"Well, short of a meteor, nothing ought to get through this," Oleandra muttered, stepping back to admire her handiwork. "I do hope I haven't forgotten anything…"
Oleandra had spent the better part of the previous week prising up the cottage's floorboards and carving a ten-foot-wide pentacle into the bedrock beneath. The smooth stone was now etched with intricate symbols— each magical rune feeding into the next in a seamless, three-tiered runic circle that never quite seemed to end, like the Egyptian Ouroboros.
The outermost ring, naturally, was the Full Armour ofÆgishjálmur— a modified form of the Galdr of the Armour of Elhaz, which substituted six copies of the Lokk of Ægishjálmur in place of the usual six Elhaz. For reference, Ægishjálmur itself was composed of eight Elhaz, fused in a radial pattern around a central locus.
For most people, the protection against all physical and magical threats afforded by Ægishjálmur on its own would have been enough. And Oleandra had drawn six of them.
The jump from a simple Grapheme like Elhaz to a Galdr such as the Armour of Elhaz represented a quantitative change— the ArmourSpell was precisely six times stronger than a single Elhaz, owing to the fact it was composed of six of them. But although it was built from eight Elhaz, Ægishjálmur's defensive prowess wasn't merely eightfold. That was the power of a Lokk: an exponential leap born of accumulation— qualitative change brought about through quantitative change.
"I invoke the power of Elhaz," Oleandra chanted. "Ægishjálmur ahead, Ægishjálmur behind, Ægishjálmur to the left, Ægishjálmur to the right, Ægishjálmur above, Ægishjálmur below. Protect me!"
The air shimmered visibly, and the runes engraved in the outer ring began glowing brightly. The boundary between the pentacle and the outer world thrummed with so much magic that it was distorting light itself!
Oleandra took a few steps back, retreating within the second layer of the pentacle. Drawn between each copy of Ægishjálmur was the final, twenty-fourth rune: Odala. The rune of thieves and inheritors, yes— but, on its reverse, it signified the inviolability of one's home. If the Full Armour of Ægishjálmur represented a castle's outer wall, then Odala was the stronghold within— the fortress those ramparts were built to protect.
"Odala," Oleandra whispered, leaning forwards to sweep her fingers along the graven marks on the floor. "Withstand."
Though she had called upon Odala as a simple Grapheme— rather than weaving it into a Galdr or fusing it into a Lokk with itself or another rune— the rune was embedded within the matrix of the outermost layer of protection, transforming it into a true magic circle— an Insigil, an eternally spinning wheel of magic.
Sometimes, less truly was more. There was no sense overcomplicating things now— a single failure point, and the whole thing would come crashing down around her ears.
Noting the successful integration of the Odala runes into the larger framework of the spell— a faint green glow pulsing from the graven lines— Oleandra stepped back one final time, into the heart of the pentacle, where Mannaz and the Power Word ALU were inscribed.
"Mannaz, Mani and the Cosmic Egg; Ansuz, the Æsir of the Sky; Laukaz, the Lake of Power; Uruz, the Red-Haired Aurochs of the Earth," chanted Oleandra. "Safeguard my spirit as I venture forth 'neath the waking world! MALU!"
So long as Oleandra remained at the centre of the pentacle beneath her feet, no earthly power could touch her, magical or otherwise.
Incidentally, she'd seen no reason to include the rune of Distress Naudhiz in her spellwork. Any warning would've fallen on deaf ears, after all; the slumber induced by the Draught of Living Death could not be broken by conventional means.
"Incendio."
Oleandra flicked her wand at a small bowl of incense at her feet— a blend of rowan bark shavings, rosemary, and St John's Wort— and set it alight. The room quickly filled with a sharp, herbal scent she couldn't quite decide was pleasant or not.
And with that, her preparations were complete.
Oleandra drew the Sword of the Lake from its scabbard and gently laid it on the ground, careful not to mar the engravings etched in the smooth stone. After a moment's hesitation, she drew a small phial of dark-coloured draught from her pouch and downed it, before lying down next to her sword. Soon enough, her head started spinning, and she closed her eyes.
Before succumbing to her seven-day slumber, Oleandra's final thoughts turned quietly to family.
…
"Please wake up, Miss Witch!" a voice rang out faintly in Oleandra's ears, rousing her from her torpor. "Please, you need to wake up! Please!"
Upon hearing those words, Oleandra was mildly surprised to learn she'd woken at all— if she'd misjudged the dose, seven days of sleep might easily have stretched into eternity.
"Viviane?" Oleandra mumbled drowsily. "'Izzat you…?"
At any rate, she had survived. The week had passed in a flash, for the Draught of Living Death promised a deep, dreamless sleep to all who imbibed it… provided they could measure a teaspoon correctly without actually having one on hand.
"Miss Witch!" the voice repeated with urgency.
Oleandra's eyes snapped open.
Feeling uncharacteristically weak, she managed to roll onto her side, grazing herself on the edge of the Sword of the Lake lying on the cold floor beside her. The sudden sting made quick work of her remaining drowsiness, and she shook herself wide awake.
"It's your friend!" cried Jowan. "They say he's been hanged!"
For a fraction of a second, Oleandra couldn't make sense of what she'd just heard.
"What…" she croaked, forcing the words out of her parched lips. "When!?"
"Two days ago," said Jowan miserably, banging his fists against the invisible forcefield erected by the runes humming on the floor. "Everyone in the village was summoned to the lord's domain to watch, but father made me stay behind. I wanted to wake you up, but something's not letting me get any closer…"
Oleandra was devastated.
All her talk of destiny, of returning home to friends and family, of finding answers at the end of Wanderer's journey— it had all been nothing more than wishful thinking. She wasn't special. Wanderer wasn't special. And she was still trapped in this godforsaken time period.
Still…
"Thank you, Jowan," Oleandra said quietly. "Would you mind leaving me for a moment, please?"
After a moment's hesitation, the young boy nodded and left the cottage, leaving Oleandra lying all alone on a cold slab of stone with her sword by her side. Mustering her strength, she managed to sit up straight.
"You can come out now," Oleandra half-whispered to herself. "Viviane."
She had lowered her voice unconsciously, so that when Viviane's reply inevitably failed to come, she could still cling to the hope that her silence was simply because she hadn't heard.
…
She called out to Viviane a little louder.
No response.
"It was a long shot, anyway," Oleandra told herself, trying and failing to console herself as she buried her head between her knees. "Yeah, of course Mai's stupid idea ruddy well wouldn't work…"
Oleandra's lip quivered.
"…Damn it… DAMN IT, DAMN IT!" she screamed at the top of her lungs, driving her fist into the unforgiving stone. And now her hand was broken, too. "DAMN IT!"
Though she still had all her knowledge and her course books, had regained her artefacts, and wielded powers greater than ever before, this was perhaps Oleandra's lowest point yet. She had no mentor. No friends. No family. No allies. No clue how she might ever find her way home.
However, that was not to say she had no attachments left in this world.
The least she could do was give Wanderer a proper burial, rather than leave his body to dry out in the sun where he hung, picked over by crows, ravens, and other carrion birds, poked at with long sticks by snot-nosed children. And as for anyone who dared stand in her way…
Oleandra's eyes glinted malevolently.