Chapter 3: To Escape Death

To sum it up, the master artificer Lerach was a universal dilettante. In terms of knowledge, he could probably pass for a magister, and in magical power, for an apprentice. Only his weakness in magic, the absence of a true masterpiece, and — as I suspect — his indifference to titles and unwillingness to pay a higher ilkum, that is, tax, kept him from officially obtaining that rank.

Being the son of a magister, he cared more about magic itself than about what people called him — archmage or student, it made no difference. He was just that kind of person.

Because of his lack of strength, Lerach had to get creative. He translated word magic into rituals. Yes, it was much more complicated that way, but it was precisely this approach that allowed him to create artifacts that not every archmage could make. After all, not every archmage is an artificer.

And his masterpiece — which, judging by the records ending after his death, never saw the light of day — turned out to be quite fascinating and, of course, extremely complex for me. Nothing less than the creation of a living artifact from a human body, or more precisely, from the mage himself. At the intersection of biomagic, spirit magic, ritualism, artifactory, potion-making, and a dozen other disciplines, the mage transforms his own body into a living weapon. A living staff and wand in one person, able to absorb hot ether from the surrounding space and convert it into mana. Such a body would have enormous strength and power, and could hold far more spells in memory at the same level of strength and development than any ordinary mage.

This was exactly the solution Lerach found for the problem of his weak soul and magical potential.

But what interested me wasn't this — I still have a long way to go before I reach such heights of mastery. What caught my attention were two other things.

First, the ritual of severance. Any part of the body, once severed, loses its connection to the mage, and through it, he can no longer be found or cursed. I hope this will help me.

Second, in the process of working toward his masterpiece, Lerach found a way to continue his research even after death. He placed a mark, a fragment of his soul, on a pregnant woman. This mark merged with the embryo, creating an ideal vessel and anchor for the soul. The ritual is extremely painful — the pain of the soul is many times stronger than the pain of the body — and immoral, for obvious reasons. But I simply saw no other way out.

No, there were other options. I could have tried to escape to another world, or summoned a demon for protection. But I lacked both the strength and the knowledge for that. And summoning demons is like calling an enraged tiger to protect you from a cat. Either that, or die and go to reincarnation without memories. That's if they don't stuff me into a staff for torture and use me as a battery, of course.

Fortunately, I reached my Nous, because I had motivation for seven. Even so, it wasn't enough. Only two weeks remained before the deadline, and I still couldn't wave a wand like they teach in Diagon Alley textbooks, or embed charms in memory, or pronounce spells of word magic. But that wasn't necessary. It was enough that I could use mana. One of the main advantages of rituals is that they can be filled gradually, and Lerach had built in a system of passive recharging from the background.

***

To begin, I decided to prepare for the coming ritual, which cost me a seventh of my fortune. The most annoying thing was that even with money, Gaunt managed to cheat me — I was almost arrested by goblins for trying to pay with transfigured pounds. Only my genuine confusion and the absence of a wand allowed me to prove I was a victim, not a criminal. Luckily, I had already exchanged most of the pounds for real money, but it was still unpleasant, especially the insults hurled at me by those short-stacks. I had noticed the bills were different from the real ones, but didn't think much of it — they looked the same on the outside.

Besides a large amount of blood-replenishing potion, I also needed more specific ingredients, like bones of the dead and "dust of citrus." For the first, I had to become a grave desecrator, since you couldn't buy that in any Diagon Alley shop. As for the black market — which surely existed — that was just an easier way to die. The second ingredient cost me a sixth of my savings. It was a flower with an unpronounceable Sumerian name — Outalamos. It grew only in places with a strong magical, or as the Sumerians called it, ethereal, background, and was quite rare. Fortunately, it could still be bought legally.

Then, mixing crushed bone with my blood and the flower's juice, I had to draw a complex geometric figure in the form of an octagram, its edges made up of many Sumerian runes. The empty spaces of the octagram were also filled with circles of symbols, and in the end, the figure measured four by four meters. Here, I was grateful for my experience as a restorer and my steady hand. Drawing the figure was difficult, but not impossible.

