This spell would be the greatest endeavour of her life. Even the spell she’d cast to vanquish Varnya paled in comparison. But it must be perfect. Though there was little chance the spell would kill her, there was a very good chance that by casting she would deplete herself of power. But she did not care.
The sun was beginning to lower in the sky. Izolda crafted her spell with care, dark shadows gathering in the corners as she did so. What she was doing was one of the forbidden magics her mother had warned her against. Even Varnya, for all her arrogance, would not have attempted such a thing.
She wrote the words and drew the symbols on a piece of skin that she’d brought with her from the old country that was dry as parchment. It had come from a thief Varnya had caught spying on them. They’d had no other choice but to kill him – they could not afford to let him share their secrets.
Varnya had instructed Izolda to bury the body in the forest, where no one would find it. Preserving a piece of the skin had been Izolda’s own idea. They had written spells on animal skins to increase their potency, how much more effective would it be to write one on human skin? She had never had the chance to find out, until now.
Her quill was that of an owl, for its magical ability to fly in silence as for the wisdom it imbued. For ink, she used her own blood, it being more potent than any she could create. She gathered wood from the nine sacred trees – birch, rowan, ash, alder, willow, hawthorn, oak, holly from the old country, and hazel.
She filled her pockets with acorns for strength, cedar and cinnamon for courage, and hyssop for protection. As an added measure, she made her sacred circle in the cleared space behind the house, one already surrounded by violets, hyssop, honeysuckle, and mandrake that she had planted years ago for protection.
The stars began to appear, surrounding a moon that was naught but a dark outline. It was time. Izolda chose not to set a ward. It was chancy, if the rusalka – she refused to call the creature by its given name – sensed a ward, she might decide to investigate and try and stop her. As well, she did not wish to contain the spell, she needed it to spread far and wide.
Izolda lit her fire within a small ring of white stones that glimmered in the dark. Chanting a plea for strength and protection, she made an offering of rosemary and thyme, sprinkling the dry leaves on the flames, then let a small bag of wheat drop into the fire as well. Finally, she added wine, mixed with her own blood. The fire flared up blue, then settled down to a yellow flame with streaks of green. Her offerings had been accepted.
Without hesitation, her mind was set on what she was about to do, she began reciting the spell she had created. A wind came out of nowhere as she recited the spell a second time. Unseen fingers plucked at her clothing, trying to steal the skin the spell was written on. She was filled with cold, as though plunged into a river.
Izolda stood firm. As she recited the spell for the third time, the wind became as shards of ice, stabbing at her hard enough to draw blood. Voices surrounded her, from whispers and promises of things untold, to shrieks of what her punishment would be if she failed. She trembled, but stood firm.
The black wind became a spinning vortex around her. It had pulled back, leaving her at the eye of the storm, so that when the skin she was holding caught fire, she was able to let it go and it drifted gently to the fire.
An ear-splitting shriek, heard not with the ear but with the mind, filled the sacred circle as the skin burned. Abruptly, everything was still again. Izolda slumped to the ground.
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