Feldon's heart sank as he realized what he had done with the master of the swamp's spell.
There was another thump, and the door shifted, but Feldon was leaning against it now, seeking now to keep whatever was on the far side out. He did not want to see if the spell had succeeded. He did not want to know.
There was another thud and a gurgling cry that sounded like sloshing water. Feldon's heart shattered as he reached inside himself and willed the spell to end, to send whatever was beyond the door back where it had come from.
The smell of death was gone, and with it the sounds. Feldon stayed pressed against the door, holding it shut with all his might, until morning.
When morning came, he slowly opened the door. There were no footprints in the muck outside the door. Indeed, the entire village had been abandoned. There were no hollow-eyed guards, no master of the swamp.
Nothing called his name in a gurgling voice like sloshing water.
Feldon staggered to his wagon, pausing only to use a piece of black driftwood as a makeshift walking stick. He did not look back.
In time, as he traveled, the ground began to rise, and dry. He had circumnavigated the lake now, and all that was left was to return home.
He dreaded that, for fear of what he would find in the garden.
He was three days from his village when he heard of the scholar in a small town further west. Propelled in part by curiosity, in part by dread, Feldon turned his wagon westward. He found the scholar in the musty remains of a temple library. The building had been shattered long ago by an earthquake, and the snows and rains had rotted most of the books. Yet among the tattered remains of books and scrolls, the scholar hopped like a bird-shaped automaton. He was a spindly thing and regarded Feldon from behind thick lenses of crystal.
Feldon spoke of his tale-of his loss, of his resolve to regain what he had lost. He told of the hermit, the sorceress, and the master of the swamp. And when he finished his story, the scholar blinked at him behind heavy lenses.
"What do you want?" he said at last.
Feldon let out an exasperated sigh. "I want to have Loran back. If magic can do everything, why can it not do this?"
"Of course it can do this," said the scholar. "The question is-do you want it to?"
Now it was Feldon's turn to blink, and the scholar gave a thin, amused smile.
"Green calls to the living," he said. "Black calls to the dead. Blue creates the shadow of life. Red consumes, and that's very important as well, because you must often destroy before you can build. I study, and the magic I wield is White, which is the magic of comprehension and understanding."
"Can you bring her back to life?" asked Feldon, his voice catching. The memory of the swamp was still with him.
"No, I can't," said the scholar, and, despite himself, Feldon sighed in relief. "But I can help you to create an exact duplicated"
"I tried that with the automaton," said Feldon.
"I speak of a creation not of gears and wires but of magic," replied the scholar, "identical in every way."
"I don't understand," said Feldon.
"When you cast a spell using fire," explained the scholar, "I believe you do not create fire. Rather you take the magical energy and form it into the shape of fire, which then does your bidding. It is for all intents and purposes fire, but it is made of magic."
"But what about when I use fire," asked Feldon, "or when the hermit calls a great wurm?"
The scholar waved his hand, "Different uses for the same tools. Yes, in those cases it is a real fire and a real wurm, but the magic alters it. For the moment, assume that you can create something made of magical energy."
Feldon thought about it and nodded slowly.
"So if you study an object, you can create the object over time," said the scholar.
Again, Feldon nodded.
"If you study me," he said, "you would be studying that which makes me a scholar. Therefore you could call at a later time that part of me which is my scholarliness and rely on its advice."
Feldon shook his head. "I'm not sure I understand," he said.
"Study me for two weeks," said the scholar, "and then see if you understand. Don't talk to me. Just bring me my meals. Two weeks. That's my price. That, and later you'll have to let me and other scholars into your library. Is it a bargain?"
For the next two weeks Feldon brought the scholar his meals, in much the same way as he had brought Loran hers when she was bedridden. Feldon used his magic to keep a small flame going and to cook for the scholar as he pawed through the rotting texts and decaying scrolls of the ruined temple.
For the first two days the scholar seemed little more than an amusing bird, hopping from one location to another. But soon Feldon noticed there was method to the madness, that there was intent behind each of the scholar's movements. He began to see how the man thought and knew. Through it all the scholar ignored him, save at meal times.
At the end of the two weeks the little man turned to Feldon and said, "Summon me."
Feldon shook his head. "Pardon?" he asked.
"You have watched me for two weeks," said the scholar. "Now see if you can use your magics to bring me into being."
Feldon blinked. "But you're already here."
"So bring another me," said the scholar. "You've got the power. Use it."
Feldon took a deep breath and called upon the powers of the land. He thought of the nervous scholar in his thick spectacles, rummaging relentlessly through the decaying paper and rotting vellum. He tried to call a being that summed up the nature of the creature in one place.
There was a pause, and then an identical duplicate of the scholar appeared.
No, not identical. It was taller, and its flesh had a ruddier hue. But it was thin and nervous and had thick spectacles and a knowing manner.
The scholar (the real one), walked up to the created being and looked over his glasses at it. The duplicate did the same.
Feldon was amazed. "Is it real?" he choked out at last.
The scholar reached out and touched the quasiduplicate, and the duplicate touched back. "Feels like it," said the scholar. "A lot of the little details are wrong, but you aren't just summoning me. You're summoning the essence of my me-ness as a scholar. You can keep this me around by keeping that part of your mind aware of me, but it isn't. Me, that is."
Feldon worked his way around the scholar's thinking process. "But what can I do with this-you."
"What you would expect a scholar to do," returned the bespectacled man, "research, investigate, know certain things." In a slightly more excited voice he added, "but I wouldn't know anything about fighting or lands I had never visited or anything like that. It would be beyond my nature as a scholar."
"And I could do the same with… Loran?" asked Feldon.
Both scholars nodded. Feldon found the duplication unnerving and dismissed the part of the spell that held the magical scholar in place. He faded from view like snow in the rain.
"You can summon your lost love back," said the scholar, "if that's what you truly want."
Feldon thought about the scholar's words on the way back to his home, the wagon shuddering through the deep ruts in the road. It was raining again by the time he returned, and the servants had kindled a fire in the hearth. Before he entered the house, he checked Loran's grave, beneath the inert, rusting form of the automaton. The earth was undisturbed, and that made him feel slightly better.
He thanked the servants and retreated to his workshop. There, among the tables draped with cloth and the reagents settled into multicolored layers in their beakers, he allowed himself to remember.
He remembered Loran. Not just the feel of her touch or the way her hair moved like a dark waterfall. He remembered her: when she was happy, when she was angry, when she was gardening.