The Rossem Project

The Meteorite - Part 2

     At first, nothing happened. He sensed the business end of the spell fumbling its way over the lump of cold iron, searching for something to latch onto and finding nothing. That must be what had happened every other time the spell had been tried, he realised. This foreign object, coming from an alien world, had no properties that the spell was able to recognise and use. The spell relied on the object having soaked up enough ambient magic that it retained a 'memory' of everything it had ever been, everything that had ever happened to it. Unfortunately, though, the alien variety of magic seemed to prevent ordinary magic from entering, the same way that an oily rag will not soak up water. That meant that no Identify spell would ever be able to work on the strange magical meteorite. It was fated to always be a mystery. An enigma whose secrets would never be revealed.

     Unless... An idea came to him and he concentrated on the strange, alien magic that only he was able to sense. He tried to guide the spell onto it, to tell it to use this as a template rather than the conventional magic it was used to. "Yes," he heard someone say. "Yes, that's the way." He resisted an urge to open his eyes to see who had spoken and continued to concentrate. How long did he have before the spell gave up and expired? He concentrated harder, mentally urging the spell on, willing it to make the connection...

     He felt something click in his mind and suddenly he was receiving images. His relief and joy were so great that he almost lost his concentration and he felt the spell wavering on the edge of failure. He heard an anxious intake of breath from several of the assembled wizards and hurriedly renewed his concentration, not wanting to have to face their anger if he failed them. The spell wavered again, the fuzzy, watery images shimmering and vibrating, but then it stabilised and he heaved a mental sigh of relief as the link settled down and strengthened. He, and all the assembled wizards, then gave a gasp of amazement at what he saw.

     Before being melted and almost vaporised by its fiery passage through Tharia's atmosphere, the meteorite had been a glorious and magnificent throne. A throne fit for an Emperor. The bulk of it was made of iron, but it was covered by a thin layer of purest gold, etched and pressed into the shape of climbing vines and tiny flowers, while above it reached two tall golden staves that seemed to be highly stylized gardening hoes. Sitting in the throne was an old man, his eyes squeezed closed with concentration. He had a long white beard, jeweled rings on his fingers where they rested on the arms of the throne and a high, bulbous black hat; shiny and featureless except for a strange floral pattern that resembled some of the patterns on the throne.

     The throne and its occupant were the only things that Thomas could see clearly. There were other things in the image but they were hazy and indistinct, as if seen through a dense fog. He had the impression that the throne was located in a large open space, a vast chamber of some kind. He strained to see more, but it was no good and he decided to end the spell, as it seemed to have achieved everything it could.

     Before he could do so, though, Saturn touched his arm and spoke into his ear. "We're going to try boosting the spell," he said. "Hang in there."

     Thomas nodded, and a moment later the image sprang into new clarity as the other wizards fed him more power.

     He could now see the throne chamber clearly. It was a huge hemisphere, at least fifty yards across, with ribs of some dull, dark material rising from the floor to meet at a point directly above the throne. He could now see that the throne was surrounded by a golden nimbus of light that rose above it until it formed a bar of almost solid radiance that reached up to the ceiling. There it passed out of sight, but a small portion of it was caught by the ribs and carried back down to the ground in pulsing globules of light. The whole chamber had the sense of being alive; of being the focal point of forces generated by the throne and channeled by the mind of the bearded man who sat there.