3/
"Is this truly the first time you've ever woven, sweetie?"
I nod and concentrate on the bark in my fingers. Even though it is cold, smooth, and pliable, using one hand to weave a good basket is impossible.
"We take the inner bark from the trees and slice them into strips. It's these strips that we bend and weave into a basket or a pair of shoes. The most incredible thing is that after some time, these strips harden. It's quite a common technique around the world; the North Americas, China, and our Scandinavian countries."
A pleasant conversation between two friends after a cup of afternoon tea. She doesn't sound like a person who just cut off my arm and then held me hostage at all.
"This bark, it's birch, though isn't it? I'm starting to see a common motif."
She nods vigorously, "Why, of course. Ours is a magical system which links the broom, the very symbol of a witch to the world tree of Siberia."
In many cultures the birch is seen as a sacred tree. In Celtic traditions, birch trees were an indicator of Tir na Nog, the land of the young. In Siberia, if I recall my [ruby=Solonea] Individual Foundations[/ruby] classes, the birch tree was seen as a guide post either to the land of the dead or the land of gods. These baskets we're weaving are not just some playful afternoon tea activity; we are filling them with mystery. Eventually they'll be used as traps or vessels for stray spirits.
"Just like we weave these baskets, the Icecolle weave our curses one thread at a time, making sure each sacrifice renders the basket as tight as possible."
Previously, I talked about the standard magecraft definition of a curse. However, there are different ways to look at that. For instance, it might easier to think of a curse as a set of conditions that, when triggered, will cause an effect.
"Each weave is made as tightly as possible so nothing can fall between the gaps of the weave. If nothing can fall between those gaps, the basket won't loosen and fall apart. Whatever comes into contact with the basket must then stay inside. Is that the analogy you were trying to make?"
She smiles, happy to know that I am not a complete idiot, before dropping the half-finished basket she had in her hands on the table.
"Do you know what the Icecolle name means, then?"
I shake my head. I have a good guess, but I don't want to be right.
"To deal with our sacrifices with ice-cold eyes."
Ahhhh, the same solemnness that some people take when hunting and cooking meat. It seems I was completely off. For each thread of the curse, there needs to be a sacrifice, something dying painfully and in agony. Even to a magus, watching something like that is unpleasant. For that reason, we create shields within our minds to distance ourselves for those emotions. But that iron-clad will isn't to protect oneself from the self-hatred and remorse from killing. The greatest fear for all practitioners of black magic is one day falling in love with that agony and pain – to drown in one's magecraft and die. So, the name, Icecolle, is a reminder to never degenerate to such baseness.
"But Bram, sweetie, if we are to speak of sacrifices, then we have to speak of the sub-category Holy Grail Wars. What is your opinion of them?"
"A thaumaturgical tool, nothing else. A mere magical energy furnace for those who dream of reaching the Swirl of Origin, yet lack the patience, pedigree and resources."
She laughs at the answer.
"We didn't ask you what the sub-category Holy Grail Wars are. We asked your opinion of them," she purses her lips for a moment before continuing. "We are keeping you because we think you and us are the same. We both lost our sisters to these wars. Yours to a sub-category war, and ours in the Great Holy Grail War."
"But what does that have to do with holding me here?"
"Nothing at all," she purrs. "Those hunters and you were the ones who came and attacked us. We were only acting in self-defense; would you not agree?"
"You were holding a man against his will." My retort comes out weaker than I wanted it to sound.
"Yes, but does that make it any less of a self-defensive act?" With that, she nods her head, acknowledging my missing arm. "Either way, Lord or not, you have paid the price for trespassing and attacking our land, let us not speak of that anymore."
I drop my not-even-quarter-finished basket onto the table. Naturally, all the weaves come apart and I am left with the strips of bark I began with. Smirking self-derisively, I pick up the china teacup and take a sip of the tea.
"It's a complex flavor, isn't it?" Icecolle comments. I don't understand how she was able to draw that line out of my head. It must be something she says to everyone she serves this tea to for the first time.
It doesn't have the bite of a fine black tea; instead I feel as though I'm transported to a different location. To those familiar with the flavor or that location, it might be easier to place, but as for myself…
"Some thyme flowers, melias, currant, and Sagaan Dali, doesn't it taste like the taiga itself?"
So then even a land as harsh as Siberia can give birth to beautiful things. There are only so many things that keep one going, especially after losing one's home. But then again, maybe all it takes for a family, a culture to keep surviving is something as mundanely miraculous as tea.
