Chapter 5—The Exchange

“You are sure these are the boxes?” She cracked open the first lid, to inspect the contents. Slivers of wood crumbled under her touch. The velvet interior had deteriorated in the damp air of the vault, but the wand within was perfect. Pristine. Protected by its magic, she mused. She plucked the wand from the shredded lining, put the box aside, and flipped open the clasp on the other, prying the wooden lid open. Inside, several, thin, fossilized bones rattled.

“Yes, ma’am. I followed your instructions exactly,” said a gravelly voice. “The boxes were right where you said they would be. I ain’t never seen metal melt like that, ma’am.” His greedy eyes darted around the room. “I put the paste on the hinges, just like you said, ma’am, and they became as soft as butter left in the sun. Where’d you get—”

She raised a hand, cutting off the man’s enquiry. “Enough questions. And the key?”

The man shoved his filthy hand into his pocket and retrieved a skeleton key. Larger than normal, the jet-black iron swallowed the light in the room, as though it was a personal key of the devil himself. He gingerly handed it to the woman, anxious to part company with the deathly cold object.

“If you would give me my due, ma’am, I will be on my way.” He held out his hand, fingers wriggling, eager to collect the other half of his promised fee. He had doubled his normal rate for the theft, as breaking into the Camelot armoury was not without peril. He had spent enough time in Camelot’s cells to not wish a return visit.

“Certainly, my good man.” She shifted the wand in her hand and pointed it at him. “Virgines strangulari,” she whispered. The man’s eyes bulged. A horrible choking rasp issued from his mouth and his hands flew to his neck, but there was nothing to grasp. He gasped, his face reddening, then fading to purple and finally to blue, as his oxygen-starved body struggled to take in the air he was denied. He fell to his knees, red shot eyes bulging, then collapsed onto his back. His upper limbs spasmodically twitched as his heels scrabbled across the floor. The hands clawed, digging into the threadbare carpet, then with a final shudder his motions stilled.

The witch’s pitiless eyes stared down at the still man, his eyes glazed in death. He will soon stink like the rest of this hovel. Satisfied, she tucked the wand into the inner right pocket of her skirt, then placed the box of bones into the satchel she carried. Pulling up the hood of her cloak, she stepped over the body. “You did find the right wand. I thank you for your assistance. Enjoy your reward.” She hurried to the door of the hovel and pushed it open.

The alleyway reeked of moist, rotting vegetation and human waste, but its shadowed length was empty. She drew the deep hood closer around her pale face, then walked away, boot heels clicking on the cobblestone. In the shadow of the alleyway, her cloak was tolerable, but once she reached the main street, the sun hit her with the force of a hammer. She did not remove the covering, however, until she was several streets away from the alley. Pausing in the doorway of a seamstress shop, she shoved the hood off her hair, then released the clasp at her neck, peeling the garment off and shoving the light material into the bag.

With a toss of her head, the woman moved serenely back into the flow of people, pausing to inspect some apples on a vendor’s cart, before moving on. She was glad to reach the inn where she had taken a room on her arrival in Camelot two weeks ago. The Frog’s Leap was a two-story lodging painted a garish green, but it was one of the few inns with a fine view of the castle of Camelot. She pushed open the front door, climbing the stairs to her room. The cool interior was a blessed relief after the hours she had spent in that stinking hovel. Yet, she had her prize. She unlocked her door and stepped inside, leaving the door unlocked. She placed her articles on the bed, then walked over to the sole window. The curtains were drawn to ward off the heat of the day, and she pulled them back, throwing open the window to tempt in a passing breeze.

A pitcher of water sat on a silver tray and she poured herself a glass, then filled an alabaster wash basin with the rest. She dipped a cloth into the water and dabbed it below her ears and across the creamy expanse of her chest, cooling her body. Satisfied with her ablutions, she carried her glass of water over to her bedside and sat down to wait.

She had finished half of it when a soft knock sounded on her door. She pulled the wand from her pocket, hiding it under her skirt, then called, “Who is it?”

A low, terse voice replied. “It is I. Let me enter.”

“The door is unlocked.”

The door swung open. The man who filled the doorway was thick set with beefy arms that strained the fabric of his simple linen shirt. His barrel chest pulled at the lacing. A wide leather belt was cinched about his waist. Thick lips were framed by a mustache and short cropped beard. Twin knives peeked out of the top of his calf leather boots. He stepped into the room, shouldering closed the door.

“Well, do you have it?” His eyes swept the interior of the room, before settling on the petite woman sitting on the bed. He remained at the door, watching her with narrowed eyes.

“I do. Do you have the egg?”

The man reached inside his tunic and withdrew a black velvet bag tied with a silver drawstring. He loosened the top and reached inside to pull out an obsidian egg, curiously striated with golden ribbons which sparkled. It was about the size of the water pitcher. He held it out for her inspection.

“Return it to the bag and bring it to me.” She reached inside her pocket and pulled out her fist, opening it to display the key. “I will not risk it being dropped.”

The man frowned, then shook his head. “No go. I will place the egg back in the pouch and place it on the floor, after you toss the key to me. I am not getting near you.” He frowned at the woman. “What are you planning to do with that egg?”

She disregarded the question, as she had with the thief in the hovel. The woman drew the wand with her other hand, pointing it at the man. “I could kill you now, for disobeying me, Trammel.”

The man’s stance did not change. “That is true, but then I would drop the egg and it would smash. Unless you think you can stun me and gather the egg at the same time. I am not without magic of my own, as you well know. Do you really want to risk it?”