The problem of finding a place was solved the same way as most problems in our world — with money. I rented a small warehouse in the port for a couple of weeks. I wouldn't need it longer — if the ritual failed, I wouldn't need it at all.

The main problem, as expected, was with the pregnant woman. The term had to be less than two months, because otherwise the soul would already be born, and the emblem would simply dissolve in the child's aura. But that was only half the trouble. The girl also had to be magically strong, or she simply wouldn't survive carrying a child enhanced by the emblem. Not to mention, if I died, then she — and therefore I — might not survive the transfer.

Choose a mage's woman? Yeah, right — that's like charging a tank with your bare ass. Even a first-year student could twist me into a knot. And I had nothing to offer a sorceress. I didn't have the money to pay a strong witch to bear my child.

That's also the problem with seeking help from mages. They'd say, "Thanks for the book, well done, here's a memory charm as a reward." Or they'd just cut off my head to leave no witnesses.

The solution came when I remembered magical creatures. I already said they're treated like cattle? Actually, it's even worse. Vampires are killed on sight. Werewolves and centaurs have no right to work — or rather, they supposedly can, but in practice, no one hires them. Goblins, though they fought for their place under the sun, are never seen outside the bank, which says a lot about the real attitude toward them and the reason for goblin uprisings.

And veela... not only are they, like all the above, oppressed, but they've also become hostages of their own beauty. Yes, they have natural charms of seduction, similar to the Imperius curse mixed with an aphrodisiac, and it works in an area. But anyone can walk into the shabbiest shop and buy an amulet to protect against these and similar charms.

Otherwise, veela would rule the world by now. Their natural ability to create fire without a focus, their transformation into half-bird, half-woman, and their considerable innate magical power — all this makes them stronger than most mages. Only their small numbers and inability to reproduce limit them. There are plenty of people who don't succumb to their charms — those with strong will, magical power, or... women, gays, and maybe impotents. Some women still fall under their spell — lesbians, for example.

So, poor veela in England are practically forced to become prostitutes or concubines for rich and influential mages. For a while, it was even fashionable to have a veela mistress. And since they're not allowed to work and are kept in reservations, and since they don't want to die out, they agree to such humiliation just to survive.

It was to the veela reservation that I went, not forgetting to buy a powerful amulet so I wouldn't become a slave to magical beauties. I do feel sorry for them, but my own skin is dearer.

***

The veela coven was located in Wales, in a magical forest, fenced off both from the intrusion of ordinary people — I find the word "Muggle" offensive — and from the escape of the girls themselves, who, on top of everything, wore collars.

If anyone tried to escape, they were quickly found and brought back, and no one was shy about the means. On the other hand, any mage could calmly come and choose a "girl" for the night or even for permanent "use." This isn't exactly advertised, but it's not hidden either.

Officially, such a purchase is called "guardianship" over a dangerous magical creature, as if you're buying a dog at a pet store. For me, such open slavery is barbaric, but right now, it's possibly my only way out. All I had to do was show my magic wand, which I'd bought at Ollivander's. I had to "cleanse" it afterwards with a purification ritual, just in case. I don't know what was on it, but since it didn't affect the wand's function, it was probably some government beacon or something similar.

"Good afternoon, I'm Ida, head of the veela coven. And you, mister...?" greeted me a charming blonde with luxurious curves, dressed in what would be considered a rather risqué outfit by wizarding standards — a red dress just above the knees, a black corset, and a deep neckline you could drown in. Her face was only lightly touched with makeup, just enough to highlight her natural beauty.

We were on the first floor of a three-story wooden house in Victorian style, more like a dormitory — and it probably was, combined with a brothel. Girls passing by looked at me with interest. Some liked me and made eyes, others paid no attention. Some were dressed as boldly as the head, some even more so, and some quite modestly, but what united them all was that they were natural blondes, insanely beautiful, and looked so much alike they could be sisters. Small, upturned noses, blue or green almond-shaped eyes, and plump, seductive lips.

