I shivered and shook the image away. Cassius was thoroughly dead. I knew that. An outcast member of the society of demented freaks known as the Knights of the Blackened Denarius, Cassius had thrown in with an insane necromancer in order to get a chance to even a score with me. He’d come within a hairbreadth of dissecting me. I was able to take him down in the end—and he’d uttered a death curse as he croaked. Such a curse, a spell uttered in the last instants of life, could have hideous effects upon its victim. His curse, for me to die alone, was pretty vague as such things went. It might not even have had enough power or focus to take.
Sure. Maybe it hadn’t.
“Hello?” I said to the darkness. “Is anyone there?”
There wasn’t.
Die alone.
“Stop that,” I snapped out loud. “Control yourself, Dresden.”
That sounded like good advice. So I started taking deep, steady, controlled breaths and tried to focus my thoughts. Focus. Forethought. Reason. Sound judgment. That was what was going to get me through this.
Fact one: My daughter was still in danger.
Fact two: I was hurt. Maybe badly. Maybe forever. Even the efficient resilience of a wizard’s body had its limits, and a broken spine was quite likely beyond them.
Fact three: Susan and Martin could not get the girl out on their own.
Fact four: There wasn’t a lot of help forthcoming. Maybe, with Sanya along, the suicidal mission could be considered only mostly suicidal. After all, the Knights of the Cross were a big deal. Three of them were, apparently, enough Knights to protect the whole world. For the past few years, the dark-skinned Russian had been covering all three positions, and apparently doing it well. Which made a vague amount of sense, I suppose—Sanya was the wielder of Esperacchius, the Sword of Hope. We needed hope right now. At least, I did.
Fact five: I had missed the rendezvous with Ebenezar many hours ago. I’d never intended to go, and there was nothing I could do about the fact that he was going to be upset—but my absence had probably cost me the support of the Grey Council, such as it was.
Fact six: Sanya, Susan, Martin, and whatever other scanty help I could drum up couldn’t get to Chichén Itzá without me—and I sure as hell couldn’t get there in the shape I was in. According to the stored memories in my mother’s jewel, the Way required a swim.
Fact seven: I was going to Show Up for my daughter, and to hell with what it would cost.
And there were only so many options open to me.
I took the least terrifying one. I closed my eyes, steadied my breathing, and began to picture a room in my mind. My now-ruined improved summoning circle was in the floor. Candles were lit at five equidistant points around it. The air smelled of sandalwood incense and burned wax. It took a few minutes to picture it all, in perfect detail, and to hold it in my mind, as rock solid to my imagination as the actual room the construct was replacing.
That took considerable energy and discipline.
Magic doesn’t require props to function. That’s a conceit that has been widely propitiated by the wizarding community over the centuries. It helped prove to frightened villagers, inquisitions, and whoever else might be worried that a person was clearly not a wizard. Otherwise he’d have all kinds of wizardly implements necessary to his craft.
Magic doesn’t require the props, but magic is wrought by people, and people need them. Each prop has a symbolic as well as a practical reason for being a part of any spell. Simple stuff, lighting candles and the like, could be accomplished neatly in the mind, eventually becoming a task as easy and thoughtless as tying one’s shoe.
Once you got into the complicated stuff, though, you had an enormous number of things to keep track of in your mind, envisioning flows of energy, their manipulation, and so on. If you have the real props, they serve as a sort of mnemonic device: You attach a certain image to the prop, in your head, and every time you see or touch that prop, the image is packaged along with it. Simple.
Except that I didn’t have any props.
I was winging the whole thing. Pure imagination. Pure concentration.
Pure arrogance, really. But I was at a lower rock bottom than normal.
In my thoughts I lit the candles, walking slowly around the circle in a clockwise fashion—or deosil,