A Tower of Arkrondurl by Tanith Lee

Author:Tanith Lee [Abercrombie, Joe]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: NewCon Press
Published: 2013-11-05T00:00:00+00:00

8

Making the spell was, once the technique had been gained, comparatively straightforward, even rapid. And by now Cyveth was well-versed; he had performed it several times before. (The construction of the mortal receptacle – the miniaturized male figure – took far longer and was an act of many scenes, every version involving thirty-three days and nights. As with the ordinary miracle of conception, the creature must be securely planted and next grown, but this inside an alchemic crystalline womb, the nature of which was so bizarre it had, on each venture, startled Cyveth afresh.) But now – the spell was activated –

The quickness with which the figure expanded was epic. Within three minutes it had grown to the size of a twelve-year-old child. In three more it had achieved the fully-proportioned height and girth of a statuesque male deity. From its head the thick river of hair poured out. Within its open eyes moisture glittered; its lips parted to reveal the white and polished teeth of a healthy man some twenty years of age. By the ninth minute all was complete. If perfection had been merely obvious before, now it was overwhelming.

A god would not be shamed to put on such a physical garment.

Cyveth did not glance towards the Sorcerer. Cyveth, by now, had slight doubt as to Arkrondurl’s reaction.

But when Arkrondurl spoke, the greedy lust anyway dripped from his voice.

“Yes,” he said. “I will inhabit that. Never fear, I shall reward you. Now get on – make haste. Rehouse me.”

Cyveth gave a cry of acquiescence.

He rushed to obey.

And as he drew, in palest light, the necessary arcane symbols on the ground, the walls, the air, and sprinkled there from pouches needful tinctures, smokes, sands, Cyveth held his own racing brain in check. The only danger in these final moments was that he might after all, though never before had he done so during the past teem of years, make some mistake. Less from carelessness than over-familiarity...

Far off in his mind as he worked, he glimpsed the sections of Arkrondurl’s prologue. The heroes with swords who had come to slay the Sorcerer while he lived, some successful, most not. And the exorcists who had, all of them, failed. And the countless innocents and undeservers who had perished. And time itself. And eventually a hero who was not any such thing and his deed that, for the major part, could not earn him fame or lasting glory, being too unglamorous, and too subject to repetition. Or, seen another way, potentially too doomed, too unconclusive. For this ‘hero’ (Cyveth), was as yet young, and strong. But later... later... What then?

In the seventieth minute of his being with Arkrondurl, Cyveth grew still.

“Great Lord, all is prepared. There are three seconds of passage. In the first you will vanish. In the next you will enter he that waits to assist your avatar. In the third you will be within his envelope of flesh, anchored as any living man in his mortal frame. You will be him, and he – will be yourself.

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