Sorry for the delayed post this week. It is the first week of the second semester at uni, so things have been quite hectic…
-oOo-
Caewen shook her head. “Calm down. Nothing. Clearly, the tent can’t harm things that are enduringly magical. Probably, it can only snuff out fleeting spells.”
“How do you know that?” He looked puzzled. “Wait a moment, how do you even know there’s a difference between fleeting and enduring magics? You’re not a trained magician. Hurm.”
She was taken aback, and blinked at the question, several times. “I don’t know…” she said, genuinely surprised. For a moment she reflected on what she had just said. “It just feels… uhm… sort of right to me. I feel as if I’ve always known about the ways and forms of enchantment. Maybe the goddess put the ideas into my head?” Not quite convincing herself, she added, “Somehow.”
“Hmmm’rm. Maybe,” murmured Dapplegrim. “Maybe.”
She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.” Then turning to face the farthest recess of the tent, she pointed. “Anyway, that thing there is what makes me think enduring magics are not affected by Fafmuir’s tent of un-magic weaves.” The brass brazier with its bowl of red-hot coals stood aglow in the shadowy corner. Rising out of the basin, a stylised head sat in the hot bed of ashes, frowning in a bath of that same ruddy light. The yellow of its brass cheeks and brow gleamed richly. “It is real, isn’t it? I saw it last I was here, but I didn’t realise its importance. But it’s like at the fortune teller’s tent, but real.”
“A brazen head,” said Dapplegrim. He moved closer and sniffed. “Yes. Certainly smells real. There can’t be more than two or three of these left in the world. Potent, yes, but fragile too. Hurrm. Seems we are chancing across quite the trove of ancient enchantments today, aren’t we? First the little statue; now the head; maybe you are right, maybe the goddess of the tor is moving her hand in your favour?” He peered at the face, then asked, “You think he was using it inside the tent… that would mean…”
She finished his thought. “The tent can’t be acting against magical relics.”
“Or creatures,” said Dapplegrim. “A brazen head has the nature of both a relic and a living thing. It is not quite alive, not exactly, but it has a faint pulse of life, and a will of its own. I suppose I’m safe then.” He whisked his tail. “For now at least.”
Caewen walked towards it–slowly, tentatively–and stopped a few feet short.
“Caewen… hurrrm. What are you doing?”
“If Fafmuir has been looking into the coals of this thing, gazing into the days to come, and far-off visions… well…” she trailed off. “It’s a powerful seeing-tool, isn’t it? A device of the sorcerous sight? Maybe I could see the same visions he saw? Maybe, just maybe, we might get a hint as to what he is planning. Or more than a hint, if we are lucky.”
“Caewen. I really don’t think that is a good idea. Not even a little bit. Hurm. You’ve already had your mind prised from your skull once today. You might not come back a second time. It isn’t healthy to go around without one’s body. You can get stuck as a voice and a mind on the wind, and that is a cold, lonely way to spend forever.”
“What other choice do we have? Can you look into the flames of the oracle?”
“No,” he said after a considered pause. “I don’t think so. It was not made for one such as me. My mind will not find a path there. Only walls and barriers. It was made by sorcerers and is for sorcerers only.”
“Then, really, Dapple, what else can we do?”
He didn’t answer her, but his silence told her more than any string of words would have. She was right. They had no choice. He just couldn’t bring himself to say it. But this was the choice: attempt to understand what Fafmuir was planning, or just give up. Sit here. Wait for death, whatever form it would take.
She reached out, towards the oracle and let her skin grow warm against the waves of heat.
“Caewen?” said Daplegrim.
“Yes?”
“Be careful. Come back. Don’t leave me alone. Please.”
She tried to smile, tried to give him a quick nod of understanding–but the heat leapt into her fingertips, and started to pulse there. Then, without really knowing what she was doing, Caewen realised that her gaze had been drawn–almost forced–to the eyes of the face. A light seemed to crack and spread around the lower edges of the eyes, and they opened like some heavy lidded sleeper coming awake. She hadn’t even realised they had been closed, but now she was starting into twin orbs of flame. She was unable to pull away. She could not blink. The eyelids of the oracle opened wider and white hot fire poured from the holes, filling the air, filling the gulf between all things, spreading and twisting like rivers of flame, threading a needle-hole into her skull.