Josh and the Magic Vial (11 page)

“And I can't tell my parents about it.”

“Why not?” she bridled.

He patted his pocket. “Because I've asked, and it said ‘no', that's why.”

Josh sensed her anguish, even though she tried to hide it. Millie's instinct was to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. She had never in her entire life told a lie, as far as Josh knew, or even concealed a truth from her mother. The thought of doing so must have weighed heavily, as if she had sunk to the bottom of an unfathomed ocean, where the pressure of her own guilt crushed her.

“Thanks Mil,” he said quietly.

But Millie was in no mood to be thanked.

“You know what night it is tonight, don't you?” he asked.

She frowned, puzzled by the question.

“It's the night of the full moon.”

From anger, her expression dissolved into concern. “I don't believe any of this stuff Josh,” she said. “Nothing's going to happen.”

Josh wished he could believe that — wished he hadn't heard the quaver of doubt in his best friend's voice.

18

E
ndorathlil sat perfectly still, eyes closed, hands folded in her lap. She breathed slowly, clearing her mind, relaxing her body. For the spell to work she had to slip into a trance — the eye of the storm, it was called in
The Book of
Syde
. . .

“Damn!” she muttered.

Thoughts of Ian Lytle haunted her. Badly as they'd beaten him, he hadn't broken. Not even when she'd threatened his sister. He had agreed to do her bidding, but Endorathlil knew a dangerous enemy when she saw one, and
he
was a dangerous enemy. Conky McDougal was a puffed-up toad next to the quiet strength of an Ian Lytle.

And here she was preparing to send Adele Lytle's soul into Syde. If he'd known that, he would have killed her or died trying. Endorathlil didn't have any doubt of it. Once he found out what she'd done, he would be very dangerous indeed.

If she'd had her wits about her, she could have sent him to Vortigen along with his brat of a sister. Plenty of blood, hair, and nail clippings could have been collected when Conky's thugs had him pinned to the floor. But the opportunity had slipped by, and now their enmity was an open wound.

“Idiot!” she cursed herself. It had been a serious mistake.

Adele would have to go though, regardless of the risk. For one thing, Endorathlil could not brook Ian's rebelliousness and wanted revenge; for another, she needed to practice the Spell of Transmigration; finally, she wanted to get Vortigen's attention with a sort of “appetizer” sacrifice.

In all the years she had been in possession of
The Book
, she had never once uttered the Spell of Transmigration in earnest. She had read the passage many times, and practiced the chant until she knew it by heart. But her Grandfather Sirus had been the last person to actually use the spell successfully, and he had used it often. Josh Dempster would not be Endorathlil's first offering. That honour would go to the girl.

Still, she hesitated. Sending a soul from one world to another was serious business — murder, truth be known — and even now she quailed. If she hadn't spotted the Dempster child, and recognized who he might be, she never would have considered using the spell.

But to think that she, Endorathlil, might be the one to achieve everlasting fame by finding Vortigen's heir!
That
temptation overwhelmed the last vestige of goodness in her. Sirus Blackstone would have mocked her cruelly for not using
The Book's
powers. “Vortigen is grateful for any offerings,” he would have taunted. “Those who are not princes will be subjects, and those who are not subjects will be slaves. He has a use for everyone you send his way.”

“Hush!” Endorathlil tried to still her wayward thoughts. “I must concentrate.”

She closed her eyes against the light. More than that, though, she sponged even the memory of light from her mind. “People do not understand the nature of darkness,” she thought. “Darkness doesn't scurry into cracks and holes when a light is switched on.” To her, all the brightness in the universe amounted to nothing more than the twinkling of distant stars in the vast abyss of space. A lover of darkness — like all witches and warlocks — she appreciated even the texture and taste of darkness. Most of all, though, she could see through the illusion of light to its inner shadow.

