Lyim took the nails to the laboratory and continued reading where he'd left off. Hunger gnawed, and he felt his energy flagging. He would have to cast the spell soon.
Speak the words of the spell. Next, place your prepared mixture in two flaming braziers set near the body and burn until smoke forms.
Lyim reached under the central table and withdrew the requisite braziers, placing them on the table near the open jar of nails.
Inhale smoke deeply. Exhale by calling forth the full name and suspected realm of containment for the soul in question. If a successful conjuration is attained, the caster is advised to recall the recommendations for speaking with the dead.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," muttered Lyim impatiently. His left hand, on the bowl of mixed components, was shaking. Using his teeth, the mage removed the cork from a seldom-used bottle of snowberry wine and took a long pull, waiting for it to burn a trail to the pit of his empty stomach.
After carefully speaking the words that would activate the spell, Lyim took up the bowl again and divided it evenly between the two small flames. The flames roared up from both braziers, singeing Lyim's eyebrows on the way to the ceiling. Slowly the flames flickered back down and in their wake left beautiful plumes of purple smoke. Lyim exhaled harshly, then thrust his head into the smoke and sucked in the acrid fumes until his lungs could hold no more.
"I call from the Abyss the essence of Belize of Palanthas!" Lyim cried in a rush. The smoke that blew from his mouth now was as black as the air in that fetid realm of the dead. While Lyim watched, the smoke began forming into the familiar profile of the archmage Belize. The image, which wavered like the smoke from which it was made, lacked detail, but the stubble-ringed pate
and goateed chin were unmistakable.
A tide of conflicting emotions swept over Lyim: relief, fear, reverence, hatred. But hatred was the strongest. "Belize."
The apparition looked up at the sound of its name. There was neither recognition nor confusion in Belize's expression, only an expectant stare.
"You bastard." Lyim was tempted to go on, but remembered that because of substitutions he would get only half the spell's usual brief duration. 'Tell me what you did to cause my hand to be changed to a snake." Lyim viciously shoved the overlong cuff of his right sleeve back and held the hissing snake up to the apparition.
As if looking beyond Lyim's mutation, Belize seemed not to see the limb. "Your arm was the first living thing to enter the dimensional portal to the Lost Citadel in untold years." Belize's unearthly voice reminded Lyim of the wavering, ghoulish timbre he'd used as a child to frighten his friends.
"Yes? So?"
"Waiting within the unused bridge were starving ex tridimensional creatures. One was feasting on your flesh when your arm was withdrawn from the portal." The apparition's face contorted as if it were in pain. Its head spun about, and it appeared to bite at something behind it that only it could see.
The extradimensional snakelike creature was forced to meld with you to survive the transplantation to the Prime Material Plane."
It made a certain sense. "How do I remove the creature1'' Lvim asked.
"Recreate the events and reverse the process."
"But that's impossible!" Lyim heard himself cry for the second time in recent days. 'Thanks to you, no one can create a portal to the Lost Citadel!"
Suddenly the image of Belize began to break up. "Don't go yet!" Lyim didn't know if the spell was expiring, or Belize was angered by his verbal attack. Frustrated, he continued to ignore the advice about dealing with the dead. "I conjured you, and I demand that you stay! I'm not finished with you yet!"
But the fires in the braziers choked out simultaneously as if doused with water, and the smoke became purple and featureless again.
Lyim collapsed onto a small wooden stool and rubbed his face wearily with one hand. He hadn't been this exhausted since the conclusion of his Test. Then he'd felt good, proud. Now he just felt empty.
Things had changed in the world of magic since Belize's departure for the Abyss. Big things. One thing in particular, as he'd started to tell Belize's apparition. No one would ever again be able to create a portal directly to the Lost Citadel, just after Lyim had passed his Test and returned to Palanthas he had heard through magical circles that the Conclave of Wizards, in a rare moment of cooperation, had begun to build a stronghold to protect the entrance to the storehouse of godly magic. Those same sources mentioned that the location of the redoubt, called Bastion, would be a secret place beyond the circles of the universe and guarded by a representative of each of the orders.
Five years ago Lyim had given the story little more than passing attention, consumed as he was with finding a cure for his arm. Now he wished he'd listened more closely to the gossip. Wherever it was, Bastion stood between Lyim and the Lost Citadel, between Lyim and his arm.
Suddenly Lyim saw a glimmer of light flicker through the crack in what he'd thought was his last door of hope. Could he recreate the portal to the citadel at Bastion? It only made sense that, if creating the portal was still possible at all. Bastion was the only place to do it. Hope spread like magical fire in his heart. Each time Lyim had found himself at a dead end, a secret and unexpected door seemed to open for him.
But where was the door to Bastion? Beyond the circles of the universe… that could be almost anywhere! The Abyss alone had six hundred sixty-six levels. Lyim considered it safe to rule out the realm of the dead, considering that the Council would not have sent their creation to such an evil place.
Still, Lyim was undaunted. All he had to do was find the way to Bastion, and then bribe the jailor with the keys. The magical world was a small one. Tapping his chin in thought, he wondered if, perhaps, he even knew one of the representatives stationed there.
Chapter Five
He’d been told the manor house he sought was at the end of the narrow lane, behind a tall and obscuring copse of trees. The mage trudged the muddy track between cropped hedges of bright green dogwood. The light but steady rain continued, piercing the fog that clung like cotton batting to everything it touched, including the mage's mood.
Cinching the hood of his cloak closed beneath his chin, Lyim hoped this miserable trek would prove worth the effort. Lightning flashed overhead, and he I hastened his steps. The path abruptly opened up I around a curve in the road, giving view of a large beige I stone-and-timber manor, windows and shake roof I overgrown with curling tendrils of ivy. Lyim stood in I the rain for a few long moments, staring up at the I manor; he was not looking forward to again witnessing the pity he'd seen in her honey-colored eyes that night on Stonecliff. But there was no way around it, if he was to get what he'd come all this way to retrieve. Not even a pretty girl and her pity would keep him from reaching the goal of a half decade.
Lyim rolled down the last fold of his right cuff and secured beneath it the fingerless leather glove he'd had specially made for this trip. The mage came to the gate- room, a three-quartered cylinder fit against a corner of the manor. Standing under a small overhang, Lyim pounded first with his fist, then banged the lion-faced wrought-iron knocker repeatedly against the thick wooden door. Before long, he could sense someone regarding him through a small peephole. Lyim stood up straight, deliberately looking away from the door to present a casual profile.
The door creaked open on unoiled hinges. Lyim spun about with a warm smile of greeting on his face, expecting a servant to answer. His lip trembled slightly at the sight of the woman herself. Lovelier than he remembered, statuesque and still slim, Esme's face had taken on a depth of wisdom with age. The soft, round cheeks were now attractively hollowed and burnished with a healthy red glow. Shiny tendrils of curly golden- brown hair ringed her face and draped her shoulders like a thick cloak. Lyim preferred it loose to the tight bun he remembered her wearing at the nape of her neck. Her gown, a rosy whisper of a thing, draped and clung to her best advantage.