by Terry Brooks
Reyn did as he was told, humming softly, making the man become real enough to move about in his mind, turning him this way and that, an image of what he would create. But the process felt cumbersome and awkward, and he could not quite get comfortable with it.
“Relax, Reyn. I can feel you straining. You can’t make it happen that way. You have to let it come naturally. Just breathe in and out slowly and steadily and let go of your tension. Just see what it is you seek. Envision it as real.”
Lariana, I would do anything for you.
He settled deep into himself and began to form the image he was seeking, the tonal vibration of his voice building it piece by piece. A man. No one he knew—a figure identifiable only as any of a hundred anonymous men. He shaped him slowly, building his body and then his clothing and finally his features so that he was real and measurable and present. He turned him about, examining him from several angles, making sure he was perfect.
Then he put a weapon in his hands, a long knife, slender and deadly, and poised him for an attack.
Ready?
Crouching.
Now!
But when he opened his eyes to brace himself against the attack, the man was gone. Just as before. Just as it had happened every time. There was no one there. The image had died inside his mind. Whatever was real or might become real had been left there.
“I can’t do it!” he screamed in frustration.
Instantly Lariana was standing beside him, arms about his shoulders as she pulled his face close to hers and kissed him hard on the mouth. “Yes, you can, Reyn. You can.” She spoke the words with her mouth pressed against his, still kissing him, still holding him tightly. “Look at me.”
She backed away and waited until he met her eyes. “I saw him that time. I did. But he wasn’t where you thought he was. He wasn’t in front of you. He was behind you. He was real. As real as you or I. He was there, and he was whole and complete. You did it, Reyn.”
“No.” He shook his head emphatically. “I didn’t do anything. I couldn’t make it work. I would have known. I didn’t feel anything. You’re mistaken. There was no one there.”
“No one coming at you? Even now, behind you, where I can see him and you can’t? No one, you think? A man with a long knife, ready to plunge it into your back? Creeping closer?”
She took a slow breath and let it out slowly. “Better turn around, Reyn. He’s getting closer.” He didn’t move, staring at her as he might a crazy person, wondering what in the world she was talking about. “Reyn, turn around. Right now.”
“Why are you doing this?” he asked in disbelief.
“Reyn!” she screamed. “Turn around!”
A slash of fear ripped through him, and he whirled about in spite of himself—just in time to see his attacker coming for him in a rush, a big man carrying a long knife, all fury and brute force, his face crushed in on itself with unspoken rage. Reyn knew—and at the same time wasn’t sure—that he had done this. And while it wasn’t real, somehow it was, and he lashed out with his voice in defense, ripping into the man and exploding him so that nothing remained but a darkened swatch of air.
Gone, just like that. As if it was never there.
Which, in fact, was true. Yet he had seemed as real and certain as the rubble in which Reyn stood.
Lariana was holding him again, arms wrapped tightly about him. “You see?” she whispered. “You thought you couldn’t control your magic, but you did!”
“But it wasn’t…,” he started to protest, wanting to be sure she understood that his control over the creation wasn’t complete, but seriously lacking.
“Do it again,” she said quickly, not letting him finish. “Right now, while you remember. Don’t think about it. Just let it happen.”
So he did. He wasn’t sure how he had managed it the first time, what he had done to make it possible, and he wasn’t sure how to do it now. What he remembered at the end of it all was how when he opened his eyes nothing of what he thought he had envisioned was there and he just sort of let go of everything in his despair. So he approached it that way again, humming softly, making the man come alive in his mind until he was fully formed and then just opening his eyes.
Sure enough. Nothing. The image he had created wasn’t there. At least, not where he was looking. But when he turned upon hearing Lariana’s excited gasp, there his invented adversary was, behind him once more, coming for him again, a re-creation of the last one. He exploded this one, too, filled with euphoria and satisfaction at the result.
“Reyn!” Lariana screamed with glee.
Without waiting for her to say anything more, he closed his eyes and did it again, changing the look and feel of this new image, giving it a more animal-like appearance, a creature crooked and feral and hunched over. He let it wander through his mind for a moment until he had a feel for its movements, for its smell and taste—pungent and foul—all the while using his wishsong’s magic to animate and build on it. He could hear Lariana trying to speak to him, shouting something, dancing at the edges of his vision, but he blocked her out, concentrating on his creation.
Opening his eyes, he found it shambling toward him from just off to one side, jaws wide and slavering, claws digging into the earth. Lariana actually screamed in shock, and suddenly he felt her pressing up against him, seeking shelter. He wrapped her in his arms protectively, fully in control now, and exploded his creature, turning it into darkness and air.
He stopped then, panting for breath. All of a sudden he was weak from his efforts, the strength sufficiently drained from him that he felt he might collapse. He staggered, and abruptly it was Lariana who was holding him up and not the other way around. Dizziness swept through him, a rush of blackness enveloping him in the process.
“Too much,” he managed to gasp. “Too fast.”
Then he disappeared into the darkness.
