My
robes feel heavier than they used to be, as if each thread were now bound in
iron. The tower feels higher than it used to be, and the air here is darker,
colder, and mute.
There, my old master lies still in state, the funeral party long gone and
silent. His books in their bindings like elephant hide are pressed together,
like his folded hands, like the warring nations on the Table of Maps.
I feel the weight of his art's crown now, dragging down over my ears and nose.
My neck cracks loudly when I turn at the trumpet, trumpeting its tones from the
ground.
Remember how I was a calm little boy, turning the fig leaf from green to black.
Remember? How I was the smug adolescent, burning the hair of the serving
wenches. Remember my first act as vice-lord in standing, the lightning I called
from the chance thunderhead? Remember my last act before coronation, laying
back into the ground our fallen warriors, putting to sleep our twice-used dead?
I feel the mass of the staff on my shoulder, not the Needle of Pain as once it
was known. Tonight it leans like a tentpole over-burdened, and my shoulder the
ground into which the spikes dove. Ah, but the power, I feel it burning, green
fire frozen around my heart.
The apex of my majesty is the magic overflowing, awakened by blood and the cant
of the road. There, on the Table of Maps, sits a skull--a skull sprouting
horns, the head of our foe. I hate this dark land and the beast that enslaves
it, this beast of my Sorcery and this land called my bones.
To be that little boy again, turning the leaf from black—back to green...
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