Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norell

I reached out my hand; England's rivers turned and flowed the other way;

I reached out my hand; my enemies's blood stopt in their veins;

I reached out my hand; thought and memory flew out of my enemies' heads like a flock of starlings;

My enemies crumpled like empty sacks.

I came to them out of mists and rain;

I came to them in dreams at midnight;

I came to them in a flock of ravens that filled the northern sky at dawn;

When they thought themselves safe I came to them in a cry that broke the silence of a winter wood.

The rain made a door for me and I went through it;

The stones made a throne for me and I sat upon it;

Three kingdoms were given to me to be mine forever;

England was given to me to be mine forever.

The nameless slave wore a silver crown;

The nameless slave was a king in a strange country.

The weapons that my enemies raised against me are venerated in Hell as holy relics;

Plans that my enemies raised against me are preserved as holy texts;

Blood that I shed upon ancient battlefields is scraped from the stained earth by Hell's sacristans and placed in a vessel of silver and ivory.

I gave magic to England, a valuable inheritance

But Englishmen have despised my gift

Magic shall be written upon the sky by the rain but they shall not be able to read it;

Magic shall be written on the faces of the stony hills but their minds shall not be able to contain it;

In winter the barren trees shall be a black writing but they shall not understand it.

Two magicians shall appear in England.

The first shall fear me; the second shall long to behold me;

The first shall be governed by thieves and murderers; the second shall conspire at his

own destruction;

The first shall bury his heart in a dark wood beneath the snow, yet still feel its ache;

The second shall see his dearest possession in his enemy’s hand.

The first shall pass his life alone; he shall be his own gaoler;

The second shall tread lonely roads, the storm above his head, seeking a dark tower

upon a high hillside.

I sit upon a black throne in the shadows but they shall not see me.

The rain shall make a door for me and I shall pass through it;

The stones shall make a throne for me and I shall sit upon it.

The nameless slave shall wear a silver crown,

The nameless slave shall be a king in a strange country.

By Susana Clarke, Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norell