by R. L. King
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re making a portal.”
“Of a sort, yes. It’s not a true portal—that would have been far too complicated and expensive to do here. But when I activate the circle, if everything goes as planned, opening this door will open a way to Harrison’s dimension.”
“Why do you need it, though? I remember you told me about the time you went to fight that demon—what was his name again? Archie or something? I thought you just summoned a spirit to take you through.”
“Yes, but this is different. This time, I need to do more than send my spirit through—my body has to go too. That’s more difficult to manage.”
She gripped his arm. “But…if you send your body through this doorway, how are you going to get back? I assume the portal doesn’t just stay open the whole time, right?”
“Correct. Far too dangerous to leave an open portal to our world hanging about unattended, not to mention keeping it powered that long would require a lot more preparation and work than I have time for. When I finish what I’ve got to do there, I’ll either have to build another portal to come home or, if I’m lucky, Harrison can just send me back.”
“That’s a lot of ifs.”
“It is,” he agreed. “But nobody ever made a useful magical discovery by sitting on his arse watching chat shows, did they?”
“I wouldn’t know— I’ve never made one,” Verity said dryly. She took his other arm and pulled him around to face her. “You’re sure you have to do this? I know it’s pointless to ask, but I have to take one last shot.”
In answer, he leaned forward and kissed the top of her head. He felt her hands trembling, and shifting to magical sight revealed her unquiet aura. He nodded toward a chair on the far side of the room, pushed up against the wall next to the bookshelves. “Please sit over there, and no matter what happens, do not interfere with the circle. I’m not exactly sure how this is going to appear. Haven’t had a chance to test it. And just to be safe, leave the circle standing afterward.”
“Doc…” She let her hands drop from his arms, then pulled him into a hug. “You know all I want to do right now is go running through that circle, messing everything up and making it so you can’t do this.”
“I know that.” In truth, part of him wanted to do that too—or wished she would. He nodded toward the chair again. “Off you go, then. There’s a notepad on the desk if you want to take notes. Watch with magical sight—I think it will be quite a show, if nothing else.”
With clear reluctance, she stepped back and carefully skirted the circle’s edge. Despite her stated desire, she moved as gracefully as ever and never came close to smudging any of the edges.
After pausing to pick up the notepad and a pen from Stone’s desk, she settled herself in the chair. “No luggage?” she asked with a shaky chuckle.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he took several deep breaths and levitated into the center of the circle, where he stood facing the door. Glancing to his left and right, he saw his own reflection in two of the small mirrors he’d placed and wasn’t surprised that he looked as if he’d seen a ghost—perhaps even his own. Clad in faded jeans and a black T-shirt featuring Pink Floyd’s iconic “Dark Side of the Moon” rainbow prism, he looked more pale than usual, his dark hair tousled and his bright blue eyes shadowed with stress. He hadn’t chosen the shirt on purpose, but now he thought with amusement that it was strangely apropos. For all he knew about his destination, he might as well be going to the dark side of the moon.
He checked the sigils one last time, verifying he’d built in the components he needed. The inner part represented this world, while the outer edges contained the essence of Harrison’s magical source, gleaned from numerous tiny castings where he’d touched that source and done his best to understand it. Whether he’d been successful would remain to be seen, since like the portal itself there was no way to test it. No dry runs, no dress rehearsals. You only got one chance with this kind of magic, which is why the vast majority of modern-day mages possessed neither the knowledge nor the courage (or perhaps foolhardiness, depending on who you asked) to try it.
The last part of the circle, between the inner and outer sections, consisted of a narrow band of what looked like odd writing interspersed with more tiny sigils. Stone had produced this entire section using a quill pen and his own blood, painstakingly hunched over as he inscribed it. He had no idea if it would work, but if he’d done the job properly, it would add a sort of ‘universal translator’ component to the ritual, allowing him to communicate with any sentient denizens of Harrison’s dimension and they with him. It wasn’t a physical thing—he wouldn’t instantly know whatever languages they spoke there, nor would they know his—but instead combined a highly limited form of telepathy with a specialized version of aura reading to convey meaning and even some nuance. While it was true that mages couldn’t read minds, it was possible to get surface thoughts through careful preparation and a skill with auras. It might not be necessary at all—Harrison was a private man, and for all Stone knew he spent his time in some hidden pocket dimension with no other denizens—but it hadn’t taken long to add the component.
By now, he’d forgotten Verity was even in the room with him. He turned slowly in place, using magic to light the individual candles and braziers. With a wave of his hand he brought over a bag from one of the bookshelves. After hanging its strap over his shoulder, he removed a small jar and opened it. Inside was a substance he’d prepared, containing more of his dried blood and a clipping of his hair. He took pinches of the substance and placed one in each of the three braziers: two on either side of the door and one behind him. All three flared different colors—the one to the left of the door the gold-tinged purple of his own aura; the one to the right the pulsing black and ultraviolet of Harrison’s; the one behind him the silvery-gold of the energy from Harrison’s dimension.
