Castle Spellbound

LIBRARY

There was chaos amidst the stacks.

Gladiators fought up and down the aisles, whooping battle cries or letting out screams of agony: cases differed. Swords clashed. Bookshelves toppled, sending fine first editions, bound in skins of calf and lamb and kid, crashing to the stone floor, there to be trampled underfoot. Huge folios flew; quartos were drawn and quartered. Octavos lay in tattered shreds.

The place was a shambles.

Osmirik the librarian sat in the midst of it all, sequestered in his protected carrel, his long nose in a book; several, in fact. He was a small man with a sharp face and soft eyes. His expression was perennially sober and serious. He rarely smiled. He favored the simple clothing of a scholar: a long brown cloak with a hood.

As he pored over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, part of his mind harked back to the many times he had sought refuge in this little redoubt, a stone-walled cubicle with a sliding door of stone that served well as a barrier to the chaos without.

He redirected his attention to the task at hand: which was to discover what had gone awry in the castle. Somewhere within, a spell had gone amiss; that was obvious. The solution was to abrogate the spell-cancel it. The person who had cast the spell either could not cancel it or did not wish to do so. In either case it was up to another party to effect a solution to the problem; and in order to cancel someone else's spell, this other party first must know what kind of enchantment it was, what particular brand of magic was being practiced.

That was the immediate task. The table before him was heaped with grimoires, books of magical spells with instructions on how to cast them. He had eschewed the more obvious kinds of magic, bringing to the carrel only those books that smacked of the exotic, the off-beat, the heterodox.

He had not had much luck so far. Page after page bore his weary eye tracks. It had been several hours since he'd started, but he had not hit on anything yet.

He closed one old leatherbound quarto, laid it aside, and chose another.

Well, what have we here? Ah, something called A Book of Eldritch Charms and Divers Enchantments. Not really so recondite, judging by the title. Open it up and let us see.

He read, flipped a page, read more. He riffled through the introductory sections to get to the meat.

There was no meat. Conventional magic with a few spices thrown in for savor. Nothing new. He'd bungled in choosing this one.

With a great sigh, he closed Eldritch Charms and laid hands on a little octavo, printed on cheap paper and bound in cloth, that was nothing more than a compendium of lists of books on magic, well-known and obscure. He paged through it.

What, exactly, was he looking for?

He sat back and folded his arms. Indeed. If only he could characterize the spell, describe its nature, he would then have a handle by which to grasp the problem.

Let's see: Dancing girls. Musicians. Entertainers. Definite thread there.

Janitorial homunculi. Hmmmm. Gladiators.

Osmirik twiddled his thumbs. Gods, what could the connection be? Was there some pattern he was not seeing? Perhaps it was so obvious that he could not see it for its very simplicity.

Troubadours and gladiators. Well, the latter were considered entertainment in some cultures. But in others, religious ritual. What did troubadours and circus acts have in common? Or, for that matter, high-flown dance troupes and comedians? Surely the practice of a refined art form had nothing to do with animal acts or the telling of coarse jokes. Marching bands. Oh, dear.

He flipped through the pages of the octavo. Grimoire after grimoire; but which one held the key?

Perhaps he would do better not to consider effects, but look to style. Was there some flavor to the spell that could provide a clue as to its origin? Osmirik considered the matter.

No, he could discern no identifiable signature. The magic surely was not Incarnadine's, or Trent's, nor did it evoke anyone whose style he might recognize. But the magic did have a flavor of sorts. It was… exotic, romantic. It struck him as self-indulgent, given to excess. Obviously it was a spell gone wild, out of control; but something told him that the spell was profligate in and of itself.

Could it be a pact with supernatural forces in which the mortal signatory was granted any wish? In other words, had someone sold himself to demons? Perhaps. Or it was something similar. Not a pact, but the invocation of a malign spirit.

Perhaps it was a simple wish spell that had gone out of control. But it seemed too powerful to be simple. What about a very complex wish spell that involved the invoking of some powerful supernatural force, a malevolent one? What if that had got out of control?

What if…? Ah, yes. Suppose an incompetent magician had got hold of a very dangerous grimoire, one that offered spells that only a past master could work without deleterious side-effects. Suppose further that this incautious neophyte botched the thing badly enough so as to give malign supernatural forces free rein to wreak havoc on an unsuspecting world.

Yes, suppose. It would be fruitful then to compile a list of exotic wish-granting spells.

But that would be a long list. Was there some way to narrow the list still further? Osmirik gave the possibility some thought.

Shouts and confusion outside. Someone or something crashed against the wall of the cubicle.

A spell botched this badly could only have come from a complete fool of a magician or one so naive as to dabble in dangerous magic without adequate preparation. Perhaps a very young or inexperienced magician; and it would help if that youngster was quite venal and not very bright. Such a one could stumble across…

He remembered something and sat up with a start. Had not a page come this morning bearing a message from Spellmaster Grosmond? Something about… Yes! The message said that a secret crypt had been discovered in the basement, and that this crypt was stuffed with some very interesting articles, among which were several old books-magical books, they appeared to be-which Osmirik, as Royal Librarian, was supposed to examine to see if they were of any value. Osmirik had read the message and made a note on his calendar to go down there when, as Grosmond suggested in his communication, the place had been swept out a bit.

Osmirik rose from his seat. He must get to the basement as soon as possible. But that presented a problem in itself. Nevertheless, he was determined to attempt the passage, and he had a possible means of assuring his safety.

He picked up yet another grimoire, a quarto volume in lambskin embossed with gold. It, too, was a book of exotic spells, among which was a spell of invisibility. With this charm properly cast, Osmirik meant to pick his way through the chaos. There were other enchantments he meant to use as well, including a general facilitation spell. There was an overriding problem with all this, however.

Osmirik was not a very good magician. In fact, he was not much of a magician at all. He knew a great deal of theory, but working efficacious magic was a matter of talent as well as acumen. And talent, in the long run, was quite possibly more important than acumen in the making of a successful magician.

But now it was vitally important that he become a successful magician, and in very short order.

He took his seat again, opened the book, and began to study.