—
When he came awake again, he was still exactly where he had been before. Lariana was right in front of him, holding tightly to his arms, making sounds, none of them intelligible.
Until suddenly they were.
“Reyn, look at me. Are you all right? What happened to you? Can you hear me at all?”
His gaze shifted to find her emerald eyes, and he nodded slowly. “I can hear you. I’m all right.” He blinked rapidly, trying to focus, to steady himself. “How long have I been standing here?”
“A couple of minutes, no more. You’ve been staring into space, seeing nothing, not speaking or anything. What happened?”
Her features tightened with concern, and he reached out and pulled her against him, cradling her head to his chest. What should he tell her? What could he tell her? The catatonia—he had forgotten all about it since he had stopped having to use the magic on impulse. He had thought maybe it was a thing of the past, an occurrence that would not result from his more controlled use of magic. But he should have known better. It was what always happened—what always would happen—no matter how the magic was used.
She backed him off abruptly. “Say something, please. Was it the magic that did this?”
He decided on a half-truth. “I think so. I think I got overexcited and used too much all at once. It felt like it overwhelmed me. The power is so great, Lariana. I couldn’t manage it there at the end. It made me black out.”
She studied him doubtfully. “You were conscious, but you were not able to respond to me at all. This is something more than blacking out. What’s going on?”
He experienced a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. If he told her, she would feel obligated to tell Arcannen. That would be the end. Arcannen would send him away. If he knew Reyn couldn’t ever manage the magic adequately, he would lose interest.
“Can we not talk about it just now?” he begged.
She took his arm, led him over to a place where they could sit, and pulled him down next to her. He went docilely, his strength still sapped, his willingness to resist gone with it.
“You’
re afraid of what Arcannen will do, aren’t you?”
Droplets of dampness glistened in her gold-streaked hair, and her deep green eyes glinted brightly. She stared at him directly, studying his face, her own mirroring such anguish and sadness that he could hardly bear to look at it. She seemed to want to help him, but he did not think she could. He felt her hands squeeze his arms as she continued to hold him in place, and there was a reassurance to their grip.
“He might not want to spend any more time helping me.”
There, it was out. He lowered his gaze, ashamed of himself. What was it about her that eroded his resolve so easily?
“Listen to me,” she said softly. “I will reveal nothing to him that will hurt you. That is my promise, and I will keep it. Now tell me the truth.”
Oddly, he believed her. Perhaps it was because he was so enamored of her, so deeply under her spell that he could not make himself believe otherwise. But her words convinced him, and he knew at once that he would tell her. Which he did, completely and without subterfuge. He told her how the magic generated a catatonic effect in him every time he used it in a stressful situation. He explained how it stole away his control over himself and left him in a black space from which it sometimes took up to several hours to extricate himself. When that happened, he was left completely without defenses and had to rely on others to steer him to safety and to care for him.
“It has always been like that,” he finished. “And each time I fail to contain the magic, the catatonia gets a little worse. I thought that being able to direct it to accomplish specific tasks might put an end to all that. But it doesn’t seem that’s possible.”
He waited in the ensuing silence. “First of all,” she told him carefully, “you haven’t mastered control of the magic. You said so yourself. You are just beginning to learn how. It’s probably too soon to be able to stop what’s happening to you. You need to give yourself more time. But eventually Arcannen is going to discover what you’re hiding. Sooner or later, the magic will break free in his presence, and he will realize the truth. What are you going to do then?”
He shook his head. “I know you are right about Arcannen. But maybe he won’t find out right away. If I am careful, maybe I can keep from being overstressed while learning how to keep control. Maybe I can avoid having to use magic for real. I should be able to tell the difference between what’s real and imagined. I just need to work at it a little more.”
“All right,” she said, nodding slowly. “Let’s find out if that’s so. I won’t say anything to him about what happened. We can just tell him you managed to create images that took on a presence and leave it at that. But, Reyn, this is a dangerous game you are playing. Arcannen is not someone you want to anger. He says he wants to help you and maybe he does, but he could turn on you in a moment. I’ve seen that in him. He is unpredictable. It might be better to admit what is going on and take your chances. I will stand by you if you do.”
“It would be foolish of you to do that. You’re his apprentice.”
She gave him a look. “I am my own person before I am anyone’s anything. I have learned to look after myself, and I will not be made to give that up.”
“I don’t want you involved.”
She laughed softly. “Really? You don’t? But I’m already involved.” Then she leaned forward and kissed him softly. “Haven’t you noticed?”
—
It was fully dark by now, the last of the sunlight faded, the skies gone black and only slivers of moonlight seeping through gaps in the heavily layered clouds to illuminate the coastline of the Tiderace. The air was cold and damp, a fine mist settling over the ruins of Arbrox. Somewhere nearby seagulls were crying mournfully, and the crashing of the waves against the rocks was a cacophony of thunderous booms.
Lariana and the boy appeared through the doorway of Arcannen’s refuge looking slightly bedraggled and thoroughly worn out. The sorcerer looked up from the tide tables and charts he had spread out across the work space he kept for himself to one side of the room, taking note of their condition.
