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I emerged in empty air, a dozen feet above the surface of the lake, and crashed into the icy water, face first, the shock of freezing impact knocking the breath from my body. The sketch I had made of the lake shook free of my fingers; I thrashed, my arms and legs floundering for purchase in the water, driving me to the surface before the armour I still wore could suck me under, forever down into the tomblike depths.

The more I drew on the powers of the Emerald sorcerer, the more I felt resonances of that power. In the Infinite Citadel, but more so here. Far more. Yet Alexiun claimed to have no understanding of this power. How could it be, if they were one and the same? I let these thoughts amble through my mind, finding neither resolution nor answer, while my limbs toiled against the icy water, until at last I found my feet touching the rocky shores of the island. Sparing but a glance behind me toward the black cloud, gathered over where Alexiun and Lostra stood, I plunged onwards, into the thick groves of trees, the light from the top of the Well guiding my path. Every sense alert, sword drawn, for the guardians of the Well, or the wardings, or whatever powerful sorcery must protect this place.

There was none.

The Well stood in a wide clearing of carefully trimmed grass. Four great towers, mounted on a plinth of marble, brilliant white, a single solid slab three times as high as a man, each tower five times as high again. I walked slowly around the three sides of the plinth, stopping to inspect, at each corner, two wide flights of steps, each guarded by a sentinel statue, a strange figure of two men, merged into one. Two heads, two arms, three legs, each dressed in the same flowing robe, flapping away from the skin of their limbs to reveal fine streamlined musculature. Tall enough to stand, head and shoulders above me, even without the dais on which they were mounted. The two faces were identical; indeed, the only difference between the two figures was a head dress, worn by the inner figure, a flat plane as long as an arm standing proud over its head, carved with runes I could not translate. Beside each of the six flights of steps this pair stood, and behind them, a carving of animal I did not know. Crude, a far coarser carving than the fine smooth features of the twin guardians on their marble stand.

I watched the statues for some time, extending my senses as best I could, seeking for the power within them, half expecting them to come to life at any moment in defence of the Well. Yet all I sensed was the well itself.

I climbed the plinth, and faced the four towers, arranged, three around the outside, facing inwards towards a central spire, tipped with the brilliant light I had seen from the cliff tops, so bright I could not look directly at it. The three outer towers were drab on the outside, thick and featureless, yet their inner side, facing the central spire, was carved with ornate figures, as was the centre itself. Almost like the wing casings of an insect, thickly armoured, yet hiding something of such fine and delicate structure.

Shielding my eyes from the light, I moved close, stepped within the ring of towers. All around, I felt the power of the Well, steeping my every fibre.

Three doors led into the central tower. One door facing each of the outer monoliths. Or portals - I could not be sure. They had no structure to them. No bars, no locks, no keys, no handles, but were simply holes, gaping black and absolute.

The power drew me onwards. I stepped through.

And fell. For what seemed like forever.

Blackness surrounded me. I felt a wind, ripping at my clothes, tearing away my cloak, still sodden from the lake, pulling at my armour. I felt my sword slide from its scabbard and vanish. I felt my boots unlace and be pulled from my feet. And, no mater how I tried to hold it fast, the clasps of my armour, slowly coming undone, until, one by one, everything I carried was hurled away and the wind blew even faster, stripping at my skin, pulling the hair from my head, plucking my eyes from their sockets and the tongue from my mouth, pulling joints apart, fingers from hands, hands from arms, arms from shoulders, snapping ribs, wrenching organs away, entrails streaming into nothingness, flaying the skin from my skull, rending my spine apart, until I was flesh and bone no more. And through this exquisite agony, I felt the power, growing ever stronger, all around me.

I emerged into a brilliant light, so bright it burned and seared at the eyes I no longer had, and could not longer close. Arms torn away twitched to shield the face I no longer wore. The brightness went on, unabated, unchecked, stripping away my mind as the black wind had done my body. Pulling memories from their dusty past and gouging them out. I saw Daikina, my sister. Watched her grow up. Watched her raped, and then she was gone, and I knew her no more. I saw myself, cursed. Crippled and branded. No legs. My village, Skyrie, burned to the ground. And then I am Skyrie, whole again. Wars, plunder, rape. Alithi of the Raven hair. Intuscat in flames. Intuscat becoming Icantoka, and all the violence and death and blood in between. Armies savaging each other. Sorcerous fire and lightning, the skies turning dim, the earth running red with blood, the air turning black with soot. And always, Alithi and the Emerald sorcerer, flitting to and fro in my visions. Alithi, sometimes vengeful, sometimes begging, sometimes spitting fire and fury. And the sorcerer, always, standing as he had in my tent, arms folding, smiling his mocking smile.

Wars faded. The Silver Sea came and went. The Infinite citadel. Alexiun and Lostra, until they too faded away and nothing remained except the two.

Alithi of the Raven.

The Emerald sorcerer.

And then, behind them, another face, in the background, overshadowing them both. A face I did not know, yet who bore, between his eyes, the dim but never forgotten mark of Ehwan. And as I looked at this face, I knew I saw myself, some future form, though the flesh may change, the spirit and the curse would live on. Perhaps forever.

Abruptly, the light was gone. I found myself, curled tight in a ball, lying on some exposed place, warmed by the sun and cooled by a gentle breeze. Almost before I opened my eyes, I knew where I must be. Atop the central tower of the Well.

I stood. The light was gone, no more, and I looked down, into the Well, out to the three towers, out to the steps and their silent guardians, to the well-tended grass, though tended by whom I could not say, to the tree, the lake, out to the cliffs, still scarred with tier rivers of blood, and to the sky, whose storm clouds had gone, replaced by an almost clear blue and a gentle spring sun, while on the horizon, three crescent moons marched in line.

Something touched my feet and scraped across the stone. I looked down and saw at my feet, the hilt of a sword, a strange hilt, too long, to thick, for any I had known.

I picked it up, and felt, as it touched my hand, the tiniest flicker of something, some power, almost spent. Even as I watched it, it died and faded to nothing.

The content of this page is © copyright Stephen Deas 2001 and is used here with permission.
It may not be reproduced in any form whatsoever without the permission of the author.