To his right and left, the mirrors now revealed shadowy, writhing figures behind his own reflection.
Under his breath, he murmured a protective invocation, designed to conceal him from anything that might develop an interest in the ritual. So far, the figures didn’t appear to have noticed his activity, but he couldn’t dawdle now. He couldn’t keep this up forever, and if he lost his nerve at this point, the consequences could be devastating.
Last step, now.
Stone put the lid back on the jar, returned it to the bag, and withdrew a black-bladed knife. He floated the bag back to its original spot on the shelf, then gripped the knife in a shaking hand.
It all came down to this.
He glanced to the sides again, unable to resist another look at the figures in the mirror.
There were more of them now: two on one side, three on the other. They moved around as if walking through a room, but on each side, one appeared to have noticed his reflection. They moved toward it slowly, hesitantly, looking very much as he might if an unfamiliar entity had suddenly appeared in his midst. Studying. Hostile? Stone had no way to know. Best to hurry, in any case.
He stepped forward, still gripping the knife. He had prepared a path, lined on both sides with sigils and protective symbols, leading from the center of the circle to the door. He walked that path now—one step, two, three—until he stood in front of the closed portal.
From here, he could feel it thrumming with latent energy, even now when he hadn’t made the final connection that would send power, from his own magic and from Harrison’s energy source, coursing through it. Once the final conduit was in place, if he’d done this correctly, opening the door would reveal a portal that would take him directly to his destination. If fortune truly smiled upon his efforts, he might even get a brief second to evaluate what was on the other side, to prevent himself from stepping through into a conflagration of energy that would vaporize him instantly.
If he wasn’t lucky, he’d simply have to take a leap of faith and hope for the best.
But he wouldn’t know any of that until he made that final connection.
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br /> He tightened his grip on the knife handle, opened his other hand, and before he could lose his nerve, drew the blade across his palm. The blood for this final part of the ritual needed to be as fresh as possible.
Pain flared, and bright red blood welled up from the slash.
Holding his hand palm-up and cupping it so none of the blood would be lost, he lowered the knife to the floor. Then he stood again and faced the door. He dipped the index finger of his non-slashed hand in the blood, contemplated it a moment, and then began tracing additional figures on the portal’s surface. Every few seconds he had to re-dip his finger, and everywhere he traced, the blood glowed a warm gold-red, illuminating his work. All the while he did this, he murmured an incantation under his breath. His hand shook, but he managed to hold it steady enough to complete the symbols he was inscribing.
After a few minutes, he finished his work. As he drew the last of the symbols and used one final stroke to link the final two together, the warm red-gold glow intensified, becoming less red and more gold. The images he’d drawn complemented the ones he’d added previously, tying them together into an intricate, roughly circular image about a foot in diameter.
“There we go…” he whispered, weaving a quick healing spell to seal the slash on his hand. Chancing a final glance to either side of him, he saw that there were now even more shadowy figures passing each other in the mirrors. So far, only the two—one on each side—seemed to be at all aware of him, though. They circled his reflection, occasionally reaching out with a tentative finger as if trying to touch him. Their postures radiated tension and confusion.
It was time to go.
Stone didn’t look back at Verity—mostly because he feared if he did, he might lose his nerve and give up the whole mad plan. Instead, he straightened his shoulders and faced the door, which was still glowing with the pulsing golden light.
He extended his non-bloody hand, grasped the doorknob, and pulled the door open.
Inside, he saw nothing but more golden light and fog; no sign of the shadowy figures he’d seen in the mirrors. He thought for an instant that he might have seen the spires of faraway buildings, but the fog obscured them before he could be sure.
Clearly, there would be no hints.
Leap of faith it was, then.
“See you on the dark side of the moon…” he muttered, and stepped through the portal.
4
Fog swirled all around him, engulfing him. Some of it seemed to be physical, blocking any view of what might be surrounding him, but a different kind of fog rose in his brain. His vision swam, and suddenly he felt himself swaying. Instinctively he reached for the door frame, which should have been directly behind him, intending to steady himself against it until the feeling settled and he could move forward.
His groping hand touched nothing but air.
Heart pounding, he turned back to where the doorway should have been, and a chill gripped him.
The physical fog was already receding, but behind him he saw what looked like an expanse of pale street, and the tall forms of structures rising on the other side. Even though his vision was still blurry, and he couldn’t clearly make out anything more than a few feet away from him in the dim glow of an elaborate streetlight, he knew one thing for certain: the doorway was gone.
He’d barely gone through, only moved a step away, but already it had vanished. That wasn’t supposed to happen: portals, even temporary ones, usually remained for at least a few moments before fading, but this one had lasted only until he’d passed completely through it.
He blinked a couple times and staggered sideways as the swimmy feeling in his head intensified. Where was he? Had he made it to his destination, or was he somewhere else?
Got to find someplace to rest. It wasn’t safe to be disoriented in an unfamiliar dimension—not when he had no idea if the residents were friendly. He’d just find a hiding place to lie low for a bit until he felt better, then venture out and try to locate someone he could question about where he was.
