George returned with a small bucket full of charcoal and a box of safety matches. 'What are you going to do with that cloth?' he asked.
'According to Bernard's notes, it can strengthen the bond between body and soul. Perfect when one is messing about with death magic.' Aubrey unwound a length and let it fall. 'The Law of Similarity. And the Law of Affinity.'
'You're going to drape yourself in it?'
'More than that. I need to be wrapped up.'
Aubrey stood at one end of the restraining diagram while George grappled with the heavy bolt of cloth, unwrapping it as he walked. George alternated between chuckling and apologising for his chuckling. 'You're starting to look like some sort of pagan idol, old man,' he said when Aubrey was wrapped up to his waist.
'Good, but I don't intend to spend a millennium or two buried beneath the sands.' Aubrey wobbled a little as his friend tugged the cloth tighter.
George continued his careful circuit, unrolling the cloth of gold as he went. Aubrey's nervousness grew. His arms were pinned at his side by the layers of cloth and he had an moment of panic. He was helpless and he hated it.
His recent uncharacteristic errors while spell-casting preyed on him. He couldn't afford to fumble while working with death magic, but neither could he take the time to rest and recover.
He didn't like to think what would happen if it wasn't successful.
Aubrey rehearsed the spell Bernard had constructed. It used an Etruscan language base, with an open-ended variable for duration which was a tongue-twisting series of glottal syllables. The spell was essentially a barrier spell, placing a shield around the magician's body and soul, keeping them united in the face of the call of the true death. Once in place, it would allow a magician to conduct experiments without his soul being torn away and vanishing into that country of no return.
Aubrey was sure this was the sort of thing Dr Tremaine had in mind when the Sorcerer Royal had taunted him over his condition. It was an essential tool for anyone dealing with death magic. With hindsight, Aubrey knew he'd been an idiot not to have realised it before his disastrous foray into such a dangerous area of magic.
The only drawback Aubrey could see was that Bernard's spell was a singular spell – it was of the rare category of enchantment that a magician could only cast once. The elements of the spell immediately lost their power after being spoken, and couldn't be used again.
It was a minor shortcoming, Aubrey decided. If he did this correctly, he wouldn't have to use it again. No time for mistakes, he thought.
George's brow furrowed as he worked. Aubrey wriggled his shoulders and felt the weight of the cloth. He resisted the temptation to tell George to hurry. 'Tighter. It must be firm.'
'Very well. And what about your head?'
'That too. Wrap me up entirely.'
The cloth of gold was Bernard's truly revolutionary idea. It had been understood by magicians for centuries that the soul and the body were linked by a golden thread, the same thread that – when the right time came – took the soul through the portal to the true death. Bernard used the Law of Similarity and the Law of Affinity to derive a spell that would turn the cloth of gold into a veritable suit of armour that would hold body and soul together.
At least, it would in an ordinary person, Aubrey thought. With his body and soul jolted apart, he wasn't sure how effective this magical shield would be. It was, however, the most promising development he'd discovered since his accident.
The cloth of gold passed in front of his eyes. He found he could still see, although the world had become golden. It was harder to breathe, too, but not impossible.
'Are you all right?' George asked. He tugged the cloth and Aubrey nearly overbalanced.
'Perfectly. Especially if you stop trying to tip me over.'
'Sorry. Mind if I ask a question, old man?
'Go ahead.'
'I'm holding one end of this roll of cloth. You're all wrapped up with the other end buried underneath your layers. That means we're linked. Is it meant to be like that?'
'You have to cut the cloth. The loose end will wind itself into the rest.'
'Cut the cloth. Good.' George was silent for a moment. 'Hold still, old man. I have to unwind some more.'
Aubrey braced himself. He couldn't see George, but he could feel his friend backing away, keeping the tension on the bolt of cloth while he paid it out.
George's voice came from a distance to Aubrey's right. 'Still there?'
'I'm rooted to the spot.' Aubrey's voice sounded muffled even to himself. It was growing warm inside the golden swaddling. He swallowed, and it felt as if a football was lodged in his throat.
'Good, good. I'm in the vestibule. Just looking for . . . Ah! Excellent!'
'What have you found?'
'A large pair of shears. I'm sure they'll do the trick. Should have got them earlier, I suppose.'
'You're doing well, George. I appreciate it.'
Aubrey endured a series of tugs and releases as George reversed his journey, rolling up the cloth as he went. Aubrey realised he was sweating, and not entirely because of the warmth.
'Ready, old man.' George said. 'Can I cut away?'
Aubrey could make out his friend, frowning and brandishing a large pair of shears. 'Go ahead. Carefully.'
The shears hissed through the cloth of gold. Aubrey felt a slight tension, then it passed. 'What's happened?' he asked.
George's voice was respectful. 'Just as you said. The end of the cloth curled up all by itself. I can't even see where it joined.'
'Good. Now, lay the remainder aside.'
'Done.'
Aubrey gathered himself. Again, he ran over the spell in his mind and then, standing there, aching and afraid, he began to have second thoughts.
The hesitation was like opening a door in a gale. His mind was flung wide; his thoughts scattered and ran in all directions. Fragments came to him – his father, Stonelea school, his dreams of a seat in Parliament, his disappointment over never having owned a dog. Meaningless memories, opinions and impressions assailed him, battered at his attention before he found the strength to marshal himself and achieve a moment of clarity. In the brief stillness, he used his magical senses to examine his condition.
There was no doubt about it. He was dying.
His fatigue had gone beyond the physical. It was a profound, inner exhaustion, a result of striving for so long to keep body and soul together. All his tinkering, all his makeshift patching and shoring up was collapsing. His soul was separating from his body.
His magical senses allowed him to see it edging out of his physical form, being pulled away by the golden cord attached to its left wrist. It was a pale, ghostly replica of his physical form, with features that were indistinct and obscured.
He knew that another golden cord was secured to his soul's right wrist, and thence to the core of his body – and this was the cord that had separated.