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leaving an ugly blue "M." "Now, into the desert with you, and never let the
sight of good men fall upon you." The seven men looked around the square at
their neighbors, bowed their heads and walked from the square. As they reached
the edge, the crowd parted, not daring even to look. Fyx tossed his handful of
embers, now dead, on the remains of Yudo's pyre.
Crisal watched the old magician turn in her direction and walk toward her, his
eyes burning with an emotion she could not read. Standing before her, he lifted
the hand that had held the embers. It was dirty, but unburned. He placed it on
her shoulder. "Come, child. This is no town for anyone to rest in, for they will
have none of it from now until their shame is washed away."
Fyx took the street leading to the high road to Miira, the crowd parted, and
Crisal followed, trying to decide in her own mind whether what she felt for Fyx
was fear or love.
Through the night, Fyx-marched toward Miira town as if possessed. Crisal
stumbled along behind, marveling at the old man's strength. Twice, rain and wind
whipped them, causing the already muddy road to grow slick as grease with dark,
forbidding pools. Unmindful of the mud or the pools, Fyx strode through both as
though he were on a hard, dusty street in Tarzak. As the second rain stopped, a
dim grey dawn fought against the black clouds. Fyx stopped and turned to the
light.
"It is dawn."
"You don't miss a thing, Fyx." Crisal dragged herself next to the old man. He
turned and looked at the girl, soaked and mud-caked as himself.
"You must be tired, child."
"Ah, Fyx, there is fortune teller's blood in your veins."
The magician raised an eyebrow. "I see you've spent the night honing your
tongue. Do you wish to rest or not?"
"Of course." Crisal cocked her head at the drenched landscape. "But where?"
Fyx reached into his robe and handed Crisal a black wad of raw cobit dough. The
lump was crusted hard and weighed heavily in the child's hand. "Pick a spot with
neither trees, weeds nor grass."
Crisal looked around, walked ahead to a sandy place on the east side of the
road. "Here?"
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Fyx nodded. "Listen carefully. When I tell you, crush the dough ball hard and
throw it in the center of the clear spot." Crisal looked at the innocent lump in
her hand. "You must be very quick, understand?"
"Yes."
"Then, now!"
Crisal crushed the ball and felt it warm her hand even
before she threw it. Before it landed on the sand, it exploded into a blinding
column of flame. Crisal turned to Fyx. "Yudo's pyre."
"Yes. With your right hand, feel inside the right sleeve of your robe. Do you
feel a pocket?"
Crisal felt about and found an opening. "Yes."
The magician handed her five more of the black dough balls. "Put these in that
pocket. You know how they can be used." Fyx nodded at the fire, almost gone out
for lack of fuel. "It burns hot, but very fast. The sand will be dry, but only
warm."
Crisal put the balls into her sleeve pocket. "Is this to be my first trick,
Fyx?" '
The magician laughed. "No, child. Your first trick will be learning how to sleep
without rolling over on your sleeve!"
Crisal dragged herself onto the warm sand, stretched out and fell asleep, her
right arm straight out from her body.
If Crisal dreamed at all, it was of sleep. The clearing skies and rising sun
wanned and dried her robe, and she wriggled happily as she fought back the
wakefulness that gnawed at the edges of her sleep. She snuggled her face, cupped
by her right hand against the sand, then remembered the dough balls. Sitting
bolt upright, she saw that the loose sleeve of her robe had not been under her.
"Ah, child, you are awake."
Crisal turned to see a woman in singer's white and green sitting next to a tall
blonde man wearing the black and scarlet. The man nodded to Crisal. "Dorna
invited me to warm my backside on your sand, little magician."
Crisal nodded back. The man was young and very strong looking; the woman, as
young, had black flowing hair and dark brown eyes. Crisal cursed her own
freckles and muddy appearance next to the beautiful singer. "Have you seen my
master?"
The young magician shrugged. The singer shook her head. "I suppose you should
wait here for him." Dorna looked down at the magician's hand around her waist,
then ' nodded her head toward Crisal. Shrugging, he removed his hand, and lay
back on the sand, propping himself up with his elbows.
Crisal studied the young magician. "You are not from this planet, are you,
magician?"
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The man laughed. "No, child. My name is Ashly Al-lenby. I come from the parent
planet."
"Yet, you wear the black and scarlet."
"Even I must eat. What are you called?"
"I am Crisal. I am apprenticed to a great magician."
"His name?" Allenby sat up.
Crisal looked at Dorna and read her eyes. "His name is of no consequence,
Allenby." The girl waved her hand around indicating the sand she had dried.
Allenby raised his eyebrows and nodded. "The few mov-ills I have already weep
from loneliness. Would you observe a new trick of mine in exchange?"
Crisal shrugged. "If I can determine, how you do it, I will still want payment."
Allenby chuckled and withdrew a deck of cards from his robe. As he handed the
deck to Crisal, he smoothed the sand before him with his hand. "Pick seven cards
you can remember."
"I can remember any seven or the entire deck, for that matter." Crisal thumbed
off the first seven cards and handed them to Allenby.
"No, don't give them to me. Put them in a row, faces up, on the sand." Crisal
put out the cards. "Do you have them memorized?"
"Of course." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]