George Martin - The Way of the Wizard

“Tell her where it is.” Renfrew nodded at Linda. “She’ll fetch it.”

“He keeps it on him,” Linda said. “Night and day.”

Garlock pressed his lips together. His gaze shifted from Renfrew to the door, as if he were judging his chances of making his escape. Finally, shoulders slumping in defeat, he slid his fingers into his neckline and pulled a chain from under the collar of his jacket. He lifted it over his head and thrust it towards Linda. A large gold key dangled from it.

“It had better not be jinxed,” Renfrew said. “That would be most unfortunate.”

Garlock shook his head, his eyes fixed on Linda. She closed her hand over the key, jerking the chain out of his hand.

She thought of simply taking it and running away, somewhere wizards couldn’t find her. But she needed to get the collar off first, or she wouldn’t get far. She dropped the key onto Renfrew’s palm. She’d been passed from one wizard to another. Was this progress?

“Watch him,” Renfrew said to Linda, tipping his head toward Garlock. Facing her, he slid his fingers under the torc around her neck, turning it. Linda’s breath hissed out as the metal pressed against her blistered skin. “Sorry,” he murmured, his breath warming her frozen hair.

Sorry? Sorry ? Wizards never say they’re sorry.

Renfrew found the joining and inserted the key into the lock. A soft click, and he opened the collar, lifting it away from her. Then swore under his breath. Looking into her eyes, he brushed his fingertips over the inflamed skin, more gently than she would have thought possible.

Linda tilted her face up into the rain, to wash her tears away. Don’t give in, she thought. Don’t trust him. He’s a wizard.

Renfrew lifted the slaver in one hand, raising it high. It took on a glow, was too bright to look at. Then it slumped, lost its shape, seemed to dissolve. Molten metal dripped from his fingers and hissed and sizzled as it hit the wet floor. Finally, it was gone.

“What… what about the heartstone?” Garlock asked, startling Linda. She’d nearly forgotten he was there.

Renfrew turned to Garlock. “You are fortunate,” he said, “that I am better at controlling my temper than I used to be. I’ve left you alive, and I’ve — ah — left you a wall and a door to go in and out of.” A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I think you should count yourself fortunate. Unless you want me to propose another trade.” He raised an eyebrow.

Garlock shook his head wordlessly.

Renfrew gripped Linda’s shoulder, turning her away from the cliff. Surprisingly, very little heat came through. With a thrust of the other hand, he drove a pathway through the rubble to the outside.

Garlock looked down at the puddle of metal on the stone floor, and then up at the trader. “Renfrew,” he said softly. “Why have I not heard of you?”

“Renfrew?” The trader smiled. “You must have misunderstood. My name is Hastings.”

“Hastings?” It came out strangled, a mix of dread and sudden understanding. “ Leander Hastings?”

Hastings , Linda thought. Jared had shared a rumor about a wizard named Leander Hastings who had single-handedly disrupted a tournament at Raven’s Ghyll and spirited away one of the warriors. At first, everyone assumed it was a simple robbery — that the warrior would resurface in the Trade, at a fancy price. But it never happened.

Instead, there were more raids — on tournaments, on auctions, on the network of wizard slavers known as the Trade. And the members of the underguilds who disappeared — some said they were working with Hastings now, joining in his dangerous and hopeless quest.

Linda didn’t believe it for a moment. Why would a wizard risk his life for the underguilds? It was just a fairytale the powerless told each other to prevent despair. Or a lie spread by the powerful in order to convince the underguilds to wait for a rescue that would never come.

But now, confronted with the man instead of the legend — a tiny spark of belief kindled within Linda.

As Hastings propelled her through the ruins ahead of him, Linda thought, All right, Leander Hastings, if that’s your real name — you’ll not be rid of me so easily. I’m going to find out if any of those stories are true. And if they are, I’m going to show you what I can do.

Linda glanced over her shoulder and saw Garlock crossing himself. For a murderer and a thief, he had always been devout. For years after, she held that incongruous picture of Garlock in her mind. But she never saw him again.

Life is a series of trades — a heartstone for an enchanter. New stories for old. Sin for redemption. The devil you knew for the one you didn’t.

Perhaps an ending for a new beginning.

Adam-Troy Castro’s work has been nominated for several awards, including the Hugo, Nebula, and Stoker. His novels include Emissaries from the Dead and The Third Claw of God . He has also collaborated on two alphabet books with artist Johnny Atomic: Z Is for Zombie , and V Is for Vampire , which are due to come out next year. Castro’s short fiction has appeared in such magazines as The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Science Fiction Age, Analog, Cemetery Dance , and in a number of anthologies. I previously included his work in The Living Dead, The Living Dead 2 , and in Lightspeed Magazine . His story collections include A Desperate, Decaying Darkness and Tangled Strings.

The oldest and most primal form of storytelling is fantasy — tales of gods and monsters, heroes and magic — and the most fundamental form of fantasy is the quest narrative. In his highly influential work The Hero with a Thousand Faces , Joseph Campbell identifies what he calls the “monomyth,” a story that is told and retold in every human society — that of a young man who sets out from his village on a great quest. He faces steadily escalating challenges and acquires magical talismans and helpful companions — often including a talking animal and a wise old man. Finally he faces his greatest fears and returns home to share the wisdom and power he’s acquired. In many quest stories, the hero must also rescue a beautiful princess. Video games frequently evoke this motif, with games like Super Mario and Zelda building long-running franchises around the idea of princess-rescuing. Contemporary fantasies, such as The Stepsister Scheme by Jim C. Hines, often turn this idea on its head, featuring princesses who are more than capable of rescuing themselves, if the need arises. Our next tale also features an unconventional take on the idea of a quest to rescue a beautiful woman.

The journeyer was still a young man when he embarked on his search for the all-powerful witch Cerile.

He was bent and gray-haired a lifetime later when he found a map to her home in the tomb of the forgotten kings.

The map directed him halfway across the world, over the Souleater mountains, through the Curtains of Night, past the scars of the Eternal War, and across a great grassy plain, to the outskirts of Cerile’s Desert.

The desert was an ocean of luminescent white sand, which even in the dead of night still radiated the killing heat it swallowed during the day. He knew at once that it could broil the blood in his veins before he traveled even half the distance to the horizon. It even warned him: “Turn back, journeyer. I am as sharp as broken glass, and as hot as open flame. I am filled with soft shifting places that can open up and swallow you without warning. I can drive you mad and leave you to wander in circles until your strength sinks into the earth. And when you die of thirst, as you surely shall if you attempt to pass, I can ride the winds to flay the skin from your burnt and blistered bones.”