Songs of the Dying Earth

The mute minutes expired. At last, his host placed a meal on the table — a simple dinner of stewed roots, spiced seed paste, wild gerufion, and fried grass cakes. Together they ate in silence. Upon finishing the last of his gerufion, Tcheruke finally spoke.

“I have pondered at length and formulated a theory. It is my belief that your difficulty roots itself in some congenital defect.”

“I think not. Prior to my ingestion of an unidentifiable poison, I enjoyed excellent health.”

“An infirmity so subtle in nature may well have escaped your attention. It may be no more than a minute glandular malfunction. An invisible occlusion, a sneaking sclerosis, a dangling ganglion. Once I have discovered the cause, the cure will doubtless suggest itself. To this end, I require the index finger of your right hand for purposes of testing and analysis. Come, let us perform the amputation. You will find that my title is not unearned.”

Farnol blinked. “Does no practical alternative exist?”

Tcheruke considered. “A half gill of your blood might perhaps suffice, but only at cost of efficiency. Confirmation of results is likely to be delayed by the term of two hours, if not more.”

“I will sacrifice the hours.”

“As you will.”

The blood was drawn, and Tcheruke commenced an examination. Farnol withdrew to a sleeping niche no larger than a coffin, where the small internal flame kept him wakeful for hours.

He emerged in the morning to discover his host again or still seated crosslegged at the low table in the main chamber.

“Ah, young man, be happy.” Tcheruke radiated dignified triumph. “I have solved the mystery, and your troubles are at an end.”

“Indeed?” Farnol’s hopes bounded.

“It is as I surmised. A small chemical imbalance of the blood prevents your complete assimilation of sorcerous spells. This matter is easily resolved. Ingestion of a certain elixir corrects the flaw. The elixir is readily prepared, and I am willing to do so, for I tread the Path of the Xence Xord. The only contribution I ask of you is your assistance in obtaining the last of the necessary ingredients. Only one is wanting.”

“Name it. I will supply the lack.”

“You must bring me the headstone of a pelgrane.”

“A pelgrane.” Farnol repressed a shudder. “I see. Where is such an item to be purchased?”

“Nowhere on this earth, so far as I know.”

“It is possible to kill a pelgrane, but scarcely without benefit of magic, or at least a squadron of heavily armed assistants. I have neither.”

“Do not look so chapfallen. There is another possibility. Why think of confronting a live pelgrane, when you need only locate a dead one?”

“Not easily accomplished. If I am not mistaken, the pelgrane are believed to devour their own dead.”

“Unverified, and irrelevant. The pelgrane’s headstone is indigestible. If consumed, it will eventually reappear. There is a beautiful inevitability about it.”

“Then I must discreetly scour the known haunts of these winged gluttons.”

“Very discreetly, I would advise. A modest self-effacement is never inappropriate. To this end, I will invest you with a magical appurtenance whose use requires no skill — the Chameleon Mask, affording matchless excellence in protective coloration.”

“How shall I recognize the headstone that I seek?”

“It is the size of a bean, mottled ultramarine and ocher, marked with points of black glow that drift restlessly about its surface. A colony of pelgrane is known to infest the region north of Porphiron Scar, and it is there I suggest that you search.”

“That is a distance demanding of some time.” Almost unconsciously, as had become his habit of late, Farnol pressed a hand to his stomach, and the heat from within reached his palm.

“Ah.” Tcheruke the Vivisectionist shivered his cloak in sympathy. “There again, I can assist. I will give you a vial of the Stolen Repose. One sip of the soporific oil compresses eight hours of sleep into the space of twenty minutes. Beware, however. Two sips, and you are likely to sleep for a month. In this wise, you may vastly increase your waking hours of travel.”

“But if my body enjoys eight stolen hours of sleep, will not the poison within likewise enjoy eight stolen hours in which to continue its work?”

“That is an interesting question. You must experiment, and inform me of the results. Come, time presses.”

Farnol breakfasted upon boiled pods, leftover grass cakes, and tart stringeberry juice. His host presented him with the promised magical articles, which he placed in his pouch, and a small sack of provisions. There was little else to carry, for the bulk of his belongings, stowed in his saddle bags, had vanished along with his horse. At the last, he paused to address the magician. “I shall return as swiftly as may be. Should I fail in the search, and we do not meet again, allow me to thank you for your hospitality and generosity alike. You have done honor to the Xence Xord.”

“No thanks are necessary. I relish the opportunity to acquire the pelgrane’s headstone. In all truth, I have wanted one for years.”