His boots scuffed on the dirt. Paulo murmured something. I tried not to think of anything at all. How was I supposed to let him know where not to trespass , as Paulo put it? How was he supposed to know the part I needed him to play? Did I have to say it out loud? Yes, I can tick off steps and form complex enchantments, but a rabbit could bring them to life sooner than my stunted soul will, so you'll have to supply all the real magic .
Looking upward, to where the first sharp-edged stars poked through the deep blue, I inhaled deeply, relishing the clean, dry air and the oncoming night. No longer did an everlasting pall of smoke and dust haze hang over Ce Uroth. That happy circumstance soothed me a little. I smiled and imagined green stars in a stormy purple sky. Gods, I wanted to snatch Papa from the hospice and go home. Strange . . . "Will you just get on with it?" I said to those behind me.
"Jen." Paulo's soft call drew me to look around. He was crouched beside Gerick, who was sprawled on the ground, eyes closed, body limp as a dead man.
"He's already … ?" I suddenly felt hot all over, my face pulsing. Green stars … I should have known.
"He said he'd try to stay back as much as he could until you need him. He knows he was clumsy when he helped you before. Are you all right?"
I stared at my hands. Breathed. Peeked into my own thoughts. And they were my own thoughts . . . but, of course, he could likely hear them if he chose. I resisted the urge to ask him, for fear I would hear that quiet voice bouncing around in my skull or coming out of my own mouth. Good Vasrin show me the Way . … "I suppose I'm all right."
"You holler if you need me. I'm going to stay here to. watch out for him. You know what needs doing."
I moved slowly down the path, assuming for some reason that I had to tiptoe. If I stumbled, jostled, or thought too hard about what I was doing, something in the world was surely going to break or explode or crash down on my head. Or perhaps inside it.
I focused on the job at hand. Indeed I knew exactly what was required to destroy an object of power. As with so many things I could never use, the steps sat right there in my mind, dusty and neglected: consider need, assert ownership, disrupt containment, trigger the destruction . . . The triggering, yes, that was where I'd need help.
The implements lay where I'd left them on the flat rock I'd used to cover the hole: the shovel, the broken sword, Paulo's hand ax. I quickly added a few items from my pocket: the sweat-crusted scarf I had tied on my head in the desert crossing, the tight-wound measuring cord I used in my work, my mother's coming-of-age ring that I always carried, my knife, and its sheath that my father had tooled for me.
The oppressive enchantment of the oculus was already deadening my limbs, making it an effort to lift the broken sword. But I carried the sword to the hole and poked about in the dirt at the bottom, probing to find the ring. A muffled clink, another stab, and I snagged it, scooping it out of the loose dirt. As I raised the broken tip, the brass oculus slid down toward the hilt and clanged into the guard.
Trying not to look at the thing, I carried it back to the flat stone and let it slide off again to lie simple, round, and perfect in its evil, gleaming in my pale hand-light. My simple invocations of protection felt quite pale as well. I could try to invoke power for strengthening them, testing this joint working, but my mind was already growing sluggish. So begin. You can do this .
Step One: Consider the object to be destroyed . . . the need . . . the use or misuse that justifies destruction . That was easy. While visions of ravening Zhid, of Gerick without eyes, and of my father's confusion of mind created a solid hateful shape in my head, I proceeded to the next step, arranging my possessions around the brass device—the knife, the sheath, the little gold finger ring, the scarf. I unwound the measuring cord and wrapped it carefully around them all, making sure it touched each of my four possessions. And then I passed my fingers around the cord, releasing just enough power to assert my ownership of this boundary and everything within it. Unless D'Sanya showed up to break my circle and thus dispute my claim, the oculus was now mine.
The brass circle pulsed and glared as if it knew what I was doing. Its physical shape did not change. My mind knew that. Yet it seemed to grow larger, occupying fully half of the world I could see. Concentrate, Jen . I forced my eyes to see the rock and the other things on it, to feel the night air and hear the distant howl of a wolf.
Next step. I considered the casting of the artifact . . . the mold fashioned with care and skill . . . the molten metal running into the mold, skinning over as it cooled … the careful burnishing and whispered enchantments that had made it. I thought of all I knew of its designers and its maker . . . envisioning them in all their horror, beauty, and betrayal, a necessary step to encompass the existence of the object. "I'm sorry," I whispered as I concentrated on the Lady. But I dared not slide over the requirements, even the ones that might be painful for either of us to dwell on.
My spirit clamored warnings, and my hand trembled as I picked up the hand ax we'd borrowed from Mistress Aimee's stable, its sharp steel blade properly venerated and cared for by Paulo on our trek across the desert. I raised the tool, and my shoulder howled in protest. Foolish … I couldn't possibly muster the physical strength to do this. The oculus had surely been cast with spells to make it impervious to casual damage. Perhaps I should call for Paulo. Confused, dispirited, I lowered the tool.
No ! I shook off the leaden sensation. Focus on the steps. Disrupt containment. What you feel is only enchantment —the object trying to preserve itself. Strike !
I raised the hand ax high, strength surging into my limbs like a river pushing into the sea. The blow landed square on the oculus and hard enough to mar the perfection of its gleaming surface with a small dent. I had never struck such a blow. So hard. So accurate. Blood rushed to my skin again. I was not alone. . . .
Unsettled, I threw down the hand ax as if it were the evil instrument. Mistress Aimee's blade would need some tender care; shards of rock had flown everywhere when it struck.
The unity of physical form and enchantment that made up the oculus, the containment of the spells within the physical object, should have been disrupted by the blow. Only a small breach was needed, a flaw in its construction that I could exploit to break it. And so I proceeded through the mental exercises of desire and transformation, shaping them with the simple sorcery nature had left to me.
Once those were completed, assuming I'd done all correctly, only one step remained. The most difficult. The least certain. Hold the desire in the mind, incorporating every sense, and feed it power enough to accomplish the breaking spell. Closing my eyes, I felt the solidity of the enchantment I had constructed, envisioned its accomplishment, hearing, tasting, smelling, feeling the shattering I desired. And then I reached deep into that most intimate place of a Dar'Nethi's soul, and in that reservoir where my Way had left only dust and rubble, I found magic.
My eyes flew open, and every object in my sight—sky, stars, rocks, desert—became more comprehensible, more real, its color richer, its texture, shape, and solidity, even its flaws, delights to the eye and the mind. The bluster of the wind and the screech of a hunting raptor sang with tones and harmonies that extended far beyond those of ordinary hearing, and with such clarity that I could understand the slightest nuances of wild nature bound up in them. For one instant I was admitted to the heart of the universe, its intricacies and truth laid bare for my soul to devour.