Total pages in book: 40
Estimated words: 38711 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 194(@200wpm)___ 155(@250wpm)___ 129(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38711 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 194(@200wpm)___ 155(@250wpm)___ 129(@300wpm)
Finn looked skeptical.
“One thing you learn when you become a priest, once the shock and awe wears off, is that most things are simpler than you imagined them to be. The traditions and rituals we perform aren’t just for the gods. They are for us, for humans. In a way, it’s fan service.”
“What?”
“The drowning ritual—the correct word for us, Slavic pagans, is obryad—takes place at the beginning of spring. The weather is nice, the skies are blue, and you don’t have to wrap a scarf over your face to keep your nose from freezing off. After being cooped up all winter, you can dress up in something that has some shape to it, get together with other people your age, decorate a dolly with branches and ribbons, and toss it into the water or set it on fire.”
Finn frowned.
Roman smiled at him. “You know who loves this holiday? Teenagers like you. They come out in droves to check each other out and flirt. Morena started out as an agrarian goddess. Not exactly the same, but similar roots as the Assyrian Ishtar and Greek Demeter. Common theme for their spring rites? Fertility.”
Finn blinked.
“See, you’ve built this whole tragedy around ‘people are murdering my goddess’ when in reality it’s all about celebrating surviving the winter by shopping for a date. I’ve asked Morena before how she felt about it.”
“You did?”
“I did. You know what she said? ‘Finally, vacation time.’” Roman drained the last of his sbiten and set the mug aside. “Now let’s take a look at that nightmare of yours.”
6
“Water is the boundary between worlds.” Roman placed a heavy glass dish onto the table. “It holds magic like nothing else. It can hide you. It can kill you. Water is your element. Why?”
“Snow and ice?” Finn guessed.
Roman nodded. “Exactly. Go out back and bring me a small icicle.”
The kid took off. Roman filled the bowl to about an inch from the rim and retrieved a small mirror, paper, and a pen from his office.
Finn came back with a small icicle.
“Sit.”
Finn sat at the table.
Roman took a piece of paper and drew a cross set on its side, two intersecting lines connecting the square’s corners. He crossed each corner with a smaller line and showed it to Finn.
“Morena’s znak.”
“Znek?”
“Znuck. Rhymes with puck. Means symbol. That’s your goddess’s sigil.” Roman held up the mirror.
“It’s a stylized snowflake. Except snowflakes have six sides.”
“This one has four. Ancient Slavs didn’t know about hydrogen bonds or hexagonal lattice. Morena pauses flowing water. Her sigil stands for halting, keeping still, stopping in its tracks. It’s a powerful ward. We are going to use it to freeze-frame a memory. Use the icicle to draw it on your forehead. Doesn’t need to be precise. Just do the best you can.”
Finn scribbled with the icicle on his forehead.
“Drop it into the bowl.”
The icicle landed in the water.
“Repeat after me. ‘Mother Morena, light of winter…’”
“‘…light of winter…’”
“‘Life- preserving, snow-bringing, guardian of seeds, keeper of roots…’”
“‘…roots…’”
“‘Peer into my mind and bring forth a memory.’”
“‘…memory.’”
“‘Let me see the face of my enemy.’”
“‘…enemy.’”
“Look into the bowl and think back to your nightmare.”
Finn stared at the water.
Magic moved. A thin layer of ice sheathed the surface, clear like glass. Within it, an image formed like a photograph appearing in a Polaroid. A tall man in a complex garment standing in front of a plain stone altar. Behind him, a symbol glowed, a wheel with eight spokes, drawn in the air with thin, smoldering lines, like glowing wires burning against wood.
Six spokes ended in sharp triangles; another, at seven-thirty o’clock, was severed in half; and the top one, pointing straight up, split in two just before it reached the outer rim.
Three rings, the smallest inner ring at about one-quarter of the radius, and then an outer, double ring. So three and then multiples of two, specifically four and eight. Those were these people’s sacred numbers.
A dark gray robe with bright yellow panels, not cinched or belted, but cut narrow at the waist; long gray sleeves, close-fitted; dark gray gloves; two thick cords hanging from the shoulders, caught with metal clamps and ending in long tassels; and over it, a bright yellow cloak or over-robe, draping over the shoulders and arms, over the top part of the chest, and forming a layered hood. Beautiful fabric, embroidered with complex patterns, almost brocade-like, but not nearly as heavy, judging by the drape. The edges of the hood and the hem of the robe were tattered and fraying.
Roman had never seen anything like this before. The cut of the robe was definitely martial, more battle monk than ceremonial clergy. None of the symbology on the fabric rang any bells.
The deep hood hid most of the priest’s face, leaving only the bottom half of his face exposed. Olive complexion, short, dark beard. That told him exactly nothing.