Later, he said to himself. It's not the time for that now. He ran through spells in his mind. He wanted something to spring from all his reading, all his wide research, something that would save him.
It came to him. It was a humble spell, a piece of everyday magic that he'd learned so long ago that he'd forgotten where. It was a spell to splice the ends of a rope together.
Aubrey ran through the spell in his mind and realised it wasn't enough. It needed strengthening. He realised, wryly, that he needed to splice some elements of his death magic spell into a spell that dealt with splicing. Even then, it would only be temporary – but a temporary respite from being taken by the true death would do, for now.
He lined up all the elements. He inserted the variables. He organised the limits and specified the parameters. Aubrey felt as certain about this spell as he had of anything he'd done. All that remained was to see if a soul could utter a spell.
Aubrey brought the two ends of the golden cord together. He pronounced the spell, the short, sharp syllables marching off his soul-tongue. With a burst of wild, fierce relief, he saw the two extremities of the golden cord fuse together, ends interweaving in a way that would make a sailor proud.
The cord leading from his body began to fill out, regaining colour, strengthening and tautening even as he looked at it. He still could not release his grip from it, however, and he was caught holding the entire cord two-handed, with the dreadful pull of the open way on his right.
He refused to be taken. This was premature and he was not going to let a moment's stupidity be the end of him. He would save himself. Gone was any thought of complicated spells. He slipped his left hand along the golden cord, hauling himself towards his inert body. Then he dragged his right hand until it met his left. He kept his head turned away from the awful void, but he could feel its attraction. It pulled at him with the force of destiny.
No, Aubrey vowed. I will not go.
It became a test of his will. Aubrey had to force himself, inch by inch, away from the other side. Every infinitesimal gain was achieved against the awful pull from behind. He dared not look up as he edged his hands along the golden cord, gripping and releasing, slipping back and then moving forward, moving away from the void and towards reuniting his body and soul.
An eternity passed, and another. A thousand times Aubrey contemplated giving up and a thousand times he rejected it. Nothing distracted him from his goal and he promised himself he would maintain his laborious progress until the end of time if that was what it took.
Finally, he looked up to see that he was close to the outflung hand of his motionless body. An almighty effort, a lunge, a horrifying moment when he thought he was going to fall short, then –
Agony. He felt as if he was putting on a suit of red-hot armour. Every fibre of his being burned. His nerves hummed at the farthest extremity of pain. He gasped and opened his eyes, then realised he'd been able to do both. He looked up to see George glaring at him.
'George,' he mumbled. He was weak, new-born. The floor felt hard beneath him. The sharp smell of ozone hung in the air. Aubrey found himself looking for thunderstorms.' Remember: interfere whenever you want to.'
George let out a sigh and Aubrey felt his friend's grip on his shoulders tighten. 'What happened?'
'I died. More or less.'
George looked flummoxed. 'You're better now?'
Good question, Aubrey thought. He felt bloodless, feeble, as if he'd been ill for a very long time. He used his magical senses to examine himself. 'Ah. Well. Not entirely.'
'What do you mean?'
Aubrey glanced at the focusing figure. Yes, something was definitely awry there. 'I think I'm still dead, old man. Technically.'
'Technically dead?'
'My sloppy spell-casting opened the door to my true death, and it hasn't closed. At the moment, I've brought my body and soul back together, but the true death is calling.' He still felt it – a deep-seated inner summoning.
'I've stopped things, for the time being, but I'm afraid it's only temporary.' He shook his head, then bit his lip and looked away as emotion threatened to overwhelm him. 'I'm sorry, George. I've overstepped myself, rather.'
George gripped his shoulder. 'You'll figure out something, I'm sure of it. Besides, you've been in worse spots.'
Aubrey turned and stared at his friend. 'Worse spots? Worse than being dead?'
George scratched his head. 'Well, I'm not, I mean, I didn't exactly mean . . .'
Aubrey watched his friend with gratitude. George's support was enough to bring him around to face his situation. Inaction – never his friend – would in this case probably prove fatal. 'Help me up, George. I need to get to my books. I have to close that door.'
Three
AUBREY AND GEORGE DIDN'T GO TO THE INFIRMARY after the debacle on the training ground. Aubrey refused. Even though George was dubious, they went back to their room.
Boarding at Stonelea School was not Aubrey's idea. Nor his parents', really, even though his father had attended the school himself. It had simply been assumed, from Aubrey's earliest youth, and emphasised by Aubrey's grandmother, his father's mother. Duchess Maria had appointed herself the upholder of the Fitzwilliam family name. Despite the twin handicaps of not being born into the family and coming from overseas, her knowledge of the family tree was formidable. Since her husband, the Duke of Brayshire, had passed away, Duchess Maria oversaw the family traditions. In her eyes, this included boys attending Stonelea – and boarding there even though Maidstone, the family home, was only a short walk away. Since she was the fiercest old woman he'd ever known, Aubrey had never questioned her decision.
Aubrey eased himself down on his bed and draped an arm across his eyes. 'Put a chair behind the door, would you, George? "Never disturb a wounded soldier", or so said the Scholar Tan.'
No locks on the doors at Stonelea, so a chair under the doorknob was the best security available. Unless one used magic – and using magic for such trivial things was frowned on as a waste.
George dropped Aubrey's pack on the floor. 'I'm sick of your Scholar Tan. He's always droning on about battles and tactics and retreats. It's so depressing.'
'Have some respect. A thousand years ago he was a revered expert on the art of war.' Aubrey's head was throbbing. He heard the sounds of ball sports coming from the courtyard below and was glad when they were muffled by George closing the curtains.
The physical test had been a shambles. Aubrey tried to relax, to rest and regather himself. Since the bungled experiment, he'd managed to find a few spells that eased his situation somewhat, but he still had to take more care of himself than he'd been accustomed to. He found it difficult to put on weight, regardless of how much he ate. His skin remained pale, even after time in the sun. The hold his soul had on his body was tenuous. Physical or emotional strain made it much harder to resist the call of the true death.