Heart of Gold

He had very little time left.

Do not hurry, he told himself as he forced himself to be calm. He concentrated on the intricacies of the task ahead. The elegant spell array that Monsieur Bernard had established demanded his full attention. Little by little, the sense of dread ebbed and he was absorbed in the task at hand.

'George, stand behind me, please.'

'Done.'

'Now, I need to be lying down, so I'm going to fall backward. I want you to catch me and help me to the floor.'

'I can do that.'

'Make sure I'm not poking out of the diagram. And don't scuff the chalk either. I don't want to have to draw it again. And don't forget how heavy I'll be, wrapped in all this gold.'

'Easy, Aubrey. Calm. You'll fluff your spell if you keep this up.'

'You're right.' He took a breath and held it for a moment before releasing it. 'Now,' he said and managed to tip backward. His heart was in his mouth for an instant, then George's firm hands caught him. Gently, he was settled onto the floor.

'I'm not touching the diagram?' he asked.

'You're snug and tidy. Ready to go.'

'Good. Stand back, George.'

'Good luck.'

Aubrey took another deep breath and began Monsieur Bernard's spell.

As soon as the first syllables left his lips, he began to have a sense of double vision. The room was still yellow tinged from the veil of cloth of gold, but everything – walls, benches, windows – had an overlay, a subtle outline that shifted in and out on the edge of perception. Then, as he worked through the Etruscan syllables that itemised elements of intensity, dimension and resilience, the portal that led to the true death began to appear.

It took all Aubrey's willpower not to stutter or pause in the rolling cadences of the spell. The portal that led from this world to the other was hanging in the air at the end of the room, a rectangle twice the height of a man, featureless except for the churning greyness it opened onto.

Plunging right through it was the golden cord, the mystical bond that united body and soul. Aubrey felt it tugging on his soul, a summons that was hard to resist.

Aubrey averted his eyes. He spoke the element of the spell that delineated the frequency of the spell (once!) then the awkward guttural items of affinity (the cloth of gold and the golden cord) before coming to the last element.

The final element in most spells was the equivalent of a signature. It was a flourish that identified the originator of the spell, and any magicians who subsequently added to or revised the spell. With this spell, the final syllable belonged to Monsieur Bernard alone. Aubrey pronounced it with care, and wished that he'd known the lonely magician better, before adding a tiny syllable of his own, signifying his revisions to the spell.

Immediately, Aubrey was jerked rigid, his limbs and spine stiffening. All his muscles strained and he arched until only his head and his heels touched the floor. Then, on the verge of panic, he felt pressure on every inch of his body. In a moment of terror, he thought he was going to be crushed, then the pressure disappeared and was replaced by an exquisite stinging as if a thousand razors danced on his skin. He was poised there in a blinding symphony of pain, his body throbbing.

Then it was gone.

He heard George give a startled cry, then his friend's face swam into view, sharp and clear. Impressions beat at him – chalk dust on one of George's eyebrows, the way the light caught a crack in the ceiling above him, the faint, oily odour of the cloth of gold, a train whistle in the distance – all demanding his attention at once. An almost holy exhilaration seized him and he had a brief instant's concern that the top of his head would fly off with joy. He trembled, not with exhaustion this time, but revelling in the strong, vibrant interconnectedness of muscle, tendon, nerve and bone. He breathed and almost swooned at the simple rhythm of life.

He squinted, then opened his eyes fully. His vision was normal again. The yellow tinge had gone.

Aubrey shrugged and grinned wholeheartedly. He sat up in one smooth, unhurried motion. His head frothed and bubbled and he had to steady himself with a hand on the floor. For a moment he was lost in its fine, woody texture. It smelled of polish and dust, a heady, intoxicating aroma.

He could smell again.

'George.'

'Aubrey. Old man. It worked?'

'It would seem so.' He felt like shouting, dancing a jig, doing handstands and cartwheels. He was alive!

George rubbed a hand over his face, then looked away for a moment. 'Good, good.' He coughed and cleared his throat. 'The cloth of gold's gone.'

Aubrey plucked at his chest. 'It's not gone, George. If the spell worked properly, it's just become part of me.'

Thirteen

AUBREY SAT ON A WORKBENCH, KICKING HIS FEET, AND took a few moments to compose himself. George fussed about, clearly not convinced by his friend's protestations that he was feeling well.

Aubrey alternated between grinning and beaming. His aches had vanished and he felt full of vigour. He unwrapped the makeshift bandage from his hand to see that the cut had stopped bleeding and was crusting over nicely. His tongue told him that his gum tenderness was gone and his teeth were solid in their sockets once again.

Humming, he used his magical sense to probe his condition and nodded with satisfaction. His body and soul were swaddled in subtle, shimmering gold; he looked as if he were actually glowing. He chuckled and wondered if this was the aura that magicians in olden times sometimes reported. It seemed to be working, for he could find no trace of the golden cord which had been his constant companion, tugging his soul toward the true death. He felt strong and whole again.

Aubrey was both relieved and exultant. He'd challenged the unknown, the dark edges of magical theory, and he'd survived. Not only survived, but triumphed.

He clapped his hands together and barely restrained himself from repeating the action, just to experience the sharp sensation again. 'Success, George.'

'You're better?'

'It seems so. For now. As far as I can tell.'

'I'm glad to hear you so certain. D'you think it will last?'

'I don't know.' Aubrey jumped off the bench. He raised his hands over his head, stretching. His spine popped and he enjoyed the feeling. 'So that's all the more reason to get moving and find this Heart of Gold.'

He went from the workshop to the spiral staircase. 'Now, I have an idea,' he said, then seized the balustrade and vaulted up the stairs two at a time.

George followed with a groan. 'You must be feeling better. You're having ideas again.'

'I'm fizzing with them, George,' Aubrey said as he clattered up the stairs. 'And this is a top class idea, one of the best I've had for a while.'

Aubrey reached the turret at the top of the tower. He had a moment of vertigo when he stepped onto the iron walkway, tottering until he braced himself against the windows that ran right around the perimeter of the room.