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 The Wysard (Book Excerpt)by Carolyn Kephart Buy from Amazon Page 2 of 17 The others shrank back in terror lest Ryel avenge Wirgal's hard words with some malign spell. But the wysard only abruptly turned and without reply moved to another part of the wall, flinching at the burning pain in his eyes, that no tears would now ever cool. Forcing his thoughts away from intruding voices and rancorous adepts, Ryel again drew his hood over his head and faced away from the night-blurred plain to survey the city of Markul with what was left of the light. Before he had come to Markul, Ryel had never seen buildings of stone, and what had amazed him at fourteen enthralled him still. He grew calm again, and breathed deeply of the herb-scented mist. "Of all the Cities you are fairest," he murmured. "Most high, and best." There were four strongholds of the Art, one at each quadrant of the compass: Markul to the east, Tesba south, Ormala west and Elecambron far, far to the north. Brilliant and gaudy Tesba was built of many-colored glass, drab dirty Ormala of wood and brick and plaster. Great Elecambron towered coldly pale as the icebound island it stood on in the eternal snows of the White Reaches. But even haughty Elecambron deferred to Markul, with a respect that was entire, if unloving. The Builders of Markul-Garnos of Almancar, Nilandor of Kursk, Aubrel of Hryeland, Riana of the Zinaph Isles, Khiar of Cosra, Sibylla of Margessen-had founded the first and greatest City of the Art. Shunned and persecuted by the World of men, they had sought refuge in the barren ruleless regions of the Aqqar Plain that drove a thin wedge between the realms of Turmaron and Shrivran and the wide empire of Destimar. Joining mind to mind as other men join hands, the Builders had created massive reality from mere imagination, their visions of peace and strong-walled security translated into the fortress of Markul. Ryel embraced a porphyry column with one arm, and his robe's wide sleeve slipped down to his bicep. In that moment the air closed in around him, and the voice again intruded into his thoughts, its soft insinuation laced with a connoisseur's approval. Most impressive , it breathed. Especially amid these creeping hags and half-men. We're far from the paltry tents and stinking herds of the Inner Steppes, yes. But there are greater cities than this, young blood. Fair cities with women in them fairer still. And there's more. Far more . Ryel had at first stiffened in anger at this new intrusion, but temptation warred with anger, and won. The wysard pushed his sleeve down to his wrist and turned from the city to the voice, slowly. "Show me more, then." The voice laughed. And then it seemed that the nebulous gloom beyond the wall filled with white-flecked blue, a living burning blue such as Ryel had never known. The wind of the plain no longer howled and moaned, but calmed to a steady breathing, each breath deep and deliberate as a sleeper's. Ryel clutched at the parapet, leaning out. And it seemed then that the mists parted to reveal diamond-clear daylight, and the sun fell full on the infinite azure that now rippled and tossed in great waves, surrounding the city and dashing against the walls. Ryel winced at the brilliant light, his eyes burnt and smarting with salt. But only for a moment before darkness again closed around him in drizzling mist, and a harsh wind tried to claw away his cloak. "Again," Ryel whispered, imploring the air. "Show me again." No voice's reply, no sea's resurgence. Chilled and weary, Ryel pulled his hood forward against the damp, then slowly descended the wall. As he made his way through the several levels of the town to his dwelling, he passed here and there small knots of mages in discussion, witches trading lore on lamp-lit doorsteps. As he passed, they all greeted him with mumbled formalities, low bows and downcast eyes, and all fell silent for some time after he had gone. Reaching his house after many courses of stone steps, Ryel entered and shut the door tightly. Here was peace, and warmth, and silence. The clutter and paraphenalia usual with a wysard's apartments were absent here, for Ryel's learning had long surpassed the necessity for outward Art-trappings. In the east room was a wide bed curtained with thick silk, pillowed in softest down laced with fragrant herbs to induce slumber, needful for Ryel who often spent entire nights and days rapt in his study of the Art, until exhausted he fell on his bed sleepless from the fevered racing of his thoughts. Here he was lured into a spice-scented oblivion, deep and dreamless. He lay down and waited for that deliverance which had never failed-until now. Sleep he could not, and he dreamed with his eyes open. In the winter of Ryel's thirteenth World-year, Edris came to Risma. As the snow fell in the night had Edris come, and as quietly. "The only problem with a yat is that there's no door to knock on." At the sound of that voice, so deep and ironic, Ryel started about. A stranger stood framed in the yat's inner portal, without a trace of snow upon his great scarlet mantle, although yet another blizzard howled outside. The mantle's hood shrouded his face save for a white gleam of teeth, a keen glint of eye. Ryel's father leapt to his feet at the sight of him, his hand on the knife at his side. "Who are you? How did you get past my dogs?" A laugh, warmly resonant, in reply. The stranger threw off his cloak and now spoke in the dialect of the Inner Steppes, although his first words had been in Almancarian. "Well met in this rough weather, twin-sib." Yorganar took a step backward. "By every god." The newcomer was clad not in Steppes gear, but in long robes of somber colors. Hulking tall he was, like Yorganar, and extremely similar to Yorganar in looks, save that his hair was cropped close and his face shaven smooth, contrary to Steppes custom. But Ryel then noted that the greatest difference was in the stranger's eyes, which were wonderfully subtle and acute. 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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