The Last Days of Magic (47 page)

“. . . Hence, pay heed and tremble, pestilential creature, as I castrate your strength and bind you to this salt even as it dissolves. I strip you of your might and lay waste thy Kingdom. In the name of Jesus the Christ, let all enemies of the one true God be shattered. . . .”

. . . . .

Two days later the clouds finally gave way to blue sky. Orsini knelt in sunlight streaming through the window of the ex-queen’s receiving chamber and prayed: prayed that God would allow him to finish what he started, prayed for strength to get through the next ten minutes. Pulling his robe over his head and placing it to the side, he heard a gasp and made a mental note to chastise the brother who had made it. Under Orsini’s skin, scattered across his body, were black blotches the size of pennies, except for one on his lower back, which was as big as a hand with black tendrils stretching out like a hundred legs.

Behind Orsini, in addition to the soon-to-be-repentant brother, there were two other exorcists and the legate, who had arrived in Galway the previous day. The legate bent and spoke softly into Orsini’s ear. “Are you sure this has to be done here, now? Let me take you back to Rome. Your brothers can finish with the Fomorians.”

“No. Do not tempt me.” Orsini’s voice trembled, a tremor that seemed to run from his throat down through his body. He regained control with effort. “Just think of it, Legate, the last major race of Nephilim are within our grasp. The great test given by God to Enoch shall be completed. We will have proved to God that we are his one True Church. All other churches will fall before us and become no more than dust. I must remain here, must make sure my process works. It is the culmination of my life’s purpose.”

“As you command, Your Eminence.” The legate straightened up and stepped back.

Orsini prostrated himself on the floor. “Just drive enough of the corruption from me to allow me to finish.”

The legate picked up the sword from the table, unsheathed it, and directed the point toward the exorcists, who joined their hands to form a ring around it. They began an enchantment in Aramaic.

“Legate, these are my three most accomplished students,” said Orsini. “If I should . . . if I should lose control of my holy self, make
sure they are allowed to finish my work. Saving me is of little concern.” Orsini began reciting the Lord’s Prayer.

The sword tip had brightened to an orange glow. The legate pressed the tip against the large blotch on Orsini’s back. A thin stream of black smoke rose. Orsini prayed louder. The blotch wriggled, crawled under his skin up his back to his shoulder.

“Good,” sighed the legate. “It is clearly smaller.”

“Again,” ordered Orsini.

After the fourth application, the black blotch had been reduced to half its original size and was no longer animated. “Enough!” cried Orsini, struggling to a sitting position. “Enough. Thank you, my brothers, and you, Legate. I shall be able to serve a bit longer now, I should think.”

. . . . .

While Orsini was preparing himself, all the residents of Galway were at Mass. They had been ordered to attend under penalty of death. The small Christian chapel overflowed into the square, where the bulk of the populace, hearing little and understanding none of the Latin service, fretted. Looking up, the prayers they did make were not offered to the Christian God but rather to their own Gods, beseeching them to keep the sky clear, for the people had come to know that Fomorians avoided direct sunlight whenever possible and, on this bright day, would be slumbering in the depths of their loughs. When the Mass was finally over, the city gates were opened, and the people cautiously ventured forth in large groups to harvest peat for their hearths and fish the shallows for their tables.

As the sun approached its zenith, Orsini left the city by wagon with his companions and a small contingent of guards.
I did not realize that there were this many Celts left alive in Galway,
the legate thought, looking at the work parties.
That is good. After they see Orsini defeat the Fomorians, they will not have to be ordered to Mass, and they can carry the good word through the rest of this pagan country.

They took the north road along the bank of the river Corrib, veering off just before it reached Lough Corrib. Within an hour they arrived at the smallish Lough Aceelagh.

“This is our test lough,” said Orsini, climbing down from the wagon. “Bring one barrel of oil and one of salt.”

“How many Fomorians are in here?” asked the legate.

“Reports say twenty to thirty,” replied Orsini.

Guards dragged the barrels to the shore. “Oil first,” commanded Orsini. A guard used his dagger to pry off the lid. As the oil was poured into the lough, a sheen spread, rainbowed in the sunlight.

“Now the salt.”

For a moment the water was still. Then a short wave rose and rolled across the lough, leaving eddies and whirlpools in its wake. The turbulence grew. A Fomorian crawled up the far shore and ran off. Others followed along the shoreline, four or five, the legate estimated. Another emerged halfway out, only to collapse on the bank and let loose a deep-throated scream. Using his arms, he dragged himself up a little farther, revealing that he no longer had a lower body, and died. No others emerged.

The legate watched the churning water with fascination. Within fifteen minutes it calmed once again. “What are those?” he asked, pointing to white specks floating to the surface.

Orsini ordered one of the guards to collect some. When the guard hesitated, Orsini gave him a shove. “You will not be hurt, unless you disobey me.” The guard cautiously dipped his foot into the water. When nothing happened, he waded out and collected a handful. They were teeth.

Orsini slapped the legate’s shoulder. “It worked. We will exorcise all the loughs.”

“Some did escape,” said the legate.

“But a few, but a few. I will just have to provide more incentive for them to stay in their lough, by the promise of a worse death.” Orsini called, “Bring me some vessels.”

Wooden crates were pried open in the wagon. “How many does Your Eminence want?” asked one of his brothers.

