Blood Moon: Bound in Blood and Magic

ORDINARY FOLK had no reason to fear the Moon. Or so they thought.

It hung in the sky as a welcome guardian, pale as paper in its various phases, providing light to travelers and highwaymen when it was full. It meant no harm and could do no harm. Yet tonight, that possibility bloomed red and bloated. As the Blood Moon rose, so did the dark powers of the eleven mages who gathered beneath it.

Six warlocks and five witches, all in hooded crimson robes, formed an incomplete ritual circle. As they stood with daggers in hand, each one imbued with gemstones befitting their moon sign, they waited for the novice to step forward. They bade their time, remembering their own initiation.

The girl stood on trembling legs, wearing nothing but a rough linen nightgown that left little to the imagination. Ordinarily, she would have been dressed in proper gray livery, but no more. No more would she toil for the slave-monger and his wife, who traded in indentured servants such as she. No more would she be plagued by debt of any kind. No more would she bear a false name.

Tonight, her true name and nature would be known. The Blood Moon revealed all secrets.

“Come, neophyte,” said Arisa, the Keeper of the diamond-imbued Ram’s Dagger. “Fear not.”

Step by hesitant step, the girl approached the senior witch.

Arisa stretched her weapon forth, beholding not only fear in the girl’s eyes, but ravenous curiosity. The kind that could never be sated by any common earthly desire. The kind that only magic could fulfill, and blood magic at that.

“Do you know why we have called you here?” Arisa asked.

“To join your unholy ranks,” replied the girl.

“Why ‘unholy’? Have you paid too much devout attention to the Inquisitors and their lies?”

The girl shook her head violently, whipping it from side to side. “Nay. I don’t heed them.”

“Do you know that you could become an elemental witch, less often pursued by their ilk?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what happens to them if they are caught?”

“Witches of the air are hanged. Witches of the earth are stoned. Witches of fire are burnt at the stake. Witches of the water are drowned. Each according to their art turned against them.”

“What of our kind? If we are found out, what is our punishment?”

“Blood…blood mages have their throats slit from ear to ear, and their blood runs on the ground.”

Vetaur, a warlock standing next to Arisa, gripped his emerald-encrusted Bull’s Dagger more tightly.

“This one’s not ready. Terror courses like black sap through her veins, and that brings death.”

“True. But do you not recall your own initiation, Vetaur? How frightened you were?”

“Like a little boy,” he sighed, “which I nearly was at that point. I joined at fourteen moons.”

“And you?” Arisa asked the girl.

“Sixteen.”

“Interesting. I not only became a blood witch, but the Diamond Keeper at your age, which was unusual. Not strictly in the favor of the Moon. Yet our previous Keeper had been executed, and our circle needed a new leader in tune with the First Sign. My ascension was quick and necessary.”

Vetaur frowned and lowered his dagger, willing Arisa not to notice his dissent.

“You shall be a Keeper too,” she explained, “once you complete the ritual. Are you prepared?”

The girl’s lips straightened into a hard line. “Yes. I have hungered for this moment for months.”

“Why is it that you want to learn blood magic?” asked Quara, Keeper of the amethyst-embellished and curved Water Bearer’s Dagger. “Why not choose another art, or any art at all? Why not remain a commoner instead? That would keep you safe.”

“I don’t want to be safe. I want to be free. Free to bring those who’ve wronged me to justice.”

“Take care. There’s a thin line between that and vengeance, sharp as my own dagger’s point.”

“I don’t care. Have you ever been whipped to within an inch of your life? Have you been groped, spat on, and kicked like a dog? Have you been reduced to the debt you owe, no longer a person?”

Stiira, Keeper of the citrine-emblazoned Scorpion’s Dagger, shook her head. “I beg your pardon? My journey here was much harder. Consider your suffering naught.”

“Why? Without it, I’ve no reason for wanting to join you. I don’t need your condescension.”

“What you need is power, and that you shall have.” Poel, the Keeper of the Lion’s Dagger, raised it. “Enter our circle with confidence and the knowledge that our art is the most potent.”

