Wizard Blues (excerpt)
by Steven A. Simpson
Copyright © 2014 Steven A. Simpson
All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
(Chapters 1 to 3, of 19. See whole novel on Amazon.com.)
OCEAN
It was cool for May, and night was coming on. They had taught him 23 different ways to make light by magic, and almost half of them would also throw heat. Emissir built himself a fire by hand instead. He piled the hemlock branches on and enjoyed the fragrant blaze for a moment, then sat down with his back against a large tree trunk.
He shook his head as he untied his boots. Graduation should be the greatest day of his life. He should be out on the town celebrating with his friends, flush with wine and possibilities. Instead, he was in the woods on a desert island, preparing to surrender the only thing he possessed of any value—his youth.
Emissir pulled off his tall boots, peeled his socks off and dropped one in each boot, then leaned them against the tree. Standing up, he paused to throw the last of his wood on the fire, and took off the rest of his clothing. He stuffed his clothes, including his thick, greenish-blue cloak into his backpack and hung it on a dead branch that jutted from the trunk.
“You better stay dry,” he said, giving the pack a squint-eyed, sideways look. The threads that bound the waxed cloth creaked as they tightened themselves.
“Good boy!” he told it encouragingly.
Looking down at his naked body—long, lean, and strong—he flexed his arms and the muscles under his fair skin rippled into landscapes of mountains and valleys. His chestnut hair curled about his broad shoulders.
The hilltop refuge in the hemlock grove just happened to face north and the land in that direction was mostly devoid of trees. A thick raft of clouds had slid off toward the northeast unveiling the first stars of evening. The last bit of rosy twilight hung above the horizon in the west.
Scanning the blue distance north toward the other island, Raveross, of the storied university of magic, he said, “Shall I ever look upon you again, fair Essaletín of the many boats?” He felt lonely—which surprised him. He was not prone to such feelings; he rather prided himself on being comfortable alone. But then, it was easy to be alone when the time and place was of your own choosing.
He began a quiet song in a language long forgotten even by the elves of Sunderland. He sat down on his heels close to the fire, gave a resigned sigh, and thrust his left hand into the raging flames. It didn’t burn, and he continued his song uninterrupted. He held it there with the palm facing down, the tongues of flame licking hungrily between his fingers. The light cast his shadow into the trees behind him where it danced like a pagan priest around a sacrifice.
When the flames subsided, Emissir ended his song and withdrew his hand. He squeezed it into a tight fist and light flared inside, silhouetting the bones. He made a loose fist that glowed red and he stood, now eager with purpose, and strode naked into the night.
By the bloody light of his hand he picked his way through glades and stands of trees. When he could, he kept to the edges where the trees were smaller, following game trails through the thickets. The woods were made up of many kinds of trees, no doubt rooted from uncountable seeds washed down the rivers of Sunderland or borne to this lonely island by the wind or birds.
