Part of him blamed Regecon; despite the guild master’s promise of patience, he felt rushed. He had spent the previous day going over the black time problem and had become convinced that it was the product of some creature, not the result of a spell or natural phenomenon. If he’d had a few more days, he could have run the experiments to prove it. Unfortunately, he had to move on and leave the last of the work to Porthion, and though talented, Porthion was neither as fast nor as thorough as a man of his experience.
He found the dish before him amazing. He sat staring at the jar, as baffled by the symbols now as when first he viewed them. After looking in almost every text he owned, he still had found nothing. The closest lead was some sigils used by the Healers of Drason, the ancient forerunners of the priests of Drellenor. There had been a hint of similarity in the design, but it had been weak. Follow-up research showed too many incongruencies for it to be a product of the Drason art of bloodcraft. At best, it may have sprung from a sister discipline two or three times removed.
With a sigh, he took one of the few remaining books he had yet to search. He scanned the title, then gingerly placed the volume on the table before him. He had spent a fortune to acquire the book and still he was loathe to touch it. He had even set up wards to nullify whatever energies it might have collected through its many years of existence. Black Magic. The forbidden arts. The text he owned, though short, and not very detailed, usually proved sufficient for a diviner’s needs. In any one else’s possession, the book would have brought the death sentence. Reaching out, he touched the smooth black cover, then shuddered. No, there was no reason to look in there. He picked it up and lifted the text toward the shelf.
A knock on the door behind startled him and he jumped to his feet. The book dropped from his shaken fingers and flapped open on his desk.
Morcallenon turned to face the door. “Come in.”
The door opened, slowly, revealing a robed figure in the archway. Motioning for the individual to enter, he opened his mouth slightly in surprise when Jacindra stepped in.
She greeted him somewhat stiffly, and he nodded his head in acknowledgement, then offered her a chair. She stood still, fidgeting a moment, but made no effort to sit. She seemed pale-faced and nervous, which he found quite odd. He had always thought Jacindra a level-headed woman ever since the day he met her.
“What is it, Jacindra?” he asked.
“I was wondering ...” She trailed off, her lips pressing together, and a faraway look coming into her eyes.
“Yes?’
She finally said, “Have you made much progress on the black time problem?”
“A little,” he answered. “Unfortunately, I am pressed for time and must move on to other matters. From what I did learn, I believe it was generated by a creature of some sort. However, which type exactly has yet to be determined.”
“Really,” she said, paling visibly.
“Yes. It had the markings of a preternatural aura.” Suddenly, he paused. “Is something bothering you? You seem a little shaken,” Morcallenon asked, concerned.
She smiled weakly, then said, “No. Nothing at all.” She walked slowly over to the window, opened it and looked out at the night sky. She shivered. “I’m just curious ... What ... type of creature ... could generate such a thing?”
“Oh, there are several,” Morcallenon replied. “Most demons do, some dragons as well. Very powerful undead do, too.” The sorceress trembled and Morcallenon again grew troubled. “Don’t worry. Not every creature that generates black time is that strong or even evil for that matter. Consider a winged unicorn for example. They are one of the most benevolent creatures in existence. And we shouldn’t forget the pixies, the mischievous leprechauns, and others of similar nature. Really, Jacindra, what is wrong? I’m sure whatever it is, we can handle it.”
“There is nothing wrong,” she said, wringing her hands. She seemed intent on scrubbing her wrists raw, when suddenly she straightened. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Morcallenon. I will be going.” She walked quickly toward the exit, hesitated, then went out. The door closed quietly behind her.
What strange behavior, Morcallenon thought. He turned back to his work; the book of the black arts lay open on his desk. He sighed. Black time ... demons, undead. Perhaps I should look this through.
A half hour later, his heart was thudding in his chest.
Drasmyr (Prequel: From the Ashes of Ruin) Page 26