This article consists almost entirely of a plot summary. It should be expanded to provide more balanced coverage that includes real-world context. Please edit the article to focus on discussing the work rather than merely reiterating the plot. December Learn how and when to remove this template message The Indigo Spell is a fantasy novel written by the American author Richelle Mead. Sydney is still resistant to learning magic but does the spell anyway. Ms Terwiliger tells Sydney that she has to develop her magical skills quickly, whether she wants to or not.

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PrologueHouse of the Temple P. The secret is how to die. Since the beginning of time, the secret had always been how to die. The thirty-four-year-old initiate gazed down at the human skull cradled in his palms.

The skull was hollow, like a bowl, filled with bloodred wine. Drink it, he told himself. You have nothing to fear. As was tradition, he had begun this journey adorned in the ritualistic garb of a medieval heretic being led to the gallows, his loose-fitting shirt gaping open to reveal his pale chest, his left pant leg rolled up to the knee, and his right sleeve rolled up to the elbow.

Around his neck hung a heavy rope noose—a "cable-tow" as the brethren called it. Tonight, however, like the brethren bearing witness, he was dressed as a master. The assembly of brothers encircling him all were adorned in their full regalia of lambskin aprons, sashes, and white gloves. Around their necks hung ceremonial jewels that glistened like ghostly eyes in the muted light. Many of these men held powerful stations in life, and yet the initiate knew their worldly ranks meant nothing within these walls.

Here all men were equals, sworn brothers sharing a mystical bond. As he surveyed the daunting assembly, the initiate wondered who on the outside would ever believe that this collection of men would assemble in one place.

The room looked like a holy sanctuary from the ancient world. The truth, however, was stranger still. I am just blocks away from the White House. Outside the main entrance, two seventeen-ton sphinxes guarded the bronze doors. The interior was an ornate labyrinth of ritualistic chambers, halls, sealed vaults, libraries, and even a hollow wall that held the remains of two human bodies. The initiate had been told every room in this building held a secret, and yet he knew no room held deeper secrets than the gigantic chamber in which he was currently kneeling with a skull cradled in his palms.

The Temple Room. This room was a perfect square. And cavernous. The ceiling soared an astonishing one hundred feet overhead, supported by monolithic columns of green granite. A tiered gallery of dark Russian walnut seats with hand-tooled pigskin encircled the room. A thirty-three-foot-tall throne dominated the western wall, with a concealed pipe organ opposite it. The walls were a kaleidoscope of ancient symbols. Egyptian, Hebraic, astronomical, alchemical, and others yet unknown.

Tonight, the Temple Room was lit by a series of precisely arranged candles. The secret is how to die, the initiate reminded himself. The initiate let his gaze climb the distinguished white-robed figure standing before him.

The Supreme Worshipful Master. The man, in his late fifties, was an American icon, well loved, robust, and incalculably wealthy. His once-dark hair was turning silver, and his famous visage reflected a lifetime of power and a vigorous intellect. On that night, in a ritual similar to this one, the Worshipful Master had blindfolded him with a velvet hoodwink and pressed a ceremonial dagger to his bare chest, demanding: "Do you seriously declare on your honor, uninfluenced by mercenary or any other unworthy motive, that you freely and voluntarily offer yourself as a candidate for the mysteries and privileges of this brotherhood?

They will never know my true purpose here. Tonight, however, he sensed a foreboding solemnity in the Temple Room, and his mind began replaying all the dire warnings he had been given on his journey, threats of terrible consequences if he ever shared the ancient secrets he was about to learn: Throat cut from ear to ear.

The crimson wine looked almost black in the dim candlelight. The chamber had fallen deathly silent, and he could feel all of the witnesses watching him, waiting for him to take his final oath and join their elite ranks. Tonight, he thought, something is taking place within these walls that has never before occurred in the history of this brotherhood. Not once, in centuries.

He knew it would be the spark. Energized, he drew a breath and spoke aloud the same words that countless men had spoken before him in countries all over the world.

Then all was quiet. Steadying his hands, the initiate raised the skull to his mouth and felt his lips touch the dry bone. He closed his eyes and tipped the skull toward his mouth, drinking the wine in long, deep swallows. When the last drop was gone, he lowered the skull. For an instant, he thought he felt his lungs growing tight, and his heart began to pound wildly.

My God, they know! Then, as quickly as it came, the feeling passed. A pleasant warmth began to stream through his body. Soon you will lose everything you hold most dear. Chapter 1The Otis elevator climbing the south pillar of the Eiffel Tower was overflowing with tourists.

Inside the cramped lift, an austere businessman in a pressed suit gazed down at the boy beside him. You should have stayed on the ground. The man leaned closer. The boy felt ashamed to disappoint his father, but he could barely hear through the ringing in his ears. Far beneath them, the streets of Paris stretched out in all directions. Almost there, the boy told himself, craning his neck and looking up at the unloading platform.

Just hold on. As the lift angled steeply toward the upper viewing deck, the shaft began to narrow, its massive struts contracting into a tight, vertical tunnel. The carriage jerked, swaying awkwardly to one side. Frayed cables began whipping around the carriage, thrashing like snakes. The boy reached out for his father. Then the bottom dropped out. Robert Langdon jolted upright in his soft leather seat, startling out of the semiconscious daydream. He was sitting all alone in the enormous cabin of a Falcon EX corporate jet as it bounced its way through turbulence.

The other man I never want to disappoint. All around the spire, the meticulous geometry of streets and monuments radiated outward. Even from the air, Washington, D. Langdon loved this city, and as the jet touched down, he felt a rising excitement about what lay ahead. The jet taxied to a private terminal somewhere in the vast expanse of Dulles International Airport and came to a stop.

The cold January air felt liberating. Breathe, Robert, he thought, appreciating the wide-open spaces. A blanket of white fog crept across the runway, and Langdon had the sensation he was stepping into a marsh as he descended onto the misty tarmac. Curly blond hair protruded from under a stylish knit wool hat.

A taxi stand for the rich and famous. What a delicious scandal that one caused! You do enjoy putting the fox in the henhouse! Listen to me rattling on. I know you probably get tired of being recognized. Langdon glanced down at his attire. He was wearing his usual charcoal turtleneck, Harris Tweed jacket, khakis, and collegiate cordovan loafers.

The woman laughed. Little nooses. To this day, this ancient battle garb was donned by modern office warriors hoping to intimidate their enemies in daily boardroom battles. Welcome to Washington.

The driver showed him the temperature controls, the bottled water, and the basket of hot muffins. Seconds later, Langdon was speeding away on a private access road. So this is how the other half lives. As the driver gunned the car up Windsock Drive, he consulted his passenger manifest and placed a quick call. Your guest, Mr. Langdon, has arrived, and I will deliver him to the Capitol Building by seven P. Langdon had to smile.

No stone left unturned. Langdon settled into the plush leather seat and closed his eyes as the noise of the airport faded behind him. The U. Capitol was a half hour away, and he appreciated the time alone to gather his thoughts.


The Indigo Spell



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The Indigo Spell (Richelle Mead's Bloodlines Series #3)


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