Noble Arcana

Many people say that news travels fast in a small town. The truth is that news travels fast everywhere if it’s juicy enough.

Lady Arbessa in a speech at the founding of Prattle Magazine

Since he hadn’t burst into flames or been consumed this time, Solomon weighed down each corner with perfect cube stones that seemed to have been placed there for that purpose. The spell was forbidden, as it was blood magic, which meant that it would likely suffice as an offering to the Arcana. The only issue was that, as far as he could tell, he had no way to bring the scroll with him from the repository. That meant that he would have to memorize it within the repository.

He turned his attention to the scroll. He gave it a broad read the first time, working to decipher some of the old spellings and some smudged information that likely occurred because blood infused ink and skin wasn’t necessarily the best medium for preserving information. The spell was surprisingly simple, at least it seemed to be. One needed to infuse the blood with their mana and saturate it. After that there were a number of simple gestures one could use to cause it to react in different ways, most of which were meant to be used when it was outside of one’s body. It also stated that the spell could be used to control the blood of others, even within their bodies, but it didn’t give details on how to infuse your own mana into someone else’s blood, as if that was implied knowledge one should already have. Foundational Magics and Basic Spells certainly didn’t give any knowledge about how to affect the bodies of others, but given the list of forbidden spells, that made sense.

He reviewed the spell several times, practicing the gestures with his wooden fingers to ensure that he had a solid grasp of them. After reviewing it for what he estimated to be an hour, he decided to leave the repository. He sat for a few moments before realizing he hadn’t determined a method to do so that didn’t involve being chewed to splinters by a book. Given the limited number of puppets and his inability to make more of them, he decided that likely wasn’t the best way to handle his return. Instead he returned to where they were, and noted that all of them were sealed properly in their coffins. He moved to the one he’d emerged from and gently back into it. He waited there for just a moment, then he found himself back in the estate, his hands just an inch away from the crystal orb.

He inhaled and exhaled. His legs and arms were sore from remaining in place as long as they had. He estimated he’d been there for roughly two hours. He bent his legs and grabbed the walking stick from where he’d placed it, feeling steadier with it in his hand. He walked out and closed the subchamber carefully before returning from the library and heading to his room.

Melissa was in the atrium as he passed through.

“Lord, I’ve retrieved your mail and left it on your desk. The last two Etling Gazettes as well.”

“Thank you, Melissa. How’s everything else going?”

“Poth says there’s been good progress on the gardens. The girls mostly feel safer with the ‘guards’, though Felicity avoids them. Barnabus and Bart have been butting heads a bit with the mason and carpenter, but seem to be learning a lot.”

Solomon nodded. “Good. Please have Claire send tea and lunch to my room.”

She nodded and headed toward the kitchen while Solomon went to his room. He wanted to immediately try out his new spell, but knew that eating and settling himself should take priority. His mana had settled down more, but he didn’t want to risk his blood without being as well prepared as he could. He’d rather not be found covered in his own blood dead because he accidentally sent a torrential spray from the smallest pinprick on a finger.

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While he waited to eat he grabbed one of the newspapers, the older of the two, and looked at the front page.

SOLOMON MORROW, FOURTH SON OF UTHER MORROW, ATTACKED IN OWN ESTATE!

He blinked calmly. He supposed it was worthy of being a front page story. It had a noble, corruption, murder, and many other salacious details. He decided to read the rest of the article.

On the night of the 17th Solomon Morrow, fourth son of the recently deceased Duke Uther Morrow and brother of Duke Chorde Morrow, was assaulted in his estate by the guards of the town of Moonfallow where he had only recently taken up residence. Despite being overwhelmed by armed men the estate managed to kill all of their attackers and Lord Morrow himself is believed to have killed most of them. The First Watchman of the town was the primary aggressor and was killed. His brother, the Mayor of Moonfallow, has fled and his current whereabouts are unknown. The brave Etling garrison has moved in to stabilize the town while matters are settled.

Flattering, thought Solomon. Flattering and inconvenient. He could already imagine the questions people would have for him. How had he fought off so many assailants? How had they taken no casualties? Luckily he could hide behind the papers typically embellishing the accomplishments of the nobility. If anyone pressed him, he could admit that it was his capable staff that handled most of the trouble. It wasn’t a lie, he’d certainly have been dead without their final intervention. He wondered who the source for the article was, but given how long he’d been out after the confrontation he guessed it was one of the Etling garrison guards rather than any of his own people.

He went through the rest of the paper, reading of the opening of a new bridge, the sighting of a dragon within the reach, and the progress of the war with the orcs. Just as he was finishing, Claire arrived to hand him his lunch herself. He thanked her and took his time eating as he read the newer paper. No more mentions of him, which was good, and no other news that stood out to him.

When he was done he placed his dishes outside his door, not wanting to be interrupted, and locked the door. He took one more sip of tea and carefully placed the cup to the side. He then took his letter opener from the corner of the desk. He held it carefully, then gently pricked the tip of his left thumb. He watched the blood begin to gather and began to push his mana into it. He found the process to be intuitive, as if blood was a natural thing into which one should place mana. Once he was done he gestured with his right hand. He extended his right thumb and pointer finger, folding his middle finger two thirds of the way down and his remaining fingers halfway. He then jerked his hand swiftly upward.

A thin lance of blood extended from his thumb and embedded itself in the wall in front of him, just beneath the window. He tapped on the lance, finding it solid. He stopped the gesture and it dropped onto the desk as a small line of blood. He flattened the palm of his right hand and moved it in a semicircle over the pricked thumb, a scab formed immediately stopping the bleeding. He returned his attention to the line on the desk. He made the same hand sign he’d made to form the lance, but this time he moved his hand gently up. The blood gently rose off the desk and he removed his handkerchief from his jacket holding it with his left hand as he gently moved the blood into it. Once it was cleaned up he let the mana gradually fade within it.

He frowned as he looked at the scab on his thumb. That had been easy, and Solomon didn’t trust easy. It had taken him only one try to cast the spell successfully, and his mana had seemed calm and level the entire time. It was true that he’d managed to cast the other basic spells he’d used on the first try, but he’d been practicing the gestures for some time in private and in terms of control he was just pushing everything he’d had into each of them.

In order to test himself he took a candle and placed it in front of himself. He made a fist, then rapidly opened it, spreading out his fingers before pointing just two directly at the wick. A massive flurry of sparks came quickly from the tip of his finger, lighting the wick and scorching the paint on the walls as well. He calmly licked his thumb and extinguished several of the lingering sparks and the candle itself. He then pricked his thumb again, and then repeated the action he’d done before. As with the first time, he had no trouble.

He sealed the prick again. Was the ease simply from working with blood as a medium a kind of stabilizer for the spell, or was it something else? He needed more information to be certain. For now he was glad he had a spell he would be able to present to the Arcana to keep death from knocking at his door.