Read Online Madwand (Illustrated) by Roger Zelazny - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Roger Zelazny
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opportunities.”
“Shall we stroll back and see whether Ibal is receiving company yet?”
“Good idea.”
But Ibal was not yet receiving. Pol left a message that the schedule had been advanced and that he would be leaving that afternoon. Then he returned to his own quarters and stretched out upon his bed, to rest and meditate. He thought over the entire story of his life as he now knew it—the story of the son of a powerful and evil sorcerer, his life preserved in exchange for his heritage as he was exiled to another world, one which knew no magic. He recalled the day of his return, his bitter reception in this world when he was recognized by means of the dragon birthmark upon his right wrist. He remembered his escape, his flight, his discovery of the ruined family seat at Rondoval and all that went with it—his identity, his powers, his control over the savage beasts that slept there. He relived his conflict with his brilliant but warped step-brother, Mark Marakson, in the anomolous center of high technology which that one had resurrected atop Anvil Mountain in the south. He thought of his brief but doomed affair with the village girl Nora, who had never stopped loving Mark. And now . . .
The Seven. The peculiar manipulation of his life by the seven statuettes, which seemed to have ended that day atop Anvil Mountain, returned to plague his thoughts. He still had no notion as to their true functions, purposes, aims. He felt that he would never enjoy full freedom from apprehension until he came to terms with them. And then the recent unexplained attempt upon his life, and the midnight encounter with the sorcerer who seemed to have answers but did not care to share them . . .
About the only personal thing that did not pass through his mind was a consideration of his recurrent dreams. Soon he fell asleep and had another.
He took his loaf and his water flask with him to the Arch of the Blue Bird. Mouseglove accompanied him to that point. Larick and six of the others were already present. The westering sun had encountered a cloudbank and the city took on its evening sheen prematurely. The other candidates were uniformly young and nervous; and Pol forgot their names—except for Nupf, with whom he was already acquainted.
The sky continued to darken while they waited for the others, and Pol idly let his vision slip into the second seeing. As he cast his gaze about he noted a blue-white pyramid or cone near the center of town, a thing which had not registered itself upon his normal perceptions. Continuing to watch it for a time, he gained the impression that it was growing. He moved his seeing back to its normal mode and the phenomenon faded.
Making his way past the other candidates, he approached Larick who stood, obviously impatient now, watching the massing clouds.
“Larick?”
“What do you want?”
“Just curious. Would you know what that big cone of blue light growing up over there is?”
Larick turned and stared for several moments, then, “Oh,” he said. “That is for our benefit—and it reminds me again just how late things are getting. Where the devil are the rest of them?” He turned, looking in several directions, and then a certain tension seemed to go out of him. “Here they come,” he said, noting three figures on a distant walkway.
He turned back to Pol.
“That cone you see is the force being raised by an entire circle of sorcerers,” he explained. “By the time we enter Belken, it will have reached the mountain and filled it, attuning all ten stations within to greater cosmic forces. As you move from one to the other, each a symbolic representation of one of your own lights, the energies will flow through you and you will thereby be shaped, reshaped and attuned yourself.”
“I see.”
“I am not certain that you do, Dan. The other nine candidates, serving proper apprenticeships, should have developed their lights properly, in the natural order. For them, tonight’s
“Shall we stroll back and see whether Ibal is receiving company yet?”
“Good idea.”
But Ibal was not yet receiving. Pol left a message that the schedule had been advanced and that he would be leaving that afternoon. Then he returned to his own quarters and stretched out upon his bed, to rest and meditate. He thought over the entire story of his life as he now knew it—the story of the son of a powerful and evil sorcerer, his life preserved in exchange for his heritage as he was exiled to another world, one which knew no magic. He recalled the day of his return, his bitter reception in this world when he was recognized by means of the dragon birthmark upon his right wrist. He remembered his escape, his flight, his discovery of the ruined family seat at Rondoval and all that went with it—his identity, his powers, his control over the savage beasts that slept there. He relived his conflict with his brilliant but warped step-brother, Mark Marakson, in the anomolous center of high technology which that one had resurrected atop Anvil Mountain in the south. He thought of his brief but doomed affair with the village girl Nora, who had never stopped loving Mark. And now . . .
The Seven. The peculiar manipulation of his life by the seven statuettes, which seemed to have ended that day atop Anvil Mountain, returned to plague his thoughts. He still had no notion as to their true functions, purposes, aims. He felt that he would never enjoy full freedom from apprehension until he came to terms with them. And then the recent unexplained attempt upon his life, and the midnight encounter with the sorcerer who seemed to have answers but did not care to share them . . .
About the only personal thing that did not pass through his mind was a consideration of his recurrent dreams. Soon he fell asleep and had another.
He took his loaf and his water flask with him to the Arch of the Blue Bird. Mouseglove accompanied him to that point. Larick and six of the others were already present. The westering sun had encountered a cloudbank and the city took on its evening sheen prematurely. The other candidates were uniformly young and nervous; and Pol forgot their names—except for Nupf, with whom he was already acquainted.
The sky continued to darken while they waited for the others, and Pol idly let his vision slip into the second seeing. As he cast his gaze about he noted a blue-white pyramid or cone near the center of town, a thing which had not registered itself upon his normal perceptions. Continuing to watch it for a time, he gained the impression that it was growing. He moved his seeing back to its normal mode and the phenomenon faded.
Making his way past the other candidates, he approached Larick who stood, obviously impatient now, watching the massing clouds.
“Larick?”
“What do you want?”
“Just curious. Would you know what that big cone of blue light growing up over there is?”
Larick turned and stared for several moments, then, “Oh,” he said. “That is for our benefit—and it reminds me again just how late things are getting. Where the devil are the rest of them?” He turned, looking in several directions, and then a certain tension seemed to go out of him. “Here they come,” he said, noting three figures on a distant walkway.
He turned back to Pol.
“That cone you see is the force being raised by an entire circle of sorcerers,” he explained. “By the time we enter Belken, it will have reached the mountain and filled it, attuning all ten stations within to greater cosmic forces. As you move from one to the other, each a symbolic representation of one of your own lights, the energies will flow through you and you will thereby be shaped, reshaped and attuned yourself.”
“I see.”
“I am not certain that you do, Dan. The other nine candidates, serving proper apprenticeships, should have developed their lights properly, in the natural order. For them, tonight’s
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