Another NaNo Idea
Hmm, I was digging through my folders and forgot this one. Here’s an excerpt. I have a first chapter and a little of a second, but no real plot outline.
After a minute, she scrambled up to her feet and unhooked the ropes from her belt, securing them to the spikes she’d hammered into the ice so that they wouldn’t fall back down. Then she leaned against the railing and gazed out.
The tower commanded a majestic view, revealing the entirety of the small island and the icy wasteland beyond. If she squinted against the glare, she imagined she could just see the cliffs of Emergin along the horizon. Or perhaps she was just deluding herself. Snow-madness was one of the dangers risked by solitary travelers across the northern ice.
She walked once around the balcony, feeling a thrill. The Sailor Mage had walked here once, searching the ocean for the Salt Gull, his lover’s ship, or, later, surveying the encroaching cold from the north. She wondered if he’d seen his College like this, covered in ice. Had he entombed himself before or after the winter had overtaken Yslyntyne? After, she imagined. Until Yslyntyne had fallen, he must have cherished some hope that the Endless Winter would be thwarted.
“You’ve slept long enough, lord mage,” she said, her voice sounding thin in the icy wind. “We need you again.”
Nobody answered. She hadn’t expected anyone to. She leaned over the railing and hauled up her bag of supplies, then rummaged around for a hammer.
The tower door opened easily, once she’d knocked away the sheet of ice that covered it. Ilsa lit a whale-oil lantern and ventured inside.
The air was fresher than she’d expected; clearly there were other open portals in the College, someplace; broken windows or doors, or cracks in the walls opened by ice and time. Or maybe the fresh air was brought in by magic. Little ice covered the walls and floor, nothing more than a thin rime crushed by her footsteps. She could see bright colors through it; exotic curling patterns in blue and red and gold.
“Hello?” she shouted. “Lord mage?”
Nothing but silence. She’d hoped that entering the College might have awoken its master, but apparently that wasn’t the case. Not for the first time, she wondered if the story of the sleeping mage was just a fairy tale. Oh well, she thought grimly. Even if he is, there will be things I can take — valuables, maybe even weapons or magical devices.
Anything that might give her a chance to resist the Cavalant regime.
Lantern in one hand, ice pick in the other, she slowly descended the stairs. They wound around and around and ended at last in a thick door. She swung it open and saw a long, brightly painted hallway.
Doors and passages opened off of it to either side, but Ilsa ignored them all as soon as the light of her lantern played across the great gold and jeweled doors that stood at the end of the hall.
“That’s got to be you,” she whispered, her heart pounding. She walked as softly as she could, her eyes fixed on the doors.
As she approached, the designs settled into a twisting serpent ourobourous, scales picked out in gold and emerald and lapiz lazuli, eyes gleaming yellow and red. Ilsa stopped in front of the double doors and gazed at it, feeling a mix of emotions: awe at a design only dimly remembered in legend, greed at the sight of wealth that might help her pay an army, and wariness over the sigil’s potential power.
So far she’d encountered no great magics warding the College, but that didn’t mean that Yslyntyne was unprotected. She doubted the Sailor Mage would leave his slumbering body vulnerable to any visitor who might stop by.
“I’m here for the lord mage,” she said to the serpent. “I’d like an audience with the Master of Yslyntyne.”
No response, not even a suggestive twinkling of reflected flame in the serpent’s eyes. Ilsa carefully set down the lantern and edged up to the door, her grip tightening on the icepick. She warily touched the design.
Nothing. She flattened her hand against it to make sure, then knocked on the door.
Nothing.
“Hmm.” She knocked again, just to be sure, then grabbed the door handle and pushed.
The giant door swung open easily and silently. Light flickered and glowed from the room beyond.
She stood motionless in the doorway, holding her breath.
The room was vast and lit by wizardfire that burst from gleaming silver sconces set along the walls. That the room had once been a great council chamber was obvious — tiers of seats had been built around the walls, and a grand speaking podium stood in front. The walls were covered in more of the bright, curling designs Ilsa had seen elsewhere, designs that began to resemble writing, when they didn’t look like waves or winding branches. Picked out in jewel colors and bright metallics, the writing glowed in the palely chromatic light of the wizardfire torches.
When Ilsa had imagined awakening the Sailor Mage, she’d expected to find a giant jade slab, perhaps, with a majestically robed man stretched out on it like a king on his sepulchre, surrounded by symbols of power.
Instead, the wizard had moved a large four-poster bed into the middle of the room, and he laid half-curled on his side, the covers pulled up to his ears. He’d set up a washbasin and screen on one side, next to a large wooden wardrobe.
Only the glacial chill in the air and the lack of any breath visibly wisping from between his lips suggested that his sleep wasn’t normal.