“Twelve is always a good number.” Twelve bronze vessels were placed in a line on the ground in front of Orsini. He read the name engraved on the first, then drew his journal out of a pocket and consulted it. “Glasya-Labolas, he is a perfect one for this. How exciting.”

Taking the wax tablet handed to him, Orsini pulled a silver stylus from his pocket and inscribed a symbol representing the demon’s true name while chanting in Aramaic. Black mist streamed from the vessel and formed into the shape of a large dog with the wings of a griffin.

“Go,” ordered Orsini, in a language too old to have a name. “Keep the Fomorians in their loughs. Skin and consume any that escape.” With a snarl the demon took off in the direction of the escaped Fomorians.

Orsini moved down the line, releasing the demons one at a time, giving them their orders, each time his voice weakening a shade, until he reached the twelfth. He slowly stood up from reading the name. He did not have to consult his journal.

“Vepar. I should have checked them all. I should have handled him first.” With his dagger he cut a vellum page from his journal and handed it to his exorcist brothers. “This is Vepar’s page, in case you need it. Have your tablet and stylus ready.”

“Are you all right?” asked the legate. “Perhaps this one should be left in his pot.”

Orsini shook his head. “There was a time I could handle demons of his rank like kittens. I can deal with him still.” He began the ritual. Vepar formed, a giant worm with the head and shoulders of a man. Orsini issued his orders. Vepar began to slither off, then reversed himself. Orsini repeated his orders. Vepar smiled, baring his fangs. Orsini quickly began to redraw Vepar’s symbol. “I bind you back—” But before he finished, Vepar reared up and struck, becoming mist once again and flowing into Orsini’s mouth. Orsini collapsed.

No one moved.

Orsini sprang up and ran.

“Stop him!” cried the legate. A guard swiped his sword at Orsini, catching his ankle, severing the Achilles tendon. Orsini fell to the ground again. A black hump rose from his back, bursting through his robe. The guards dropped to their knees and started praying fervently for their own salvation. The exorcists completed Vepar’s symbol and began to recite the words on the page. Black and gray mist swirled around Orsini’s flesh, obscuring it. The chant of the exorcists rose in volume. Mist streamed from Orsini’s robe into Vepar’s vessel. As the robe collapsed, the mist dragged a small, flickering ball of light into the pot. Then the robe was empty of Vepar and Orsini, the vessel still.

The legate and the exorcists panted as their terror subsided. The guards’ frantic prayers filled the air. “Silence!” shouted the legate. Addressing the exorcists, he said, “Have the rest of the barrels brought out and start working through the loughs. I’ll take Orsini back home to Rome. There the Mother Church may be able to restore him.” The legate gingerly picked up the vessel and peered inside. There was black moving within black and a hint of a flickering light a great distance away.

I
N
R
OME
THAT
M
AY
, the legate and four exorcists were ushered into the office of Pope Boniface IX. The exorcists carried a glass case etched with runes, which contained a bronze vessel. The procession stopped and waited for their presence to be acknowledged. The pope, flanked by two secretaries, sat listening to a commissary read out the terms for the sale of an indulgence. Pope Boniface himself was illiterate, the legate recalled.

“That is good. That is good,” said the pope. “Make sure you get all the gold before you turn over the document.”

One secretary signed the pope’s name to the parchment, and the other applied the seal of the Apostolic See. Upon the commissary’s departure, the pope waved the legate forward. “Tell Us, Legate, is the Irish Church now Ours?”

The legate advanced and kissed the pope’s Ring of the Fisherman. “There is no longer an Irish Church, Your Holiness. All of the monasteries in Ireland, as well as those in Britain and Europe that were once theirs, are now in the possession of your bishops.”

“And the Sidhe, they are all dead?”

“Like rats you can never kill every last one. However, the few remaining cower in their holes and hold no sway in Ireland. They will not trouble Your Holiness further.”

“Well done, Legate. So many new monasteries to fatten Our purse. And what is this? Have you brought Us a present from Ireland?”

“This is the vessel containing the demon Vepar, Your Holiness.”

The pope shrank back in his chair. “Why would you bring it before Us?”

“Regrettably, Your Holiness, Cardinal Orsini was captured by Vepar and now also resides in this vessel.”

“Really?” The pope rose and cautiously approached the glass case. He leaned down and examined the bronze vessel it held. “Orsini is in there? How interesting.”

“Your Holiness, I request permission to have the VRS League try to get him out.”

“We must not risk freeing the demon. Leave him in there until We appoint a new high exorcist. He will be able to free him.”

“Yes, Your Holiness. Please do not wait long. It is impossible to imagine the anguish Orsini’s soul must be undergoing, being bound with Vepar.”

The pope watched the legate and the exorcists carry the case out. “We are famished. Have Our lunch brought in,” said the pope to one secretary. To the other he whispered loudly, “Frankly, Orsini always made Us feel . . . uneasy. With the Sidhe defeated, We do not think We need a high exorcist for now. Strike this meeting from the record.”

27

Paris, France

March 1396

J
oanna’s sitting room was larger than those of the other witches of the High Coven who resided in the Paris royal residence, as befitted her new station as Second Sorcière. A eunuch threw open the door, and Queen Isabeau, the Grande Sorcière, swept in. Joanna, dressed in a night shift, rose from her chair by the fireplace.