What should I do now? Splint it? With what? Guerrand looked about anxiously. Though it was dark, he could see that they were on the edge of a raised stone platform in some vast, cavernous room. Behind him was a wall of fieldstone and mortar.
Just then he heard his familiar plop to a landing nearby. "Zag!" Guerrand cried in relief, then remembered how they'd got here. He glowered. "Thanks to you, Esme's leg is broken."
Really? The sea gull waddled over to look closely. Oh, my. For once, the gull was speechless.
"You can make up for it by flying back out of here and getting a strong, straight limb to use as a splint."
The bird's feathered head shook from side to side. I'm afraid I can't do that. The floor closed right after we fell. Zagarus looked up. Worse still, we fell down a shaft. The ceiling in here looks normal, but the shaft is about three times your height, I'd guess. You'd have to stack up a lot of crates to get back up that way. I've looked for another opening, but I haven't found one yet. You're a mage. Can't you just blip us out of here, or at least fix her leg?"
Guerrand frowned his frustration. "Teleporting is far beyond my skill. And wizards aren't healers. Come to think of it, though," he said, reaching into his pack, I've got some herbs, that, when combined are supposed to be a great analgesic." He pulled out several small burlap sacks. "I only hope we won't be needing the spell for which the peppermint was intended."
Guerrand lifted Esme's head. "This would be better in tea, but she'll just have to choke down the leaves." He parted her lips with a finger. On her tongue he placed a pinch of the crushed, dried peppermint and cream-colored meadowsweet flowers soaked in oil of clove.
The taste of the acrid leaves must have penetrated
her foggy slumber, because at that moment Esme's eyes popped open. Struggling to sit up, she let out a strangled scream at the stab of pain in her leg. Guerrand quickly pinched her lips shut to keep the herbs inside. Her honey eyes puddled, then rivers of tears flowed down her cheeks, splashing Guerrand's hand.
"You've broken your leg," Guerrand explained hastily, releasing her lips. "The herbs are bitter, but you must swallow them. They'll ease the pain." She gulped down the bitter concoction.
"We need to splint the break," he explained gently, then came upon an idea. Once again, he fished around in his pack and retrieved two items. Closing his eyes intently for several moments, he opened them and sprinkled powdered iron onto a small wood shim. "Silas sular."
With a slight snapping sound, the shim thickened and lengthened until it was nearly the size of a cane. Guerrand then used some strong cord from his pack to lash it securely to the outside of Esme's leg. The lines of pain in her brow eased noticeably once the limb was immobilized.
Esme brushed the tears from her cheeks. "That's much better. Help me sit up, please." Guerrand complied, sliding her gently from the platform to prop her back against the fieldstone wall.
"Do you know where we are?" she asked weakly. She could see only the suggestion of a table ahead and below in a dark, wide expanse.
"Zag says we fell down a shaft and the floor closed back up," supplied Guerrand, still kneeling at her side. He lifted his head to gaze about, then wrinkled his nose. "Something smells awful, though."
A single dim torch provided the only light in the cavernous room, though Guerrand could see that other unlit torches were spaced all along the walls. He stood and reached up to pluck the torch from its sconce, noticing the flame emitted no smoke. Curious, he held his hand nearer and felt no heat. He brashly passed his fingers through the fire. Flames danced about his flesh. but the sensation was mild, like water flowing over his hand.
Esme, who had been watching, said, "It must light magically. Perhaps the others will, too, when you get close to them."
Guerrand glanced at her. "Will you be all right by yourself for a few minutes?"
Esme looked half exasperated, half touched by his concern. "Of course," she said, the piqued side winning out.
Guerrand took three steps down to a slate floor. The other torches throughout the room sparked to life. Guerrand looked back, and Esme shot him a knowing smile.
Returning his gaze to the room, Guerrand gasped. They'd found Belize's laboratory. The room was large and overfilled, yet seemed somehow neat and organized. Near the stairs stood a trestle table. A padded stool appeared to be the only item of comfort. Guerrand scanned the table and saw two books. The closed one was thin, and on the spine in faded gold lettering was the title, Observations on the Structure of Reality by Fistandantilus.
The other book, face open, was very thick and old; ancient scratchings at the top suggested it was the spellbook of one Harz-Takta. Beyond that, Guerrand couldn't read the language of the text, but he recognized an illustration of the triple lunar eclipse known as the Night of the Eye, when all three moons, white Solinari, red Lunitari, and black Nuitari were lined up in descending order and resembled a huge eye in the night sky.
Surrounding the spellbook were papers and parchments-none of which mentioned him-quills, pots of colored inks, compasses and protractors, and other writing and drawing implements. The rug beneath the table was spotted with stains and small bum holes.
Shelves lined the walls and stood freely throughout the room, just like in Cormac's wine cellar back in Castle DiThon. But instead of wine casks, these were filled with books and scroll cases and loose or bundled papers. Around and between these were a bewildering array of magical and mundane items: boxes and bits of bones and stones and minerals and ores, toad skins, nautilus shells, turtles' claws, a quartz-filled lobster carapace, funguses and plants, crystals and coins, paper polygons of pyramids, spheres and cubes, candles, bells, glass and wood rods, beakers, decanters, distilling equipment, evaporators, purifiers, rarifiers, and crucibles. The scope made Guerrand's head spin, and he knew he could never remember every detail.
Then his eye caught a flash of reflected light through one of the shelves. He stepped around the end of the rack and saw a cleared space before the back wall. Leaning against the massive, square-cut stones was a mirror, nearly as tall as Guerrand. It was framed in stiffened leather dyed a very dark hue. Several pieces had been broken from the edges of the mirror. But what drew the apprentice's attention was the upper right corner, or what should have been the upper right corner. A section was missing that looked identical to the mirror Belize had given Guerrand. Very interesting, he thought. I've found the original mirror. He reached out to touch its dusty surface, and his hand slipped inside as Zagarus did in Guerrand's own mirror.
"Guerrand," he heard Esme call. "What have you found?"
He withdrew his hand. "We're in Belize's laboratory," he answered without turning. "If you're all right, I'd like to look around a bit more, see if I can't find what we came for, or even a way out."
"Go ahead."
Some distance to the left of the mirror, Guerrand noticed a doorway to another chamber, still dark. Guerrand cautiously approached the opening, where he noticed a strong smell of alcohol and formaldehyde. As he stepped through, torches flickered to life.
Guerrand reeled backward in horror and disgust. His back slammed against the wall, and he stood there silently for several moments, too overcome to move. His eyes darted across the room, glancing from one ghastly sight to another, never staying on any single thing too long. Now he knew the source of the awful stench.