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The Curse of Apathy: Part 3


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#1 Guest_Ophidia_*

Posted 11 April 2003 - 10:49 AM

An Enjoyable Partnership: The Curse of Apathy


Part Three

Edwin was sat in the mage lab, poring over a spell scroll. This spell was turning out to be particularly annoying to scribe into his spellbook. He had his spellbook, such as it was, laid out on the table next to him, and the scroll unrolled beside it. Edwin’s spell book was not a particularly impressive one. The first few pages were literally scraps of waste paper, desperately scrounged from any source he could find when he had first been exiled. The page dedicated to the magic missile spell for instance, one of the first spells he’d found a scroll for, was made of light blue sugar paper, and had the words ‘finest quality apples’ on the inverse side.

Some Red Wizards had spell books bound in cured basilisk skin, others had their books covered with solid plates of gold and studded with jewels (impressive, Edwin felt, but impractical- the books weighed enough to make the mage in question’s knees buckle), or made of pure curdled raw magic from the elemental planes. One necromancer Edwin had known had a book infused with the essence of lost souls. It screamed when opened, and the necromancer in question got through a huge number of migraine-curing potions in the course of a month. Edwin’s original spellbook, back in Thay, had been bound in a gold-trimmed leather that changed from black to red when he, and only he, touched it. He had worked long and hard to ensoul it with a lesser air elemental, giving it its own rudimentary consciousness and ability to defend itself from thieves. It had even chosen a name for itself: Aeola. That ensouling spell had been the one that had earned him the right to call himself a Red Wizard.

Now, though, he had this tatty scrapbook, covered in faded brown leather, torn and scuffed. Its pages were all different sizes, and it had nothing more than the simplest warding spells to discourage the curious. And yet, oddly enough, it was more valuable to him now than Aeola had ever been. Unlike Aeola, he had had to strive and connive for every single spell, every single scrap of paper. Each page of his new book was a triumph over adversity, another moment in his life where he had proved his superiority over those around him.

With a start, he realised he was staring into midair. Bah, none of this wool-gathering was getting any work done! This irritating scroll still needed to be transcribed.

Morteus, morteus, preservatum…

He carefully copied the sentence into his book, and the scroll curled up yet again with a snap and rolled off the table.

Ert rekrinol, oratol! Stupid scroll!” He stood up and retrieved the errant scroll, before sitting down again. Whichever idiot had written this animate dead scroll had chosen very springy vellum, and it refused to sit flat. He carefully weighted the two ends of it down with spare potion bottles, and continued to write. Odd, that sentence. The usual word at that point in the Animate Dead spell was natomis, skeleton, not preservatum. Preservatum? Preserved?

There. The last sentence was written. The scroll started to blacken around the edges, and within a few moments, it had crumbled to dust. He sat back with satisfaction. Few realised the work involved in copying a spell from a scroll to a spellbook. It wasn’t a simple matter of making an exact copy; scrolls were not simple explanations of the method to cast a spell, they were magical items in their own right, containing the power needed for the spell to work. In order to write a spell from a scroll to a spellbook, one had to decipher exactly which part of the text was the spell, and which parts gave the spell its power in paper form. This time, like most times, he had been successful.

He placed his hands behind his head, and looked up at the ceiling, rocking backwards on the chair. He frowned slightly when he noticed a spider had made its web in the corner, and then nearly fell off his chair in shock at the sudden sharp, agonizing pain in his right wrist. Falling forward, he clasped his aching wrist in his other hand, and panted as his arm throbbed, hot and nauseating.

Edwin! Nalia’s voice sounded in his head, swirling with panic and shock.

What…is…that…pain?

I fell off a ladder! I think my wrist is broken, it’s at a funny angle! It really hurts! Edwin briefly saw an image of a feminine arm, the wrist offset, as if someone had sawed it off and put it back on without aligning it properly. Without even thinking about it, he stood up and headed up to the library.

I know it hurts!

Oh, yes, you would.

This is more than a mere potion can fix, I think. It needs to be professionally healed, or it won’t set straight. Edwin ran up the staircase to the second floor of the keep.

Yes, I think you’re right. We better go to the temple.

Not the temple of Ilmater again!

I worship Ilmater, so that’s where we’re going.

Edwin opened the door to the library. Nalia was sitting on the floor near a fallen ladder, looking pale and gasping with the pain, not daring to move her arm even an inch.

“Oh, alright! The temple of Ilmater it is. Obviously you consider humiliation to be an integral part of medicine.”

“I…can…make a donation…while we’re…there.” She gasped, between gritted teeth.

Edwin kneeled down beside her. “First of all, we have to immobilise the arm, otherwise travelling will be exceedingly unpleasant- for both of us.”

“Do you know how to?”

“Ah, er, no.”

“Neither do I!” Nalia said, almost wailing.

“Hmm.” Edwin said, thinking. “I think I have an alternative plan.”

“What?” Nalia looked up at him hopefully.

She trusts me. She truly does. Edwin thought briefly. Without giving her time to react, he quickly cast sleep on her. She slumped to the ground. The spell rebounded back on him but since he was expecting it, he resisted its soporific effect easily. The pain in his own wrist receded, and Nalia lay peacefully asleep, slumped against a bookcase.

He carefully scooped her up into his arms, hauled her into a chair, and then rang for the servants, rubbing his aching arms.

“Gods, Nalia,” He told the sleeping woman, “You’re too heavy.”

