Read Online Madwand (Illustrated) by Roger Zelazny - Free Book Online

sacrifices at his feet. Prodromolu, Father of the Age, Opener of the Way, they called him in tireless chant, bathing him in honey and spices, wine and blood.
    He felt his spirit rise, singing, to flash beyond the mountains. Then the deadlands twisted and churned beneath him. He dropped through a fading night toward brightness.
     
    Pol awoke with a feeling of well-being. He opened his eyes and regarded the window through which the morning light leaked. He drew a deep breath and flexed his muscles. A cup of steaming coffee would be delightful, he decided, knowing full well that such was not attainable upon this world. Not yet, anyway. It was on his list of things to look into when he had the chance. Now . . . 
    At that instant, his dream returned to him, and he saw it to be the source of his pleasure. With it came remembrance of other dreams of a similar nature, dreams—he realized now—which had come to him every night since the nameless sorcerer had visited him on the trail and changed his appearance. But these, unlike the others, were uniformly pleasant despite a certain grotesqueness.
    He rose, to visit the latrine, to wash, to dress, to rinse the streak in his hair with a jar of liquid he had purchased from an apothecary on the way home the previous evening. While he was about these things, he heard Mouseglove stirring. He dismantled the warning spells while he waited for the man to ready himself. Then the two of them stopped by Ibal’s quarters but were told by a servant that the master could not be disturbed.
    “Then let’s take a walk and find some breakfast,” Mouseglove suggested.
    Pol nodded, and they made their way back to the small street with the cafes. The night’s sparkle and sheen faded as they dined; and as the sun climbed higher a certain dinginess appeared here and there in the brighter quarters about them.
    “Sleep well?”
    “Yes. Yourself?”
    Pol nodded.
    “But I—”
    Mouseglove’s eyes shifted sharply to his left and he nodded in that direction. Pol leaned back in his chair and stretched, rolling his head as he did so.
    The man who was approaching down the narrow street was clad in black and red as he had been the previous evening. He was looking in their direction.
    Pol leaned forward and raised his mug of tea.
    “You still can’t recall . . . ?” he asked.
    Mouseglove shook his head.
    “But he’s coming this way,” he muttered without moving his lips.
    Pol took a sip and listened for footfalls. The man had a very soft tread and was almost beside him before he heard a sound.
    “Good morning,” he said, moving into view. “You are the one called Madwand, of Ibal’s company?”
    Pol lowered the mug and raised his eyes.
    “I am.”
    “Good.” The other smiled. “My name is Larick. I have been appointed to conduct the candidates for initiation to the entrance on the western height of Belken this afternoon. I will also be your guide through the mountain tonight.”
    “The initiation is to be tonight? I’d thought it was not held until near the end of things?”
    “Normally, that is the case,” Larick replied, “but I had not been reading my ephemeris recently. I only learned last night when I was appointed to this post that there will be a particularly favorable conjunction of planets tonight—whereas things will not be nearly so good later on.”
    “Would you care for a cup of tea?”
    Larick began to shake his head, then eyed the pot.
    “Yes, I am thirsty. Thanks.”
    He drew up a chair while Pol signaled for a fresh pot.
    “My friend’s name is Mouseglove,” Pol said.
    The men studied each other and clasped hands.
    “Glad.”
    “The same.”
    Larick produced a piece of parchment and a writing stick.
    “By the way, I do not really have your name, Madwand, for the list of candidates. How are you actually called?”
    In instant reaction Pol’s mind slid over the present and back to an earlier time.
    “Dan,” he said, “Chain—son.”
    “Dan Chainson,”