“But why?” asked Girova, who held the Virgin’s Dagger. “What does blood magic teach that the other arts do not? What do they shy away from? What is the limit they place upon themselves?”

The girl paused. She knew the answers but feared speaking them out loud. That would make them known, capable of being overheard by the Inquisitors and their spies. That would make them real.

“Through the blood of the body,” she said, “you can touch the aether of the mind and control it. The other arts are based on nature, but blood magic twists nature in the most profound way.”

“That is why it is most dangerous and most feared.” Quara gazed at the girl with an intensity that made both of them catch their breath. “It is why we use it in self-defense against our enemies.”

“Not only them,” said Peol bluntly. “If our allies need persuading, then this is also permitted.”

“What isn’t?” asked the girl. “Blood magic seems like it allows anything and everything.”

Quara nodded. “For a price.”

“I’m willing to pay it. Enough talk. Let me complete the ritual so I can become one of you.”

“Very well.” Arisa raised her dagger. “Remove your shift.”

The girl obeyed. Her body, barely illuminated by the scarlet Moon, broke out in goose pimples. Still, she ignored her apprehension as Arisa pressed the tip of her dagger to her own palm. Blood oozed down the lines of her flesh, and she dipped the index finger of her left hand into it.

She formed a sigil in the shape of a pair of horns upon the girl’s forehead.

Next came Vetaur, who etched the blood sigil of a bull’s head on the girl’s neck.

Third came Imigina. Her Twins’ Dagger, decorated with pearls, had a blunter tip than the first two. Still, it was enough to draw blood from her palm. Her glyph she placed upon the girl’s shoulders: two pillars joined at the top and bottom.

Recnac, Keeper of the Crab’s Dagger, drew two opposing head-tails on her stomach, his weapon a masterwork in silver and rubies. The girl tried not to laugh. Her belly was tender and ticklish.

Peol came next. With short, impatient strokes, he pressed his peridot-imbued dagger to his palm and pressed his bloody finger to the neonate’s chest. He drew a lion’s head and tail upon it.

Girova, cautious by nature, waited until the girl had caught her breath and the previous sigils had had a moment to dry. Hers, similar to the letter M, she placed directly below Recnac’s.

The seventh sign and dagger, and the seventh place in the circle, would soon belong to the girl.

With reluctance, Stiira drew a scorpion’s tail and stinger between the girl’s legs. The neonate stifled another giggle. No matter. She would soon learn the gravity of her new art and position.

With a smile and bold strokes, the next warlock, Gito, formed an arrow on both of the girl’s thighs. This was a sign of wanderlust and adventure, to which she might prove receptive.

Next came Apricus, whose expression froze her blood. She felt not only naked and exposed but unworthy before him. When she received his she-goat sign on both knees, she bit her lower lip so hard she drew blood. Not even Arisa had been so cold and intimidating.

Fortunately, wise Quara and her amethyst dagger followed, etching the symbol of two bolts of lightning on both calves. The neophyte let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding.

Last but not least came Scepi and his sign of the fish on both feet. He thought the girl had much untapped potential if she could see and act in spite of her palpable fear.

Once all eleven signs had dried upon the girl’s body, Arisa explained the final one.

“You are meant to complete our circle as the Seventh Witch, under the Seventh Sign of the Moon. You shall be the Keeper of the Opal Dagger, whose beauty is unmatched. Take care. You shall be hunted most keenly by the Inquisitors, who believe themselves to be the only arbiters of justice. Will you choose this path of your own free will? If so, turn around and let me paint your sign on your lower back.” The girl submitted, and the sigil of the Sun in balance soon dried upon her skin.

“Excuse me,” she asked Arisa, “but why have I received all twelve marks upon my body, not just one?”

“It has to do with the nature of your Moon Sign. You will be the mediator among us, the fulcrum upon which we balance our power. A perilous yet potent position is yours, if you’ll accept it. If not, you are free to leave, but make sure you wash the sigils off in the river before returning home.”

