A Circle of Firelight – First Chapter
The river in my dream is deep, with a swift current. The water is silt-brown and scored with deep ripples. It moves at the speed of a thoroughbred racehorse in full gallop, running through a narrow gorge cut into the gray bedrock. Plumes of white foam lap against the far bank.
Available at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or a retailer near you.The near bank is
carefully tended, with short grass and well-trimmed rosebushes. A dirt road,
smooth and even, runs parallel to the river, shaded by a line of tall
sycamores. But the far side is a wild, strange place, a landscape of tropical
flowers and thick, green vines hanging from live oak trees, at once inviting
and forbidding.
There is only one
way across, and that is the bridge that looms ahead in the distance. It is both
familiar and ominous, a wide antique arch spanning the rushing river. In the
half-light of dusk, the pale-yellow limestone glows softly. It does not take long
for me to close the distance. The two steel lampposts that flank the bridge on
this side cast a cold pool of light. I take a tentative step onto the cracked
paving stones. I feel for the hilt of my sword.
I have walked the
dirt road toward the bridge for a thousand midnights and have never once
crossed to the other side. As always, a guardian waits at the center of the
bridge, tall, ragged and silent. As always, he is wearing a long black leather
duster, with dark tattered robes underneath. All I can see of his face is his
green eyes, flashing in the near-darkness. He leans on a rough-hewn staff of
wood, a foot taller than his gaunt frame. He waits for me to make the first
move, with a patience tinged with malevolence.
“I am Ashlyn
Revere,” I say, “and I wish to cross.”
The guardian does
not answer, as always, and when I draw my sword from my scabbard and point it
in his general direction, he does nothing. Night after night of slow patient
experience has taught me that I cannot taunt him or distract him. I know I must
defeat the guardian in order to cross, but I have never learned how; it’s a
puzzle I can’t solve. It does not matter what incantation or weapon I use. He
can move that long black staff swifter than my eyes can follow; he can use it
to parry any edged weapon or block any missile weapon, and if I get too close
to him, he can use the staff to beat me senseless. Magic is even more
worthless—he can dodge or withstand any spells I can bring to bear.
I could walk
away, but I never do. Something keeps driving me forward, across the bridge,
and not knowing what that might be is, in its own way, as frustrating as my
failure to defeat the guardian itself. I can choose how to fight, but not why,
for reasons I can’t even begin to understand.
I dip the point of my sword toward him, in an ironic
half-salute. He nods his head slightly, in his only outward show of emotion. I
feint twice to the right and then try a slashing move at his knees. He blocks
the slash with the staff, hard enough that my sword arm tingles with the
impact. I try the same move again, and he blocks it the same way.
This time, I try the same feint, but instead of slashing
at his knees, I go for his neck with a vicious backhanded slice. The guardian
raises his staff to block my blow, shattering the sword at the hilt. In one
smooth motion, he lowers his arm, bringing the end of the shaft crashing down
on my shoulder. I fall to one knee, and just barely stop myself from pitching
face-first onto the limestone pavement.
The guardian goes back to his post, leaning once again on
his staff, waiting on me to make the next move. A hot wave of emotion flares
through me, sharper than the pain in my shoulder. I make my way to my feet. I
taste frustration, sharper than acid, in the back of my throat. Most people, I think, have recurring dreams about fun things. I
am not that lucky.
I throw the shattered hilt of the sword at the guardian,
as hard as I can. He blocks it, almost negligently. He takes two careful steps
toward me and then lashes out with the staff, slamming it into my injured
shoulder.
I manage to keep my footing and stagger away from the
blow, to the low wall on the side of the bridge. My hands find purchase on the
top of the wall, where I steady myself for a moment. I hear, rather than feel,
the impact on the back of my head, and then pitch forward into the dark river.
I open my eyes, expecting to wake up in my room, turn
over, and go back to sleep. But all I can see is the silt-brown flow of the
water, and all I feel is the current carrying me into the depths of the river. I
cannot tell in which direction the surface lies. Some nameless obstacle careens
against me, sending me spinning farther in the murk. I am drowning, and I don’t
know what to do.
In my panic, I see a flash of white and make a grab for
it, hoping that it is a rope or a branch I can use to climb out of the rushing
water. It is instead a hand that grasps my wrist, but instead of welcoming
flesh it is brittle bone. I struggle to get away, but the bony hand will not
let go. It pulls me farther down, into the absolute blackness of the river
bottom.
