Verek’s second admonition—Do not heed the phantasmic summons—seemed a restatement of his earlier warning. Did he doubt the power of his words, when he ordered her to resist any unexplained “feelings” that might call her back to the cave? If so, he could rest easy. Carin had no faith that whatever had kept her from harm would protect her if she reached for the invisible latch a second time. How could she trust in such continued protection when she had no idea from what source it sprang?
The final part of the message seemed the most cryptic. It needs but a thought to break the spell of stone, Verek had said. The words wove through Carin’s brain like a mournful lullaby. The spell of stone … flesh becoming rock … Emrys petrified … her own body made stone, as lifeless as a sculpture …
It needs but a thought? What thought? What must she think? Where was the meaning in Verek’s words? Carin couldn’t make it out. Presently she slid into sleep, to dream of monstrous chessmen that moved about as freely as the living beings they mirrored, turning their glittering black eyes upon her from faces of cold, dead stone … faces forever grimacing with pain.
Chapter 14
A Dragon
Gray dawn found Carin at work and the puzzle-book lying where she’d tossed it—with a contemptuous flick of her wrist—upon entering the warmly firelit library. The book awaited the sorcerer atop a stack of volumes on his desk. He could have it. Carin no longer wanted the volume. She didn’t care whether it had once been among “her” books on the shelves of the child’s misty bedroom.
The twilight through the library’s windows did not brighten appreciably as the morning wore on. Outside, storm clouds shrouded the sun. By midmorning, a hard rain pelted the windows. The tempest cast such a pall over her work that Carin needed not only the light from the fireplace, but also a half-dozen of Myra’s multitude that she brought down from her bedroom, their resettlement requiring three circuits of the stairs.
“Oh my, dearie!” the housekeeper exclaimed as she bustled in to call Carin to the midday meal. “We’ll need boats to get about in, if this keeps on. ’Tis more rain than we’ve seen in these parts in a year or more. Leave off with those musty old books now, child, and come to the table. There’s a plump hen in a fair broth of mushrooms and raisins, with fresh-baked bread. You needn’t go hungry today, dearie. You’ll not be wanting for a meal on the table while I’ve strength enough to drag these old bones from their bed of a morning.”
Carin followed the woman into the hallway, glad to put a hard morning’s work behind her. Some of Verek’s oversized books weighed as much as small casks of wine. To remove them from the highest shelves, Carin needed all the strength in her upper body to slide each volume onto her head as she propped unsteadily on a ladder. Then, lowering herself to the floor with one hand grasping the rungs, she had all she could do to keep each book precariously balanced. A long morning of such labor left her ready for easier pursuits.
Verek was in the kitchen when Carin reached it, already at the table, sipping a mug of hot cider.
His appearance was much improved over the disheveled, sunken-eyed creature who had confronted her yesterday. His hair was combed neatly back, his beard and mustache trimmed. He wore a clean white shirt under a vest that, except for its color, was the twin of the dark-blue garment he’d worn on the day of the delving. This one was a deep shade of plum. His eyes were clear, and they fixed on Carin dispassionately. He greeted her, his manner reserved but civil.
Carin fashioned, with difficulty, an attitude of detachment to match his as she took her place opposite him at the table.
“On such a wet and stormy day as this,” Verek commented, “I think of no better place to spend the morning than in my library. How goes your work there?”
“I’m making progress,” Carin replied in a clear voice that gave no hint of her chronic uneasiness around him. “Things are going faster than I expected, actually. I’ve cleared the shelves in the corner next to the desk. Now I’m starting to pick out the books that belong there. I think I’ve found the one that will have to come first, when I start reshelving them in order. It’s called Aabalwynd.”
“Oh my, good master!” Myra chimed in. “The girl is ever so steady in the work, and she hides in that thin frame a strength like a Trosdan deer’s. Why, she’s shifted books that I could never budge, so thick and heavy are they. She’s too proud to call for help, but maybe she ought to seek a stronger back when there are such books to move about.”
