Ithanalin's Restoration. Lawrence Watt-Evans

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      Kilisha blinked.

      “Oh,” she said.

      SHALL I CONTINUE?

      “Yes, please!”

      The mirror continued, explaining that the phrase had served as a trigger for the incomplete spell, but as almost always happened when a spell was improperly performed, the results were not those intended. Usually, as Kilisha knew from her own failed attempts at any number of spells, an error simply drained the magic away and made the whole thing a lot of meaningless gestures; sometimes, though, it produced an entirely new spell—sometimes trivial, sometimes not. It was rumored that just such an accidental spell had created spriggans in the first place, a few years before.

      In this case, the botched spell had had a very definite effect—it had absorbed Ithanalin’s own life-force and distributed it throughout the room, settling it into the furnishings.

      That had left the wizard himself inanimate, of course—his energies and the various aspects of his personality had been drained away and scattered about, leaving an empty shell.

      “Oh, gods!” Kilisha said, hand to her mouth. She looked about at the empty room.

      I SEE YOU UNDERSTAND, the mirror said.

      It went on to explain that all the furniture had been animated, receiving different parts of Ithanalin’s life-force. Because almost the entirety of Ithanalin’s memory had been deposited in the mirror, however, the other pieces seemed unaware of who or what they were.

      The latch of the front door had been animated, as well, and had opened itself, allowing the tax collector to enter. He had then found himself confronted by animated furniture and an inanimate wizard, and had let out a yell, whereupon there had been a general panic, and the various furnishings, after bumping around the room a little, had fled—as had the tax collector, apparently; the mirror had not had a clear view, but at any rate the soldier had not stayed.

      The couch and endtable, the bench, the coat-rack, and the old chair had all had legs, legs they could now move; they had been able to walk, run, or scamper out the door. The rag rug had humped itself along like an inchworm and vanished into the street. And although the mirror hadn’t seen just how they propelled themselves, it was fairly sure that the implements Ithanalin had carried had come to life, as well.

      The dish had run away with the spoon.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      Since he had been interrupted in the middle of a spell, Ithanalin’s book of magic was lying open on the workbench when Kilisha found it; that voided most of the protective spells that would ordinarily prevent anyone other than Ithanalin himself from using it, and of the other wards Kilisha was exempted from some, and the mirror was able to tell her how to counteract the last few.

      With a glance at the mysterious oil lamp and tripod, Kilisha picked up the book and carried it into the front room. There she paged through it, reading anything that looked even vaguely relevant and holding it up for the mirror to read when she had any questions.

      She had already gone through her own book of spells, which contained the instructions for the fifty-three assorted spells she had learned to date, before touching Ithanalin’s. None of those fifty-three were of any obvious use in restoring her master to normal, so she had resorted to Ithanalin’s own book, which held, by her hasty count, one hundred and twelve.

      Even distraught as she was over the accident, Kilisha was somewhat annoyed by the discovery of just how many of her master’s spells she had not yet learned; she had hoped and expected to complete her apprenticeship within the coming year and become a journeyman at the age of eighteen, but she doubted she could learn another fifty-nine spells properly in that time when it had taken her five years to get this far. She had known there were all the various animation spells, but glancing through it was plain that there were a good many others, as well.

      She was sure she could have learned faster if Ithanalin had taken the trouble to teach her. She wondered whether his one previous apprentice, Istram—now a journeyman and well on the way to becoming a master himself—had learned all these, or whether he had gone out into the World only partially educated. Perhaps some of these spells were deemed unfit for mere apprentices or journeymen, and Kilisha would have to wait years to learn them.

      Right now, though, Kilisha needed to find a spell to undo the botched animation, and once she found it she would probably need to teach it to herself from the book, so she certainly hoped she would be able to handle it, even if she was just an apprentice.

      She hoped she would be able to read the instructions properly, that Ithanalin hadn’t used any secret codes in writing up his book. She had never before been permitted to work directly from Ithanalin’s written instruction; spells were taught orally, and by demonstration, never in writing, so that the master could watch the apprentice every step of the way. And the apprentice was required to write down the spell in her own words, rather than copying the master’s, to make sure that she would always be able to understand it.

      The spell that had gone wrong, the mirror told her, was the Servile Animation, a sixth-order spell requiring, among other things, dragon’s blood, seeds of an opium poppy, virgin’s tears—Kilisha had provided those tears herself, she realized, unsure whether to be offended that Ithanalin had correctly assumed she was qualified for the purpose, and had not bothered to ask her whether she was still a suitable donor—and red hair from a woman married more than a year.

      Yara’s hair was dark brown; Kilisha wondered where Ithanalin had found a red-haired woman.

      It didn’t really look all that difficult when she read the instructions, but the mirror assured her that it was far harder than it appeared.

      The spell had no specified counter, and was not inherently reversible. Kilisha sighed. She went paging onward through the book.

      “Here,” she said at last, holding the volume up to the mirror. “Will this work?”

      She had found a spell called Javan’s Restorative; according to the description Ithanalin had written, this spell would restore a person or thing to a “natural healthy State, regardless of previous Enchauntments, Breakage, or Damage.” It wasn’t one she had ever attempted, nor one she would have had any business attempting unaided for some time yet under ordinary circumstances, but she was fairly sure she had seen Ithanalin use it once, and she was willing to give it a try.

      If she couldn’t make it work, perhaps she could find a more experienced wizard who could handle it—if it was the right spell.

      “Will it work?” she repeated.

      IT SHOULD, read the reply.

      “Good,” Kilisha said. She lowered the book and looked at the ingredients the spell called for.

      Two peacock plumes, one of them pure white—that was easy; Ithanalin kept a vase of them in the corner of his workshop, a vase Yara occasionally put out on display in the parlor, but which Ithanalin always took back as soon as he noticed its absence.

      Boiling water was easy, too.

      Jewelweed… Kilisha had never heard of jewelweed, but she assumed she could get it from any good herbalist. She would check on that.

      A quarter-pound block of a special incense, prepared in fog or sea mist—Kilisha hurried to the drawers in the workshop.

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