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 The Wysard (Book Excerpt)by Carolyn Kephart Buy from Amazon Page 1 of 17 Chapter One Markul the Best and Highest rose in sharptoothed towers eternally enmeshed in mist, a bristling walled island of black and green and gray that surged up from the flat sweep of the Aqqar Plain as if the continual damps had spawned it overnight. In the skin-smooth, horizon-vast steppe this citadel was the sole interruption. It had dominated the plain for a thousand years, and Ryel had lived within its walls for nearly half of his birth-life. By the reckoning of Markul he was twelve years old, a mere child; by the reckoning of the World he was twice that and two years more. He stood on the western wall, scanning the gray-brown mist-obscured monotony of the land. One might never discern the sun was setting, but for the faintest hint of radiance on a horizon only guessed at. Far beyond the endless overcast lay the Inner Steppes, Ryel's homeland, and countless times he had stood at this place on the wall, remembering the World-years of his boyhood. But now though his eyes were again fixed on the uncertain dusk, Ryel's contemplation roamed not to vast lands and swift horses. His thoughts made his eyes burn, and his breath come painfully. Edris had been dead almost a month, now. In the reckoning of Markul he had died young, on the threshold of his thirtieth year. Even the World would have deemed him dead too soon at fifty-eight. His body had been carried in great state to the jade tower at the joining of the western and southern wall, where among the most illustrious of the City's lord adepts Edris lay as an equal. Ryel drew his cloak about him against the cold-Edris' great mantle of dark scarlet. You are great in death as you were in life, my teacher , he thought, his sorrow heavy within him. But I cut that life short. With my pride I killed you, dearer to me than father. All because overreaching ambition would not let me rest, driving me to seek knowledge beyond reason or my own desert. And now - A stifling oppression drove the thought from his mind and the breath out of his body, even as an alien voice arose from some chartless place within him, murmuring at the base of his brain, making him sweat. But though it answered his meditations, it was not the voice of Edris. Fool, it sneered. Fool, to mourn that lumbering botcher, and squander your sweet young life and limit your Art among these graybeard dotards. To have wasted your self's substance in this desolate place, when the World and all its pleasures has waited for you. To have never had a woman- Ryel put his hands to his temples as he labored to breathe. He stared about him, wildly. Uselessly. "Who are you?" An insinuating snicker in reply. You'll learn. But no enemy, young blood. Far from it. The air lightened, and Ryel could draw breath again. Sharp wind struck him full in the face, pushing back the hood of his cloak, chilling the sweat that had sprung upon his cheeks, prickling the nape of his shaven head, thrusting icy fingers into the rents of his robes. Those few who also stood on the wall had turned toward him in astonishment when he cried out to the air, and now they whispered among themselves. Hushed though their voices were, Ryel heard them. "No," Lord Ter," he said, resigned and weary, to the one who stared most fearfully at him. "I haven't gone mad ... yet." Lord Ter paled yet more, and ran a trembling hand through his ragged white beard. "I never thought you might, my Lord Ryel. Lord Wirgal and Lady Haldwina and I were merely remarking our pleasure at seeing you in health, and unmarked by your late ordeal." "Unmarked. Yes. In every place but one." And Ryel turned to face them, meeting their eyes with his. They recoiled, huddling back against the stones of the wall. "Yes," Ryel continued. Every word he spoke came lead-heavy. "Mine were eyes you used to praise once, Lady Haldwina-a color that people who have seen the World call sea-blue." He gave a bitter smile. "You do not praise them now." "You looked upon forbidden things," the lady replied, veiling her face with a fold of her headdress. "For that you lost your eyes." "Not lost," Ryel said. His voice felt too tight for his throat, and each syllable came forced. "I still see. But it seems that all of you have gone blind. I assure you that I have not changed in any way since-" "Worse than blind you look," Lord Wirgal snarled. "All black. No white or color in those accursed eyes of yours-only continued black. The eyes of an Overreacher." Ryel smiled. It felt strange on his face, and probably looked so. "Is it not the aim of our Art, to learn all that may be learned?" "Our Art is in the service of life, and the aim of our Art is Mastery, not death-dealings," Lady Haldwina said, her glance still averted. "You attempted the cruel Art of Elecambron, and in forsaking the true path have been justly punished." "The adepts of Elecambron are our brothers," Ryel replied. "The First of this City all attempted the Crossing, notably Lord Garnos who learned the secret of immortality thereby." "And died of it," old Wirgal hissed. "I will not speak of Lord Aubrel, who returned from the Outer World raving mad according to the Books, and committed the foulest crimes before his miserable end. And what did you gain from the folly that deformed you? Nothing, by your own past admission-nothing save the death of Lord Edris, rest be to his lost soul." Copyright© 1999, 2000, 2001, 2002 Carolyn Kephart, sffworld.com. All rights reserved. No part of this may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the author. |
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