crackin grotto,' as Nomscul pronounced it, to resolve his most pressing concern: Basalt. His nephew must surely have re turned to Hillhome by how, and probably thought his uncle was a goner. From Nomscul, Flint had a rough idea of where the 'big crackingrotto' emerged from Mudhole into the
Kharolis range; probably about a stone's throw from the western tip of Stonehammer Lake. Flint personally selected two young harrns named Cainker and Garf, and gave them his best guess for directions to Hillhome, as well as a thor ough description of Basalt.
Flint stuffed a hastily scrawled note into the pocket of Cainker's vest. 'Bring this to my nephew,' he instructed as he sent them on their way. 'It will tell him I'm safe.' He had no real hope that they would succeed, but it was worth a try.
Thrilled at the prospect of some mossweed, Perian had al lowed herself to be swept away by some frawls, who wanted to gussy her up for the festivities. Thus, Flint, his first kingly duties attended to, and left alone, finally fell to undisturbed sleep.
Beads of perspiration joined the streaks that flowed down
Pitrick's temples, pooling above his lips. His thick tongue licked the sweat away unconsciously, since he was intent on the heavy, leather-bound tome beneath his eyes. The savant was seated behind the burnished granite desk that rose out of the floor in his cozy study to the right and three steps above the main chamber. To his left and flank were floor-to ceiling shelves filled with heavy, bound books, faded scroll cases, a beaker of teeth, patches of fur, a harpy skull, an ivory ogre tusk, quill pens and ink bottles, ground toenails, a flask containing the breath of seven babies, and other as sorted dried ingredients. The shelves to his right were re served for bottles filled with raw components of every imaginable color, odor, and viscosity, including frog glands in phosphorescent swamp water, golden griffon blood, red hot lava, the sweat glands of a bugbear, mercury, giant slug spittle, and rendered virgin rattlesnake.
Pitrick scanned the last page of the spellbook, the soft, fleshy tip of his index finger tracing the words. Frowning, he slapped the book shut on its front and looked up to stare into the flames in the hearth.
He would have to use his wish scroll. The spells to ani mate the dead, resurrect a corpse, or clone someone all re quired the dead body, or at least part of it. The savant also considered forcing Perian to reincarnate, but there was no way to control or predict the subject's new form, and Pitrick had no use for Perian as an insect. Besides, it, too, required the body.
A half-day's research had led the derro to choose one of the most simple spells there were. No bulky, disgusting, or hard-to-find components, no long incantations to memo rize, no pyrotechnics to awe observers. Wishes seldom failed to be incarnated — something always happened — though casters often did not get what they thought they'd asked for. That was because the exact meaning of their words was always carried out, and they had not paused to consider the precision of their language.
A wish also carried a heavy price: it instantly aged the caster five years, whether he chose to summon a bowl of gruel or a copper-haired frawl back from non-existence. But that was a small price to pay for someone with a dwarf's long life expectancy.
The savant turned to his shelves and sorted through the piles of scrolls until he found the one he wanted: a fragile roll of parchment edged with faded red ink. It was the great est treasure he had discovered among his mentor's belong ings after he had poisoned the old wizard many years before. Pitrick had been saving it for a special occasion, and his fingers hesitated before he tugged the ends of the satin ribbon that held it closed. He had to carefully phrase his wish before he opened the scroll and unleashed its power.
Slipping it under his arm, he paced around the narrow space surrounding his desk to position himself in front of the hearth, the pain of his foot momentarily forgotten.
'What exactly do I want?' he said aloud. 'I want her alive, my prisoner, and as beautiful as she was before she was devoured by the beast.' He stopped, and his eyebrows raised with a fanciful notion. 'I could bring her back sub missive, or even adoring of me!' He shook his head. 'No, that would not be Perian, and I would not have the chal lenge of taming her, nor enjoy her hatred of my power over her. And that is everything!'
Pitrick stepped around a support pillar and over the dead body of his former servant to pick up the mug filled with mushale. He took a only a sip to rinse his mouth, then spat the distilled brew into the fire. Tongues of flame shot up, nearly licking the ceiling vent, sending more shadows danc ing in the smooth chamber. Now the formidable derro sa vant was ready.
Taking the scroll from under his arm, he untied the strings and gently unfurled the parchment. This was a momentous occasion, and Pitrick stood as straight as his hunched back would allow. Holding the scroll open before him, he closed his eyes and mouthed the phrase he had practiced in his mind.
'I wish Perian Cyprium to be raised from the dead, re stored to her former beauty, here before me, powerless to leave my apartments, and unable to kill herself or me. That is my wish.' Pitrick opened his eyes.
A howling wind arose from nowhere and swept through the flawlessly polished rooms, dashing papers from the desk, dousing flames, sucking the parchment from his hands. Pitrick clung to a nearby support column and waited for the spell's effects to subside.
Slowly, very slowly, the wail of the wind dropped to a gentle breeze. And then the air became as still and as cold as death. Then, nothing.
The savant did not need to look for Perian in the other rooms of his apartment. He could sense — knew with chill ing certainty — that Perian was not there. He stood rooted to the spot, his fists clenched, fingernails slicing the flesh of his palms.
Somehow Pitrick knew that he was indeed five years older.
But for some strange reason that he could not fathom, the spell had failed.
Chapter 13
'Gimme another one,' Basalt mumbled, sliding his empty mug toward Moldoon. The young dwarf smacked his lips and reflected that the ale didn't taste as sweet as it once had. But no matter.
The human reluctantly filled the heavy tankard, but cast a sad, pained looked at Basalt as the dwarf raised it to his lips and chugged noisily, ignoring the foam splashing onto his beard. Basalt set the mug down heavily, disappointed that somehow the draught did not bring him more pleasure.
'Take it easy with that,' cautioned Moldoon.
The man's normally genial tone carried an undertone of genuine rebuke when he spoke to Basalt these days. Mol doon grew more and more concerned by the behavior of the young hill dwarf. Moody and irresponsible after his father's death, the youth had grown sullen beyond compare in the weeks since his Uncle Flint had left town.
Since his return from the Theiwar tunnel, Basalt had spent all his time drowning himself in self-pity. A new ha tred of the mountain dwarves for the murder of his father and uncle, combined with a hopeless feeling of inadequacy, had left him feeling trapped. He did not feel he could trust anyone and he knew that no one would believe him, with his cockeyed story of Flint's disappearance and Aylmar's murder. He was, and always would be, an abject drunk.
'Say,' ventured the innkeeper, as Basalt started on the last half of his mug. 'Hildy's got to make her deliveries this eve ning. I happen to know she could use some help…'
'Hah! She'd have nuthin' to do with me!' The scorn in Ba salt's voice, Moldoon sensed, was directed inward, at the dwarf himself.
'Well, she sure won't if you keep treating her as badly as you do yourself! And neither will I!' snapped Moldoon. He turned to take the orders of other customers while Basalt watched the foam melt along the inside of his mug.
Finally he got up and shuffled to the door, stepping out side to look at the long, brown strip of the Passroad. Snow, colored red and purple by the fading twilight, covered the surrounding hills in a pristine blanket that contrasted sharply with the muddy blotch of Hillhome.
