Unless he had no choice.
And I dared not try to complete it, not without knowing exactly what he had done, else I would loose what he had sought to bind.
But to leave it half-bound—that was dangerous, too. If this thing should break the half-bonds, and absorb them into itself, it would be powerful enough to pass the boundary of the circle so many had cast.
I left that place more awake than I had been since I came to my village, and returned, sobered and not a little frightened, to the home I had come to call my own. I sat, my thoughts chasing themselves around in circles, until the last light died and I lit a candle, placing it on the table in the sitting room. As I did so, I danced at the night-darkened glass of the window, looking not at the landscape beyond, but at the reflection.
And it was only then, only when I saw the shadow standing behind me in that reflection and recognized him for my dream lover, that I truly woke to what bad been happening to me in my own home.
How, why, I did not know, but I knew this—the shadow that courted me, the lover of my dreams, and the wizard Keighvin were one and the same. He was still earthbound—tied to me, feeding on me. A benign, harmless relationship—now. But unless I acted, and acted quickly, I could easily find myself being drained by the ghostly lovemaking. With every dream-tryst, he was growing stronger, and had been for some time. For the moment the relationship was harmless—but there was no guarantee that it would remain so. I stood in mortal danger of becoming exhausted, until I became another such wraith. Lake Keighvin, unliving, yet undying.
I dropped the candlestick I was holding, and the chimney shattered at my feet.
Heedless of the shards of glass I trod upon, I ran for the stairs and the library. I knew I must act, and act quickly, while I still had the resolution to do so.
I remembered one book, a huge, hand-lettered tome, that held the spell I needed. I pulled it down from its place on the shelf, coughing a little from the dust that I disturbed, and set it on the table, flipping hurriedly through the pages to find the one spell I needed.
I found it three-quarters of the way through the book; not a spell of exorcism, but a different sort of spell. A spell to open the door between this world and the next so that an earthbound spirit would be drawn through it and into its proper sphere. It was a most dangerous spell, risking both body and soul of the caster. The danger to the body lay in that the caster must leave it to open the door, and that it would cause a deadly draining of physical energy. The danger to the soul lay in that the spell left it vulnerable and unshielded, and the temptation of that doorway would be very great.
Yet—I could not drive my gentle lover away by brutal exorcism; no, I could not be so cruel to him who had only been (thus far) kind. This was the only spell I could choose—
And then, in the draftless room, an unseen hand turned the page of the great book.
I thought it was the same spell at first. Then I saw that it differed by one single word, a few strokes of a pen. That first spell I knew, but this—this was another totally unknown. And its purpose was—
Was to let the mage-born, if they had died before their appointed time, take flesh and live again.
Both spells were equal in danger to body and soul. The second, in point of fact, placed a tolerable amount of danger on the spirit involved, for if he was judged and found wanting, it meant utter dissolution. Nowhere was it written that either spell was of Dark path, or Light; they were utterly neutral.
Both required they be cast this night of all nights; Hallowmas, the perilous, when Light magic and Dark are in equal balance, and either result is likely from any spell made—and most particularly when, as now, Hallowmas falls under a waning moon.
This is risking the anger of the gods, to take upon oneself the restoring of the dead—yet what and who am I to judge who is fit to live or die?
Since that day, one week ago, he has not come to me by night; does he judge that I would repudiate him {do I have the strength?) or is he letting me make my decision unsullied by his attentions?
What of the 'heart of darkness?' Did he try to bind it, and become corrupted by it? Why did he leave the task half done? Did it murder him, to keep him from destroying it? Is this why he begs life anew? Duty? To see the task through to its end?
Or—does he love me, as he seemed to? Is it me that calls to him? Never have I melded so with another's magics as I did with his—never has my soul or body responded so to another's touch.
Or does he seek to use me, corrupted by that foul thing that lay beneath the willow's roots? Will he use me, and then destroy me and set that evil free?
Could I trust his answer if I were to attempt to ask him why?
I have sought for an answer, and found none, but in heaven nor hell nor all the lore that wizard-land knows. No gods have made their will manifest to me, not even at this final hour, as my hands go through motions that I have rehearsed so often that I could perform them sleeping or near-dead.
I stand within my circles now; my preparations all are made. I can see him, a shadow among the shadows, standing just outside the boundaries I have made. I can almost make out his face. I cannot tell what expression he wears. The hour of midnight is drawing closer, and I have begun my chants. In a few more minutes, I will speak that single word—
And I cannot at this moment answer if it will be 'come' or 'go.'
Harvest of Souls
Doranna Durgin
'Kenlan died a year ago,' the woman told Dyanara. 'And things've gone from bad to worse.'
Dyanara looked into the stone-lined well; a sulfurous odor wafted up to sting her nose. She stepped back from the wooden housing of the well, her booted feet sinking into ground softened by spilled water. The local wizard
