subtle, masterful. He played the wild magic as if it were a lute of infinite, invisible strings and Kalrakin were the musician summoning his melody from that instrument. The power arced downward from each of his fingers; crackling conduits of golden light stroked the ground. That same magic pulsed upward through his feet and legs, drawn by the force of his will and the skill of his spellcasting, amplified by the power of the precious artifact. He started to raise his right arm, his lips parting as, through clenched teeth, he uttered a sound that was half groan, half hiss, a mingling of desperation and pleasure.
Luthar shivered as the sorcerous magic began to respond. A ripple creased the surface of the flat lake, spreading outward from Kalrakin's position on the shore. The ground trembled underfoot and, back in the fringe of the forest, several tall trees toppled over, tumbling in splintering crashes that seemed shockingly loud against the backdrop of the dead land.
The power was truly great here, thought Luthar, for this was the site of a hallowed place of ancient sorcery and the grave of a monster of nearly unspeakable power. The great Tower of the Sun was a ruin here, the summit marking the gravesite not just of a city, but of an entire people. The mansions and manors of Qualinost, the crystal towers and silvery domes, had vanished; all had been swallowed by this reeking mass of putrid liquid.
But the ancient magic of this place, the ancient power of the elves and of the world itself, lingered, lurking beneath the brackish surface. Now that rich legacy of magic fulfilled its promise, as the tall sorcerer sent tendrils of his power into the bedrock beneath the lake, the city, the very world. Kalrakin's hand, still clutching the stone, was thrust nearly straight up in the air now, and the inarticulate sound of his casting grew in volume and intensity. Amplified by the power of the Irda Stone, wild magic seized the bedrock of the land, and began to twist, to pull, to lift.
Larger ripples splashed across the water. A breath of wind stirred the brackish pools, dispersed the thickets of mist. Tremors convulsed the ground.
Finally he thrust his fist straight upward, and a storm of spuming liquid boiled along the surface of the lake in a line extending straight away from him, and from the shore. Brackish, foul water spilled away to both sides, pouring off a surface that rose gradually into view. The fumes swirled more thickly now, and Luthar pressed a cloth to his mouth, coughed through his gag, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. Pools of acidic liquid steamed and hissed on the flat stone pathway, flowing off to the sides, trickling back to the lake.
If Kalrakin felt any hesitation or discomfort, he displayed no sign. He held his hand aloft, long arm extended over his head. Light flashed from the stone, cold white beams brightening the long, straight pathway that now stretched out before them on the surface of the lake. Gradually that trembling surface ceased to move, took on an appearance of permanent solidity.
A stone causeway had appeared, wide enough for two men to walk side by side, a smooth surface only a foot or two above the brackish surface. Connecting to the shore before them, the path extended until it vanished into the mists that still masked any attempt to see a far distance.
'Come-we have but minutes,' Kalrakin said sharply.
'I can't see!' protested Luthar, blinking and wiping his eyes through another fit of coughing.
'Hold the tail of my robe,' snapped the tall sorcerer, taking his companion's hand, giving him a fold of the brown cloth. Luthar clutched the material as if it were his lifeline, which indeed it was.
Kalrakin strode onto his magical causeway, ignoring the seething lake bubbling and churning to both sides. Luthar took a moment to get his balance, then stumbled along behind. In moments the two of them had started across the wild magic causeway through the great span of the toxic lake.
Chapter 3
A Girl of the Icereach
Coryn pushed herself to her feet, and turned to retrace her steps back along the rim of the gorge. Her legs were weary after the morning's long climb, though she knew she was capable of many more miles of hiking. More burdensome than her fatigue was the disappointment of the fruitless hunt: To this point she had not even seen a deer track, much less caught sight of any prospective quarry. There didn't seem to be any point in probing farther into the highlands toward the Icewall, when there was probably just as much chance of finding game along the bluff near the village.
That would be just her luck, she thought sourly-to hunt all this distance and then find a huge buck and bring it down with a single arrow, within sight of her village! She resolved to follow the high path back to the edge of the bluff, where the view was good and she could still find concealment if she needed it. She'd hunt just a little longer.
When she reached the edge of the escarpment, she peered ahead, imagining that she could see her village, though it would still be a long, hard march of many miles before she would feel the warmth of her parents' hearth fire.
Her how remained strung, suspended easily from her shoulder, though she hadn't used it once all day long. This after she had boasted-not just to her father, but to all the village elders-that she would bag a doe and a fawn today with her tough, sharp arrows. Why had she opened her mouth?
Umma was always telling her not to brag or boast. She thought of her grandmother with grudging affection. The old woman certainly had a lot of good advice, and wasn't the least bit shy about sharing it with her sixteen- year-old granddaughter. Why couldn't Cory do a better job of listening?
Umma was certainly the wisest person in the village, the only one Cory knew of who had ever been beyond the Ice-reach. People told stories claiming that, as a young woman, she had gone as far as the grand city of Tarsis, though Coryn had never known her to speak of that faraway place. But the girl liked spending time with Umma in her cottage. She would go there to wash her grandmother's dishes, to chop wood, tend the fire and the mending, and help out with the countless other chores that the old woman's frail fingers and failing eyes had grown too feeble to easily accomplish.
Part of it was purely for the pleasure of Umma's company, even if her tart tongue and irascible nature sometimes leavened that pleasure. But another part of her motivation brought Coryn a little flush of guilt, when she thought about it. Her grandmother had precious books, the only books in the whole village of Two Forks. Though she had warned Cory, waving her bony finger for emphasis, to stay away from those fascinating tomes, the girl was always tempted. When Umma drifted into one of her long afternoon naps, her graying head bobbing forward against her chest, long snores rumbling through her nostrils, Cory would sneak the books out of their hiding places. Some were in a jar on the hearth, others underneath the counter in the kitchen. One, the most fascinating of all, Umma kept under the mattress of her bed.
Over the years Cory had found and read them all. She wasn't at all sure she understood everything she was reading. Most of them seemed like recipes of some sort, though not for any kind of food Coryn could imagine. A few were collections of letters, missives that occasionally arrived in the village, carried by wandering hunters, trappers, or traders, over the years. Just last month Umma had gotten a new one, which she had snatched away from Cory's prying eyes. Usually the letters described far-off places-one of them even mentioned a wild forest! Coryn had often tried to imagine such a forest. Here on the Icereach there were occasional trees, cottonwoods and cedars clinging to life in sheltered river valleys. But these were sparse and scanty woodlands. What would it be like to see an expanse of woods, where the trees were so thick you couldn't even see past them to the other side?
Coryn sighed. It was not like she would ever get to see anything so exotic. Though even here, in the southern realm of the world, strange things were known to happen. She reflected, with a secret flush of delight, on the great phenomenon of this past winter. Her father and the other elders called it the Night of Two Moons. On that cloudless evening the bright silver moon Coryn had known all of her life had vanished, to be replaced by two smaller, but even brighter, disks. One of these was white and the other red.
Umma had been particularly excited by the appearance of those moons, at least for a few days. Then she had become increasingly cross, until she had taken to her bed with a high fever. Coryn had sat with her for much of the spring, until at last her grandmother had been strong enough to move back to the rocking chair where she spent so much of her time. Cory had pressed her for information about the moons-she knew that, in her parents' youth, those same orbs had ruled the night skies-but Umma quickly became contemptuous of the questions, referring to the new
