I dropped the candlestick I was holding, and the chimney shattered at my feet.
Heedless of the shards of glass I trod upon, I ran for the stairs and the library. I knew I must act, and act quickly, while I still had the resolution to do so.
I remembered one book, a huge, hand-lettered tome, that held the spell I needed. I pulled it down from its place on the shelf, coughing a little from the dust that I disturbed, and set it on the table, flipping hurriedly through the pages to find the one spell I needed.
I found it three-quarters of the way through the book; not a spell of exorcism, but a different sort of spell. A spell to open the door between this world and the next so that an earthbound spirit would be drawn through it and into its proper sphere. It was a most dangerous spell, risking both body and soul of the caster. The danger to the body lay in that the caster must leave it to open the door, and that it would cause a deadly draining of physical energy. The danger to the soul lay in that the spell left it vulnerable and unshielded, and the temptation of that doorway would be very great.
Yet—I could not drive my gentle lover away by brutal exorcism; no, I could not be so cruel to him who had only been (thus far) kind. This was the only spell I could choose—
And then, in the draftless room, an unseen hand turned the page of the great book.
I thought it was the same spell at first. Then I saw that it differed by one single word, a few strokes of a pen. That first spell I knew, but this—this was another totally unknown. And its purpose was—
Was to let the mage-born, if they had died before their appointed time, take flesh and live again.
Both spells were equal in danger to body and soul. The second, in point of fact, placed a tolerable amount of danger on the spirit involved, for if he was judged and found wanting, it meant utter dissolution. Nowhere was it written that either spell was of Dark path, or Light; they were utterly neutral.
Both required they be cast this night of all nights; Hallowmas, the perilous, when Light magic and Dark are in equal balance, and either result is likely from any spell made—and most particularly when, as now, Hallowmas falls under a waning moon.
This is risking the anger of the gods, to take upon oneself the restoring of the dead—yet what and who am I to judge who is fit to live or die?
Since that day, one week ago, he has not come to me by night; does he judge that I would repudiate him {do I have the strength?) or is he letting me make my decision unsullied by his attentions?
What of the "heart of darkness?" Did he try to bind it, and become corrupted by it? Why did he leave the task half done? Did it murder him, to keep him from destroying it? Is this why he begs life anew? Duty? To see the task through to its end?
Or—does he love me, as he seemed to? Is it me that calls to him? Never have I melded so with another's magics as I did with his—never has my soul or body responded so to another's touch.
Or does he seek to use me, corrupted by that foul thing that lay beneath the willow's roots? Will he use me, and then destroy me and set that evil free?
Could I trust his answer if I were to attempt to ask him why?
I have sought for an answer, and found none, but in heaven nor hell nor all the lore that wizard-land knows. No gods have made their will manifest to me, not even at this final hour, as my hands go through motions that I have rehearsed so often that I could perform them sleeping or near-dead.
I stand within my circles now; my preparations all are made. I can see him, a shadow among the shadows, standing just outside the boundaries I have made. I can almost make out his face. I cannot tell what expression he wears. The hour of midnight is drawing closer, and I have begun my chants. In a few more minutes, I will speak that single word—
And I cannot at this moment answer if it will be "come" or "go."
Harvest of Souls
Doranna Durgin
"Kenlan died a year ago," the woman told Dyanara. "And things've gone from bad to worse."
Dyanara looked into the stone-lined well; a sulfurous odor wafted up to sting her nose. She stepped back from the wooden housing of the well, her booted feet sinking into ground softened by spilled water. The local wizard should have taken care of this long ago, along with some of the unhealthy crops she'd seen as she walked into the community of Churtna.
That is, if he hadn't been killed, and somehow gone unreplaced.
The woman—her name was Parrie—squeezed one hand with the other, quietly anxious. "We'll pay you the best we can. I...I just don't know how much longer we can drink this water. The new well Tavis dug out back gave us just the same, only less of it." Her light brown hair was graying, her face browned and wrinkled by the sun, and her expression tight.
And no wonder. The house garden was stunted and browning, in this late spring when it should have been growing its fastest. The cow was ribby, the chickens had pecked at each other until fully half of them were bald, and the hayfield boasted sparse and stingy grass that would never be ready for first harvest. The entire homestead looked blighted, down to the thatched little cottage that served as home for this family.
The oldest was a youth almost ready to be out on his own; there were a handful of boys and girls in between, and then the youngest, a girl who looked to be ten or eleven and brightly interested in the arrival of a wizard. A woman wizard, with well-worn trews just this side of patching, and a loose, long tunic with the symbols of her House of Magic embroidered on cuffs and around the neckline. At thirty-four, Dyanara was hitting the strength of her powers, and the strength of her body had not yet started to wane; she was, if neither willowy and graceful nor plump and well-endowed, at least hardened by her travels into something of clean lines and self-assured movement. She looked down at the girl. Dyanara wondered if she, too, would have had such a family, had she chosen other than a wanderer's path.
"I will cleanse the well," Dyanara said, "but I do not work for nothing." Parrie's already tight lips thinned even further; she wrapped her arms around herself and waited for the bad news. They were strong arms, showing signs of hard work—a bruise here, a scratch there, an old thin scar that went from wrist to elbow. "If your wizard died last year," Dyanara added, "there will be others in need here. I must have someone to guide me to them." She looked at the girl "My fee will be the services of your youngest."
"Jacoba? You want..." Parrie trailed off, dropped her hand to the child's shoulder. Jacoba's hopeful face looked up at her with please shining through.
"Do you agree?" Dyanara asked, putting a little starch into her voice.
"Why, yes," the woman said, sounding a little bewildered. "Of course you may have Jacoba as guide while you bide here." Relief slowly relaxed her features.
Dyanara nodded briskly, and turned to Stumble, her pack donkey and travel companion. Purification of foul water... she'd have to try to follow the water to the source and take care of the problem there, or she'd be back here again before summer was over.