Or maybe I'm just becoming too sentimental after losing this arm.
"At least, that's what the former owner of this body always said to her customers."
The moment I walked into this room, I could feel it. The magical energy radiating off this woman wasn't anything human. If we're purely talking about quantity, it doesn't feel greater than the dregs that radiate off a first-class magus. Instead it was the malice, the dripping spite that was coming off the woman. It almost felt as though….
"I want to tell you about her Bram, sweetie, so you might better understand how alike we are." She cuts my thought off with that. "When our sister died, the Icecolle magi gave up; they gave up and summoned us. Of course, all Icecolle magecraft requires a sacrifice, a price. The entire family died. But you see, they had already given up so it wasn't that high of a price to pay as magi. With that, we were summoned and given the shell of one of the crones."
What is she talking about?
"We weren't satisfied with such a body. The crone was compatible and had sufficient magic circuits, but her body was rotting too quickly. With the resources of our allies, we searched and searched for someone younger but just as compatible. And guess what, there was a distant relative of the Icecolle living in the town right below the castle. She was even the hostess for a local inn!"
There's no need to explain what happened next. I have no sympathy for the woman who had her body taken over. At least, I wouldn't have if I still believed Icecolle was a magus. To a magus, the advancement of his goal is everything. It doesn't matter if an entire town must be massacred as long as it is done secretly, effectively, and the pay-off was worth the lives that were taken. For the sake of reaching the Swirl of Origin, we must all make sacrifices. But this woman, if I can still call her a woman, isn't a magus. I have no idea what she is at all, but as a magus, as someone who is prepared to take all the responsibility for ruining the lives of others, I can't forgive her. Not for taking a woman's life. But taking it without understanding all that comes that action.
"But the more hilarious thing was that the woman's husband and son came up in some misguided attempt to obtain revenge. They knew that she was dead, yet they came up. They knew that they were powerless, yet they came up anyway. And this is what we want to discuss with you sweetie."
That inhuman face, those inhuman eyes. I can see them now.
"When we were summoned into this world, we only had one purpose, to obtain revenge for our sister, and we did everything in our power to make it happen. When we saw those fools attempting to avenge a wife and a mother they knew would never return, we couldn't help thinking: 'We're in the right, aren't we?'
"After we possessed the crone, after we possessed that hostess, we came to understand love, we came to understand rage. It was no longer a mechanical purpose that drove us, but a feeling. We are sure you understand Bram Nuada-Re Sophia-Ri. Your sister died in a Holy Grail War. She is gone, nothing more than a memory. That pain, that loss, isn't fair. We can blame the person herself for selfishly dying, but isn't it also the fault of all those who attacked them, who succeeded in killing her?
"Bram, sweetie, you are the next Lord of Eulyphis, so you should know more than anyone about the nature of vengeful spirits, evil spirits. We don't wish for those we love to turn into such raving beasts trapped on this plane, saying the same thing over and over again. Then to honor those who died. To honor those we love. Shouldn't we do everything we can to lay them to rest?"
"I…"
I can't argue with her because I want to believe in her words, no, I actually do believe in her words – as a magus as well as a brother. Right, we are the ones they left behind in the world, so we have to do our best for the people we love who are no longer here.
This is… the correct way to live. The correct way to deal with our losses.
I want to tell her that. I honestly do, but there's just one part of me that can't agree. Maybe it's because lately, my mind has been on my sister, but there's something wrong with what she said. Still, I can't answer because I don't have the answers. Instead, "What are you going to do with Mr. Musik then? If you truly believe what you say why is he not dead?"
The first question becomes the last.
"For all the pain Mr. Musik has caused us, he is a cooperative and compliant hostage. There is no reason to kill him, yet."
If there's no reason to take her revenge, yet. Then it must mean Mr. Musik is useful to her. After those words leave my mouth,
"I'm sure you've heard of Mr. Musik's specialty, he coins homunculi."
"But if you wanted homunculi, you could have gone to any other…."
I finally understand. It's incredibly stupid, but I see. She doesn't want a homunculus, she wants a homunculus body. And she doesn't just want one of those defective homunculi that will die in three or so years, she wants a bona-fide child of nature. Other than the reclusive Einzbern family, the only person who can make homunculi even close to that is Gordes Musik Yggdmillenia.
She sips her tea, watching me putting the pieces together.
"We don't want much. Not much at all. But there's something that you're missing sweetie. What Gordes will make for us isn't a child of nature, but the very vessel for a wish-granter."