The warlock nodded. “As ofttimes is your wont, Myra, you see what I do not. Summon me to the task, or petition Jerold to make himself useful and answer to your call, or this adept’s”—he raised his cider-mug to Carin—“when a man’s strength is needed. Though in truth,” Verek muttered, “I had expected no such devoted effort from her to do the work that I set her.”
Carin ignored his grumbling. Her mind was otherwise occupied. She was fairly bursting with questions for Verek—questions inspired by the events in the vault of wizardry, and by her encounter yesterday with the warlock at this same table. Her curiosity had gone unsatisfied when the wagon’s arrival cut their meeting short. So quickly had Verek retreated to his rooms, with the air of an unsettled man who was seeking his privacy, Carin had had no time to discover what he’d meant by a “susceptibility” that drew her to the cave of magic. She hadn’t learned what “tasks” they faced, with which Myra could not help. Her wonder at all of this had only intensified last night, when the housekeeper delivered Verek’s message.
For once, she was less interested in avoiding the sorcerer’s company than in getting him alone. As long as Myra remained within earshot, she couldn’t talk about their night in the magic cave, or about yesterday’s drama in this kitchen. “Speak no word of these events to my housekeeper,” Verek had warned.
There was one magian subject, however, that must be safe around Myra. The woman seemed comfortably familiar with the looking-glass book. In fact, there had been a mention of it in Verek’s message through Myra last night—urging Carin to finish her reading and give him an account.
And so she would. The book would be the means to draw him to the library, out of Myra’s hearing, where she could question him.
“Lord Verek.” Carin spoke up during a break in the housekeeper’s indictment of the weather. “I got done last night with the puzzle-book. The ending surprised me. It wasn’t what I expected. If you’d like, sir, I could go with you to the library, when you’re finished eating, and read you the book. Maybe not all of it this afternoon, but the first chapter, if you wish.”
Whether Verek felt pleasure or astonishment—or any other sentiment—at the offer Carin made him, it couldn’t be read in his face. But he accepted at once.
“Good. A better enterprise for a gray and rain-soaked day could hardly be wished for. Come with me now and we’ll begin.”
They headed down the passageway, leaving Myra exclaiming to their backs over the twin marvels of the strange book and “the smart young thing, bright as a new copper,” who had mastered it.
Outpacing Carin, Verek’s long stride carried him down the hallway like a man who was hastening to claim a lost treasure. When the warlock reached the library door, he shoved it open and stood on the threshold, propping the heavy oak with one hand.
Verek’s white shirt under the plum vest glowed spectrally in the firelight that escaped through the open door. But his dark eyes caught no glint, making his face, from that distance, a blank and lifeless mask.
Carin’s steps faltered.
Are you insane? cried reason. The blackheart who’s waiting for you has threatened you with steel, laid you out cold, locked you in a crypt of black horror, dragged you underground to a cave crawling with sorcery, and shown you things no mortal should see. And now you seek his company, hoping to ply him with questions? You’re a fool! He’ll tell you only what he wants you to know. He’s the master. You’re his pawn—nothing more. The Looking-Glass book has put ideas into your head. Maybe Alice can advance from pawn to
queen, but only in her dreams. Verek is no toy chessman from a dream. How can you hope to beat him at his own game? That sorcerer can choke out your life as easily as he snuffs a candle.
This tumble of thoughts so unnerved her that, as she approached the end of the hallway, Carin could not force her eyes higher than the point of Verek’s chin. They refused to meet his eyes, but gazed fixedly at the half-lit, half-shadowed hollow of his throat.
She brushed past him into the library. Wending her way through the stacks of books, Carin made for the desk where the puzzle-book lay, to scoop it up and hold it close:
Exactly like a frightened child would clutch a familiar toy, she thought, disgusted with herself. But her disgust didn’t loosen her hold.
Verek worked his way through the uneven stacks on the floor to his usual bench in front of the fireplace. He motioned for Carin to take the seat opposite.
As she did so, a white light flew at her and stuck in her hair.
