Wizard's First Rule

Chapter 24

“I hate my mother.”

The Master, sitting cross-legged on the grass, looked down at the bitter expression on the boy’s face and waited a moment before he answered in a quiet voice. “That is a very strong thing to say, Carl. I would not want you to say something you would come to regret when you had thought it over.”

“I’ve thought it over plenty,” Carl snapped. “We’ve talked about it a long time. I know now how they’ve twisted me around, deceived me. How selfish they are.” He squinted his eyes. “How they are enemies of the people.”

Rahl glanced up at the windows, at the last tinge of fading sunlight turning the wisps of clouds a beautiful deep reddish purple, frosted with tips of gold. Tonight. Tonight, at long last, would be the night he returned to the underworld.

For most of long days and nights he had kept the boy awake with the special gruel, allowing him to sleep for only brief spells, kept him awake to hammer away at him until his mind was empty, and could be molded. He had talked to the boy endlessly, convincing him how others had used him, abused him, and lied to him. Sometimes he had left the boy to think over what he had been told, and used the excuse to visit his father’s tomb and read the sacred inscriptions again, or to snatch some rest.

And then, last night, he had taken that girl to his bed, to get some relaxation—a small, momentary diversion. An interlude of gentleness to feel another’s soft flesh against his, to relieve his pent-up excitement. She should have been honored, especially after he had been so tender with her, so charming. She had been anxious enough to be with him.

But what did she do? She laughed. When she saw the scars, she laughed.

As he thought of it now Rahl had to strain to control his rage, strain to show the boy a smile, strain to hide his impatience to get on with it. He thought of what he had done to the girl, the exhilaration of his violence unleashed, her ripping screams. The smile came more easily to his lips. She would laugh at him no more.

“What’s the big grin for?” Carl asked.

Rahl looked down at the boy’s big brown eyes. “I was just thinking about how proud I am of you.” His smile widened as he remembered the way her hot sticky blood pumped and spurted as she screamed. Where was her haughty laughter then?

“Me?” Carl asked, smiling shyly.

Rahl’s blond head nodded. “Yes, Carl, you. Not many young men of your age would be intelligent enough to see the world as it really is. To see beyond their own lives to the wider dangers and wonders all about. To see how hard I work to bring safety and peace to the people.” He shook his head sadly. “Sometimes it hurts my heart to see the very ones for whom I struggle so hard turn their backs to me, reject my tireless efforts, or worse yet, join with the enemies of the people.

“I have not wanted to burden you with worry for me, but right now, as I speak with you, there are evil people who plot to conquer us, to crush us. They have brought down the boundary that protected D’Hara, and now the second boundary too. I fear they plot an invasion. I have tried to warn the people of the danger from Westland, to get them to do something to protect themselves, but they are poor and simple people, they look to me for protection.”

Carl’s eyes widened. “Father Rahl, are you in danger?”

Rahl brushed the matter away with a wave of his hand. “It’s not me I fear for, it’s the people. If I were to die, who would protect them?”

“Die?” Carl’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Father Rahl! We need you! Please don’t let them get you! Please let me fight at your side. I want to help protect you. I couldn’t stand the thought of you getting hurt.”

Rahl’s breathing quickened, his heart raced. The time was near. It would not be long now. He smiled warmly at Carl as he remembered the girl’s hoarse screams. “I could not stand the thought of you being in danger for me. Carl, I have come to know you these last days—you are more to me than simply a young man who was chosen to help me with the ceremony, you have become my friend. I have shared my deepest concerns with you, my hopes, my dreams. I don’t do that with many. It’s enough to know you care.”

Tears in his eyes, Carl looked up at the Master. “Father Rahl,” he whispered, “I’d do anything for you. Please let me stay? After the ceremony, let me stay and be with you? I’ll do anything you need, I promise, if I could just stay with you.”

“Carl, that’s so like you, so kind. But you have a life, parents, friends. And Tinker, don’t forget your dog. Soon you will be wanting to go back to all that.”

Carl slowly shook his head while his eyes stayed on Rahl. “No I won’t. I only want to be with you. Father Rahl, I love you. I’d do anything for you.”

Rahl considered the boy’s words, a serious look on his face. “It would be dangerous for you to stay with me.” Rahl could feel his heart pounding.

“I don’t care. I want to serve you, I don’t care if I might get killed. I only want to help you. I don’t want to do anything else but help you in your fight with those enemies. Father Rahl, if I got killed helping you, it would be worth it. Please, let me stay, I’ll do whatever you ask. Forever.”

To help control his rapid breathing, Rahl took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. His face was grave. “Are you sure of what you are saying, Carl? Are you sure you really mean it? I mean, are you really sure you would give your life for me?”

“I swear. I’d die to help you. My life is yours, if you’ll have it.”

Rahl leaned back a little, put his hands on his knees, and nodded slowly, his blue eyes riveted on the boy.

“Yes, Carl. I will have it.”

Carl didn’t smile, but shook slightly with the excitement of acceptance, his face set in determination. “When can we do the ceremony? I want to help you and the people.”

