Chapter Four

Standing in the underground laboratory that had once been Belize's, Lyim continued to ponder the oracle's message. She'd said that Lyim's former master had the answer to curing the snake mutation. It was not a new thought. It wasn't idle curiosity that had prompted Belize to thrust his apprentice's arm into the portal that night on Stonecliff. The archmage had known full well the consequences of the action. He alone knew the exact cause of the mutation, so it was only logical Belize could have fathomed a cure, if he were alive.

The oracle told Lyim to look beyond the grave for his answer, to seek it from Belize's spirit. However, what she was suggesting was not usually in the realm of a wizard's power. Still, Lyim had never paid much heed to the distinctions between schools of magic. If ever a mage had broken the bounds, it was Belize. Lyim had once seen the master conjure a denizen of the Abyss- was Belize's spirit really so different from that?

The spellbooks and other texts not used at Stonecliff by the former Master of the Red Robes still lined the shelves in the underground laboratory. The Council of Three had reviewed them after Belize's execution, having burned those he'd used, but found nothing else related to Belize's attempt to reach the Lost Citadel. They had then turned their attention to removing the ghastly remains of Belize's gating experiments.

Lyim rolled up the left sleeve of his red robe and began pulling books down to the table. He held one open with his scaly right elbow and thumbed through the parchment pages with his left hand, looking for references to conjuring the dead.

The snake bobbed back and forth for a short time, eyeing the paraphernalia on the table. Then it suddenly lunged at a candlestick, knocking over the metal stand and the burning taper. Lyim snatched up the candle before it could scorch any of the potentially valuable papers spread before him. In the meantime, the snake's thrashing also knocked an empty glass beaker to the stone floor and scattered several quills. Lyim yanked the cursed arm back and held it well away from the disruption while he struggled one-handed to put everything back in its place.

It was tough, even after nearly six years, using his left hand for tasks. He still couldn't write legibly with it, so he avoided writing whenever possible, or used a minor cantrip to make notes. Eating was a one-handed embarrassment-food simply refused to stay on his fork. He had resorted to drinking most of his meals, since he could hold a mug well enough.

The real shame of it was, he rarely indulged in his favorite mug-holding event: partaking of ale at the many inns of Palanthas. His face, though thin and drawn, was still perfectly handsome. Women continued to follow him with their eyes and their bodies. Until they saw the snake. Their horrified stares as they drew back convinced him that even solitude was better than their disgust, or worse still, their pity.

Books, scrolls, parchments, it took Lyim days to sort through all that Belize had acquired or written. He lit a third thick beeswax candle in the windowless laboratory, letting his tired eyes linger on the soothing yellow flame. Was he grasping at straws by trying to conjure some flicker of Belize's essence? Was he just prolonging the moment when he would have to admit to himself that there was no cure for his hand? He had long ago decided that that day would be his last.

Lyim looked away from the candle, eyes burning from the sweet-smelling smoke. Wearily he pulled down one of the last books on the shelf, a smallish, homemade thing, bound together with a brittle leather lace. It looked more like a collection of vegetable recipes than a spellbook of any import. The words had worn off the cheap leather cover, but an intriguing, tooled illustration remained. The picture was crude, unlike the finely rendered designs Belize had done. It showed a skull inside two nested triangles, a symbol Lyim had never encountered elsewhere in any of Belize's writings.

The book crackled with age as Lyim opened it. The pages inside were apparently much older than the cover. The first page repeated the double triangle symbol, but also bore the book's title: Achnaskin's Guide to Summoning the Dead.

Excitement sparked to life in Lyim's chest. His left fingertips lingered upon the title while he willed himself to remain calm and focused. Only when his pulse had slowed did he allow himself to turn to the next page. At a glance the page had no illustrations and

looked black with crowded but carefully inked text, topped by a larger heading.

Tips before spellcasting

When speaking with the dead, the spellcaster would

be wise to remember the following unchangeable facts:

1. The dead respond best to simple questions, so phrase yours accordingly.

2. The dead tire and bore easily. Although they would seem to have nothing but time, their attention spans are extremely limited. Do not waste time with pointless questions.

3. The dead conjured from the Abyss (those of an evil disposition before their dissolution) are usually in great torment and may be difficult to comprehend.

4. Understandably, the disposition of most deceased creatures has been soured by death. Many are extremely bad tempered.

Lyim shrugged, thinking the advice only common sense. Still, he took it to heart before eagerly turning the page once more. There began the anticipated entry containing the incantation, under the large heading: The Spell to Summon the Dead. He began reading with an intensity he'd not felt in many years.

But before long, beads of perspiration joined the streaks that already flowed down Lyim's temples, pooling in the short whiskers above his lips. He read and reread the entry, pushing back the anxiousness that made it difficult to concentrate and really digest the words. The spell's magical patterns were in an unusually complicated order. Lyim could find no shortcut to memorizing them, no distinguishing marks or pauses to aid in his usual rote memorization. Hours or days could have passed while he studied the patterns. Five thick candles and a dusty stub found in a drawer had burned away before Lyim began to feel he understood and had memorized the spell.

Lyim looked up abruptly from the fragile book. A horrifying thought began to blossom behind his eyes. What if, after all this study, he hadn't the components to carry out the spell? He would forget the pattern if he had to stop for even an hour to locate some obscure ingredient.

Lyim had inherited surprisingly few of Belize's components. He'd returned to Villa Nova after his Test to find the laboratory a frightful pile of broken beakers, hopelessly mixed and moistened powders, and dried- up pickled components, none of it salvageable. He had swept it all outside the villa into a magical fire that had lit the sky above Palanthas like fireworks for two days and nights.

Lyim spun about and carried Achnaskin's small book to the shelves containing the components he'd purchased from street vendors near the Great Library. Most mages insisted upon drying and storing their own things, but Lyim had never had the time for such tediousness. Propping the book open with a heavy marble mortar bowl, he traced a finger down the short list. The first three were easy enough; every mage had lye, sulfur, and goat's hoof on his shelves. The fourth item was trickier. He didn't remember ever having used mace. Lyim's eyes quickly surveyed the shelf, but he couldn't find the spice. He reread the spell list and noticed a little star inked next to the word "mace." He found a similar mark at the bottom of the page and read:

A double dose of nutmeg may be substituted for this item.