The girl thought of turning around and running straight back to Milham’s Ford, naked or not. Then she recalled who and what awaited her there. With the other mages looking on expectantly, she stepped into the circle’s seventh position and swallowed. Her mouth was bone-dry.

Arisa approached her with a crimson robe. “Wear this, and tell me: What is your name?”

“Rose.” She spat upon the ground, then put on the robe. “That’s what my masters call me.”

“Fear not. The Blood Moon knows your true name and shall reveal it unto you. Close your eyes.”

Rose obeyed.

“What do you see?”

Rose wanted to say “nothing,” but then a pair of shimmering golden scales appeared in her mind’s eye. An artifact to be feared despite its inanimate nature. And its ability to weigh hearts and souls.

“What do you see?” Arisa asked again. “What is your true name?”

“Brialla,” Rose replied, her mouth moistening at last. “I behold a pair of golden scales.”

“Indeed. Your spirit is as such. Brialla is your true name, yet you shall only use it among us. Clear?”

“Yes. In all other respects, I am Rose.” She scowled. “I should be called Briar.”

“You are sharp,” Vetaur said, “but remember to be a thorn in the Inquisitors’ side, not ours.”

“Is that all?” asked Rose. “Am I a blood witch now?”

“No. One more thing remains: your final initiation task. Who will assign one?” asked Arisa.

“I,” replied Apricus, raising his garnet-emblazoned Dagger of the She-Goat. “Young lady? If you are truly Brialla, then go home and do what you yearn to do. Bring your masters to account.”

“How?”

“Use your blood magic. Here. I’ll explain.” Apricus left his place in the ritual circle and approached Rose. He detailed what was to be done without ceremony or exaggeration. “It should be simple enough. Once you finish, you will be a blood witch for all time. There is no returning.”

“Good.” Rose lifted the hood of her new robe. The night air chilled her to the bone.

“Are you certain of this, Apricus?” asked Girova. “She is only a novice, and the task is advanced.”

“She has spirit. Now we’ll see if she has guts. Depart now, Rose. Return to us once you’re done.”

“Of course.” With a start, she stared at her open palms. “Wait a moment. Where’s my dagger?”

Arisa came to her again, removing a plain steel weapon from a fold in her robe. “Here. You won’t receive the opal one until you’ve completed the rite. Now do as Apricus says.”

Rose wrapped her robe tighter around herself and turned back toward her dreaded home.

Milham’s Ford was one of a hundred hamlets under the banner of the Exarch and his Inquisitors. Its layout and geometry were meant to confuse outsiders and keep residents from wandering too far into places where they were not allowed. All the houses looked the same. The people within them were likewise: ever obedient and ever fearful of their overlords’ wrath. Rose despised this attitude. Yet if she did not display it, she would feel the sure sting of the lash upon her back.

Using the Blood Moon as her guide, Rose snuck into her masters’ house through the rear door. She heard arguing in the front room. Weighing each step, the novice witch crept forward, hugging the wall and holding her breath as well as the steel dagger. She hated pain. How could she not cry out when cutting into her palm, as the rite required? Better to lay that problem aside for the moment and listen to what the slave-monger and his wife were quarreling about.

“Where’s Rose?” asked Maude, the loud-tempered mistress of the house. “Have you seen her?”

“Nay,” her husband Cheever replied, “but don’t worry. The lazy slattern is probably in bed.”

“She forgot to turn our bed down again. I swear, if I lay eyes on that girl – ”

“Curb your tongue. No use waking up the neighborhood to our disagreement. As for Rose, she is not paying off her debt quickly enough for me. I’m thinking of selling her to the panderers.”

“To be a prostitute? I daresay not. Rose may not be the best servant, but she’s the best we’ve got. She fetches and carries right well, but she can’t cook. Yet if we sell her, the pimps will get their cut long before we get ours. They’ll take more than half of what we’ll earn through her.”

“That’s more than we’re getting right now through her labor. Can’t you see? She’s worth more on the streets than she is in here. We can buy another indentured maid. One who can cook.”

“No. I’m not giving her up. Not to vulgar men and their even more vulgar appetites. Rose is mine.”

