In one of my books of magic was a spell to open the mouth of objects. It would cause a thing to reveal its history. A very advanced spell, this—but if I could discover the killer, I might be able to slip the noose. I hated the killer whoever she or he was. He (or she) had stolen my best enemy and wanted to frame me.
The spell was a simple one. It involved a red oil lamp with a wick upon which had been written certain characters and a few barbarous names. I performed it an hour after sunset. Nothing happened. I put a new wick in the lamp and tried again, pouring all of my magical strength into the operation. Nothing happened.
I felt weak and sad. I blew out the lamp, leaving the ring on my writing desk. I walked heavily over to my cot and threw myself down to sleep. I dozed off quickly. Then I heard or thought I heard the chair at my writing desk being pushed back. I couldn’t see in the darkness of my house, but I felt like someone was sitting at my table. I thought I heard someone writing.
“Shina?”
Nothing.
“Winslow?”
Still nothing.
I sprang up and ran over to the desk. No one seemed to be there. I lit a candle. No one there. But didn’t I leave the ring near the center of the table?
I decided I was having a really bad case of nerves. I left the candle lit and returned to bed. Amazingly I fell asleep again, as if something in the room drove away consciousness.
I dreamed a little dream. I dreamt first of rings. Rich noble rings sparkling with gems of this and other worlds. Poor couples’ wedding bands. Slaves rings from the southern deserts. Each of them rolling endlessly through the night. Each of them a symbol of something the wearer was bound to. Each rolling like the cycles of our lives from birth to death to be given to another in another life. Rolling along, controlling the paths of the life of the person wearing them. I was somewhere far above them watching them as bodiless observer, but I began to sink toward them, and the sound of their rolling grew into a great roar. I feared I would land among them and be worn to bits by their endless rolling. By this time I was thinking that the rings and all they implied ruled mankind. Who was the first to pledge his troth over a band of metal? Once that pledge was made, we lived in a world of meanings, a world where things could be done with words like “I do” or “I swear.” I was falling into the great river of rings which had rolled since my ancestors’ ancestors had decided to live by Law. How could I withstand that force? I had avoided the force by becoming a scholar, a semi-recluse, but now that world of men—with its endless rings—would have me.
I fell but as is the way of dreams, merely woke. I was awake for an instant thinking that I saw something sparkle upon my desk and then I returned to sleep.
I must have slept a great while for I know that my second dream was near dawn.
I dreamt I was at a masked ball in Count William’s home. I was dressed as the red knight, but there was another red knight. I approached this man angry at having my costume aped. The other red knight lurked in the shadows. When I came upon him I saw that his armor was not the festive stuff of Carnival fantasy. Battle had left its mark.
He raised his visor and I saw in inexpressible sadness in his gray eyes. I wanted to say something to offer some assurance to this man who suddenly seemed like a brother to me. I thought he has chosen the world of rings, not a do-nothing scholar like me. He lowered his visor and made his way through the crowd toward the throne. Some grave matter of state was unfolding.
I thought to follow him, but the masked crowd seemed suddenly thicker and noisier. I doubted that I could pass through them.
I looked for a pathway close to the walls. It was then I saw old Winslow sitting at his writing desk penning a manuscript. I’ll tell him that I’m sorry he’s dead, I thought, for such thoughts are in the way of dreams.
I made my way to him.
He was writing in his usual beautiful hand:
A History of the Carvenells
The first of the line prepares the last of the line’s doom.
* * * * * * *
I woke suddenly because something cold touched my cheek. Rolled over my cheek. The candle had gone out. I sprang out of bed looking for what had touched me. I threw my bedding aside on the floor feeling for something small. I found nothing. Then I went and got a candle, my fingers shaking as I put flint to steel. By its light I saw nothing, but the ring was gone from the desk.
I began lighting candles. I would flood my small house with light. I must find the ring before tomorrow. I had no doubt that Shina, already unsure in her resolve to let me have the ring, would tell Constable Gager of her find.
I went through every nook and cranny. I unrolled my scrolls, threw down my books, forced my fingers into every chink in the walls. I looked under my washbasin, in my glasses, among my silverware. It was nowhere. The ring had rolled away, and with it no doubt any chance of my avoiding the noose.
I resolved right away to pack and leave the country. I could perhaps manage a spell to fly away—of course I would have to leave most of my treasures here. My precious books and scrolls! The wealth of a lifetime of learning.
I was packing a satchel when the knocking began. I had never heard so loud a series of knocks in my life.
“Open up, Robert Griffith. I have come to arrest you for the murder of Winslow Carvenell. If you don’t open this door, I shall break it down.”
I uttered the word, which opened the door.
“Caught you before you could leave!” boomed Constable Gager.
With him were Count William, a tear-stained Shina, and a burly peasant man I’d seen once in the farmer’s market.
“This man says he saw a figure dressed in red armor leaving the home of Winslow Carvenell and going toward your door. When I questioned Shina Auw she broke down and confessed having found the ring from your costume at the scene of the murder, and giving you said ring during a period of poor judgment.”
I had to hand it to Gager, a lesser man couldn’t have boomed his way through an utterance so long. At least if I am hung swiftly, I thought, I would not have to listen to his annoying voice too long.
“Where is the ring that Shina Auw gave you?” asked Gager.
I was pondering the reply when Count William walking past the constable said, “Here. On his desk.”
There was the ring all right. Had it been there all along mocking the mind I was clearly losing?
The Count walked to my desk. He reached to grab it, when it seemed the ring of its own accord rolled over and slipped onto his hand.
“No,” he said, “It’s a trick. It isn’t my ring. It’s his. I didn’t steal it from him. I didn’t.”
The Count’s face was white with fear. He was trying to pull off the ring but couldn’t manage it. Blood poured from his finger.
The Constable hesitated, not know whether to grab the Count or me or both.
The Count’s struggle was both comic and terrifying. He bellowed in pain and rolled on the floor as thought fighting a score of men. A huge bear of a man—his fight against a simple band of gold made no sense. I have heard few men be really afraid. Men talk about fear, or whisper about their fears, but only animals whimpered like this. I was appalled and enthralled.
The Count said, “I’ll confess. I killed him.. Just get the ring off. It bites.”
The Constable ordered me to remove my spell from the ring. I started to say that I hadn’t put any spell on it, but then I remembered my failed invocation from the night before. I said a couple of words to end the enchantment.
The ring came off, and the Constable took the Count away. The ring had bitten the Count severely; his finger was hanging on only by a scrap of bloody skin. I guess the enchantment had opened its mouth.