In Camelot’s Shadow: Book One of The Paths to Camelot Series (Prologue Fantasy) by Sarah Zettel Page A
Authors: Sarah Zettel
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onto the smoldering coals so that the flames sprang up, providing a flickering light. Despite this, the room remained densely shadowed. Bags and bundles hung from the ceiling. The shelves were crowded with mortars, alembics, braziers, along with sieves and bowls made from all manner of materials, both precious and base.
What the room did not contain was books. He had not been able to bring a single tome or scroll when he fled Theodora’s assassins, and those that pretended to practice the high arts in this barbaric land did not see far enough ahead to write their learning down.
Euberacon had heard rumors that Merlin had several mystical volumes in his private chamber in Camelot, but no art or artifice had enabled him to see into that cunning man’s sanctum. The extent of Merlin’s knowledge remained his own secret.
Perhaps then, they are not so foolish
, Euberacon admitted grudgingly to himself.
But they are yet not wise enough
.
First, he dealt with the trophies of his night’s work, plunging them into pots of honey, setting aside the hand which needed to be cured in spirits of wine. When he was finished, he washed his own hands in a silver basin, letting the action calm and clear his mind even as it purified his flesh. He discarded his gory robe, covering himself with the clean garments he kept in a cedar chest for when they were needed. The rich black cloth was trimmed and lined with fur and did some good to keep out the eternal chill.
From under a square of white linen, the sorcerer drew a silvery mirror one palm in breadth. He had made it from the sword of a man who had come too close to his refuge. He had heated and pounded and polished the artifact, working the over-bold wanderer’s blood into the reshaped steel. Around its rim, as prescribed, he had engraved the names of power — Latranoy, Iszarin, Bicol, Danmals, and the rest, with the name of Floron at the apex.
He laid the mirror on the smallest of his wooden tables and then turned to his work benches. In a clay bowl, he mixed together equal proportions of milk, honey and wine, whisking them together with a brush of fine twigs. He shook the brush over the mirror in the manner of a priest anointing a body with holy waters.
“
Bismille arathe mem lismissa gassim gisim galisim
,” he intoned. “
Darrgosim samaiaosim ralim ausini taxarim zaloimi hyacabanoy illete
.”
The chant wound on, snaking through the room, reaching out to the shadows, thickening them, bringing them weight and substance, like cobwebs, like nightmares. It called, it compelled, it bound. It wound itself around the mirror, found its substance sympathetic to its purpose and sank within it, infusing and transforming it, making what had been a tool of reflection into a window onto other worlds. The steel of it misted over, swirling, first white, then red, then black.
Judging the time was right, Euberacon hardened his voice. “Floron,” he spoke the demon’s name as a command. “Respond quickly in the mirror, as you are accustomed to appear.”
The black mist slowly took shape, forming itself into the likeness of a man riding a black stallion and carrying a black spear three ells long beneath his arm. The man had no face, not even eyes, only shadow, but all the same, Euberacon felt the figure’s burning hatred of him and of the power he wielded over it.
Euberacon smiled. “I would see the future days,” he said. “Show me what is to come for the ones who dwell secure in Camelot.”
The black horse stamped one hoof soundlessly, and the demon lost its coherent shape, once again becoming the swirling mist of shadow. Slowly, that mist took on new form and fresh color, and Euberacon looked deep, and the future became clear.
He saw the great hall of Camelot broken and in flames. He saw the famed cadre of the Round Table milling uselessly, their ranks broken for want of a leader. He saw Kerra laughing in the ruins, her ravens swirling overhead in a great and noisome cloud. He saw
What the room did not contain was books. He had not been able to bring a single tome or scroll when he fled Theodora’s assassins, and those that pretended to practice the high arts in this barbaric land did not see far enough ahead to write their learning down.
Euberacon had heard rumors that Merlin had several mystical volumes in his private chamber in Camelot, but no art or artifice had enabled him to see into that cunning man’s sanctum. The extent of Merlin’s knowledge remained his own secret.
Perhaps then, they are not so foolish
, Euberacon admitted grudgingly to himself.
But they are yet not wise enough
.
First, he dealt with the trophies of his night’s work, plunging them into pots of honey, setting aside the hand which needed to be cured in spirits of wine. When he was finished, he washed his own hands in a silver basin, letting the action calm and clear his mind even as it purified his flesh. He discarded his gory robe, covering himself with the clean garments he kept in a cedar chest for when they were needed. The rich black cloth was trimmed and lined with fur and did some good to keep out the eternal chill.
From under a square of white linen, the sorcerer drew a silvery mirror one palm in breadth. He had made it from the sword of a man who had come too close to his refuge. He had heated and pounded and polished the artifact, working the over-bold wanderer’s blood into the reshaped steel. Around its rim, as prescribed, he had engraved the names of power — Latranoy, Iszarin, Bicol, Danmals, and the rest, with the name of Floron at the apex.
He laid the mirror on the smallest of his wooden tables and then turned to his work benches. In a clay bowl, he mixed together equal proportions of milk, honey and wine, whisking them together with a brush of fine twigs. He shook the brush over the mirror in the manner of a priest anointing a body with holy waters.
“
Bismille arathe mem lismissa gassim gisim galisim
,” he intoned. “
Darrgosim samaiaosim ralim ausini taxarim zaloimi hyacabanoy illete
.”
The chant wound on, snaking through the room, reaching out to the shadows, thickening them, bringing them weight and substance, like cobwebs, like nightmares. It called, it compelled, it bound. It wound itself around the mirror, found its substance sympathetic to its purpose and sank within it, infusing and transforming it, making what had been a tool of reflection into a window onto other worlds. The steel of it misted over, swirling, first white, then red, then black.
Judging the time was right, Euberacon hardened his voice. “Floron,” he spoke the demon’s name as a command. “Respond quickly in the mirror, as you are accustomed to appear.”
The black mist slowly took shape, forming itself into the likeness of a man riding a black stallion and carrying a black spear three ells long beneath his arm. The man had no face, not even eyes, only shadow, but all the same, Euberacon felt the figure’s burning hatred of him and of the power he wielded over it.
Euberacon smiled. “I would see the future days,” he said. “Show me what is to come for the ones who dwell secure in Camelot.”
The black horse stamped one hoof soundlessly, and the demon lost its coherent shape, once again becoming the swirling mist of shadow. Slowly, that mist took on new form and fresh color, and Euberacon looked deep, and the future became clear.
He saw the great hall of Camelot broken and in flames. He saw the famed cadre of the Round Table milling uselessly, their ranks broken for want of a leader. He saw Kerra laughing in the ruins, her ravens swirling overhead in a great and noisome cloud. He saw
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