“What do you mean, yours? I’m the one who bought her and her blasted gambling debt.”

“You gave her to me as an anniversary gift, to be at my disposal day and night. Do you remember?”

“All too well.” Cheever snorted. “You wracked me with guilt for forgetting our wedding day.”

“The worst day of my life,” Maude spat back. “Until death parts us? Death would be preferable.”

“Would it, now?”

Rose saw her opportunity. She stabbed the tip of the steel dagger into her palm and drew a line in blood across it. She gritted her teeth so hard she thought they’d crack each other to pieces.

Through the blood of the body, she thought, one can touch the aether of the mind. Control it.

In a pain-induced haze, Rose focused on her masters’ minds. Simple and animal things they were, untroubled by conscience and consequences. That would soon change.

Rose clamped her hand into a tight fist to stanch the bleeding, then raised it high.

Maude sprang at her husband, her hands grasping his throat and squeezing so hard that Cheever’s eyes bulged out of his head and his mouth gaped open like a dying fish. Wet rattling and desperate gasps issued from his throat. He raised his own hands to pull Maude’s away, but found her much the stronger. The struggle continued, and Rose continued stoking their mutual rage. With a final effort, Cheever pulled a defensive dagger from one of his vest pockets and jabbed his wife in the chest, thrusting the blade in all the way to the hilt. Maude sucked in a loud breath and staggered backward, her heart having been pierced clean through. She fell to her knees, gurgled one last time, then felt her head thump on the hard stone floor that Rose had scrubbed that morning.

Maude was dead, but her servant’s work was not yet done.

Rose now pinpointed all her attention upon Cheever, who stood aghast. He’d killed his wife, and for what? The sake of a silly young girl who couldn’t pay off her debts in the gambling den. He let out a roar that was equal parts triumph and fury. Good riddance, he thought. Maude’s finally gone. Now I can sell Rose and become a much richer man. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before.

Cheever pulled his dagger from Maude’s breast with a wet squelching sound and stared at it.

I’ll force Rose to the pimps’ square at knife-point, he mused. The moon’s still out.

Rose, upon hearing this, made a second slash through her palm with the tip of her knife.

Cheever raised his own weapon high, then plunged it into his ribcage with a bestial roar. Having missed his heart, he stabbed again and again, falling short of the mark not due to his aim, but Rose’s influence. She made sure he kept failing, driving the blade into his chest harder and harder, but not finishing himself off. She made sure he bled from several wounds. She made sure he suffered. She made sure he gasped his last word like a freshly-caught flounder. “Witch…”

Indeed, thought Rose, gazing into his dying eyes as they glazed over. Witch, not whore.

Once Cheever had met his end, she concentrated on closing the wounds she had inflicted upon herself. It was much harder than she anticipated. Yet as she imagined knitting the cuts on her palm together, she felt the pain and the blood lessen bit by bit. Had she sliced too deeply? She feared so, but soon the slashes forced themselves shut. Rose breathed a sigh of relief, then stared at the two dead bodies before her. Should she move them? Try to bury them? Burn them?

No, no, and no, answered Apricus’ voice in her head. Leave them for the local guards. They know Maude and Cheever well, having had to come and settle their more violent disputes. They’ll think your master murdered his wife, then himself. Wipe your blood from the floor, however. If the Inquisitors find it, they will be able to trace it through their faith-based magic.

Rose found a rag in the kitchen, erased the rivulets of her own life force, then threw it into the glowing embers of the fireplace. She had forgotten to tend it before going on her nightly journey.

Time to leave, she thought after wiping her hands on her robe, their bloodletting at a sticky end.

Take care, came Arisa’s silent warning. The moon is setting, and you must find your way back to us before it does. Let our call guide you through the woods. We’ll be at our designated clearing.

Rose left the same way she’d entered, through the rear door of the house, then made her way into a back alley. It led right to the river, smelling of fish and human waste. Following this stench, she reached the edge of the woods, then listened for her comrades’ voices inside her mind.

