Page 62 of The Hearth Witch’s Guide to Spite & Spellwork

“Perhaps the relic we’re looking for never made it into the vault in the first place?” Saga offered. “Something that might have only recently been created or brought across the veil.”

“I…suppose that might be possible, however unlikely.”

Avery swallowed and shook her head, trying to focus on the conversation that was continuing on without her.

“A dragon of your knowledge may be able to recognize the effects it’s had. Would you mind if I showed you some photographs?” Saga hesitated as she placed the closed folder on the counter. “They are…a little disturbing.”

“There is very little I have not seen before.” He layered his hand over Saga’s and gave it a reassuring squeeze before taking the file from under them. “But I appreciate the consideration. It’s a rare quality. Do not lose it.” He blinked and looked over the photos with his true eyes, slit pupils peering over each image with great scrutiny. “Quite a frenzied attack. Was this self-inflicted?”

“I’m afraid so,” Avery croaked.

Fáfnir scratched thoughtfully at his neck. “Acolytes of Maniae were once gifted with tablets imbued with curses capable of driving their enemies mad.” He frowned and corrected the idea the moment he’d spoken it. “Though death was rarely the object. If your weapon is insanity, you are not keen on your target being given the release of death.” He leaned toward them with the sort of excited energy someone might display when sharing a new favorite book. “Now, I have never personally seen one, but I hear the vault in the Autumn Territories contains an ehecachichtli—the death whistle. It’s capable of calling a mortal soul directly out of the body, but I have no reason to believe it would cause such a violent reaction in the victim who heard it. I could ask their keeper, but I also doubt a whistle made its way across the seas to here.”

“What about a creature or something living?” Avery forced her breathing to slow, and it came out awkward and heavy. She could tell Saga noticed by the way her companion’s eyes flickered back and forth between her and the dragon, concerned but not wanting to interrupt the flow of information.

Fáfnir clicked his tongue a few times, continuing to ponder. “It is illegal without a permit, but someone may have bred a mandrake and used its scream against your victim. If the sound itself doesn’t kill you, they say it will drive you to do the job yourself.” He frowned again. “But your victim clawed out her eyes, not her ears. Perhaps something spit at her eyes or she met the gaze of a basilisk. I do not suppose your victim was found across the veil?”

Saga shook her head.

Fáfnir nodded. “There is a cavern far to the north where some of the most exquisite magical mirrors are grown, some of ice so pure they can only show the truth and some of…far-less-honest natures. Some say the Erlking himself came face-to-face with such a glacier.”

Avery snorted at the absurdity.

“The liar’s ice, they call it, among other names. Reflecting all that is beautiful and loved in your eyes back to you as a hateful nightmare, until you are driven mad…” The dragon’s words trailed off as he grew thoughtful. At last he shook himself and gathered the photographs for Saga. “I am so sorry, I am afraid I am of little help in this matter. Perhaps once you know more than the aftermath.”

Saga shook her head. “No apologies needed. You’ve been quite helpful. We’re very grateful.”

Fáfnir raised an eyebrow and slowly turned to Avery, puffing expectantly on his pipe. “Are we?”

Avery nodded, still struggling to keep her breathing slow and regulated. “Yes, thank you, Fáfnir. We’ll be in touch if we find anything.” She needed to get out. Without further ceremony she exited into the hallway, leaning against the wall. How could she have been so blind? Nothing that came from her had ever been without five hundred strings attached. Why had Avery not questioned it more? Had she been so drunk on the need for revenge she had lost all sight of reason?

It was a foolish question she already knew the answer to, and it made her stomach churn.

“Are you sick?” Saga’s voice was a lullaby in the storm of her anxiety.

“Why was it called that?” Avery’s voice rasped.

“Why was what?”

“The sword,” Avery hissed under her breath.

“I don’t even remember it, I’m sorry.”

Avery would never forget. The words in the ledger were burned into her memory. “Djævelens Klinge.”

“Is that…Norwegian?”

“Danish,” said Avery. “Devil’s Blade.” The word devil did not carry the same weight in Faerie as it did on the mortal plane. It was not a title for a great evil but rather a shorthand for an adversary or a liar.

“I take it you didn’t give it that name?” Saga’s voice was level but cautious. She was trying to be a grounding energy.

“The vault cannot lie, only reveal what is true.” What did this mean? Had she been tricked? Had the sword really killed the Erlking, or was it a weapon of deception in itself? Fáfnir spoke of a glacier. Could that have been the permafrost it had been forged from? And if so, to what end? Was Anselm still out there somewhere, lying in wait? What about this blade made it a devil’s?

“Avery, who gave you the sword?”

She couldn’t answer that. That was part of the deal. There was very specific wording around the contract that inhibited her from answering questions related to what she’d done. Geas32 were not kind to those who broke them. The mere thought of giving an answer sent a searing pain through her. She groaned and doubled over, cradling her head. “I…”

“Avery?” Saga was kneeling in front of her so she could meet her eyes, reaching up to rest her hands on Avery’s hips to steady her. She was trying so hard. She wanted to help.