The Wizardwar - Elaine Cunningham [58]
He thanked her and made his way over to the small room. Unlike the main chamber, this area was an untidy jumble. Tiny, carved figures tumbled about in various stages of completion. Piles of miniature limbs and weapons waited to be attached to tiny bodies. Fully assembled figures had been daubed with paint, but the detailed work that made them look like living things had yet to be completed.
All the figures would eventually be enspelled into the almost-living toys Procopio Septus favored so highly.
A long table was heaped high with old books and shards of pottery. Basel reached tentatively into the pile. His hand brushed something furry, and he instinctively pulled back.
An enormous tarantula, its body nearly as large as a rat's, darted out at him, hissing like an angry cat.
Basel's battlefield nerve deserted him in the face of this unexpected foe.
Letting out a startled shout, he seized a heavy tome and lofted it high over the attacking arachnid. He kept yelling as he brought the book down, hoping to drown out the sound of impact. His efforts were only partially successful.
"Mind the spiders," the gnome called cheerfully. "For some reason they tend to gather in that corner."
Basel regarded the splattered creature with disgust, then turned his gaze to his chosen weapon. Greenish ooze dripped from a cover embossed with slanted, spindly runes, which proclaimed the book to be a history of the southland's dark elves. He scraped the book clean with the packet of bat guano and settled down to read.
Hours passed, and Basel pored through one book after another. He pieced together scroll fragments and shards of spell-vessels of a sort not used for hundreds of years.
Finally he stood and stretched, thinking fondly of a fortnight by the sea and perhaps a pilgrimage to a holy Mystran shrine. He would need something of this nature to cleanse himself of the creeping, soul-deadening evil he'd immersed himself in.
"Like crawling through a midden," he muttered, glaring at Crinti lore. "If water seeks its own level, small wonder that Procopio is so taken with such things!"
The gnome peeked around the doorjamb. "I'm for the tavern. Found what you need?"
"Actually, no," he admitted. "I'm looking for an ancient spell, probably created by dark elves."
A bit of the cheeriness faded from the gnome's face. "Well, I suppose you have your reasons. There's a book or two in the root cellar that might serve.
Never had much use for them myself, and they seemed right at home down there."
Basel followed her to a miniature kitchen. She kicked aside a wooden door in the floor and disappeared down a ladder. The wizard accepted things she handed up to him-a pair of rutabagas for tomorrow's stew, some dried herbs, a small bag of coin, and finally a book bound with black wyvern hide, long ago faded to a dull, papery gray.
He thanked the gnome and began to turn the ancient vellum pagescarefully, for they were fragile. By the look of them, they had probably been written by some of the first wizards from ancient Netheril. Basel struggled with the archaic language and the even more ancient spells.
Finally he found one that quickened his heart and chilled his blood.
A dark-elven spell opened a small gate to the Unseelie realm, allowing one mortal to be substituted for another. It was possible for both to return, but only if the would-be rescuer possessed rare clarity of character and a heart that offered no foothold to the dark fairies' magic. The rescuer- or the sacrifice, depending upon the outcome-must wear a talisman containing, among other things, a lock of hair from an ancestor, preferably a wizard of great prowess.
Basel grimaced. While this requirement would not be difficult for most Halruaans, it presented a real challenge for a kinless jordain. Yet Basel could think of no one but Matteo to whom he would entrust this task.
He copied the complex spell, working as quickly as he dared. He paid the gnome woman for her