Chapter 199

“Gods...” Ignatius gasped sharply, recoiling as though from a viper. He backed away in terror until he struck the wall, still white with fear. “Why would something so utterly vile be hidden inside the mirror my ancestress left behind?”

By now, even slow-witted as he was, Ignatius had grasped one or two essential points. “M-masters, do you mean that the Spellcaster you spoke of was Jennifer Verrieres herself? She cursed her own family?”

Roy shook his head and sighed. “Most sorceresses cannot bear children. If your ancestress had truly been a sorceress, House Verrieres would most likely never have endured, and there would be no you today.”

“So it wasn’t her? Then thank the gods...” Ignatius let out a breath, but the next instant the Witcher’s words tightened him up all over again.

“Jennifer may not have been a Spellcaster, but the curse upon House Verrieres was laid by her own hand.”

“What? A mortal can lay a curse?”

“Keep your voice down, my lord.” Roy’s voice turned cold. “Barring surprise, the truth of your ancestress, the mark on your head, the misfortune of House Verrieres, every answer lies in this book.” He turned then to the bald Witcher, who stood frozen. “Do you know what this makes me think of, Letho?”

Letho’s fingers halted in midair. He did not turn the page.

“What do you mean, kid?”

“Look at the title. Tome of Bones. Bones mean death. This book makes me think of one forbidden branch of sorcery, necromancy.”

Why would a Witcher know anything of such forbidden sorcery?

Roy, out of curiosity, had once gathered scraps of lore on the Gatekeeper of the Abyss, the cat and dog, all of it tied to Olgierd from Hearts of Stone. By accident, he had stumbled into an entirely new world, Goetia.

In this world, sorcery was divided into many schools. One of them was expressly forbidden by every academy of magic, and any who studied it would become the enemy of every sorcerer on the Continent.

It was known as Black Magic.

Black Magic encompassed Goetia, and also, Roy believed, the necromancy recorded in this little book.

Letho raised a brow. “And where exactly did you hear of all that?”

“Have you forgotten my bloodline ability? I caught fragments of that knowledge by chance.”

“Then keep reading. Or are you frightened?” Roy’s eyes slid over the blood-red warning, and his scalp prickled.

“Witchers cannot sire children. What use is that warning to us?”

With that, Letho casually turned to the second page. It was not part of the Tome of Bones at all, but a yellowed sheet inserted there later, covered in fine feminine handwriting.

“This is ... Jennifer Verrieres’s own account?”

“My ancestress wrote this?” Ignatius edged closer, pinching his nose shut.

The three of them fixed their eyes on that single thin sheet.

“The more beautiful one is in youth, the more unbearable old age becomes.

Once I had silk-smooth skin, a face and form that drew wonder and desire from all who saw me. Now it has become a nightmare. Youth gone, beauty withered, I have become an old woman with a wrinkled face and thickened waist.

Though my dearest Leon and my children still love me, I cannot endure myself. My soul is tortured. I am close to madness.

I can no longer tell whether it is truly so or only illusion, but almost every moment I think I see mockery in the eyes of the young maids around me.

I could not bear it. I prayed in utmost devotion to the goddess Melitele, but she gave me no answer.

I sought out the most famous alchemist in the city. He spoke of the Panacea of Beauty, yet Blood of the Sun was lacking.

I despaired. I scarcely dared face another soul. I locked myself away in my chamber day after day, feeling my body wither like the foreign chamomile pot upon the sill. My world turned gray. I ... was alive, yet worse than dead.

But sometimes chance comes unbidden.

A glance from my window downward, and I saw him ... He was plainly dressed, unremarkable, like some common peddler from the countryside, yet there was something uncanny and wondrous in him, too strange for words.