User:CarrieBerg/The Sorcerer's Daughter

Chapter 1: The Castle on the Edge of Forever

In the most remote corner of the kingdom of Ruziya, beyond the barren wastes that none visit willingly, in the shadows of the fearsome Onzag mountains, there lies the castle of Malikon the Heartless.

It lies as far in the northwest corner of Ruziya as possible: just a step or two more and the castle would no longer be on land, but would be engulfed by the icy waters of the Barzen-Glassae Sea.

To get to the castle was considered a near impossible feat in and of itself. For it was as if the very land of Ruziya wished to keep the wizard’s fortress free from prying eyes. And, given the powers of Malikon, it was entirely possible that he had made the land do so.

After leaving the joys of civilized lands, anyone who wanted to reach Malikon had to first pass through the Lost Plains of Adaran. The plains themselves were not lost. No, long had they been marked on maps as a place to be avoided. Something terrible had happened there in the past, and no one wished to run into any of the lingering effects. For the effects were said to be worse than the original terror which had occurred. The plains were supposed to be devoid of all natural life. No one liked to think about what unnatural life might have sprung up over the centuries. Sane travelers avoided the place entirely. But there were always the few crazy fools who tried, and found that the tales were true: they could not readily or easily travel through that cursed place.

If, by luck or chance, travelers successfully made it through the plains, a second challenge awaited them. For the Lost Plains of Adaran turned into hills the color of dried blood. Hot and dry, they too offered nothing to those who would travel through them. However, the hills were not cursed as the plains, so life did occur. Plants grew. Though most of them poisonous, and quite a few were deadly. Horrible poisonous lizards dwell in the vales between the hills, living on the poisonous plants or the occasional unwary traveler. There were even a few streams; all with water as red as the hills. And where the hills were shadowed by the Onzag Mountains, creatures even more horrible than the lizards were said to make their home.

Finally, the travelers would come to the last challenge; the Onzag mountains. Black as shadow, jagged and harsh, they offered as much to a traveler as the lands before them: nothing. They were formed from massive slabs of basalt, pushed up over the centuries into form harsh points, as of yet hardly worn away by time. Where ancient rivers used to flow, the normally black rock was stained red as blood. The few rivers that still flowed out of the ancient peaks were a murky blood-red. It became obvious where the hills got their coloring. It was impossible to climb the mountains: the jagged basalt would cut through leather, cloth and flesh. There was only one harsh path through them. And at the path’s end lies the castle of Malikon.

The castle itself is a testament to the power the wizard Malikon, for it is carved from a single piece of black basalt. It is, if possible, even more forbidding than the land around it. There are no gaps or seems, no windows or doors. Just harsh angles and edges and walls that absorb the light, making the castle seem like a shadow even during the light of day. All except for the northernmost tower. For the north tower is made out of a single glistening ruby. It glows softly each dawn and dusk, but hangs like a bloody sword above the castle during the rest of the day. It is the first part of the castle anyone coming from the mountain pass can see, winking like a blood-shot eye in a shadowed face.

If that is not enough to inspire awe, the castle also seems to hang in the air, balanced on the edge where the mountains become sheer basalt cliffs. Again, the wizard’s might can readily be seen, for it seems that Malikon’s will alone keeps his fortress from collapsing into the dark waters below. The castle rests precariously at a crazy angle between the sea and the sky, with towers pointing not straight up, but to the west, as if they would follow the sun and throw themselves into the sea. Or perhaps, over the years, the castle has been trying to join with its reflection.

In the ocean at the base of the cliff there is a perfect reflection of the castle. Too perfect. It is not a real reflection, but a whole other castle. Most people who visit Malikon notice only that the reflection is where it should be. They never look closely to see that the reflection doesn’t ripple with the waves, but lies untouched beneath them. There are a few who look a little closer; but they dismiss what they see, thinking it is another enchantment to awe the unwary. Or perhaps a mirage to lead them to their death chasing fantasy castles in the icy sea. It would not be the first time Malikon had done such a thing. And so they do no look long, not wanting to be snared if it is a deadly illusion.

But if they were to look closer, they would see that this castle is not made to look like blood and shadows. It is a vision of bubbles and sunlight, dancing beneath the stormy waves. Instead of black basalt and crimson ruby, the walls are made of glistening pearl and creamy alabaster, golden helidor and pale aquamarine, sparkling emerald and watery beryl. During the afternoon, when it is fully illuminated with sunlight, it dazzles and delights, a magical marvel. But during the rest of the day and night, when it is hidden in the shadow of the cliffs, the castle blends into the colors of the ocean and looks like the pale reflection it is thought to be. None suspect the truth: that it is not so much a reflection as it is the original. Malikon’s castle on the cliffs is this castle’s shadowy reflection.

Yet every so often, about once or twice a century, someone realizes that buried in the rumors about the Castle on the Edge of Forever are grains of truth. That person takes the time to learn all the stories by heart, to extract from those tiny grains the greater truth. Then the person painstakingly finds their way across plains and hills and mountains, to the winding path that leads down the cliff. What they find next is never spoken of, for so far none of those dreamers have ever returned. But perhaps this time it would be different.

.:.:.:.:.:.

Celandine walked through the halls of the castle. With each step they shifted color. The emerald walls were now bright green, now dark, now bright again. Once, the motion of the sunlight streaming through the ocean had made her dizzy, but that had been a long time ago. The castle had long ceased to affect Celandine in that way. In fact, the castle no longer held any wonder for her at all. For while it was beautifully crafted, and exquisitely designed; it was also her prison. And after so many years as a prisoner, it held no marvels for Celandine anymore.

She had not always been a prisoner. She remembered a time when sunlight did not stream greenly through the water. When the sky was a different shade of blue. When merfolk did not stop by and chat through the windows. She could barely remember what a breeze felt like. And the only way she remembered clouds was by looking at them in one of the many magic mirrors that lay about the castle. There were times when she thought she would do anything to leave. And yet here she stayed. Locked in a castle of scintillating colors beneath the icy waves.

.:.:.:.:.:.

Here I'm trying to capture Patricia McKillip's gorgeous writing style. She writes what could be considered modern folklore, fantasy stories with roots in folklore but are entirely unique tales. Her descriptions are wonderful - and I have a feeling I'm not quite doing them justice with my pale imitation.