Ach, useless. Nothing in here told me anything about a wizard's ghost or a nameless Other, nothing showed me a way to free him or them or whatever.
Hurry, the whisper told me, hurry.
"If you're in such a hurry," I snapped, "help me!"
There was only one book left, a heavy, bulky thing. I wrested it down from its place and set it on the table, hearing the stiff parchment pages crinkle as I turned them. Nothing special in here, either... ordinary spells, none I didn't already know.
The pages stirred. I sat back, knowing this was never the wind's work, and watched them turn slowly, one by one, then stop.
"Let's see what we have here." I read, and felt a pang of pity stab through me. "Is this what you want? A spell to set a spirit free—do you wish to truly die?"
Something touched my hand with the faintest chill, as though too weary to do more. Taking the hint, I turned the page and read the next spell. I blinked, stopped, read it again. And again. No matter; the words and their meaning were clear.
"Can this be what you want?" I looked up uneasily, though of course there was nothing to be seen. "These are two very similar spells. One word changed in each, only one—but with that single change comes a whole world of difference."
Dangerous stuff, too: the first spell brought true death to any ghost born of magic, but the second, barely altered spell let the ghostly magic-born live anew in a newly formed body. I heard the soft, soft whisper:
One spell, one little spell and then I live again.
But I could have sworn a second whisper echoed mockingly, There can be only one choosing, only one body.
So there could, from what I saw in these pages. "'It's not an easy thing you're asking of me, ghost or ghosts or whatever you are. You must be aware of that if you're really of wizard-kind." Curse it, I was starting to babble. Taking a deep breath, I continued, "This spell, the other... both look as though they'll take the same amount of will and strength—the same amount of risk, for that matter. And," I added, glancing down at the spells again, "they can only be cast on Lammas Night, that time of primal power. You really aren't asking an easy thing of me."
Please, the whisper pleaded. Please.
I got to my feet, wrapping my arms about me. No way to avoid this, thanks to the rose that had shed my blood and created that link. But what a terrifying choice! To slay someone (I would not think of all the others I had slain; that had been warfare and no choice about it). To let someone live anew—ha, and I didn't even know for sure who that "someone" was, or even if there was only one! Besides, restoring a ghost to life... well, what right had I to go tampering in the affairs of gods?
If deities had anything at all to do with this. Maybe if I acted, I'd be righting a wrong, or rather, correcting nearly fatal stupidity?
Damn all wizardly nosiness. I knew the spells were perilous, I knew that dealing with the unknown was more so—and yet I couldn't fight the surge of curiosity, the one that forces every wizard to wonder what if? and never think of consequences.
Right. This carelessness had doomed Tiern.
And I might be able to save him.
"Lammas Night," I murmured, knowing that, no matter how foolish it might be, my decision was already made. "Lammas Night." And then, because I didn't want to sound too eager, "We shall see."
I wasn't a total idiot. I wasn't going to cast the spell in the middle of Woodedge. If anyone got hurt, it wasn't going to be some innocent villager.
Besides, almost all spells involving the dead or the Otherworldly are best worked at a crossroads.
So there I stood in the middle of Lammas Night, the moon casting its cold light over everything, my wizardly robe flapping about me, my loose hair tangling in the wind. Two spells lurked in my mind—and just then even I had no idea which I would cast. Life or death, death or life....
Please, whispered the soft voice, and I sighed, once more wishing curiosity to the Pit. I couldn't banish an entity without first knowing what I banished! I had to see who—or what—had been hovering over me these many days. That meant, of course, that there was only one possible spell I could cast: the one that brought the ghost or ghosts back to tangible life.
Wonderful. And not a clue as to what might actually take shape. Being human (as even wizards are), I couldn't keep a flood of horrific "what ifs?" from my mind. But, being wizard as well, I managed to force away such distractions. Grimly I began the chosen spell. If the entity turned out to be something better left dead, I was going to cast the fiercest war-magic in my repertory and not worry about nightmares.
The spell was a musical progression to be sung (thank the Powers I could carry a tune!) over and over again, each time with the emphasis on a different note. As I chanted the monotonous phrase, I felt the familiar tingle run up my spine, the first hint that magic was building properly. The spell gathered itself almost frighteningly fast after that, trying to pull itself free of my control. The wind, with a fine sense of drama, rose to a scream, nearly staggering me; the air was sharp with unspent Power. This was where Tiern had fallen, this moment when the magic was screaming, that it would be—no, no, it must be released, and I screamed with it, shouting out what could no longer even remotely be called a song. The wind shrilled, clouds raced across the moon, and in the wildness and the uncertain light I saw swirls of mist and in that mist not one but two figures, alike—or so I guessed in the dimness—as brothers of one birth. But the sight was unstable, the spell was unstable, and I must choose only one or both would be lost and myself with them. Yet choose which? All I could do was shout out a frantic, inane: