In the abstract, Melanthus could understand the appeal of wizarding duels. It helped to establish a hierarchy or pecking order among the fraternity of spell casters, however loose. And they could serve the same purpose as the jousting tournaments did for the paladins and cavaliers – preventing degradation of skill from disuse during times of peace. Being challenged by a peer who could do who knows what, lacking the luxury of time that would otherwise be in plentiful supply in the comfort of one’s own laboratory, enhanced a different sort of mental quickness and perspicacity. Yes, he believed all this in theory. But in practice, he thought this all vexatious and thoroughly pointless. Was he an acrobat or mountebank posturing merely for the entertainment of an audience, influential though that audience might be? Heavens forfend – he was Melanthus the Mordant – slayer of monsters, bane of demons, who bent the natural world to his will and worked wonders these mundane blockheads could not even appreciate, let alone comprehend. He scowled before he even realized it, and to compensate quickly made an effort to appear more affable to nearby bystanders.

  So, these philistines wanted a spectacle, did they? He would give them one good and hard.

  First, however, he had to catch his breath. He had considered teleporting into the interior of the palace to save time and effort, but he would rather keep that spell in reserve, just in case – his adventurer habits kicking in. Besides, it was good form to accompany the procession of Lesser Burghers into the Inner City. But to do so he had to negotiate the climbing series of cobbled switchbacks that granted access to the summit of the hill, and it had been a long time since he had had to walk that far up such a sustained incline, and he was thoroughly winded by the time he entered the palace. He hadn’t even brought a staff to lean on, deciding that to expend some of the precious charges that they used for power in the demonstration was the height of frivolity.

  He got his breathing under some semblance of normality just as he was ushered into the audience chamber of the palazzo of the Lord Paramount, which was still being used for state functions despite the untimely demise of its tenant. The floor was a dizzying array of gleaming black and white chequered tiles set in intersecting arcing patterns, with a vaulted ceiling high up, the roof decking supported by skillfully carven hammer beams and collar braces of timber stained almost black with the passage of time. In each bay a long banner hung from the railing of the upper gallery almost down to the keystones of the row of arches that flanked each of the long sides of the chamber – the ensign of the crown of the Eastern Realm alternating with the banner of Eskemar: a blue undulating “Y” representing the confluence of the Esk and Serpent rivers just outside the city, dividing the field into three parts, one containing a wheel, another a hammer, and the third a fortified gate. Just below the rafters sparkling constellations of floating lights recreated the arrangement of the firmament at the very time of the festival. This was no doubt a creation of Korander Lampblack. And Melanthus had to admit, it was skillfully rendered.

  As the Lesser Burghers dutifully filed up the stairs to occupy the gallery Melanthus passed between a pair of guards and was hailed by the palace chamberlain, who bade him welcome and guided him to some refreshments placed on a long table on the far side of the room. He looked over the proffered fare.

  It was suitable for the occasion and despite his earlier decision to refrain his mouth began to water. There were platters of smoked boar torn into strips, and skewers of pearl onions, carrots, and cubed steak cut from the salted flanks of the oryx, pickled quail eggs, steamed dumplings filled with prawn meat, cheese and scallions, bowls of almonds and other nuts that had been roasted and given a coating of crystallized beet sugar, strawberries, and cloudberries pierced by toothpicks placed next to melted hazelnut butter for dipping, baskets of golden brown rolls swirling with dark fig paste, and towers of custard tarts drizzled with honey. It was a well-wrought repast.

  The drink table was provisioned in a similarly generous manner. A row of punchbowls of etched glass, ringed with elegant cups contained liquids of amber, vermilion, and green, their surfaces flecked with dollops of lacy foam and broken by chunks of floating fruit. Beyond these were stoppered magnums of various vintages from the Eastern and Western Realms, sparkling white wines from the Vale of Shaut-natheric, heady reds from the sun-drenched Islands of Choisenne, even the rare aromatic rosé favored by the farmers of the Karevar river valley, who cultivated their finicky grapes on well-drained stone-fronted terraces that reflected the heat of the afternoon back onto the vines for hours after the coming of twilight. Lastly, there was cask after cask of mead and ale, ranging from sweet to bitter, pale as corn silk to black as the tar used to seal the river barges that shipped it.

  Disregarding his prudent resolution to abstain, Melanthus reached for a silver goblet and sampled one of the ales, and then another, until he slaked the thirst his earlier exertions had created. Satisfied, he began to pay more attention to the personages milling around him.

  As expected, the cream of Eskemarian society was in attendance. The families who had the privilege of inhabiting the Inner City were well represented, of course. So were most of the temples, though he noticed the absence of the cult of Arkus (doubtless because of other mutually exclusive hallowed and strictured endeavors), and thus knew Merril would not be in the audience. The cult of the Infernal was not present either, although by a tacit agreement this sect was customarily barred because its raison d’etre clashed with the purpose of the festival and would court misfortune. The priestesses who communed with the Underworld celebrating life? That just didn’t work. There was a smattering of distinguished guests – emissaries of other cities, a legate from the royal court, a swarthy delegation hailing from Uxette looking to finally get some quality entertainment in this relatively staid city. Everywhere greetings were being exchanged, and the dual objectives of seeing and being seen were being met.

  The chamber was becoming so congested that even people of rank and standing were bereft of their usual entourage. Holding aloof from the fray off to one side of the dais at the end of the hall was Homith Gunnerl, Captain of the City Guard. He scanned the crowd with an intense, hawkish gaze. For once he was unarmored but still equipped with a short sword upon which he rested one gloved hand. Rather than toting a drink his other handheld a paper upon which were written many names - doubtless the guest list. Gunnerl might be the only person enjoying himself less than he, Melanthus realized wryly.

  Some of the councilors he knew by sight: there was Donner Pagett, attired in the somber grays of his house, conducting an earnest conversation with the matriarch of House Lamonte. And already seated at the far right of the dais was Merden Deepwater, resplendent in a doublet of azure velvet, nonchalantly swirling a bejeweled chalice of wine in one hand, looking over the gathered throng with thoughtfully pursed lips.

  Of course, many people he did not know, yet many more appeared to know who he was, and he politely nodded in response to a cavalcade of curious stares, deigning to dispense the occasional grin to women of uncommon beauty that he encountered, regardless of their lineage or marital status. Not surprisingly, it seemed that his reputation had preceded him, an observation that he conceded appealed to his vanity.

  “It is gratifying to see you here, Melanthus,” said a cool voice from behind his right shoulder. He turned around to see a regal-looking woman in a taffeta gown of crisp folds, with a blue warp and a pink weft that shimmered iridescently as she approached him and held out her hand. By the lined face and the silver hair pulled tightly back he knew at once it was Astrid Ellenden, who previously had somehow appended a personal note to Korander’s “invitation”. Her eyes appraised him, betraying nothing.

  He took her fingers lightly into his own and executed a brisk bow, miming a quick kiss to the back of the councilor’s hand, matching her granting of favor with the appropriate show of respect.

  “Well after being presented with the opportunity, I wouldn’t dream of turning down the chance to contribute in some small way to the celebration,“ Melanthus carefully replied, not knowing who might be eavesdropping.

  Councilor Ellenden gave him a pert smile and a small nod as if to say, Good, so we understand each other. Melanthus did not know if this was actually true, however.

  “It’s so rare that you venture from your tower that it would be a shame if you hurried off again once you gave a display of your spellcasting.” She paused and then took a sip from a wine glass, projecting an air of casual authority. “Perhaps after the scheduled portion of the festivities has concluded we might have a word in my council office? It’s not often I get to treat with such an accomplished mage.”

  “Korander not cutting the mustard, eh?” Melanthus replied, and then inwardly winced at his misplaced taunt, immediately noting how Astrid’s eyes narrowed in disapproval.

  She recovered quickly however and tried again, “I imagine you would be able to furnish a different perspective on a few matters that I have been turning over during the occasional moment of leisure.” And here she brought the glass to her lips again, but instead of taking another sip just looked him in the eye, gaging his reaction in a way that let him know this was obviously more important than she dared let on, and she expected a definite answer either one way or the other.

  So, Melanthus thought, this is the way it’s going to be. “My Lady, I am completely at your disposal,” he said with as much courtly grace as he was capable of showing.

  “Splendid!” Ellenden beamed serenely, “Now if you will excuse me, I must take my place at the front; we all have our little part to play,” and she drifted off almost languidly, though to Melanthus this had all the seeming of a studied pose. This one has something serious on her mind, he thought.

  Just then the Gong of Initiation sounded, signaling the formal commencement of the proceedings. The various conversations died down and people began to orient themselves so that they faced the dais. There was the last bit of jockeying for position. A burst of fanfare that emanated so near Melanthus that he nearly jolted in surprise drowned out everything and heralded the members of the Most Wise Council as they took their seats.

  There was a prayer to the pantheon of deities, an address that hearkened back to the early days of the city when the traditions were first formed, a pantomime of some of the great tragedies and epic events that shaped the history of Eskemar, several songs were sung by a chorus recruited from the daughters of the Lesser Burghers, who looked down from the gallery with pride. Meanwhile, Melanthus began to fidget, checking and double-checking the pockets of his robe and mantle, making sure each spell reagent was in its proper place.

  After a bard gave a stirring recitation of an expurgated version of the Saga of the Esk River Sirens he received a discreet tap on the shoulder from the chamberlain, who indicated that he was now to approach the dais as the time for his contribution to the occasion was now at hand.

  As Melanthus walked up he could feel more and more eyes slowly shifting their gaze, fixing their attention upon him. To be the focus of such a concentration of scrutiny was something he did not relish, and it had been a long time since he had been subjected to it. By comparison Korander, a fixture of the Court – even when he did not need to be - seemed fully at ease. His eyes briefly caught the light and flashed, alight with eagerness.

  Then it was the two of them occupying the cleared area – a square space perhaps fifteen paces across. They faced the crowd as an introduction was furnished by the court herald…

  “Before you stand the two most accomplished sorcerers in Eskemar: Korander Lampblack, Court Magician Extraordinaire, Keeper of the City Flame, Advisor to the Most Wise Council of Nine, Guardian of the Eldritch Sigils, and Melanthus, enchanter of renown, tamer of hellbeasts, adventurer of long experience, a hero of the Western Wars.

  These two have agreed to engage in mock combat, an exhibition match to give you a glimpse of the powers upon which Eskemar can draw upon in a crisis.

  This is meant to be a demonstration of spellcasting ability, rather than a wizarding duel to the death. As such, magic shall only be employed in a non-lethal manner. Even so, everyone is cautioned to not approach or infringe upon this space, and woe be unto anyone who has the audacity to interfere!

  The trial shall continue until one duelist concedes defeat. When the contestants are ready, they may begin!”

  His declaration complete and duty discharged, the herald retreated into the shadows.

  The two magicians turned to face each other, their lines of sight parallel to the dais, and each treated his opponent to a brief, stiff bow. Then they sprang into action.

  Korander struck first, even as Melanthus was retrieving a sprig of dragonspine from his robe and mouthing the words to his first incantation, dashing off a quick, rather elementary spell. Melanthus felt himself slowly rise (breaking his concentration and spoiling his own spell), his feet losing contact with the floor as he began to float towards the ceiling. A slight queasiness began to torment his stomach. The watching throng thrilled in awe and appreciation, and there were a few claps of applause. He willed his limbs to remain still even as his eye level rose above the keystones of the arches of the chamber, knowing he could easily set himself to rotating about his center of mass if he wasn’t careful.

  Fortunately, he had just the counter for a levitation spell. He changed tactics and using both his arms to scoop out handfuls of air he initiated a gust of wind before he would start spinning from the effort, and in an instant a gale was blowing from behind him, carrying away the gasps of the crowd as they felt the need to clutch onto hats and other head coverings. The banners in the hall flapped violently, and one detached and flew to the opposite side, blanketing a group of suddenly skittish burghers. The wind propelled him forward and he began to direct the magical current downward, rapidly bringing him closer and closer to a surprised Korander, who clearly hadn’t expected such a rebuttal.

  However, Korander recovered swiftly, and just as the toes of Melanthus’ left foot came in contact with the earth and it seemed he might tackle Korander outright – or at least topple onto him, the court magician was frantically muttering another spell and rolling a tuft of fur between the fingers of his left hand.

  Melanthus sought to change his trajectory and dove to his left, hoping to evade whatever Korander was intending to throw at him. But his attempt to save himself was in vain, and he felt a shuddering ripple of power, a sensation he had experienced before that alerted him that he was undergoing a transformation.

  He sank to the ground on all fours, his face barely above the floor, and he looked down to see that his hands had become paws. He could feel a tail – his tail – restlessly waving behind him, and he resisted the urge to turn around to catch a glimpse of it. Several women in the background shrieked, and he deduced he must now be some type of rodent.

  Indeed, as he was gathering his wits Korander stooped down and seized him about his midsection with both hands and effortlessly hoisted him into the air, pivoting grandly so all could get a good look.

  “Behold, citizens and guests – the great Melanthus is now a lowly muskrat, indistinguishable from the many others that lurk down by the docks on the riverbanks, mucking about in the mud.” There were guffaws and even a few jeers then, as Melanthus the Muskrat wriggled about in the grasp of his gloating opponent. His whiskers twitched angrily, and he thought about trying to chomp down on one of Korander’s perfumed fingers with his sharp incisors. How the mundane folk enjoyed seeing the powerful brought low and humiliated! Melanthus was now positively seething.

  There was no question that Korander had scored a point there. Melanthus knew the polymorph other spell would soon wear off even if Korander didn’t release him from it, and that he had to be ready to perform his next move as soon as he was able. With a sudden twist, he wrenched himself from the wizard’s clutches, falling to the floor with an awkward flop that almost knocked the wind out of him. He scampered several paces away and turned to face his adversary, eyes glittering with wrath.

  Korander smiled and released him from the spell, snapping his fingers for effect to make the cancellation of the magic seem more artful – he had an eye for performance, this one! Melanthus immediately felt himself elongate and he sat up on his hind legs so that he would already be standing erect the instant he had regained his proper form. Even as he sensed his clothing rematerializing he was reaching into his upper right pocket to withdraw a sizeable pinch of powdered chert that he then flung into the air while uttering the Power Word “Petrify!”

  Counterintuitive though it may seem, it is nonetheless at this point of the narrative that the inclusion of a succinct discussion concerning magical reagents might be edifying.

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  While strictly speaking, reagents are often not absolutely required for spell casting (unlike when crafting actual magical items like potions, amulets, rings, orbs, wands, staves, and the like), their incorporation greatly facilitates it. Without them creating magic is a laborious, time-intensive process with a high probability of failure that quickly exhausts the sorcerer, rapidly depleting the reserves of his psyche that enable him to channel and transmute the forces of the universe into effects we recognize as “magic”. Naturally, the selection of the reagent is of paramount importance. Much as herbalists and healers rely on the questionable “doctrine of signatures”, which states that plants resembling various parts of the body can be used to treat ailments of those body parts, the caster must choose one that reflects, if only symbolically, the nature of the desired alteration or somehow references the action to be taken. So for example it is common for a wizard to use a dried frog leg while casting a jump spell. This concept – the veracity of which has been confirmed innumerable times and is beyond dispute - is called “ideation of essence” by scholars of the Eastern Realm and the “Immanentization of the Arcane” by the self-consciously erudite practitioners of the art in the Western Realm.

  Chert is a fine-grained sedimentary rock that is composed primarily of the fossilized remains of tiny lifeforms that once constituted the primordial ooze that blanketed the floors of oceans in distant epochs that never knew the tread of man. Therefore, not only is chert a stone, which is useful when casting a spell whose intent is to turn an opponent to stone, but chert itself consists of creatures that have undergone petrification themselves, a textbook instance of what some term “recursive conjuration”. Thus, it can be seen that using this particular type of rock would be much more efficacious than employing, say, granite or pumice, although chalk would work almost as well. It is also a sterling indication of the subtle prowess of Melanthus.

  Before the chert dust began to fall Melanthus noted that Korander’s eyes had just started to widen, presumably in astonishment, as the enchantment took effect. Immediately his skin, his clothing, hair, footwear, and everything else on or of his person took on a gray pallor, and Korander was frozen in place, one arm slightly outstretched, the other arrested in the reflexive action of attempting to shield his face. He was turned to stone, effectively now an inanimate object.

  The crowd emitted audible gasps before falling silent. None of them had ever seen the like before, though they had heard tales of monsters like gorgons, basilisks, and cockatrices that could turn people to stone merely by making eye contact. As an awed stillness pervaded the room, Melanthus approached a nearby woman sheathed in a fashionable teal dress and asked her to relinquish her headscarf, and she complied without question. He took it and strolled up to Korander, now essentially a statue, making a big show of eyeing him critically.

  “Yes, I think I see what he is missing. A little color, a bit of flair…like so!” and Melanthus carefully placed the headscarf on the stone man’s head, adjusting it in a passable duplication of the latest style. Many women began to titter at this jape, the humor coming as a relief after witnessing such a shocking occurrence.

  But Melanthus was not done. Turning to pick out a small dog he had noticed earlier, the pampered pet of some great dame, he caught the canine’s eye and tossed off a quick charm animal spell, and then beckoned it over to him. The dog trotted up gamely, despite the protestations of his owner, and Melanthus bent down and whispered in the little fellow’s ear. After wagging its tail contentedly, the dog sidled up to Korander, sniffed the stiffened hem of his robe briefly, extended one of his hind legs, and then proceeded to urinate on the helpless magician.

  The crowd broke into peals of laughter that rang throughout the hall. “Your court magician, ladies and gentlemen!” Melanthus proclaimed as if Korander had just performed a grand feat worthy of praise, and he began to clap loudly.

  He released the spell just as the audience took up the applause themselves and the hall resounded with the sound, which only increased as color returned to Korander’s face and he began to re-animate, first completing the move of his arm to his face, and then starting in surprise and looking around the room in bewilderment. In another moment he noticed the head covering that had been placed on him, and he tore it off and glared at it. Then in some puzzlement, perhaps sensing dampness in his hose, and looked down to see the dog staring up at him and with dawning horror and disgust realized that he had just been peed on.

  This play of emotions made the onlookers even more mirthful, and as Korander absorbed the depths of his mortification his features took on a murderous cast. Melanthus was ready for this and was already halfway to completing his next spell before Korander even opened his mouth to speak.

  “You have gone too far!” Korander hissed at him, and he lifted his arms dramatically for his next act of conjuring. But there was a crackling sound that rent the air and between the two wizards swirling bits of frost appeared and then quickly coalesced into shards of ice that fell to the floor and agglomerated, rising steadily upward. As Melanthus gestured, a wall of ice ten paces in length and as tall and half again as a man sprang into being, separating the two. Catching sunlight from the clerestory windows it glistened about its irregular edges, thick but translucent. The very air began to take on a chill.

  “Now calm down, Korander!” Melanthus called from behind the ice wall. “You should take a moment to - cool off!” Melanthus was beginning to enjoy himself and now was blatantly playing to the crowd, who he could sense were being won over to his side.

  Whatever spell Korander had intended to employ next was now deemed inappropriate as he made a quick decision to stop casting. He reached up one sleeve and whipped out a wand made of amber and pointed it at the ice wall. A gout of flame issued from the wand that lasted several seconds, and he hosed down the face of the ice wall with the blasting heat of the orange jet, resulting in billowing gusts of vapor and a steady trickle of water that cascaded down the ice onto the floor.

  Some of the ice immediately began to melt and Melanthus, who had been unable to see what Korander was up to but assumed he would do something to destroy the wall, took a small mirror half the size of his palm out of one of his cloak pockets. He began to chant as a yawning gap began to appear, first at the top of the wall. It began to extend downward, accompanied by ominous cracking sounds as the ice to either side of it began to fracture due to the uneven temperatures.

  Just as the ice wall shuddered and its remnants began to tumble to the ground with a crash Melanthus cast the mirror on the floor, smashing it to bits, the shards mixing with the jagged nuggets of ice littering the area. At the same moment, the wizard’s form seemed to briefly lose focus and then bifurcate once, and then twice. After the blink of an eye there appeared four identical versions of Melanthus, lined up in a row. Each adopted the same posture: hands on hips, a defiant and proud expression on each face.

  The crowd was completely on tenterhooks at this point. It seemed this clash had taken on an aspect beyond performance art and was in danger of becoming a grudge match. Instead of being treated to some diverting entertainment, they were witnessing the clash of titans, the opposing wills of veritable demi-gods who were unleashing powers that were terrifying as they were wondrous to behold. A small handful of onlookers were anxiously edging towards the exits, but most were riveted by the scene, too captivated by the proceedings to even place wagers on the outcome. Everyone in the chamber would remember this eldritch altercation to their dying day.

  Melanthus began to slowly and deliberately advance on Korander now, projecting an aura of menace. As he began to close the distance he made sure to walk to a spot three paces to Korander’s left, so that the mirror image of him to his left would be directly advancing on his opponent.

  Korander looked slightly panic-stricken as he took a few steps backward, gaining a few extra seconds as he muttered a chittering chant under his breath. Melanthus had closed half the distance between them when supple thin chords of white shot forth from Korander’s raised palm, quickly diverging in a conical pattern that immediately showed it to be as the webbing from some gigantic arachnid. The web was, naturally enough, aimed at the image of Melanthus that seemed to be coming straight at him, and thus passed directly through the illusion and, encountering no resistance, continued until it struck a guard and priest of Scintos beyond, securely lashing both of them to a nearby column. The sticky substance held them fast, and the two writhed in sudden fear as they vainly sought to wriggle free from their unexpected bonds.

  Melanthus almost took the time to smile in satisfaction as he saw his simple ruse work exactly as he planned. Despite the passage of time he still could call upon all his old adventuring tactics, the hard-won experience that a peacock like Korander could never dream up, guileful though he might be! His next reagent at the ready, he hurled a small handful of seeds at Korander’s feet, and as he did so the mirror image spell lapsed and his virtual doppelgangers merged into him and he became emphatically singular once more.

  “Entangle!” he hissed.

  Immediately vines of emerald green sprouted from the floor, even as a fan of roots emerged and spasmed about the tiles, seeking purchase. A profusion of fine tendrils, their ends swaying and clutching mindlessly spilled forth, questing for supports to latch onto so they could scale upwards towards the light. They twined around themselves in a bout of flowing and shuddering, the potent theurgy of the spell accelerating growth in sickening rapidity.

  Recognizing the spell immediately, Korander emitted a sharp cry and hurriedly plucked a large pearl from a pouch hanging from his belt and waved his arms about him, and as the pearl faded from existence, utterly consumed to work the caster’s will, a faintly shimmering, barely discernible orb materialized about him just as the wriggling vines were poised to engulf the hapless mage.

  Encountering a resistance they could not penetrate, the tendrils raced up the curvature of the barrier, attained its summit, and then busied themselves wrapping it in a verdant and constrictive embrace.

  Though his protective sphere shielded him for the moment, Korander was now encased in vines that swelled until they possessed the girth of an elephant’s trunk. Having achieved the anchor that they sought, buds sprang out at regular intervals along the last several feet of each of the sinewy branches, and luxuriant sprays of leaves and blossoms unfurled. Melanthus continued to exert his concentration on the vines, his energies focused on furthering the creative impulse of life, and the flowers transitioned into small fruits. As the petals fell away they ballooned in size, puffing up like bladders being filled with air as weeks of growth were compressed into mere seconds. Soon a score of mature fruits the size of cantaloupes hung here and there, causing the vines to begin to sag and creak with the strain of holding their suddenly ponderous burden.

  The full effect now achieved, Melanthus let his focus lapse and surveyed his handiwork with pride, the gasps from the onlookers indicating the stark rise of his reputation that was sure to follow. It was a potent spell, and Melanthus intended it to be his definitive and conclusive tour de force that would coerce Korander into capitulation, end this farce and treat the now thoroughly cowed onlookers to a refreshing treat that would assist in bringing solely-needed merriment back to the festive proceedings.

  But then Melanthus frowned slightly. These didn’t look like moonmelons, which were ghostly white and smooth, with an almost polished sheen to them. These had bumpy, almost spiny ridges and were orange, streaked with crimson in the valleys between the ridges. Furthermore, they were less oblong and more compact than moonmelons. These were altogether some different species of plant. Puzzled, he stepped closer to inspect these fruits of strange aspect, now ignoring the reactions of everyone around him.

  With a sense of wonder rarely provoked by his own work, he took one of the pendulous fruits in hand and twisted until it came free. His nostrils detected a faint whiff of brimstone. He held it up and examined it more closely. Truly, he had never seen its like before. How had he managed to conjure such a different botanical species than the one he had envisioned? These might not taste good or even be edible, which was unfortunate.

  Still, it possessed a property that reminded him of something. Something he had read once? As he stared at it, it seemed to throb in his hand and pulse with a force that could have as easily been indicative of its nature as due to the effects of his magic. A muted sound, almost like a distant roar, bizarrely emanated from the fruit, and in some confusion he held it up to one ear like someone attempting to hear the crash of ocean waves in a large seashell, feeling rather foolish as he did so.

  It was the sound that finally did it. The tumblers in his brain all clicked into place and a previously locked away memory became accessible in the blink of an eye. With dawning horror, Melanthus realized that what he had grown and was holding in his hand was a species of vine that he had read about once in a tome he had perused while visiting a colleague in the Western Realm. This was, in fact, the mythical firegourd - the notoriously unstable, hazardous, destructive, and explosive firegourd!

  Stifling an expletive, Melanthus began to crouch down to gently place the deadly fruit on the floor and began to call out a frenzied warning for everyone to clear the area and vacate the chamber. Then he could proceed to carefully dispose of them. As he began to utter the first words a large section of vine, having evidently become too heavily laden, suddenly slid off Korander’s globe of invulnerability and crashed to the floor.

  The effect was as instantaneous as it was disastrous.

  The volatile compounds lurking in the juices of the fruit served admirably as contact explosives, and in a blinding flash, the firegourds that fell on the floor detonated, creating combustion that consumed the very vines that had reared them. There was a rapid-fire sequence of detonations as the inevitable chain reaction occurred, all of them causing their own concussive blast.

  Melanthus had no time to react. He was hurled against the dais by the shock wave. He hit the corner of it and he felt a sharp pain in his chest that denoted the fracturing of some ribs. His arm had also become numb from the impact. His face and hands, which had been exposed to the heat, were in searing pain.

  He lay where he was for several moments, stunned. Over the ringing in his ears, he heard shrieks and groans. He was vaguely aware that there were some prone bodies next to him. There were the sounds of crackling and the air was already filled with smoke. His chest heaved as he sought to get his wind back. Bit by bit his mind permitted him to do more than merely register agony.

  He hardly had to think about it. The instinct to flee was paramount, and any other considerations were overridden. Consequences be damned! In a trice, he had recited the words, and the strange folding of space – that even he didn’t understand – commenced as the teleportation spell took effect. Usually, he experienced a bit of nausea, but that was doubtless blocked out by the almost overwhelming pain that was wracking his body.

  A blink of an eye later he was lying on the floor of his bed-chamber. Gasping, he used his good arm to prop himself up as he summoned the resolve to stand up so he could stagger to the small cupboard where he kept medical supplies and other items for emergencies.

  He had just succeeded in knocking over a washstand when he detected hurried footsteps on the stairs and Thayla came into the room.

  “What is going – by all the gods, what happened to you?!” she cried out in alarm, her eyes now wide with distress as she saw the sorry condition of her employer. In answer, Melanthus stumbled and groaned as he hit the floor, leaving a bloody imprint as he thrashed on the floorboards. Some of his skin was already beginning to slough off.

  Thayla immediately set to work. She retrieved bandages and a small stoppered jar of salve from the cupboard. Melanthus gestured for her to also fetch a vial containing a potent painkiller and a bottle containing a potion of healing that he kept in reserve. After removing the charred tatters of his robe, she set to work.