Come, they said. Come and rejoin us. You have proven yourself well.

Using the Blood Moon as a sentinel, Rose located the clearing in less time than she would have thought. The eleven witches and warlocks welcomed her as she stepped into the seventh position in their circle. Apricus looked to Recnac, who looked to Arisa, who asked a series of five questions:

“Who are you?”

“No longer Rose, but Brialla, the Seventh Blood Witch and Keeper of the Balanced Dagger.”

“What have you done?”

Brialla cleared her throat, finding nothing but a newly parched mouth. “I killed my master and his wife as you tasked me to do, using my new art. Through taking command of their minds, I turned them against one another and made them strike the killing blows. They’re both dead.”

“When did you commit this act?”

“Nearly an hour ago, by the setting Moon.”

“Where are your victims now?”

“In the front room of their cursed house, their blood spilling out on my well-scrubbed floor.”

“Why have you done this?”

“To render justice upon them both. For ill-treating me and all their slaves, they deserved to die.”

“Good. You have answered my queries without equivocation or hesitation. You have not lied. You have faced your deed with an unwavering heart and a soul pure in intention if not in result. You are now worthy of your true name and place among us. Let us all join hands in consummation of this rite. Prick your palms and let your blood flow into the hands of your neighbors. Fear nothing.”

“We fear nothing,” responded the twelve blood mages, obeying Arisa’s directions.

As soon as they clasped hands, Brialla doubled over, overwhelmed by the sights and sounds now clashing within her skull. She saw twelve steel daggers slash twelve novices’ palms, including hers, all engaged in the art of commandeering minds. She saw various people perish by their own hand. Supposedly.

The images of the dead whirled by so fast that she couldn’t see who killed whom and why. All she understood was that every witch and warlock had committed murder as the final part of their initiation rite. They were all bound in blood and magic, joined through their sinister power.

Brialla let go of Girova and Stiira’s hands, falling to her knees and slapping her sticky palms over her eyes. She fought against the sight of horrified faces and ignoble deaths that looked like the taking of one’s own life. Although many might suspect it, no one but the wisest and most powerful Inquisitors would be able to prove blood witchcraft. For now, she and her coven were safe. But for how long?

“You coward,” mumbled Stiira in a voice so low and husky that Brialla could scarcely hear it. “Can’t bear the vision of what you’ve done? What we’ve all done, each one of us in our turn?”

“But why?” Brialla cried. “Besides becoming a blood mage, why did you kill whom you did?”

“We all have our secrets, girl,” Stiira said. “You bear the Scales, but you are not worthy to know.”

“Oh, leave her alone,” snapped Girova. “Hasn’t she done enough for one night?”

“Silence.” Arisa’s voice stopped the three witches short. “Unclasp your hands. The Moon has set. It is time to return to the attics and safe spaces we occupy during the day, when we sleep.”

“What about me?” asked Brialla. “I won’t be safe if I go home again, to the scene of my crime.”

“Indeed.” Arisa beckoned her forward. “You shall share my hiding place.”

Immediately, Brialla felt a cold wave of anger and jealousy emanate from Stiira. What was her problem? Hadn’t she been afforded the same protection when she joined the circle of blood mages?

The answer’s no, came Stiira’s searing thought. I had to find my own space. So should you.

“It’s risky,” Recnac said, “having two of us hide in the same place. Don’t you agree, Arisa?”

“Only for the time being. It’s very late now. Brialla? Come with me.”

The girl followed the archmage out of the woods, trying and failing to keep track of landmarks. While she was Rose, the only path she’d taken through the forest was the one to the old well. Her mistress had preferred the water from it, which was ill-smelling and brackish. No matter. Maude would never make her do any chores again. Nor would she apply the whip for disobedience.

When the two witches found their safe house on the outskirts of Milham’s Ford, they snuck inside.

“I forgot to give you this,” Arisa said, presenting Brialla with her opal-imbued Balanced Dagger.

“Thank you,” Brialla said and bowed.

Thus a blood mage was born, and thus a blood mage was bound.

Credit: Tenet