"Changeling" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tiernan Cate)

9. True Name

I am sorry for the delay in answering your last two letters. I have been ill. The summer grass sickness felled our community, and we have lost both Brother Sean and Brother Paul Marcus, God have mercy on their souls.

Myself, I owe my life to Nuala, who nursed me back from death not once but several times. In a babe's weak voice I bid that pawn of the devil to be gone. She laughed, her voice like a mountain stream. Surely you'll not think me evil, said she. Truly, we in Belwicket do more good than you, holed up in your Abbey of gloom.

Through my delirium I insisted she did the devils work. She bent close to me, so that her black hair fell across my chest. I a whisper she told me, "We do no work but that which should be done. My ancestors were gathering knowledge while your people were still fighting the Crusades."

I felt as if I were drowning. Today my head is clearer, and I do not know whether that interview took place. Remember me in your prayers, Brother Colin, I beg you.

—Brother Sinestus Tor, to Colin, August 1768.

In American history I got a forty-seven on my test. I had never flunked a test before in my life, and my stomach clenched in a know of embarrassment.

"Morgan, can you see me after class, please?" said Mr. Powell. I nodded, my face flushing.

After class I waited until the other kids had left. Mr. Powell looked up at me, his wide grey eyes thoughtful behind gold wire glasses. "What happened with this test?" he jumped right in with no preamble.

"I forgot about it," I admitted.

He looked perplexed. "But even if you forget, you should have known enough to squeak by with a D. This test showed that you've learned virtually nothing since the winter holidays. I don't get it."

I was so hating this. "I just… I've just had a lot going on."

Once again he waited. I'd always liked Mr. Powell, even though I couldn't stand American history. I felt he always tried to make it interesting.

"Morgan, I'll be frank with you." I hate it when teachers say that. "You've always been an excellent student. But the other teachers and I have noticed a significant drop in your grades this past quarter." He paused, as if waiting for me to explain. I didn't know what to say. "Morgan, I've heard… rumors."

I blinked. "Rumors? About what?"

"About Wicca. Students having witchcraft circles, performing rites." He looked as uncomfortable as I felt. How in the world had he heard about that? Then I remembered the kids who had come to one or two of Cal's first circles. They'd left—it wasn't for them. I guessed they'd been talking about it.

"Do you know anything about it?" he pressed.

I felt like he was asking if I ever been a member of the Communist Party, if I was gay, if I was Jewish. "Um, well, I practice Wicca." Morgan takes a stand.

Mr. Powell looked nonplussed for a moment, then tapped his fingers on his desk, thinking. Finally he said, "Is this interfering in your schoolwork?"

"Yes," I almost whispered. Far from being surreal. I was smack-bad in the middle of harsh reality. I was going to flunk my junior year if I didn't get my act together.

"What are you going to do about it?" he asked.

"Study more?"

"Will that be enough?"

"Do extra credit?" I offered hopefully.

"Let me think about it." He shut his notebook, no longer seeming approachable.

"I'm sorry," I said, and he looked back at me.

"Morgan, you're only seventeen. You're extremely bright. You could do anything you want with your life. Don't screw up this young." He turned and walked out of the room, as if he was personally hurt by my poor grade. I felt awful. I was being slowly crushed by pressure from all sides. I just had to get through and do the best I could do. The problem was, that probably wouldn't be good enough. For anyone.

"Morgan!" Killian was waiting for me on his usual bench. But as I started toward him, I heard Mary K.'s voice behind me. My heart clutched suddenly—I didn't want them to meet. Quickly I turned my back to Killian and went to meet my sister.

"I didn't see you this morning." She grinned. "Let me guess. You're having a hard time getting up in the morning."

"You know me too well. How are things at Jaycee's?"

My sisters face clouded. "It's fine," she said unconvincingly. "Jacyee's got a new friend—you know her. Alisa Soto. And a new boyfriend—Micheal Pulaski."

I wasn't sure, but I thought Micheal was a sophomore. "She sounds busy."

"Yeah." Mary K. shook her head. "I guess I'm not really used to sharing Jaycee. And Alisa is into Wicca, and I don't want Jaycee to get into it." This said with an apologetic glance. I know she hated my involvement with Wicca. "And it's hard to watch her being all happy and lovey-dovey with Micheal after—"

"Hmmm," I said. "Yeah, I can see how that would bother you. Are you going to tell Jaycee how you feel about things?"

"No. It wouldn't do any good, and it'd just make me look weird and clingy. Anyway. We're going to the mall tonight 'cause it's Friday. Alisa isn't going, and Micheal has hockey practice."

"Good. You and Jaycee have a good time, then. And call me tomorrow, okay? Since I won't see you at school."

She nodded. "Okay. Thanks." She gave me one of her quick, sweet smiles, and I felt a rush of love for her. My sister.

After Mary K. had rejoined her friends, I walked over to Killian. Raven was practically in his lap. I wondered meanly how she avoided getting pneumonia, showing as much skin as she did. As I walked up, other members of Kithic drifted toward us.

"Hey!" Killian greeted me. "I found something I wanted to show you all. Do we have enough cars?"

And just that easily we were all swept into the Killian tide. Fifteen minutes later I realized we were almost to the old Methodist cemetery where our original coven, Cirrus, had first made magick. Where Cal and Hunter had had a showdown and I had put a holding spell in Hunter that he was probably still pissed about. What had Killian found here?

"We've been here before," Matt told him as we gathered at the edge of the property.

"You have? Then you know about power sink?" he looked disappointed.

"What power sink?" I asked, and he perked up and began to lead us through the overgrown brush to the actual graveyard.