When nothing happened after a few seconds, Ilsa slowly let out her own breath and lowered the pickaxe.
“Excuse me,” she said, softly. “Lord mage?”
No answer. No movement.
Was he dead? She edged closer. The man looked younger than she’d expected, perhaps in his forties, with long black hair spilling over his pillow. One hand was curled next to his cheek.
He wasn’t breathing.
She touched him.
The wizard sucked in a sharp, gasping breath and threw an arm over his face.
Ilsa leaped back, her heart hammering in her chest.
Groaning, the Sailor Mage laid still a moment, then rolled over, covers falling askew. He was dressed in a heavy cotton tunic and trousers, and he reminded her, just a little, of the way her father had slept when he’d been alive.
“Lord mage?”
Another groan, ending in unintelligible words. Then the wizard rolled over again and sat up, rubbing his face with his hands. He looked at her, blinking, then glanced around.
“I’m sorry, lord mage,” Ilsa said formally. “I came here to awaken you. I need your help.”
He stared at her another long minute. He had brown eyes. For some reason, Ilsa had never imagined a legendary wizard with brown eyes. Brown seemed so … normal.
“It’s time?” he asked, at last.
That question, at least, was one of the many she’d imagined him asking. Relieved that something in this interchange had finally matched her expectations, she nodded.
“It’s time, lord mage. The world needs you again.”
“Ugh. It’s still cold.” He raked his fingers through his long hair and swung his feet over the side of the bed. They were covered in heavy woolen socks. Ilsa’s nervousness began to fade. She could hardly be afraid of a man in his socks.
The mage sat there for a moment, as if thinking. Then he looked up again.
“Do you have any tea?”
That had been her father’s first demand in the morning, too. Despite herself, she smiled.
“No.”
He frowned at her as if any sign of merriment were unwelcome and slid off the bed, pulling a blanket around his shoulders.
“So why does the world need me?” he asked, grumpily, as he walked to the wardrobe. He began pulling out clothes and tossing them on the bed.
“There’s a false king on the Thorn Throne, and we need your help in the rebellion to replace him with a just and true ruler.”
He groaned again.
“How long have I been asleep?”
“I’m not sure,” she answered, honestly. “A long time, I guess. They still tell stories about you, but nobody believes them anymore.”
“You did.” He grabbed his garments and vanished behind the screen. Ilsa shook her head to herself as she heard the unmistakable sound of a man taking a piss. She walked over to grab a chair that stood next to one of the walls. She brought it back and set it down.
Except for his first question, this wasn’t going at all the way she’d expected. She wasn’t sure if discovering that the Sailor Mage behaved like any other man was reassuring or disappointing. She expected it would take a while to decide.
“How old are you?” the wizard asked, as clothes rustled.
“I’m sixteen.” She braced herself for his laughter.
“And you’re the rightful heir to the throne.”
She blinked, surprised.
“No. But I intend to take it, anyway. I’d certainly do a better job on it than the Cavalants.”
Silence greeted that remark. He reappeared, tucking in his shirt, and sat on the side of the bed to pull on a pair of boots. Finally he looked up at her again.
“Do you have supporters? Allies? Secret agents in the enemy’s court?”
“Not yet.”
“So, without having any other possibility of victory, you pursued an almost-forgotten legend on the remote chance it would be true.” He looked up and gave her a crooked smile. “You might be able to win a throne, at that.”
“I know I can. With your help.” She gazed at him thoughtfully. “Although you’re not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“Something more impressive. An altar. A ring of fire. A circle of swords.”
“Altars aren’t comfortable, and I doubt you would have been able to breach warding spells like the ones you’re describing. The idea was that I’d be available when I was needed again. Not completely inaccessible.”
“Then why didn’t you just go to sleep in your own bedroom?”
“Too hard to find. Even a hero can’t miss the council chamber. The Great Stair leads straight to it.”
“Except that the front doors are frozen shut. I had to come in through the tower.”
He shrugged, standing and grabbing a fur coat and a pair of gloves from the wardrobe. “You still found me, didn’t you?” He wound a scarf around his neck. “Damn, it’s cold. Let’s go.”
“Then you’ll help me?” she asked, smiling.
“Most likely.” He gave her a skeptical look. “I suppose you could be an agent of evil bent on the destruction of the world, but what the hell. Nobody said I had to be awakened by the good guys. I haven’t been evil for a few centuries. Might make a nice change of pace.”
“But —“ Ilsa was taken aback. “You’re a hero!”
“Bite your tongue.”
“You went to sleep so you could wake up and save the world. You’re good!”
“Not always.” He headed out the door and Ilsa scrambled back to her feet to follow him. “You end up experimenting a lot, when you’re immortal. And I never said anything about saving the world.”
[…]
drupagliassotti @ September 29, 2007