When the sun hath fled, and supper is done, my mistress taketh up a great slate of black glass, which waketh at her touch and bloometh with colours, like a window opened upon some distant land. From its flanks she draweth forth two small wands, one for either hand, and at her bidding the slate itself is cleft in twain. I knew not that a slate could be so obedient.
She settleth upon the cushioned bench. I spring to its arm, as becometh a familiar, and there I keep my watch.
Within the glass there walketh a young knave, clad in the green of a forester, and he is utterly in her thrall. She turneth her thumb and he runneth; she presseth a button and he swingeth his blade. He speaketh little, save for grunts and sighs, which is the way of all bound creatures. About his head fluttereth a tiny winged mote of light, which chide him without ceasing, like a goodwife at market.
A familiar! The knave hath a familiar of his own!
I felt at once a professional kinship, and, I confess, a smaller and meaner jealousy, for the creature flieth better than I.
Together, mistress and knave descend into hollow trees and hidden caverns, into temples of water and temples of fire. They wrestle with levers and heavy blocks, and smite great spiders, serpents, and walking bones. All this my mistress doth with the fixed stare of one who hath quite forgotten her own body. Indeed, she forgetteth supper, the hour, and, on occasion, even me.
Yet the most terrible sorcery was still to come.
The knave drew forth a little pipe of clay, whereupon my mistress moved her fingers upon the wands in some intricate pattern, and a strange and lovely tune arose from the slate.
And lo! The sun within the glass hastened across the heavens, and night became day.
She played another tune, and the knave was lifted clean out of his age and set down in another, grown taller of limb and graver of face. Time itself bowed to her fingers.
I, who have died once and therefore know somewhat of time's workings, was most gravely alarmed. I made myself very large.
Her incantations I understood poorly, but their force was plain enough. When the knave tumbled from a ledge, she cried, "No, no, NO!" When a beast struck him from behind, she hurled imprecations at the glass in the manner of an alewife short-changed by a drover. And when he fell into a pit, she shrieked so terribly that I flung myself into the air, attaining a height I had not reached since the chandler's loft.
Then she laughed, and scratched beneath my chin, and bade me pardon her.
I pardoned her. A familiar must be gracious, even when his mistress is possessed.
Twice I sought to render aid.
First, I laid my whole body across her wand-hand, to test the steadiness of her will. She lifted me gently and placed me in her lap, which proved a far better seat than I had intended. I considered this a partial victory.
Next, I struck at the fluttering mote of light as it passed before the glass. Alas, the surface was cold and smooth, and my claws found no purchase. The mote escaped me and, I swear, mocked me. My mistress laughed most heartily.
I do not forgive the mote.
And mark this, for it is the deepest wisdom I have gleaned from these nightly proceedings.
Each evening my mistress voweth, "Just one more dungeon," and each evening she breaketh her vow. Thus I have discerned that the slate is a spell of binding, and that the witch herself is bewitched by it. Even the mightiest of the craft may be ensnared by a greater enchantment.
I find some comfort in this, for I too am caught in an enchantment, though mine is of a gentler sort: the enchantment of a warm lap, a soft blanket, and a hand that knoweth precisely where to scratch.
At last, my mistress yawneth. She maketh the knave stand still in some quiet place, and the slate soundeth a small, bright chime, which I take to be an oath of return. The glass goeth dark. The wands are bound once more to its flanks, and the slate is laid upon the table like a sleeping beast.
She lifteth me up. I permit it.
She beareth me to a bed of such softness that no queen of my first age had its like. I turn thrice, as is the ancient custom, and settle upon her feet.
The great sorcery is ended for this night. The knave is safe in his glass, the winged mote is banished, and my mistress is once more within my keeping.
I close mine eyes and begin to purr.
For though she may command the sun, hasten the years, and bend a little green knave to her will, there remaineth one duty that no enchantment can perform in her stead.
The keeping of my mistress is mine, and I shall keep it.