. Not only would they have a lot to tell their father when they got home, but they would also have the knowledge of being here, the experience of seeing these marvels which would last them all their lives. This great feeling, these beautiful sights, the burden of what was happening around them finally lifted and carried them to a merry state that made them nearly lightheaded with glee.

Or it could have been due to the palisum wine, which the dwarves were even now securing a bottle of in Grace’s pack.

W
hen they finally made the dangerous trek out of the mine city of Dellenbore, they were met with the welcoming smiles of two elves holding back the curtain of ivy and vines. The two elves led them through the white trees until finally they came out of the underbrush and onto a wayward, convoluted path that could either get a person completely lost, or lead them to the center of Whitewood Haven.

The life of an elf was carefree, so humans thought. Instead, the elves were charged with a much more meaningful goal than farming wheat and raising cattle. The elves focused their energy on attaining knowledge and questing after wisdom. However, this questing proved quite different from humanity’s methods of learning. For when humans sought answers, they did so from without themselves by seeking spiritual teachers and other such guides. When elves sought answers, they turned to the one true source of knowledge, the one source on which they could always rely: their minds, and through that their bond with the Mikak’e.

It was said long ago that the Mikak’e came and taught the elves how best to commune with the Star People. The elves were taught the sacred ways of plant consciousness, and through the use of certain flora they opened gateways in their minds unlocking deeper answers and understandings.

Little did the five people who treaded the winding path through the bleached forest know that they were about to experience one such ritual of mind-altering visions. If they had known much about elves, they would have known what Grace knew—the beating of the drums signified the elves were preparing for (if not already in the grips of) ritual.

The drumbeat was wild, feral, frenzied, as if all at once it made no cohesive sense yet simultaneously perfectly in tune. The music exploded as holy power inspiring the group of musicians to play the music in their hearts which created but one side to a many-faceted religious hymn.

To Jovian it conjured images of the frenzied High Summer festival in Meedesville. Though this drumbeat was much more impromptu, and in being such more powerful and exhilarating.

The beating of the drums and the rushing power of the palisum was almost too much for his senses, and Jovian swayed on his feet ever so slightly. He was very grateful the elves led them all to one log that formed a circle of logs around a roaring bonfire. The circle in which they sat was not at all like a circle, but shaped instead like an octagon, though the semblance was not lost on any of them.

For the time Jovian was content to gaze into the fire feeling drowsy from the good food and drink served by the dwarves. The fire was so warm and comforting as it crackled orange flecks that he wished nothing more than to be able to stay here, in this state, for the rest of his days.

The elf who stood across the flames staring at them was not one they had seen before. She stood with grace, with serenity, and with a rigidity that suggested she was not of flesh and blood, but instead chiseled from stone. Her dark brown hair, rustling dreamily in the slight breeze, indicated that she was other than stone. Jovian estimated she would be old by elven standards, but she looked no more than her mid-forties by human judgment, nowhere near as old as Grace appeared.