Wizard's First Rule

His skin was smooth and taut over his well-proportioned muscles, except on his upper left thigh, across part of his hip and abdomen, and the left side of his erect sex. That was where the scar was; where the flames sent by the old wizard had tasted him: the flames of the wizard's fire that had consumed his father as he stood at his right hand; flames that had licked him also, giving him the pain of the wizard's fire.

It had been a fire unlike any other, burning, sticking, searing, alive with purpose, as he had screamed until he had lost his voice.

Darken Rahl licked his fingers, and reaching down ran them wetly over the bumpy scars. How he had so badly wanted to do that when he had been burned, how he had so badly wanted to do it to stop the terror of the unrelenting pain and burning.

But the healers wouldn't let him. They said he mustn't touch the burn, and so they bound him by his wrists, to keep him from reaching down. He had licked his fingers and instead rubbed them on his lips as he shook, to try to stop his crying, and on his eyes to try to wipe away the vision of having seen his father burned alive. For months he had cried and panted and begged to touch and soothe the burns, but they would not let him.

How he hated the wizard, how he wanted to kill him. How he wanted to push his hand into the wizard's living body while he looked into his eyes-and pull his heart out.

Darken Rahl took his fingers away from the scar and, picking up the knife, put the thoughts of that time out of his mind. He was a man now. He was the Master. He put his mind back to the matter at hand. He wove the proper spell, and then plunged the knife into the boy's chest.

With care, he removed the heart and put it into the iron bowl of boiling water. Next he removed the brain and added it to the bowl. Last, he took the testicles and added them, too; then, finally, he put the knife down. Blood mixed with the sweat that covered him. It dripped from his elbows.

He laid his arms across the body and offered prayers to the spirits. His face lifted to the dark windows above as he closed his eyes and continued the incantations, rolling them out without having to think. For an hour he went on with the words of the ceremony, smearing the blood on his chest at the proper time.

When he had finished with the runes from his father's tomb, he went to the sorcerer's sand where the boy had been buried for the time of his testing. With his arms he smoothed the sand; it stuck to the blood in a white crust. Squatting, he carefully began drawing the symbols, radiating from the center axis, branching in intricate patterns learned in years of study. He concentrated as he worked into the night, his straight blond hair hanging down, his brow wrinkled with intensity as he added each element, leaving out no line or stroke or curve, for that would be fatal.

At last finished, he went to the sacred bowl and found the water almost boiled away, as it should be. With magic, he floated the bowl back to the polished stone block and let it cool a little before he took a stone pestle and began grinding. He mashed, sweat running from his face, until he had worked the heart, brain, and testicles into a paste, to which he added magic powders from pockets in his discarded robes.

Standing in front of the altar, he held up the bowl with the mixture while he cast the calling spells. He lowered the bowl when finished, and looked around at the Garden of Life. He always like to look upon beautiful things before he went to the underworld.

With his fingers, he ate from the bowl. He hated the taste of meat, and never ate anything but plants. Now, though, there was no choice, the way was the way. If he wanted to go to the underworld, he had to eat the flesh. He ignored the taste, and ate it all, trying to think of it as vegetable paste.

Licking his fingers clean, he set the bowl down and went to sit cross-legged on the grass in front of the white sand. His blond hair was matted in places with dried blood. He placed his hands palm up on his knees, closed his eyes, and took deep breaths, preparing himself for meeting the spirit of the boy.

At last ready, all preparations done, all charms spoken, all spells cast, the Master raised his head and opened his eyes.

"Come to me, Carl," he whispered in the secret ancient language.

There was a moment of dead silence, and then a wailing roar. The ground shook.

From the center of the sand, the center of the enchantment, the boy's spirit rose, in the form of the Shinga, the underworld beast.