with their striking embellishment of the giant Montgomery dragonfly glittering in the torchlight, stand closed, waiting. As custom demands, I stay still and silent, using nothing but my own will and my capacity for magic to slowly alert the coven to my presence. At length, the chamber on the other side of the doors falls into silence, too, save for approaching footsteps. There is a jarring clunk as the lock and handle are turned, and the doors slowly open. On the threshold stands a stout figure dressed in a robe of fiery reds and oranges, worked in exquisite needlepoint to cover the brocade that swings from his broad shoulders. He leans heavily on the ancient oak staff that he holds in his left hand. However contorted his voice might be, however much his mask obscures his face, there can be no mistaking the sturdy physique and arthritic gait of Lord Grimes, Master of the Chalice, stalwart friend of the late duke, and skillful necromancer. The sight of him calms me a little. I know I can rely on his unquestioning support, now and in the years ahead. He greets me with a low, if rather stiff bow, before stepping aside, indicating the chamber with a sweep of his arm.
“Enter and welcome, child,” he says.
I step forward, my heartbeating loudly. I am aware of Violet slipping into the chamber behind me to take up her place in the ranks. A dash of darkness to my right gives away Iago’s entrance. The Great Chamber boasts a higher roof than the catacomb it adjoins. The curved ceiling could have given the feeling of a cave, but such is the extent of the decoration that it is impossible to think of it as such. The brick and stone from which it was constructed have been plastered and painted the Prussian blue of a Nordic summer night sky. The joins of the rafters which crisscross it are studded with carved bosses, painted in rich colors, each depicting the symbols of a coven family—the Montgomery dragonfly, the Harcourt viper, the Grimes owl, and so on.
I have never seen the chamber so full of people. Robed figures line the walls on all sides, forming many long rows. There are so many witches present that the intricate carvings in the paneling of those walls are almost entirely obscured. The silence in which my observers view me is oppressive, yet I had expected it. Secrecy and silence. How well we are drilled in these tenets. How much of a habit they become, so that people of the Outerworld often think us cold or reserved. Even though space is scarce with so many in attendance, all present respect the sacred circle at the center of the chamber, so that the crowd holds itself at a dutiful distance from the painted floor. I stop when I come to the edge of the outer ring.
Many covens, I understand, use a pentacle as their holy space, but the Lazarus Coven have always favored the circle, symbolizing as it does a continuation, a life without end. The rim is of pure gold, layer upon layer of leaf painstakingly applied to the stone floor until it gleams and shimmers, priceless and fabulous, marking the limit of where one might tread without purpose or invitation. Inside the ring of gold is a broad swath of silver, to signify the beauty of the night and the influence of the moon in a witch’s spellcasting. The main part of the circle, which is a good twenty paces across, is split into halves, the uppermost one containing an image of the sun in a cloudless sky, the lower the black of night with moon and stars. The two are separated by a winding red river, known as the Rubicon. The coven adopted this symbol some centuries after they came into existence, when they had been searching for an image to signify the narrow but crucial division between day and night. Between life and death. The ancient Roman river from which it took its name was red because of the soil beneath it. The pigment on the chamber floor, however, the dark red which is regularly and solemnly renewed and replenished, is colored by blood.
The Master of the Chalice walks
“Enter and welcome, child,” he says.
I step forward, my heartbeating loudly. I am aware of Violet slipping into the chamber behind me to take up her place in the ranks. A dash of darkness to my right gives away Iago’s entrance. The Great Chamber boasts a higher roof than the catacomb it adjoins. The curved ceiling could have given the feeling of a cave, but such is the extent of the decoration that it is impossible to think of it as such. The brick and stone from which it was constructed have been plastered and painted the Prussian blue of a Nordic summer night sky. The joins of the rafters which crisscross it are studded with carved bosses, painted in rich colors, each depicting the symbols of a coven family—the Montgomery dragonfly, the Harcourt viper, the Grimes owl, and so on.
I have never seen the chamber so full of people. Robed figures line the walls on all sides, forming many long rows. There are so many witches present that the intricate carvings in the paneling of those walls are almost entirely obscured. The silence in which my observers view me is oppressive, yet I had expected it. Secrecy and silence. How well we are drilled in these tenets. How much of a habit they become, so that people of the Outerworld often think us cold or reserved. Even though space is scarce with so many in attendance, all present respect the sacred circle at the center of the chamber, so that the crowd holds itself at a dutiful distance from the painted floor. I stop when I come to the edge of the outer ring.
Many covens, I understand, use a pentacle as their holy space, but the Lazarus Coven have always favored the circle, symbolizing as it does a continuation, a life without end. The rim is of pure gold, layer upon layer of leaf painstakingly applied to the stone floor until it gleams and shimmers, priceless and fabulous, marking the limit of where one might tread without purpose or invitation. Inside the ring of gold is a broad swath of silver, to signify the beauty of the night and the influence of the moon in a witch’s spellcasting. The main part of the circle, which is a good twenty paces across, is split into halves, the uppermost one containing an image of the sun in a cloudless sky, the lower the black of night with moon and stars. The two are separated by a winding red river, known as the Rubicon. The coven adopted this symbol some centuries after they came into existence, when they had been searching for an image to signify the narrow but crucial division between day and night. Between life and death. The ancient Roman river from which it took its name was red because of the soil beneath it. The pigment on the chamber floor, however, the dark red which is regularly and solemnly renewed and replenished, is colored by blood.
The Master of the Chalice walks
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