The Magicians of Night - By Barbara Hambly Page 0,22
giving Poincelles—the only thing resembling a maverick among the group—any information that could be used against him.
“My insight into this n-new line of reasoning,” Baldur began in his reedy tenor, “goes back, I think, to Major Hagen’s d-death...”
And for one cold, sickening instant Rhion thought, They’ve guessed...
The boy sniffled loudly and pushed his glasses more firmly into place on his nose. “He d-died stepping into the Dark Well, you see. And it was only after that, as he was dying, that our spells reached out into the Void and got anywhere. It must have been his death that released the magic.”
They haven’t guessed, Rhion thought, shaken with relief. They hadn’t stumbled into the keystone of his own secret.
Then he realized what conclusion Baldur had stumbled into.
“Now in the Grimoire of Pope Leo, and d’Ehrliffe’s Cube des Goules, and in any number of letters and diaries, there are reports of power being raised by drawing it out of a human being at d-death. We have partial accounts of the Blue Hummingbird Society of the Aztecs, and these tally closely with what we know of the rites practiced by the Adepts of the Shining C-Crystal in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries—”
“No!” Rhion cried sharply, almost before he was aware he was speaking.
“DON’T INTERRUPT ME!” the boy screamed passionately. “Everybody’s always interrupting me! Here!” He fumbled in the notes, dropping papers all around him like a tree shedding leaves in a high wind. “There are seven references in the Vatican letters, two in the communications of the Fuger banking house, one in Nostradamus’ third letter to the Viscountess de la Pore and in Bemal D-Diaz’s account of—”
“I’m not arguing that you can’t make magic from the energies released from the human psyche at death,” Rhion retorted, aware from the corner of his eye of the interest on the candlelit faces of Poincelles and Gall. “But it’s a damn dangerous thing to do and in my world there isn’t a respectable wizard who’d try it... I take it you’re not talking about using volunteers.”
“Of course not!” Gall snapped indignantly. “The ancient Druids raised power from the sacrifice of prisoners of war! The spirits of the noblest of their foes...”
“Here!” Baldur straightened up and thrust out a mass of references with trembling hands. “Letter from Gustavus Dremmel to the Fugers, November of 1612. ‘B-by reliable witnesses these Adepts have been seen, by various rites and ceremonies involving the murder of the aforesaid wo-wo-women, to empower talismans which later enabled them to find hidden treasure, to drink poisons unscathed, to draw the love of both wo-wo-women and men...’ ”
“Well, that should interest you, at any rate,” Poincelles remarked sotto voce, studying his pointed fingernails.
“If we c-could discover what those rites were...”
“Is it truly so dangerous?” Von Rath crossed his knees, his tall boots gleaming like oil in the wavering light. “You understand that we are willing to take the risk.”
YOU are willing?!? Rhion almost shouted at him. But there was nothing in those grave eyes that he could shout it to.
There was long silence, von Rath waiting politely for his answer, and Rhion, struggling with shock and outrage, trying to come up with an argument against murder that the Nazi would credit. At length he said, “You seem to think dropping dead like Hagen did is the only thing that will happen. You’ve never seen a magic field go septic. I’ve talked to people who have. I’m telling you: Don’t do it.”
Down at his end of the table Jacobus Gall straightened his thin shoulders militantly and stroked his flowing silver beard. “That is nonsense. On Witches Hill, in my dreams of ancient days, I saw the ancient priests cut the throats of their tribal enemies, pouring out the sacred blood of sacrifice to bring them victory...”
“As you saw the Roman legions surrounded and routed by their Teutonic foes in places the maps show to have been permanently underwater since the retreat of the last glacier?” Poincelles retorted, his black eyes glinting wickedly.
“You understand none of these things.”
“My friends...” The Frenchman raised his hands. “We’ve gone to a great deal of trouble to bring in an expert as a consultant, and while I’ve got no objections on principle to slitting a few throats, I’d say that we listen when he says something is dangerous, because he does know more about this than we do. But it’s up to you—do as you please.” And with that he pushed with his flat, bony shoulders against the doorframe and stood