They stared challengingly into each other’s eyes, daring the other to be the first to take action, and all the while taking the measure of each other. Finally, the woman’s lips thinned into a parody of a smile. With a careless flick of her wrist, she tossed the key to the floor at his feet. Trammel inserted the egg carefully into the bag, drew the string tight, then with his right hand retrieved a wand of his own. His hazel eyes, fastened intently on the woman, did not shift as he gently placed the bag on the floor and then retrieved the key, all without blinking. He eased away from the egg and stepped backward toward the door which swung open of its own accord.

“It was good doing business with you again, Simone. Long life.” He twitched a small mocking salute, backed out the door, and was gone.

Simone cocked her head, listening until the heavy tread of his footsteps faded away before rising from the bed to retrieve the bag. With a wave of the wand, she sent a spell around the room, searching for traps left behind by the man and, finding none, stepped over the egg to lock the door. A clicking sound reached her ears. She gently picked up the bag, carrying it to the bed. With trembling hands, she freed the egg from the bag, cupping it in her hands. Pale blue, the curving exterior was shot through with veins of dark indigo. She delved the surface, sending a soft, exploratory pulse of magic around the mottled shell, and was thrilled when she felt a stir in the egg, a slithering contact that sent a shiver down her spine. The first portion of her plan was complete. Assured that the egg was real, she returned it to its wrappings, tucking it back inside the carrying pouch.

At dusk, as the shadows lengthened within Camelot’s protective walls, she would leave the inn. She could not risk being seen in Camelot. The guards here knew her face, if not her purpose for being in Camelot. She could not risk them associating her with the evil she was about to unleash on those who hated magic. No, it would need be under the cover of darkness, that she completed her task. But first, she had to prepare the egg.

At the foot of her bed rested a small travelling chest. She unlocked the lid and pushed it back. Clothing, shoes, and a variety of instruments filled the confined interior. She rummaged through the contents, until she found her pestle and the matching stone bowl. She carried it over to the wash stand then retrieved one of the stolen bones and placed it in the bowl. She pounded the bone, breaking it apart then grinding it into sand.

Once it had been sufficiently reduced, she returned to her chest and searched through it, then plucked out of the jumbled contents a leather purse stuffed with soft cotton, wrapped around a small crystal vial. Simone pulled the stopper, gave the contents a sniff, then tipped a dozen drops onto the ground bone. Everywhere the potion touched, it bubbled and frothed.

“Vivificas ac mutate,” she commanded, as she moved the stolen wand over the surface. The liquid dried into a grey gelatinous blob, oozing around the base of the bowl. Gently, Simone lifted the egg and placed it in the center of the mixture. Despite there not being enough present to submerge the egg, it sank into the ooze until it was totally covered. The surface of the egg shot gold sparks into the air, sizzling with frenetic energy, then the cloudy bone mixture was absorbed through the coating of shell, as though sucked through a sieve. When all the jelly was absorbed, the indigo veins vanished. Golden stripes now lay on the shell’s surface, pulsing with energy.

Simone plucked the egg from the bowl, examining it closely. Her lips stretched into a thin, satisfied smile, devoid of mirth. She glanced at the sky out the window. The sun had moved, but it was far too early to implement her plan, so instead she stretched out on the bed, clutching the egg against her chest and rested, napping fitfully.

The sun was a melted puddle on the western horizon when she crept out of the inn, taking the back stairs that led to the stables. Her navy cloak back in place, she checked the clasp around her neck. The deep hood shadowed her face as she hurried down the road, keeping to the shadows as she followed its curving path to the edge of the lower town where the waters of the River Afallon parted. One branch ran through the center of Camelot, while the second filled the moat encircling the walled city, before meeting up on the other side to race away from the city fortress.

She glanced up at the stone wall, and froze against it as a guard marched by, only a few feet above her head. Simone waited for the steps to fade away, then slid down a steep slope of grass to the shoreline, crossing under the stone foundation of the north drawbridge. Hidden by the bridge overhead, she crouched in the shadows at the water’s edge. To her right, a refuse pit smouldered, the greasy smoke burning her throat. Her eyes scanned for movement, as she listened intently to the sounds of the night around her. She studied the view, searching for any sign of movement or evidence that she had been followed. But all was still. Satisfied that she was alone, she pulled the egg from the bag and held it in the palm of her hand. Tapping its shell, she muttered ”Aperta.” A jagged crack appeared on its surface, and a queasy odour assailed her nose, the stench of rotting flesh. She stood and tossed it onto the smouldering ash. The second the egg touched the heat, flames leapt up around it, encasing the shell in a sulphuric yellowed flame. The egg was swallowed by the ash and sank blow the upper layer of ash. A stream of foul bubbles broke the surface as it journeyed into the murky depths. A weird keening cry issued the blisters as they popped.

Simone watched the bubbles slow, then cease. Her lips curved into a fierce smirk as her eyes darted up and down the shoreline, one last check for anything that would indicate she was being watched. With a final glance at the pit by the river, she hurried away, gaining the walls of Camelot without notice.

Back in her room at The Frog’s Leap, she swiftly changed into her Camelot livery. It would not do to be late, on this of all days. Stuffing her street clothing into her satchel, she slung it over her shoulder and ran to the servant’s entrance to the castle. Pushing open the door, she slowed her pace to a quick walk, nodding to other servants as they passed her by. She turned a corner, and with a quick glance to be sure she was alone, shoved her satchel behind a suit of armour. A pleased grin spread across Simone’s face as she sauntered down the stone corridor to report for work.