Copyright © 2005 by Blake Charlton. All rights reserved. No part of this text may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, reposting, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without express written permission of the author.
Home Samples Prolog Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five
Setting out alone on an empty, feral, moonlit road is a feat more daunting than most can ever manage. For in the solitude of the dark, the road beneath a traveler's feet stretches out into the night and, mixing with the shadows, takes on a life of its own. The road becomes a serpent, tremendous, moonpale and heavy. And though such a monster lies still upon the land, in the mind it writhes with all the poison and immensity of imagination. The world changes to show its hostility, and worse, its indifference. Wind and shadow put leaf to leaf and form leathery lips that whisper, "This is no place for you. Not any more. This is a place of deepgreen, dirt, nightblue, and beasts. Go back. Get out of the night. Go back to the fireside." Something moves behind the trees. Somewhere fangs connect to an empty stomach, and somewhere rages a flood, a fire, or a frost. And the road dragon underfoot goes ever on: a thread of civilization stretching from one town to the next.
But somewhere else a window spills golden-yellow light into the implacable night. Somewhere the clink of plates competes with the voices of men, swords on a mantel shine through dust, and a bed waits.
Safe and comforting though they may be, such domestic spaces are also confining. Each day flows into dark. Each night delivers workers, lovers, and weary children into their few rooms. There they regard the same few walls, framing the same few faces of kith and kin, growing older. So when the day's toil is through, the minds of some turn to wandering.
These dreamers steal to the door while others are preoccupied with food or drink or talk. Lightly leaning against the threshold, they flirt with the idea of walking out into the evening. But the gentle path that splashes down from the door with the reds and oranges of the hearth soon runs into the ever-flowing road. And, after looking down that darkening lane awhile, the dreamers know to shut the door and forget the bluenight, because somewhere down that graveled path--past the elm, through the gate, and beyond the pen of sleeping pigs--is a universe more fantastic and a reality more indifferent. So they snuff their fantasies and turn back toward the firelight, their now smoldering dreams casting only a ghostly smoke into their thoughts.
Nicodemus Weal stood an inch over six feet tall. At twenty-four years old he was young for a spellwright, old for an apprentice. His long hair shone jet black, his complexion dark olive--two shades that made his green eyes seem greener.
But few saw his eyes; he slouched and hid them in a dour, down-turned face.
After dealing with the misspell that nearly broke his arm, Nicodemus stole into the kitchen and convinced the head acolyte to let him transcribe a new astringent spell from the kitchen's source text. Then, careful not to touch the spell for too long, he went back to cleaning walls.
There was much to do. Nicodemus' home, the wizardly stronghold of Starhaven, had called a convocation. Delegates from every magical society had already arrived. The opening banquet had gone well and the wizards were demanding that the academy look its best.
And so for two hours Nicodemus scrubbed with wide and forceful strokes. But then he caught sight of the doorway he had run out of three hours earlier. The old self-hatred trickled through his mind and kindled an array of childhood dreams. He walked to the arch and rested one hand on the stone. Outside, the courtyard was peaceful. A dark, ivy-laced arcade ran along the far wall. It covered a walkway that led to the stronghold's gate.
Nicodemus thought about the mountain path that lay beyond Starhaven's walls. It filled him with a secret longing he could not explain or even express. He deeply loved the nightroad's dangerous beauty.
Taking a step outside, he weighed his determination to wander far. But, as it had a thousand times before, uncertainty of what he might find and how he might fare overcame him.
Against a dream excuses are the best defense, and Nicodemus had no shortage of them: three more walls needed scrubbing. He went back into the kitchen's noisy, glowing warmth.
With a sigh, he forged a line of magical text inside each forearm. Flicking first his right then his left wrist, he cast the white sentences into the air where they twisted like tendrils of smoke. Together the two lines stretched out to retrieve his astringent spell from the nearly rotted bucket sitting on the floor.
He set to work scrubbing torch-soot off the kitchen walls with the text. But after a few strokes, a crisp autumn breeze turned his head back toward the open doorway. He smiled wistfully at the moonlight, not knowing that in four and twenty hours he--alone and terrified--would flee into the beautiful, black night.
Home Samples Prolog Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five