“You!” a sudden, sharp voice called from off to his left.
Stone froze, spinning toward the sound. His head swam again and he staggered once more, but the shot of adrenaline made a start at clearing his mind.
Three figures approached. All of them were tall and male; in the pale twilight he couldn’t make out details, but the lines of their clothes looked unfamiliar.
“Yes, you,” another of the three snapped. His voice sounded clipped, imperious—the kind that was used to being obeyed—but also relatively young. Perhaps early twenties, if that.
As the group drew closer, they stepped under the streetlight, giving Stone a better look at them. All three had shoulder-length hair and wore close-fitting pants, high boots, and sweeping, high-collared long coats that fluttered behind them like cloaks. Each coat had various pins and adornments attached to its collar and lapels, but Stone couldn’t make out the details. He’d been correct about their ages: all of the men had young, unlined faces, and all featured the sneering, confident expressions of those who knew they had the upper hand.
Be calm, he told himself. Already the adrenaline had done its job; the swimmy vertigo had all but faded. He could deal with these young men if he needed to, but perhaps they could give him some information first.
“What can I do for you?” he asked. At least the translation component of the ritual seemed to be working.
“‘What can I do for you?’” one of the men mocked. Pale and well-built, he had yellow-blond hair and the handsome, fleshy face of someone who habitually overindulged in many ways. He stepped forward, and his two friends joined him. “Listen to him.”
They formed a ring around Stone, all three studying him as if he were something they’d just discovered on the bottom of their spotless boots.
“What are you doing here?” a second, with dark brown hair tied back in a ponytail, demanded. His tone was what one might use to address a dull-witted underling. “Are you lost?”
Now that they were closer to him, Stone could get a better look. Still doing his best to remain calm, he turned slowly and took them in one at a time. The third one, taller and thinner than his friends, had lighter brown hair. All three were clean-shaven, and carried themselves with the unmistakable air of wealth and privilege—Stone had seen enough of it growing up that he recognized it instantly. Their outfits were well made and similar: the same snug-fitting pants, boots, and sweeping, high-collared coats—but had enough stylistic variation that they didn’t look like uniforms. Similar to a group of men on Earth wearing different suits, he decided. The only thing the coats had in common was that they were all some shade of blue.
“Darien asked you a question, dim pig,” the blond man said. “You will answer.”
Dim pig? That’s an odd insult. Wondering if the translation spell had handled it properly, he turned pointedly back to the man who’d spoken. “Yes. I’m lost. Perhaps you might help me?”
The blond man stared at him in astonishment. “Show me your papers. Who do you work for?”
“Papers?”
Now all of them were looking at him as if he were slow of wit. “Your papers, fool. Where is your identification? Your work permit? Show us now!”
Stone patted his back pocket, but he hadn’t brought his wallet with him. What good would his driver’s license and green card have done him on some other dimension? “Listen,” he said, trying to sound reasonable and not at all ‘dim.’ “I haven’t got it with me. I’ve just arrived in town, and I’m looking for someone. I’m sure if I find him, he can straighten this all out. If you can just point me toward—”
The blond man smiled slyly at the dark-haired one, Darien. “This dim pig has no papers. No identification. No right to be in our city.”
“Indeed,” Darien said. He looked Stone up and down, taking in his faded jeans and black T-shirt, and wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Why are you dirtying our streets, scum? Who are you looking for?”
“A man named Har
rison. Do you know him?” It was a long shot, especially given Harrison’s previously demonstrated preference for privacy. But he had to try.
“Never heard of him.”
“We should turn him over to the guard,” the third man said.
The blond man’s smile widened, and something unwholesome appeared in his eyes. “Oh, we’ll do that. Can’t have dim trash fouling our city. But not yet.” He glanced around as if trying to spot anyone else who might be approaching, but the street around them appeared deserted. “I think we should have some fun with him first. It’s not every day we find little lost pigs in Temolan. Usually I have to go down to Drendell and get my boots dirty to find them.”
Stone took a step back. “Not a good idea,” he said evenly. “If you won’t help me, why don’t you just go on your way and I’ll find someone else who will.”
“‘Not a good idea,’” the third man repeated, laughing, doing a poor attempt at mimicking Stone’s accent. He moved forward, positioning himself so he and his friends once again ringed Stone. “I think he’s dim in more ways than one, don’t you, Kethias?” He pointed at his own head and made a face suggesting mental deficiency.
“What’s your name, pig?” the blond man, Kethias, asked.
Stone glared at him. “Well, it’s bloody well not ‘pig.’ Get out of my way.” He started forward. If they gave him any trouble, he’d show them why it wasn’t a good idea to mess with strangers before you had any idea what they might be capable of.
Something picked him up and flung him out of the street. Before he could get his bearings and react, he slammed hard into a wall and crashed to the ground. Pain lit up his back as he struggled to rise; footsteps approached and then the three of them were there again, looming over him.
“You don’t give orders to the Talented, pig. Not if you want to keep your filthy hide in one piece,” Kethias said. He didn’t look mocking now.