“Success?” he asked them, raising one eyebrow.
Lariana nodded. “It took all day, but in the end he managed it.”
She went on to describe what the boy had created—the men first and then the four-legged beast. She gave an accurate description, concluding with her personal belief that in another day or so Reyn Frosch would master much, much more.
When she had finished, Arcannen leaned back and contemplated her words. There was something wrong with what she was telling him, but he was not sure what. He didn’t think she was lying exactly, but he suspected she was leaving something out. He couldn’t say what made him think this—the words, her tone of voice, the smoothness of her recitation, the look on her face—but there was a gap that troubled him. His instincts were good at warning him of such deceptions, and he had learned to trust them.
But why would Lariana be deceiving him? Why would she not be entirely honest? She had been until now. Hadn’t she? He pursed his lips. He was troubled enough that he had to scratch this particular itch.
“Does she speak for you on this?” he asked the boy.
He nodded quickly. “She does.”
“And you were able to bring these images to life, to give them the appearance of flesh and blood, to move them like living creatures?”
“Until I grew tired. But I will try again in the morning, after I’ve slept and rested a bit. I was starting to make mistakes at the end, small lapses that let the image fail. My control was slipping.”
Arcannen got to his feet. “I don’t think we should wait that long. I think we should test your control now, while the experience is fresh. I might be able to help you with any difficulties. Sort out the small things that might trouble you later.”
The boy and the girl did not look at each other, their eyes fixed on him. “It’s awfully dark out there,” Lariana said finally.
“We can light things up,” the sorcerer told them. He smiled. “Come along.”
They departed the room, went down the hallway to the entry leading out into the ruins, threw on cloaks against the weather, and went outside. The darkness was complete, the clouds having closed away every last vestige of moonlight, the rain falling in heavy sheets, and the wind howling mournfully across the barren rocks. They could just make out the sheen of slick dampness that layered the rubble beyond their doorstep in the faint light cast by the opening of the door to the outside. Lariana and the boy, leading the way, stood in the opening uncertainly.
“A good challenge for your talents, Reyn!” Arcannen shouted at him in order to be heard over the wind. “We might see more of this weather before it has blown itself out.”
He watched the boy closely. No reaction. Just a blank stare. The girl was the same. But he sensed an uneasiness between them nevertheless. Not everything was as it appeared on the surface.
“Let’s cast a little light on the situation,” he said to them.
A quick flick of his fingers brought fire to his fingertips, and a series of quick snaps of his wrists sent sparks out into the rain and the dark. Wellsprings of flames erupted suddenly on the damp rocks and burned as if fueled by dry wood. Sheets of rain formed hazy curtains in front of these magically generated sources, but there was light now where there had been none before.
“All right, step outside. Let’s see what you can do.”
He gestured for Reyn to proceed, and after a moment’s hesitation the boy did as he was told. Rain pummeled him as he advanced into the open space between the fires. Lariana started to follow him, but Arcannen grabbed her arm and pulled her back.
“Let’s see what he can do without our interference,” he told her, bending close.
She gave him an irritated look, but stepped back. “You’re putting an awful lot on him, don’t you think?”
Her willingness to challenge him caught him by surprise. “I think it is my business to make that decision and not yours.”
Toge
ther, they watched the boy move out into the center of the circle of flaming stones, standing alone in the rain and the near darkness, shoulders hunched beneath the all-weather cloak, head lowered inside the shadowed hood. For a long time, he stood motionless, a vague figure within the sheeting rain. He appeared to be doing nothing, but Arcannen assumed he was concentrating.
Nothing happened.
Then, abruptly, a singular figure appeared to one side—a huge misshapen creature covered in hair and spikes, a nightmare come alive, rising up out of the broken carpet of stones as if born of them, all size and bulk. It heaved itself upward to its full height of well over eight feet and turned toward the boy. The boy, in response, turned to face it, standing his ground as he did so, watching as the creature advanced in a shambling lurch. He waited until the creature was within a dozen feet, then he swung his gaze toward Arcannen. The creature, as if responding to this movement, changed direction abruptly and started toward the sorcerer.
“Isn’t that something,” Arcannen said softly, aware of the girl moving away from him, distancing herself.
He kept his eyes on the creature. He hadn’t heard even the faintest sound of the wishsong over the wind and rain, hadn’t caught even a shadow of movement from the boy. He peered through the rain and the gloom, picking out the creature’s blunted, twisted features, noting the threatening glint in its eyes, measuring the nature of the threat it offered. He smelled its stench, raw and pungent; he could hear its shambling movements through the rain. It was only an image, he told himself. Yet it felt like something more. It moved as if it had substance. For all intents and purposes, it felt as if it could crush him with its massive arms if it got hold of him. He could hear it breathing now, could see puffs of breath on the cold air as it drew closer.
“That’s enough, Reyn,” he called out, eyes riveted on the creature.