“Soon,” Rahl said, his eyes getting wide and his speech slow. “Tonight, after I have fed you. Are you ready to begin?”

“Yes.”

Rahl rose, feeling the surge of blood through his veins—he strained to control the flush of arousal. It was dark outside. The torches gave off a flickering light that danced in his blue eyes, gleamed on his long blond hair, and made his white robes seem to glow. Before going to the forge room, he placed the feeding horn near Carl’s mouth.

Inside the dark room, his guards waited, their massive arms folded across their chests. Sweat rolling from their skin left little trails in the light covering of soot. A crucible sat in the fire of the forge, an acrid smell rising from the dross.

Eyes wide, Rahl addressed his guards. “Is Demmin back?”

“For several days, Master.”

“Tell him to come and wait,” Rahl said, unable to manage more than a whisper. “And then I would like you two to leave me alone for now.”

They bowed and left through the back door. Rahl swept his hand over the crucible, and the smell changed to an appetizing aroma. His eyes closed as he offered silent prayers to the spirit of his father. His breathing was a shallow pant. In the fervor of his emotions he was unable to control it. He licked his shaking fingertips and rubbed them on his lips.

Affixing wooden handles to the crucible so as to lift it without burning himself, he used the magic to make its weight easy to maneuver, and went back through the door with it. The torches lit the area around the boy, the white sand with the symbols traced in it, the ring of grass, the altar set on the wedge of white stone. Torchlight reflected off the polished stone block that held the iron bowl with the Shinga on its lid.

Rahl’s blue eyes took it all in as he approached the boy. He stopped in front of him, by the mouth of the feeding horn. There was a glaze in his eyes as he looked down to Carl’s upturned face.

“Are you sure about this, Carl?” he asked hoarsely. “Can I trust you with my life?”

“I swear my loyalty to you, Father Rahl. Forever.”

Rahl’s eyes closed as he drew a sharp breath. Sweat beaded on his face, stuck his robes to his skin. He could feel waves of heat rolling off the crucible. He added the heat of his magic to the vessel, to keep its contents boiling.

Softly, he began chanting the sacred incantations in the ancient language. Charms and spells whispered their haunting sounds in the air. Rahl’s back arched as he felt power surging through his body, taking him with hot promise. He shook as he chanted, offering up his words to the spirit of the boy.

His eyes opened partway, the visage of wanton passion burning in them. His breathing was ragged—his hands trembled slightly. He gazed down at the boy.

“Carl,” he said in a husky whisper, “I love you.”

“I love you, Father Rahl.”

Rahl’s eyes slid closed. “Put your mouth over the horn, my boy, and hold tight.”

While Carl did as he was told, Rahl chanted the last charm, his heart pounding. The torches hissed and spit while they burned, the sound intertwining with that of the spell.

And then he poured the contents of the crucible into the horn.

Carl’s eyes snapped wide, and he both inhaled and swallowed involuntarily when the molten lead hit him, searing into his body.

Darken Rahl shuddered with excitement. He let the empty crucible slip from his hands to the ground.

The Master went on to the next set of incantations, the sending of the boy’s spirit to the underworld. He said the words, every word in the proper order, opening the way to the underworld, opening the void, opening the dark emptiness.

As his hands extended upward, dark forms swirled around him. Howls filled the night air with the terror of their calls. Darken Rahl went to the cold stone altar, knelt in front of it, stretched his arm across it, put his face to it. He spoke the words in the ancient language that would link the boy’s spirit to him. For a short while he cast the needed spells. When finished, he stood, fists at his side, his face flushed. Demmin Nass stepped forward, out of the shadows.

Rahl’s vision focused on his friend. “Demmin,” he whispered, his voice coarse.

“Master Rahl,” he answered in greeting, bowing his head.

Rahl stepped to Demmin, his face drawn and sweat-streaked. “Take his body from the ground, and put it on the altar. Use the bucket of water to wash him clean.” He glanced down at the short sword Demmin wore. “Crack his skull for me, no more, and then you may stand back, and wait.”

He passed his hands over Demmin’s head—the air about shuddered. “This spell will protect you. Wait for me then, until I return, just before dawn. I will need you.” He looked away lost in his thoughts.

Demmin did as asked, going about the grim task while Rahl continued to chant the strange words, rocking back and forth, his eyes closed, as if in a trance.

Demmin wiped his sword clean on his muscular forearm and returned it to its scabbard. He took one last look at Rahl, who was still lost in the trance. “I hate this part,” he muttered to himself. He turned and went back into the shadows of the trees, leaving the Master to his work.

Darken Rahl went to stand behind the altar, breathing in deeply. Suddenly, he cast his hand down at the fire pit, and flames leapt up with a roar. He held out both hands, fingers contorted, and the iron bowl lifted and floated over, setting itself down on the fire. Rahl pulled his curved knife from its sheath and laid it on the boy’s wet belly. He slipped his robes from his shoulders and let them drop to the ground, kicking them back out of the way. Sweat covered his lean form, ran down his neck in rivulets.

