Can The Devil Speak True? || Ronan and Peridan
Ronan had his orders. He stepped towards a small table without wasting any time. On it sat a book, a lantern, and a bronze plate with shavings of bark and small leaves on it.
Of course, the most important item there was the book. It was one of several he had stolen from the library at Cair Paravel. In it was the knowledge of other worlds. Other worlds! And the inhabitants of Narnia had ignored its value for so long the cover had been blanketed with dust the first time Ronan lifted it from its shelf. But it would be used last.
He took up the plate first and placed it on the stone above Peridan’s head. On it was collection of dried hawthorn, hellebore, and shavings of bark taken from the stubble on Peridan’s chin. Next he removed the candle from inside the lantern. The wax it was made out of was a muddy colour, having been spiced with hemlock and tea leaves, both important for the spell. He carefully touched the flame to the kindling. It caught.
Holding the book before him, although he knew the incantations by heart now, he said the words out loud. For a moment everything remained as it had been, but as he took his next breath the chill had vanished from the winter air. Slowly the lines of red glowed, first dully, like dying coals, and then with all the fury of a wildfire.
Ronan shut the book with a snap and noticed that Peridan had shut his eyes. Their edges were crinkled with fear. Ronan touched a hand to the dryad’s shoulder. “You know it’s not personal, master oak. In the same way it’s not personal when the fields are harvested for their grain or the mines for their stone. Some things just have more utility than others.”
“Ronan,” came his master’s voice. He obeyed directly. Moving from the field of the spell.
Smoke was gathering over the ritual site.
It was smoke whirling above him, Peridan knew that, but it felt more like it was sand running over his skin. The sensation deepened until he could no longer breathe and his face was sticky. He lay for a moment, panic creeping into him, before the cold air rushed over his face and he could breathe again. It took all of the strength he had left to open his eyes.
The Madman stood above him, holding what looked like a mask in his hands. Peridan could recall that he did the same thing on the last four occasions the spell had been cast, only then he had been holding replicas of Peridan’s limbs. First two arms, then two legs. This time it was a replica of Peridan’s face.
The sound of crunching snow grabbed his attention. Peridan’s eyes turned in time to see the Lackey nearly faint against the side of a cabin. Suddenly it appeared that his body was falling into nothingness. The linen he had been clothed with fell to the snow with a sigh. It stirred and out came sleek, furred creature. The Madman spoke and it set off into the forest, leaving paw prints as it went.
The dryad looked back to the mask and found The Madman was lowering it into a box. His fingers ran over the abhorrent material with such precision that they would hardly leave a trace on it.
Peridan’s last thought before sleep took him was that he had never seen royalty with hands like that.
[end]
