A steamy wisp of smoke curled from the beaker cupped between Greyhorn's skeletal hands. The thick gray walls of the container hid the substance from Grantin's view, but judging from the stench which emanated from the flask the material was vile indeed. Grantin had been sprawled on a small stool, his legs widespread, elbows on knees and chin resting in his cupped palms, but now this latest of his uncle's concoctions brought him to a state of weary attention.
For the past three hours Greyhorn had subjected him to one horrid treatment after another. His hands had been soaked in solvent, encased in jelly, his finger poked, punctured, scratched, smeared, rubbed, chilled, and burned. Spells of amazing force had been hurled at him in Greyhorn's fevered attack upon the ring. But all to no avail. It still sat innocently upon his left hand and glittered and glowed in a most virginal appearance. In fact, it almost seemed to Grantin as though the bauble thrived upon the rigors to which it had been subjected.
Now it pulsed firmly in time with the beating of Grantin's heart. When he dared to look within the stone he thought he glimpsed shadowy images, fleeting visions of strange beings involved in disturbing acts. These phantoms became more substantial as Pyra slid from the sky. In that lazy time between twilight and full dark, scenes glowed with a life of their own and minute by minute became ever clearer and more frightening.
After all he had been through that afternoon, Grantin was surprised to find that Greyhorn's latest potion was still able to raise in him a new knot of fear.
"No, uncle, not again," Grantin whined.
"None of your complaints, Grantin, I don't like this any more than you do. It's all your own fault anyway. I'm the one who should be upset. Haven't I spent half the day trying to save your stupid finger? Haven't I exhausted myself with spells and incantations? Haven't I emptied my larder of supplies of many coppers in value all in your behalf? You should get down on your knees and thank me for my kindness and generosity in going to all this extra trouble in your behalf, so stop your whining!"
"Yes, uncle, but at least could you tell me what this one is supposed to do?"
"It's supposed to get the ring off your finger, idiot!" Greyhorn replied as he advanced an ominous step or two closer to Grantin's seated form. "Here, Grantin, hold this under your nose and breathe deeply, then hold your breath while I pronounce the spell."
Trembling, Grantin accepted the cup, but the stench was so vile that he held it at arm's length.
"I said breathe deeply…"
"I know, uncle, but I could breathe deeply with greater peace of mind if I knew what this was supposed to do. Couldn't you just give me a little hint?"
"All right, if you're going to be a baby about it. This is a unique substance of my own devising, a combination of the sorrel stasis incantation and a soup of boiled mummy plant."
"Mummy plant! Isn't that the one they use to shrink corpses so that your loved ones can be carried in your pocket?"
"Full strength, yes, it is sometimes used for that purpose, but this is a much milder batch. A lungful of my compound will only reduce you to about four feet in height, three at the most. While you're shrinking I will pronounce a spell which will keep the ring the same size. Naturally, the finger of someone three or four feet tall is much smaller than that of someone six feet in height, and so if the ring remains the same size we should be able to remove it easily."
"Well, uncle, don't get me wrong. I'm not complaining, and of course I have complete faith in your abilities, but will you be able to expand me again once you've removed it?"
Greyhorn hesitated a moment before answering, then turned a somewhat distracted gaze to the ceiling. At last he replied in a roundabout fashion.
"Well, I suppose something or other could be done if you want to be picky about it. I'm sure that I can bring you back to more or less your previous size."
Grantin sucked in his breath, then, tasting the harsh fumes of the mummy plant, tried to halt his breathing, choked, and coughed. The spasm jerked Grantin's arms. The beaker slipped from his hands and crashed to the workroom's stone floor. As the liquid contacted the granite blocks it foamed and exuded a sudden cloud of dense white smoke. In an instant an acrid fog enveloped the room. Hacking and coughing, both half an inch shorter, Grantin and Greyhorn fled the laboratory.
Wheezing, the men staggered down the hall, finally coming to rest at the massive oval window at the end of the corridor. There they sucked in great drafts of cool air until, at last, the spasms subsided.
"Cursed… why am I cursed with the likes of you?" Greyhorn wheezed. "Now, with victory almost within my grasp, you bungle everything."
As inconspicuously as possible Grantin attempted to retreat from the window and slink back down the hallway toward his room.
"Where do you think you're going? Come back here- come back here with my ring!"
"Uncle, you're tired and upset. You should rest. I'll go and fix us some dinner, then you should take a nap. When morning comes you'll be fresh and able to think more clearly. Perhaps there is a solution that we haven't considered."
Still weakened from the potion's noxious fumes, Greyhorn hesitated a moment, then leaned wearily back against the wall and nodded his assent. The wizard trudged down the front stairs and into his study while Grantin made his way to the rear first-floor kitchen and prepared a light meal.
After dinner he cajoled Greyhorn into reclining on the parlor couch, whereupon the wizard fell into a deep sleep. Now Grantin had only a few hours to make his plans and, if necessary, flee. First he must scour the library for some reference, some hint to the nature of this strange ring. Possibly in some dusty volume was recounted a spell which could free him from its weight.
Grantin first checked the common references: A Thousand and One Spells for All Occasions; Hancough's Compendium of Useful Chants; The Wizard's Guide to Advanced Magic-all to no avail.
Hours later, Grantin turned the last page in Puffin's Quaint Spells I Have Known and Used without finding so much as a single useful passage.
Beyond the library windows night surrounded the manor in purple black. Grantin's single lamp glowed feebly, and as the charge slowly ebbed away it flickered with an almost hypnotic rhythm. Overcome by the day's events, Grantin slumped forward, head on his hands, the bloodstone pressing hard against the center of his forehead. Reluctantly he surrendered to Morpheus's blandishments, all the while promising himself that he would only rest for an hour or two and then awaken refreshed to finish his search or, if necessary, flee into the woods.