With a startled cry of “Drisha!” Carin swatted at the thing, a move that only shifted it from her hair to her hand. It clung, giving her a glimpse of a shining orb, something like a sweetgum ball radiating light. Carin’s fierce, unthinking reflex permitted her only the one quick look. An eyeblink later, with a violent shake of her hand she’d loosened the orb and flung it at the fire. It never reached the flames, though. As soon as it left her fingers, the light ceased to be.
And Carin found herself sitting and staring at Verek, her hand still raised, her heart racing and her breath coming short.
The warlock was leaning toward her, his chin in his hands, both elbows propped on his knees. For a long moment he only gazed at her, a slight frown furrowing his brow. Then he leaned back against the cushions of his bench and brought up one booted foot, resting it ankle on knee. His right hand kneaded the propped ankle deeply, as if to ease a sprain. He was a man, by all appearances, who bade himself sit and be easy despite a desperate desire to make things happen.
The hand kneading the ankle grew still. Then it stiffened, with the fingers pointing to the ceiling, the wrist resting on the ankle, and the palm toward Carin, as if willing her to motionlessness.
Willing it, or compelling it by sorcery? Carin wondered. If the warlock was trying to quiet her under a spell, it was having little effect. Her scalp still crawled and her hand tingled from her brief battle with the uncanny light.
Finally, Verek broke the silence. “You will agree that on such a sunless, rain-darkened afternoon as this, firelight or the flickering of these few lamps makes a poor light for reading.”
It was more a statement than a question, but he paused as if expecting a reply. In truth, the library was gloomier now than when Carin had abandoned it at lunchtime. Half the lamps she’d brought downstairs from Myra’s multitude were dark, their oil consumed. To Verek’s statement, therefore, no response seemed possible but her assent.
When Carin had given it, quietly, Verek went on:
“You will also agree that sunlight, when no clouds dim it, serves best for reading, for it is a bright, steady light that does not tire or strain the eyes.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You will further agree that I am a demon, a warlock, a fiend who summons fire to do his evil bidding—”
Verek broke off, and wagged his upraised hand once to the left and then to the right, as if to rub out his words.
Carin’s blood rushed to her face at this reminder of what she had said, while wearing nothing but a towel, after she revived from her fall in the cellar. But even as she blushed, she wondered: Had her words stung the sorcerer so deeply, that he would return to them in this sudden and unexpected way?
Verek began again, his hand relaxing and his voice less edgy.
“As I have the power—which you have seen—to call forth a light that is clear and steady as daylight, but which burns flameless and cool, you’ll agree that I should give you such a light to read by? If you had objections, surely you would have voiced them on the night you first saw the orb, when it lit the stairs by which I led you from the chamber of wysards.”
Carin couldn’t fault Verek’s reasoning. The light he’d summoned to his fingertips had been of small concern on that strange night. Then, Carin had made no protest. But this was another day, and her concerns had multiplied.
“Please explain it to me, sir,” she answered him cautiously. “What is that light? What’s it made of? Does it have a name?”
“I cannot tell you its true name,” Verek said, “nor explain to you its substance. I won’t repeat the false name given to it by the ignorant and the superstitious, for their words would merely deepen your suspicions. I will tell you only this: The light, like the glow of the walls in your bathing chamber, is as old as the world and as natural. It belongs here as surely as do antelope on the plains and trees in the forest.”
And that’s how he’ll answer all your questions, Carin warned herself. He’ll talk and say little, he’ll draw pictures that show nothing, and when everything’s said and done he’ll leave you just as confused as you are now. But she pressed on, wondering if rainy afternoons always put him in a mood of such rare patience.
“Sir, you mentioned the chamber of wizards. I believe the message you sent me last night must have something to do with that cave.” Carin pointed down, toward the cavern far under the library. “I didn’t understand all of it. You said the ‘waters are still.’ Does that mean the, uh, powers down there have, um, forgiven me for opening the door?”
Verek flexed his knee, returning the propped foot to the floor.
“You give my words more weight than they’ll support,” he said, his frown deepening. “I spoke not for the forces that flow in that place, but for myself alone. And that I spoke at all, to send Myra to you with that ill-considered message, I regret. The words sprang from a troubled mind.”
The warlock looked at her sharply, the force of his gaze pinning Carin to her bench. “If I had any hope that you’d obey me, I would command you to dismiss the remark from your thoughts. But that, you will not do, as I well know. Without some explanation from me, you will build from those few words such intrigues and mysteries as might confound the greatest mind to be met in any book on these shelves.” Verek gestured at the vast collection that surrounded them.
Then he sighed, a sound that was both nettled and tolerant. “So that we may proceed with the business at hand—which is, as I recall it, the reading of the looking-glass book—I’ll give you an explanation. I will tell you what was in my heart when I spoke to Myra of still waters and phantasms. You were meant to understand that my private affairs would not again be put on display. Despite what you may feel, hear, see, think, or sense in the small hours of the night, you must imagine the waters of the well as always still, always at rest. What I do in that chamber—alone—or what I see in that chamber—alone—does not concern you. If ever I require your presence in the vault, I will summon you by means more tangible than any vague feelings of disquiet. That is the gist and pith of my message: In the waters of the wysards there is nothing to interest you, until such time as I may tell you otherwise, and until such time as I may summon you, by means you will find unmistakable.”
Carin swallowed. The undertone in Verek’s cool voice made her reluctant to continue this line of questioning.
The warlock, however, needed no prodding to take up the third part of his message. “As for the final words I bade Myra speak to you—‘It needs but a thought to break the spell of stone’—the meaning is easier shown than said.”
Lazily lifting fingers that had rested on his leg, Verek pointed across the table between them to Carin’s empty left hand. It lay idly on the bench at her side, while her right hand cradled the puzzle-book in her lap.
At once, her idle hand became a stony lump, cold and dead. She could neither move nor lift it.
“No! Stop!” Carin’s protest climbed the scale to at least an octave above her natural voice.
Verek’s customary impatience returned in
a rush.
“Quiet!” he barked. “No harm will come to you. The spell of stone is the first learned by any novice magician. It is a spell as easily broken as cast. It needs but thought, I say.”
He leaned forward, lacing his fingers around his knee. “Think of your hand as an egg—softness inside a hard, brittle shell. Or imagine it dipped in thin, wet clay, which has now dried and hardened to a brittle overcoat. However you achieve it, you must form in your mind the clear image of your hand—warm and sound, throbbing with life—encased in a shell. The moment you have that picture firmly in your thoughts, imagine a hammer tap-tap-tapping the shell, shattering it to bits. Once the crust is broken, your hand will be free, the spell also broken.”
Closing her eyes against the warlock’s unsettling gaze, Carin composed her mind and built the image Verek described. She could easily picture her hand in a shell of clay: it harked back to a favorite memory. On those rare times in her earliest days when the wheelwright’s household hadn’t needed her, she would slip away to the millpond to make mud pies on its banks. Vividly Carin recalled the sensation of mud drying and cracking on her hands. She had even spread them with varying thicknesses of wet mud to see which flaked off most readily when dry. Too thin a coat, and the mud would only turn to powder when she flexed her hands. Too thick and it wouldn’t crack at all, leaving a hard cast to wash off in the pond. But somewhere between those extremes lay perfection. When the mud dried, a gentle flexing of her hands would craze the coating with many cracks, flaking off chips as thin and brittle as eggshell.
Carin pictured her bespelled hand encased in that perfect coating of brittle mud. Though she couldn’t flex the inert lump at the end of her arm, she could imagine, as Verek had said, a small hammer gently tapping it all over, breaking the dried mud into chips. In her imagination, the chips fell away. Her hand was free. Carin crooked her fingers and opened her eyes.
“Nimbly done,” the warlock said. He leaned back and drew up one leg to return that ankle to its resting spot on the opposite knee. “Remember that trick the next time you are rendered a statue. Although,” he added, “you may find stillness a better course than action, in some predicaments.”
WATERSPELL Book 1: The Warlock Page 20