Prologue
The young wizard produced a small phial from the sleeve of his robe. The glass container was housed in a cage of silver filigree, hardened by subtle magics and locked to any who lacked the password. The only hint of sorcery was the way the metal gleamed softly, even in perfect darkness.
Michael raised the phial to his lips and whispered, "Civitate dei." The silver cage released with a soft clack. The wizard retrieved the stoppered glass container from within. Inside, a pointy piece of bone floated at middle height in cloudy water. A pinky bone – the rightmost distal phalange of a deceased human.
Necromancy itself was not strictly forbidden at Blackthorne, Michael reflected. Here in the cellars below the cathedral, the thick stone walls had been impregnated with unrefined salt and powdered rust from coffin nails – proof against all but the most malevolent spirits and revenants.
Taking his wand in hand, it took the young wizard three tries to wrap the bone in a thin stream of magical energy – it kept stubbornly slipping free of its own will. Finally he was able to levitate the little bone over a silver bowl of water. When he released it, the small shard slipped below the surface without a splash, and floated at middle depth rather than sank. A soft white light glimmered off the silver walls of the bowl.
In theory, Michael thought, it should behave exactly like a pensieve. Not that he'd ever used one, of course, but any student of magical history worth their wand should be able to recall at least three instances out of hand upon which a pensieve was used as evidence before the Wizengamot. Most recently, the posthumus exoneration of Professor Severus Snape of Hogwarts following that failed coup d'état in Britain came to mind.
Raising his wand once more, Michael extinguished the candles in their sconces along the stone walls of the little chamber. As he removed his glasses, he noticed that his hands were shaking. He took a breath to still himself, and whispered, "A true scholar ventures forth without fear in the realm of the mind." Closing his eyes, he lowered his face into the silver basin.
The water never seemed to touch his skin, yet he felt a sensation at once both warm and cold against his skin. The soft silvery light seemed visible even through his eyelids. A doorway appeared before his mind's eye – an ancient wooden door set in stone, with a ring rather than handle or knob. Understanding at once, he took hold of the ring and pulled the door open inward. Cold white light flooded through, setting his head ablaze with pain. Michael screamed.