***


“That was a dirty trick you played on me.” Nalia remarked. She was sat on a soft bed in the infirmary of the Ilmater temple in the Athkatla Promenade, propped up by pillows, her crooked arm resting on a soft cushion.

“Was it.” Edwin said, noncommittally, studying his fingernails.

“Yes. I thought you were going to get some powerful painkilling herbal medicine, not knock me out! And what did you mean by ‘too heavy’?”

Edwin froze. “You heard that?”

“It’s kind of fuzzy, but yes.”

“I am an archmage!” Edwin declared. “I am not designed for hauling clumsy young women around.”

“Wouldn’t harm you to take a bit more exercise, you know. Soon build up those muscles.”

“I have no wish to metamorphose into a muscle-bound freak whose only purpose in life is to grunt and occasionally chew on teething rings.” Edwin retorted irritably. “And it wouldn’t harm you to lose a few pounds in weight.”

“Oh, hello again you two! I see you managed to get back to the right gender, then. Good to see, really.” A priest, dressed in grey robes, bustled in.

Nalia closed her eyes and sighed. “Yes, we did. Long story.”

“So, why are you in today? Got some horrible deadly curse that needs curing? Been poisoned? Or is it just a hangover?” The priest smiled good-naturedly.

“I find it hard to believe that a priest of your supposedly vast experience and knowledge can fail to recognise a simple broken wrist.”

The priest looked puzzled. “You haven’t got a broken wrist.”

“Not me, her!”

“Look, here you see? Ow!”

“Oh, a classical Colles fracture, very common injury. Yes. I’m afraid I’ll have to set it straight before I cast any healing spells.” The priest pursed his lips. “This is going to sting a bit.”

In other words, it’ll be utterly agonizing.

I really didn’t want to hear that. It’s my wrist he’s talking about.

Yes, but I will have the pleasure of feeling it too.

Oh, stop moaning.

I do not moan!

“Best to do it as soon as possible, I think.” He quickly passed over to Nalia’s right hand side, and took her hand in his skilled fingers. Nalia was surprised at the gentle touch of his clean, dry hands. No matter what she thought of this irritating Ilmateri, he was obviously highly skilled, his movements deft and precise. “Now, just relax and I’ll start manipulating it.”

He started to slowly pull at her hand, to separate the severed ends of bone from each other and position the fractured ends of the ulna for healing. Nalia gritted her teeth at the sickening sensation that spread up into her shoulder and neck, and gasped with the pain, unable to keep entirely quiet. She closed her eyes, refusing to watch her hand being moved independently of her wrist. The sensation got even worse as she felt the ends of the cracked bone grind against each other as the priest gradually hauled her wrist into the correct position for healing. Nalia let her breath out in a slow hiss.

Thud.

“Oh, for Gods’ sake, Edwin, get up!”

“Oh.” The priest said, leaning over in concern, but careful not to alter the position of Nalia’s wrist. “Is he a bit squeamish?”

“Not…exactly. He’ll be ok once my wrist is better.”

“If you say so.” The priest said, in puzzlement, torn between helping Edwin and keeping hold of Nalia’s wrist. “Well, it’s straight now, so it’s a simple matter to knit the bone. Now, don’t move an inch while I cast the spell.”

The priest took a step back, and then quickly cast a healing spell. All the pain and swelling in Nalia’s wrist instantly disappeared. She grinned, and bent her wrist, gingerly at first, then more confidently.

“Wonderful! It feels fine.”

“Yes? Oh, er good.” The priest still looked rather puzzled though, staring at Nalia with a deep frown on his face.

“What’s the matter?”

“I’m…not sure. Let me get high priest Zechrah, I think he’ll want to look at this.”

“Look at what?” Nalia asked, but the priest had left. She wiggled her fingers experimentally, then bent over to look at Edwin.

“You alright down there?”

Edwin shook himself, and stood up, scowling. “Fine. I am fine.” He said, angrily smoothing down his robes. “Idiot priest, lacking the skill to perform such a simple piece of surgery without catastrophe. (A fireball would increase his skills hugely.)”

They both looked up as a man dressed in the usual grey Ilmateri robes, this time with red trimming, walked in.

“Healer Thaddeus here has asked me to take a look at your case, as long as you don’t mind. We think there might be something unusual going on.” The man, presumably Zechrah, said.

“Unusual? How? It’s just a broken wrist.”

“Oh, it’s not that we’re worried about.” The high priest looked closely at Nalia, then at Edwin. “Do you two realise you’ve been cursed?”

Nalia’s eyebrows shot up. “Cursed? What with? How?”

“We’re not sure, yet. Thaddeus noticed the signs while he was healing you, and we decided we better discuss it with you. It is powerful, though, and personalised. Sadly, curses designed for one person don’t respond well to the remove curse prayer. Well, actually, they don’t respond at all.”

Edwin slowly sat down, face pale. “A curse. We’re under a curse.” How did she do it? How did she manage it?

“Um, would it be possible for you to stay here for a bit?” Thaddeus asked. “We might be able to help, if we can see if and how the curse’s effect changes over time. Perhaps we could slow it down.”

“Slow it down?” Nalia asked.

Thaddeus sighed. “I must be honest with you. Even while you’ve been here, it’s got stronger. That’s a bad sign, a very bad sign.” He took a deep breath. “Whoever designed this curse, did so very well. It looks…” His voice petered out, and he blinked quickly.

“What? Speak, priest.”

Zechrah continued, a soft, sympathetic expression on his face. “This curse looks to be a fatal one. You’re both dying.”




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