"My name is Viktor Orlov," I said, kissing the air above her outstretched hand. That's how etiquette requires you to greet a lady — not slobbering on her hand. Besides, who knows what Ida's hand had been doing? The looks from those around us showed confusion — apparently, wizards usually behave much worse. "And I came to buy one of you."

"Is that so?" she asked, glancing at me and her hand. "You understand this will cost you three thousand Galleons? Do you have that kind of money? Forgive me, I'd lower the price, but we don't set them — the Ministry of Magic does."

"Of course I do," I smiled, trying not to show my displeasure. After selling my apartment and everything in it, plus Gaunt's money and my savings, I'd scraped together only seven thousand gold coins — which, by the way, aren't gold at all, but an enchanted alloy. Another thousand went to the flower for the ritual. It's expensive, but I'm buying a person... or not quite a person. My conscience tormented me, but the instinct for self-preservation sent it packing. Between morality and my own life, I'll choose the latter. Besides, if the girl ended up with some sadist, it would be worse for her than if I bought her for a "one-time action."

"Call everyone who wants at least relative freedom."

"What do you mean?" Ida was surprised.

"I need a girl only to conceive a child. You see, I've been struck by an illness that even St. Mungo's can't cure, and I don't know how long I have left." I said this with sadness and a hint of hidden anguish.

Now, I looked not like a slave owner or pervert, but like an honest, desperate man. And if they had empathy — which they supposedly do — they'd feel it. Because I really was desperate and ready for anything. The last month had been a race with death. I slept three hours a night, translating or thinking up ways out of this mess. For the first time, I felt such powerlessness, and I promised myself that if I survived, I'd become so strong I'd never feel it again.

"Here, these are all who agree to your conditions, Mr. Orlov," Ida said, pointing to about five dozen girls of different ages. Did she bring them all? I wasn't complaining — choice is good, especially when it's voluntary.

I activated true sight, and again had to get used to the brightness — so many magically strong beings created a blinding glare. I had to wait until my eyes, tearing from the pain, adjusted. Looking at the girls, some seducing me with gestures or poses, I focused not only on the strength of their auras, but also on their purity — the absence of rot or any defects. Until I found a girl pushed to the back, in a white calico dress, her face covered with a veil. Her aura was so clean and warm, it drew my gaze. Many here were prostitutes — not all could avoid falling into darkness or rot, and such purity stood out like a gold ingot in mud.

"Sir, I must warn you," Ida said, seeing who I was looking at, "the girl you're interested in... has a defect."

"Really? Is it about the veil?" I asked, not particularly interested. I wasn't choosing a permanent mistress, just a possible future mother. That sounded perverse, considering what happens before conception.

"Yes, exactly. Once, a client chose her, but Ariel refused him. She paid for it with a disfigured face. Since I can't lower the price, I advise you to choose another."

"No," I shook my head. "Appearance doesn't matter to me. The soul is much more important, and I like hers."

Yes, it was the soul that mattered to me — and the body, of course, but the face? A minor healing spell, translated into a ritual, and she'd be as good as new. So, after paying, I took the girl with me to my rented apartment.

***

Ida watched Ariel leave with terrible envy. At first, she thought I was just pretending — trying to look noble and romantic, but really the same kind of sadist and rapist as the rest. But I really did choose the "ugliest" of the beauties. And her innate empathy told her I was truly desperate, not lying about valuing the soul.

For the first time, Ida regretted she couldn't leave with the client, leaving her girls to fate. She always protected them, and she didn't tell the wizard that the one who disfigured Ariel — who was only fourteen at the time — ended up as nothing but ashes. Let the wizards drive veela into such a situation, but no one dares mock them against their will! Even if it means death.

After all, there's nothing more dangerous than someone with nothing left to lose. And only the responsibility to their ancestors, to continue their race, keeps these predatory bird-girls from showing their true nature and rising up in rebellion, taking as many enemies with them as possible.

***

—————————————————————————————————

Thank you for your support!