  *  *    *    *    *

  An hour later all that could be done without the services of a cleric had been done. The worst was past, and he was on the mend. His chest was bound, the pain was beginning to subside, the potion had repaired the worst of his injuries, and the magical salve – which was worth ten times its weight in gold – had repaired his burnt flesh, restoring it so that it looked better than it did before. He would have to shave the remainder of his beard off, but that could wait. He was, of course, exhausted.

  Thayla heaved a sigh of relief mixed with wonder as she watched the enchanted medicines operate. But her countenance still expressed ample concern.

  “It’s lucky I was still here. I wasn’t even planning on being here at all but Sirkie is spending the day with her cousins, celebrating the festival, and I thought I would get everything done today so I could take tomorrow off. What happened? Were you attacked? Is Eskemar in danger?”

  That was an interesting question. One he couldn’t begin to answer.

  “A spell went seriously awry,” he said simply. There didn’t seem much point going into detail. “You have to get out of here,” he rasped. “The sooner the better.”

  “I couldn’t possibly!” Thayla exclaimed. “Just look at the state you’re in!”

  “You don’t understand. There are going to be people – some powerful people – who are going to blame me for what happened today. No doubt soon they are going to try to storm this tower – and I am not going to comply and let them. So, if you stay you are going to get trapped here, and most probably sealed in. Trust me, you don’t want that.”

  Thayla looked torn. Her instinct was to remain and support him, something Melanthus noted and appreciated. She didn’t even know what he had done. But such is often the way with women, he thought.

  “Your loyalty is laudable. But think of your daughter. Don’t get mixed up in this if you don’t have to.”

  She finally nodded, though consent gave her no satisfaction. “Take care, Melanthus,” she said, and he squeezed her fingers gently with his uninjured hand.

  “Thank you,” he replied, and he felt an unfamiliar pang in his heart, that he assumed was due to unwonted sentiment. At any rate, he hoped that it could not be ascribed to his physical trauma.

  After she had finally overcome her reluctance and left, turning around one last time at the threshold to give him a look that was an inscrutable mix of emotions before closing the door, Melanthus laboriously and gingerly made his way to it and with the last shreds of his stored magical power cast his most powerful wizard lock on it, and then warded the entirety of the tower. This consumed the last of his strength.

  He heavily sank back into his bed. A small measure of relief as he realized the immediate danger was past mingled with the nagging sense that certain Very Bad Things resulting from his magical calamity were going to start happening in the near future.

  It was a disaster. A fucking disaster. Though his mind was in a haze it nonetheless raced. The palace was in all likelihood in flames by now, Melanthus thought. Doubtless, some people had been killed by the blasts. Probably several more had been trampled to death in the crush of those desperately attempting to exit the vicinity before a conflagration claimed them.

  He groaned. How did this happen? He thought about the spell. He attempted to reconstruct each step of the process, although without consulting the appropriate grimoire he couldn’t precisely envision the mental formula that was the engine that harnessed and drove the magic. He thought about the reagent: the seeds. The seeds he had put in his pocket had been from a melon, he was certain of it. He recalled Tesslihm giving him the little parcels he had ordered the week before. Remembered examining each item, the look and feel of the seeds as they lay in his palm.

  With regret, Melanthus realized he hadn’t even glanced at them when he cast Entangle. Yet, when he used them in the spell they felt different in his hand, rounded, rather than having their characteristic flatness, and a bit smaller in the bargain. They had been different seeds! But how had this happened?

  He was beginning to falter now, the powerful drug he had taken was pulling him into somnolence. The only explanation he could think of was that the seeds had been switched at some point. But when, and by who? He had been so alert at the palazzo and had long been savvy to the tricks of thieves and cutpurses. The thief would have to be an unsurpassed master of his or her craft indeed to get away with such a deft trick! But the only other people who had access to his raiment were…

  No. No, it couldn’t be. His mind reeled, implications starting to hit him. But he couldn’t follow the train of thought anymore. With a weak shudder, he surrendered consciousness at last, the dictates of the flesh forcibly subduing the mind of the sorcerer.