The Spell of Transmigration works best on the night of a full
moon,
The Book said.
If the sorcerer is to have any chance at all
of pleasing Lord Vortigen, his offering must be made under the
full moon's influence, and the sorcerer must be in tune with that
influence. The accepted offering is blood, hair, and nail clippings
obtained from the candidate. These must be burned in a sanctified
bowl, while the sorcerer chants the Spell of Transmigration. The
scent will be sweet to Vortigen if the rite is performed proficiently.
Beware, however, for the offering will be offensive to him if the
rite is clumsily executed, or if the offering is unworthy.

Remembering all this, Endorathlil calmed herself. She sat perfectly still — so still that anyone observing her would have mistaken her for a bundle of old clothes. The light from her candles wavered through the parchment of her eyelids, but she saw through this into the utter dark. Her breathing slowed. Then slowed some more, until it almost stopped. Then the calm she had sought descended upon her — a terrible calm, which you might expect to find at the very centre of the universe.

She was ready.

Endorathlil lifted the brass bowl from the carpet before her. She mixed a little powder in with the bowl's contents, an agent that would burn fiercely, consuming the blood and hair of the girl, turning them to smoke and ashes. Then she lit a taper and lowered it into the bowl. The offering flared, sending wraiths of smoke curling into the air.

Endorathlil's eyes gleamed. She breathed in some of the smoke herself, as
The Book
recommended.

“Vortigen,” she began. “I send you these tokens of the child Adele Lytle, the essence of blood and hair. She is yours now, Lord of Syde. The scent of her is in the air and she cannot escape. This I offer freely, in obedience and devotion, dread Lord. This I offer as a humble servant, expecting a humble servant's reward.”

Down the hall from Conky's apartment an old cocker spaniel twitched and whined in its sleep. The dog's master stroked his beloved pet gently. “That's okay, boy,” he crooned. The dog awoke for just a second, gave its master a bewildered look, then curled up and went back to sleep.

Vortigen sat at the head of a very long table heaped with delicacies. The Plain of Tilth had produced an abundance, as always: oranges, apples, bananas, pears, ham, beef, every conceivable variety of cheese, wine, beer. His lieutenants dug in to the feast with relish, the hubbub of their cheering, carving and shouting filling the hall — a pleasing pandemonium. Vortigen liked to see his soldiers enjoying themselves. They were a brave company, ready for anything — quick to do his bidding.

He smiled benignly so they could see he was happy.

Then he remembered the empty chair beside his, and his smile withered into a scowl. The seat of his heir was yet empty, as it had been from the very beginning. During all the centuries he had scooped out the caverns of Syde, built its palace and walls, its town and its farms — during all the ages he had gathered in its populace — that chair had remained unoccupied. No one had found him an heir.

Perhaps the human tribe was incapable of producing one. What then? Vortigen frowned at his own stupidity. The Ancient Law decreed an heir would share the double throne one day, and that Vortigen's council would be complete. No one, not even the Lord of Syde could gainsay Ancient Law . . . He inhaled deeply. A full moon shone down on Outworld. Perhaps there would be an offering. Sacrifices had become less frequent these days. Sorcery was out of fashion, he supposed. People didn't have much time for magic when they were so busy watching television sets and computer screens.

Vortigen laughed.

Magic would come back in vogue. It always did. The smoke of offerings would waft through the hallways of the Emerald Palace in due course. All that was needed was some great catastrophe on earth, and Vortigen didn't doubt for a moment that the human tribe would soon produce one of those. They made war when an intelligent species would have been too busy celebrating God's bounty; plagues where an abundance should have been harvested. A more stubborn, quarrelsome, conniving, delightful breed Vortigen could not imagine and nature could not have devised. The gods must have been rumbling with mirth when they hatched humankind.

A tug at his elbow distracted Vortigen from these lofty thoughts. His personal attendant, Quiggle, sniffed excitedly. “I think there is something on the air sir, although it's been so long since I've sniffed an offering, I can't be sure,” he said.

“An offering. What kind?”

“I can't tell yet. It's a peculiar aroma, sir. Not exactly pleasant.”

Now Vortigen could smell it, too, and he agreed with Quiggle — the scent was most peculiar. He would almost have classified it as a stink, if such an outrage were conceivable. Who in their right mind would dare insult the Lord of Syde by sending anything but a fit offering, duly prepared? In all the centuries of his rule nothing like that had ever happened.