His skin was smooth and taut over his well-proportioned muscles, except on his upper left thigh, across part of his hip and abdomen, and the left side of his erect sex. That was where the scar was—where the flames sent by the old wizard had tasted him: the flames of the wizard’s fire that had consumed his father as he stood at his right hand—flames that had licked him also, giving him the pain of the wizard’s fire.

It had been a fire unlike any other, burning, sticking, searing, alive with purpose, as he had screamed until he had lost his voice.

Darken Rahl licked his fingers, and reaching down ran them wetly over the bumpy scars. How he had so badly wanted to do that when he had been burned, how he had so badly wanted to do it to stop the terror of the unrelenting pain and burning.

But the healers wouldn’t let him. They said he mustn’t touch the burn, and so they bound him by his wrists, to keep him from reaching down. He had licked his fingers and instead rubbed them on his lips as he shook, to try to stop his crying, and on his eyes to try to wipe away the vision of having seen his father burned alive. For months he had cried and panted and begged to touch and soothe the burns, but they would not let him.

How he hated the wizard, how he wanted to kill him. How he wanted to push his hand into the wizard’s living body while he looked into his eyes—and pull his heart out.

Darken Rahl took his fingers away from the scar and, picking up the knife, put the thoughts of that time out of his mind. He was a man now. He was the Master. He put his mind back to the matter at hand. He wove the proper spell, and then plunged the knife into the boy’s chest.

With care, he removed the heart and put it into the iron bowl of boiling water. Next he removed the brain and added it to the bowl. Last, he took the testicles and added them, too—then, finally, he put the knife down. Blood mixed with the sweat that covered him. It dripped from his elbows.

He laid his arms across the body and offered prayers to the spirits. His face lifted to the dark windows above as he closed his eyes and continued the incantations, rolling them out without having to think. For an hour he went on with the words of the ceremony, smearing the blood on his chest at the proper time.

When he had finished with the runes from his father’s tomb, he went to the sorcerer’s sand where the boy had been buried for the time of his testing. With his arms he smoothed the sand—it stuck to the blood in a white crust. Squatting, he carefully began drawing the symbols, radiating from the center axis, branching in intricate patterns learned in years of study. He concentrated as he worked into the night, his straight blond hair hanging down, his brow wrinkled with intensity as he added each element, leaving out no line or stroke or curve, for that would be fatal.

At last finished, he went to the sacred bowl and found the water almost boiled away, as it should be. With magic, he floated the bowl back to the polished stone block and let it cool a little before he took a stone pestle and began grinding. He mashed, sweat running from his face, until he had worked the heart, brain, and testicles into a paste, to which he added magic powders from pockets in his discarded robes.

Standing in front of the altar, he held up the bowl with the mixture while he cast the calling spells. He lowered the bowl when finished, and looked around at the Garden of Life. He always like to look upon beautiful things before he went to the underworld.

With his fingers, he ate from the bowl. He hated the taste of meat, and never ate anything but plants. Now, though, there was no choice, the way was the way. If he wanted to go to the underworld, he had to eat the flesh. He ignored the taste, and ate it all, trying to think of it as vegetable paste.

Licking his fingers clean, he set the bowl down and went to sit cross-legged on the grass in front of the white sand. His blond hair was matted in places with dried blood. He placed his hands palm up on his knees, closed his eyes, and took deep breaths, preparing himself for meeting the spirit of the boy.

At last ready, all preparations done, all charms spoken, all spells cast, the Master raised his head and opened his eyes.

“Come to me, Carl,” he whispered in the secret ancient language.

There was a moment of dead silence, and then a wailing roar. The ground shook.

From the center of the sand, the center of the enchantment, the boy’s spirit rose, in the form of the Shinga, the underworld beast.

The Shinga came, transparent at first, like smoke rising from the ground, turning, as if unscrewing itself from the white sand, lured by the drawing. Its head reared as it struggled to pull itself through the drawing, snorting steam from its flared nostrils. Rahl calmly watched as the fearsome beast rose, becoming solid as it came, ripping the ground and pulling the sand up with it, its powerful hind legs pulling through at last as it reared with a wail. A hole opened, black as pitch. Sand around the edges fell away into the bottomless blackness. The Shinga floated above it. Piercing brown eyes looked down at Rahl.

“Thank you for coming, Carl.”

The beast bent forward, nuzzling its muzzle against the Master’s bare chest. Rahl came to his feet and stroked the Shinga’s head as it bucked, calming its impatience to be off. When at last it quieted, Rahl climbed onto its back and held its neck tight.

With a flash of light, the Shinga, Darken Rahl astride its back, dissolved back into the black void, corkscrewing itself down as it went. The ground shuddered and the hole closed with a grating sound. The Garden of Life was left in the sudden silence of the night.

From the shadows of the trees, Demmin Nass stepped forward, forehead beaded with sweat. “Safe journey, my friend,” he whispered, “safe journey.”