"You know about power leys?" he asked. At our blank faces, he went on. "All around the earth, like strings wrapped around a ball, there are ancient lines of power that were created when the world was made. If a witch stands on one, works magick on one, their magick will be enhanced, more powerful. Anytime two or more of these leys intersect, the inherent power is even greater. Right in this cemetery is a huge power sink, probably five or more lines crossed together."

It was somehow demoralizing that my party-guy, irresponsible, devil-may-care half brother was so much more knowledgeable than I was. Then we were standing in front of the stone sarcophagus that Cirrus had used as an altar on Samhain. The marker read Jacob Henry Moore, 1845–1871.

"Right here!" Killian said enthusiastically. "This is an incredible power sink."

Bree met my eyes, and the other Kithic members were quiet. Cal had brought us here several times. Obviously he'd been aware it was a power sink and had used it to his advantage. And none of us had known.

It occurred to me that of course Hunter knew about it also. He must have felt it when he was here with Cal. The power sink might even be the reason my holding spells had worked so well when I'd used them to stop Hunter and Cal from fighting. But Hunter hadn't told me.

"Is a power sink important?" Bree asked.

"Oh, yes," said Killian. "It's like turbo charging your magick—for both good and bad. I mean sometimes magick shouldn't be turbocharged. Know what I mean?"

"No," Robbie said.

"I mean, some spells need to be gentle and shallow," Killian explained.

While he was talking, I felt paranoia creeping into my veins. Quickly I cast my senses out strongly, sweeping the area for any kind of danger, anything out of the ordinary. Killian looked at me, his brows knit together, but I didn't stop until I was sure there was nothing unusual going on. Then I met his gaze calmly, and he cocked his head to the side.

"Watch this," he said, and held out his left arm. He wore a thick suede glove on his hand and pulled the heavy wool tweed of his coat over his wrist. Then he opened his mouth and began to sing into the setting of the afternoon light. It was an odd, unholy song, in a voice nothing like his own It sounded inhuman but also frighteningly, hauntingly beautiful. The notes rose and fell and waxed and waned, and all the time my half brother, Ciaran's son, watched the sky. I realized he was repeating the song over and over again, and we all started to watch the sky also.

Slowly, in the deepening twilight, I became aware of a large bird wheeling above us, dropping down toward us in reluctant spirals of grace.

"Uh-oh," Ethan breathed, and Sharon moved closer to him.

I could see now that the bird was a large red-tailed hawk, big enough to pick up a small dog in it's talons. It dipped and swayed above us, descending ever slower as if being reeled in on a kite string.

"What are you doing?" I whispered.

"I know it's true name," Killian said. "It can't resist me."

We all stepped back as the large, powerful predator dropped the last eight feet, wings beating, to land on Killian's arm, I couldn't breathe. This wasn't a zoo bird, wings clipped so it couldn't fly. This was a raw piece of nature, a killing machine, with eyes the color of liquid gold and a beak designed for ripping open rabbits' stomachs like silk. Its talons gripped Killian's coat sleeve, but if it hurt, he didn't show it.

"So beautiful," Jenna whispered, looking mesmerized.

The bird was clearly nervous and afraid, not comprehending why it was here, so against its will, against its nature. I could smell fear coming off it, an acrid fragrance overlaid by anger and humiliation.

"That's one fine bird," Ethan said in awe.

"Incredible," said Bree.

"Let it go," I said with clenched teeth. "Let it go now."

Killian looked at me in surprise—the killjoy—then spoke some words. Instantly, as if released from a prison, the hawk took off. Its powerful wings beat the air with a sound like a helicopter's rotors. Within seconds it was a dark speck in the sky, leaving us behind.

"Well," Killian began.

"It hated being here," I said impatiently. "It hated it. It was afraid."

Killian looked intrigued. "How do you know?"

"I felt it!" I said. "Just like you must have."

"How did you do that?" Raven asked, interrupting us.

Killian turned to her, as if he had forgotten his audience. "I know its true name. The song I sang was its true name, the name it was born with. Everything has a true name that's irrevocable and individual and unmistakable. If you know something's true name, you have power over it."

"Is a true name like a coven name?" Matt asked.

Shaking his head, Killian said, "No, no one can give something else its true name. It's part of the thing or the person, like eye color or skin color or the size of your hands, You're born with it, you die with it.

"Do you have a true name?" Raven asked.

He laughed, showing the smooth column of his neck. "Of course. Blood witches learn their true name during initiation. Everyone has one, every person, every rock, every tree, every fish or bird or mammal. Crystals, metals—anything natural. They all have a true name. And if you know it, you own them."

I watched Killian intently. Own them? There was a difference between owning a living being versus a crystal or even a plant. I wondered what my true name was. A chill went down my spine as I considered what might happen if somebody else were to know it. If there was one thing I had learned over the last few months, it was that there were plenty of people out there who would love to be able to own me and my power.

"Does anyone else know your true name?" Robbie asked Killian. "Like your parents?"

"Oh, Goddess, no!" Killian looked appalled at the thought. "It gives someone power over you if they know your true name."

"You don't want your parents to know?" Robbie asked.

"And give them power over me? Never. I'd rather be dead." All his humor was gone, and his face was closed and set. He glanced at the empty, darkening sky. "It's getting late. We'd better go."

As we walked back to the cars, I thought about what Killian had just done. It had been beautiful; beautiful, painful magick. He had forced a living thing to do act against his nature, and he had done it lightly, capriciously, and solely to impress. He had broken about a hundred council rules with this one stunt. If every witch were like this, it would be a disaster. I began to comprehend the role the council played in the order of witches.

I was almost to Das Boot when Killian took my arm gently. He leaned close to whisper in my ear: "Speaking of parents… I heard from Da, He's coming to see us."