“Rat, sir,” Quiggle said.

“What?”

“That is the smell of a rodent, known in Outworld as a rat. What's more, it's a blood offering that was drawn from a deceased animal, sir.”

“A what?”

“A dead rat.”

“Phew!” Vortigen gagged. “Who dares send this smoke my way?”

Others in the hall were coughing and holding their noses, too. “Pough!” “Yuck!” “Ooof!” came the complaints.

“Rat is the blood portion, sir,” Quiggle continued with his analysis. “There is hair mixed in, but not human hair.”

“Not human!” Vortigen roared.

“No, sir.” Quiggle dare not say any more.

“What is it then?” Vortigen glowered.

“Well, sir, I regret to report that it is the hair of a dog — a cocker spaniel, to be precise. They're a very nice breed sir. Quite friendly, but not very smart . . . ”

Seeing Vortigen's face redden and eyes blaze, Quiggle ducked under the table. The Lord of Syde bolted out of his chair, his arms raised as if he were going to smash something.

“Who dares?” he frothed. “Who dares send this insult?”

From under the table came a quavering reply. “It comes from the witch Endorathlil, my Lord. The rat's name is Adele, if I make out her prayer of offering correctly.”

“Endorathlil? Blackstone's daughter's spawn?”

“The same sir.”

Reaching under the table Vortigen yanked the quaking attendant to his feet. “What has possessed her, man?” he bellowed.

“I-I cannot say, sir, what madness may have struck. She is old. Perhaps her mind has come unhinged.”

“We shall see,” Vortigen growled, shoving Quiggle aside and striding out of the hall.

Not a person present believed the witch Endorathlil would live to see another day. “Desolation Isle,” they all agreed. That's where she'd end up. Never had they seen Vortigen in such a fury.

19

T
he smoke from her brass bowl had risen straight up, eager to escape the room. The offertory flame had quite consumed the girl's blood and hair. But so far, nothing. “You shall feel a tremor of elation if your sacrifice has been accepted,”
The Book
said. Endorathlil had felt only a growing tremor of indignation. She'd done everything properly. She'd raised the bowl to the ceiling and chanted the Spell of Transmigration as loudly as she dared. She was certain the offering was worthy. All for naught, though. There had been no sign at all that Vortigen had received her gift.

Groaning, Endorathlil unfolded her old legs, stretching the stiffness out of them. She got first onto her knees, then tottered onto her feet. She was done with prayers and spells for the moment. “Ingrate!” she spat, pinching out the candles one by one, until a single flame wavered in the stuffy twilight of her sanctuary.

“If this is how you receive my gifts, I won't send another,” she grumbled, shambling toward the door.

As she reached for the knob, though, she noticed something that sent a pulse through her old veins. She was casting a shadow, which leapt and danced, as if it were thrown by a raging fire; and the wall glowed vermilion, not the soft yellow you would expect from the flame of a single candle.

Alarmed, Endorathlil turned, then cried out. Suspended in the exact centre of the room, a ball of fire billowed and roiled — the garish light folding in on itself as it expanded. At first she thought she must have set the room alight by accident, but she realized this was no earthly flame. Its heat was cold, its light dark, and it fed on nothing at all, unless the very air of that dank, musty room could burn.

“Vortigen?” she hazarded. “Is that you?”

As she spoke the fireball began to reshape itself. An embryo of flame, it sprouted wings, then arms and legs. Fully formed, the creature raised its head and fixed her with the lethal stare of a predator, its eyes glowing like molten pools.

“Endorathlil!” it boomed.

She steadied herself, almost fainting at the ghastly apparition. “Lord Vortigen!” she stammered. “Why do you appear to me in this way, as a wrathful god, bent on my destruction?”

” Explain yourself!”

“Explain myself?”

“Yes!” he thundered. “All Syde wants to know who sent such a stinking smoke into the air. Who dared pollute the sacred rites with such an offering. If you weren't the granddaughter of Sirus Blackstone I would have roasted the flesh off your bones by now, but I have stayed my hand for his sake.”