Lyrec Read Free Page A

the face, but he would have recognized in it some familiar aspect. The body, too, would have called to mind someone whose companionship he had often enjoyed—the gray-haired blacksmith of Dolm.
    The last few threads of silver pulled away from the man beneath. All of the sphere’s outer shell was now collected over his left hand, a silver ball at the end of his arm, which hung from his wrist like an enormous tear.
    The air swirled and a great roaring echoed through the copse. The man trembled as he passed into the reality of the place called Secamelan.
    The man sighed, his head hung forward, then tilted back as he drew his first deep breath. His eyes opened. The irises were black; around them the whites were so shiny as to seem almost porcelain. He looked about himself and smiled. He had come through the doorway another time and survived. How many more passages could he withstand? And happily, this world appeared to be intact, not scorched and dying. “You may have finally arrived in time, Lyrec,” he said to himself; then he cocked his head and repeated, “Lyrec.” How strange his name sounded on these lips, in this manner of speech. He glanced down at the minstrel and reflected upon what knowledge he had acquired from the hapless creature. The fellow had either not been very bright, or the society here was not much to speak of—the rudiments of language, a sense of the world that could only be called dim, and a handful of concepts that as yet made little sense. Beyond that, the minstrel’s mind had been closed to him, if there were anything more inside.
    The weight on his left hand drew his attention. His crex , reduced in size, shining silvery, still encased his hand. That would not do. It would have to be disguised. He looked the minstrel over again. There, near the man’s waist, was a thin leather scabbard ending in a short shaft with a semi-circle of woven metal around it. Lyrec was not sure what this device was—the concept of weapons had not been one that he’d elicited from the minstrel. Nevertheless, it was perfect for his needs. He closed his eyes.
    The silvery crex fluctuated for a moment. Then it sent out two shining strands that slowly colored and altered to become leather, ending in a sheath.   The remaining silver dropped down and fit itself into position, assembling above the sheath into a grip with full-basket hilt.
    Lyrec flexed his freed left hand. He looked down. The thing strapped around his waist was not quite the same as the one on the minstrel. The sheath was scarcely more than the length of his hand.
    There had not been enough material left for the crex to extend further down his leg. He hoped it would be sufficient.
    Quite suddenly, Lyrec realized that he was alone. He searched the copse, but saw no one else. “Borregad?” he called out. “Borregad, where are you? Are you intact?”
    A terrible caterwaul answered him.
    Lyrec envisioned his poor friend lying in the weeds in dreadful pain, even near death. Borregad’s crex had been so damaged that he could never assume a form on the same level as Lyrec’s, and Lyrec was forever fearful that his friend would accidentally incarnate into an object—transform into a table or a boulder or something worse. They did not know, either of them, what Borregad’s limits of transformation were.
    He called out again, but received no answer.
    The grass was very high in the copse, and it was impossible to tell where Borregad might be. Lyrec got down onto his knees and began prying through the grass, expecting at any moment to find the twisted, dying form of his friend. As he crawled about, he scuffed up clouds of dust from the side of the path.
    “Borregad. I can’t find you.” Was he too late, had his companion succumbed at last? They never should have undertaken these journeys. What did they know of this kind of travel? “You’ll have to make some kind of sound, direct me. Can you hear me?”
    Just to his left a voice called out: “For