The older magician smirked and snapped his fingers. His entire hand was engulfed in flame. Simon indicated he should apply the fire to the paper. Nick waved his glowing hand near the sheet. Immediately the thin paper smoldered and crinkled, then vanished in a puff of white smoke. Both men stared at the sword. The runes were now transferred onto the blade in ashy black.
Simon settled himself in a chair before the desk. He produced a carved ivory case that contained a beautiful pen that, in place of the nib, held a thin needle. He took up the inkwell and ran his finger over the glass, feeling the etched rune on it. He said a strange word rarely spoken aloud. Green wisps suddenly appeared inside the bottle like smoky snakes. Simon could feel the power as its proximity resonated; all his senses awakened to its seductive call.
He dipped the needle-tipped pen into the green aether. He hunched over the blade and carefully began to apply the glowing instrument to the blackened runes. If he got even one slight inscription wrong, it would be a waste of time and the ruin of a perfectly good stick sword.
After only a few strokes onto the steel, he went back to the inkwell and it was clear again. Once more, he spoke aether into the bottle, dipped the pen, and returned to his scribing. He continued this procedure as he worked his way down the thin blade. He must have been perspiring for suddenly a cloth patted his forehead and he paused to smile gratefully at Nick. He flexed his hand to ease the cramping. He took in his art and he smiled. The sword was incised beautifully, making the new blade appear eons old. Then he bent to complete the final strokes, and the moment he did, the blade flared a brilliant hue of emerald. Simon touched the blade and whispered, and the glow altered to a watery blue.
“Well done, old boy.” Nick stepped back with an exclamation but quickly came forward again when the glow faded and the blade lay dormant upon the table. “What does it do other than glow?”
Simon announced with a smile, “Think of it as thaumaturgical galvanism. When active, it will be like holding the heat of a bolt of lightning.”
“That seems safe enough.”
Simon accepted the cloth and wiped his face. He stretched out his tight shoulders and laughed. “And it didn’t take nearly as long as I suspected.”
Nick pointed to the mantel clock. “Three hours.”
Simon thought his friend was playing a joke, so he checked it against his pocket watch. In fact, it had been more than three hours since he sat down before the sword to inscribe it. “Well. I suppose I should get dressed for the party. Wouldn’t want a nasty comment in the papers tomorrow.” He jumped up but had to put out a hand to steady himself as the room tilted.
“Easy.” Nick took his elbow in a firm grip. “You’ve a touch of aether euphoria.”
“Nonsense, I’m as fresh as a baby,” Simon exclaimed before taking a few staggering steps with knees that felt far too unsteady. “I’ll just have a seat.”
“Wise.” Nick guided him back to the chair. “You used a lot of aether for that sword. I’m surprised you’re even coherent.”
Simon shook his head to clear it. “When will I stop being impacted by aether this way?”
The older magician said, “I’ve seen a few who always have it. It’s just the way it is for them. Others, like me, never have even a touch of aether drunkenness. We burn out of aether temporarily if we use too much, but we don’t get falling-down stupid and start laughing like an imbecile. You’re too eager. You burn through aether too fast. You’ll probably get past it.”
Simon sat back and closed his eyes. He had to admit, he actually enjoyed the sensation of aether euphoria, but he knew it had a price. It limited the length of time he could practice magic, and it could be a danger if he was overcome by it during a dangerous struggle, as with the werewolf in the Rookery.
Nick pulled his overcoat off the arm of a chair and plunged a hand into the pocket. He came out with a small crystal vial. He shook it to determine if there was still clear liquid inside. He thumbed off the cork and drank. Nick scowled at the taste but then made a few peculiar motions with his hands. The unshaven, slovenly man shimmered and was replaced by a finely dressed young aristocrat. He was a handsome, almost pretty, young man with wavy blond hair and shapely lips that might have been rouged in the old style. Nick turned to survey himself in a wall mirror that was largely covered by coats.
“I’m ready for the party.” Nick’s gravelly voice issued from the lovely young man’s mouth. “Sir Thomas Wolfolk won’t mind if I’m him tonight.”
“You go on ahead.” Simon replaced the blade in its wooden sheath. “You’ll forgive me if I shave and put on actual dinner clothes.” He began to unbutton his waistcoat.
“Do you have time?”
Simon gave the man a cold stare. “You’re not suggesting I arrive early at a party, are you?”
“God forbid even a lycanthrope deny Simon Archer a fashionable entrance.”
Simon eased himself back to his feet, grateful the euphoria was waning. He saluted with the walking stick and kicked off his shoes into the hallway. He hurried upstairs to dress, beginning to enjoy the anticipation over the coming evening.
Chapter Three