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Just click the "Home" button. </div> <div id="sc2" class="tabcontent"> Family - love 'em or hate 'em, here they are. </div> <div id="sc3" class="tabcontent"> Photos taken in Globe, Arizona, from home and around the community</a>. </div> <div id="sc4" class="tabcontent"> It's called Rim Country - based on an escarpment stretching hundreds of miles across central Arizona, painted with Ponderosa pine forest </div> <div id="sc5" class="tabcontent"> Yeah, yeah - I'm an X-Files fan. And I wrote fanfiction in my day. But before you judge me - I wasn't writing sappy romance. *Not for the queasy of stomach. </div> <div id="sc6" class="tabcontent"> Anyone who knows me, knows I was the moderator of the Relic Hunter forum for Fireworks Entertainment and did a lot of work with them. I still have a ton of things to move over... </div> <div id="sc7" class="tabcontent"> Please sign. I am a feedback addict and like it that way. </div> <div id="sc8" class="tabcontent"> Actually the full name is <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bolder">Not Altogether Superfluous</span>, a collection of poetry by myself and by friends. </div> <div id="sc9" class="tabcontent"> If you work on the web but can't ever find exactly the right color number, this is a good starting point. It shows you the color in graphics and also provides the hex (HTML) number to create it. </div> <div id="sc10" class="tabcontent"> This is a page of links, a writers' resource page including help for grammar, spelling, rhyming, converting international measures, etc. </div> <div id="sc11" class="tabcontent"> You want to create a music note without using an image file? This page tells you how to create alternate characters - including icon-style images - using html and text! (Still under construction) </div> <div id="sc12" class="tabcontent"> These pages are adoptable "background" graphics for webpages. They're free for you to use; just right-click the image to save (a few require an extra click or two.) Includes a hover feature to preview on the full page. </div> </DIV> </div> </td></tr> <tr valign="top"> <td style="padding: 10px"> <h3>The Color of Fate</h3> <h4>Chapter 1</h4> <p>Few people ventured this far from the established roads, even in daylight. None dared so late in the waning hours of the afternoon.</p> <p>Well, almost none. <p>One young man ambled through the stands of oak and maple and cedar, his arms out in the sheer joy of his freedom. He was of the age of majority, having just passed from apprenticeship to journeyman weaver, and soon to be master. He would soon have his leave and his own practice, and none too soon for his tastes. <p>As the cool wind picked up again, a frenzy of autumn leaves swirled around him like crimson and gold confetti. Thick tan grass swayed around his knees and feet, whispering welcome with his every step. He drew a deep breath, appreciating the clean scents of the unsullied wilderness. Irrational fears and traditional superstitions didn't matter to him. He loved the wilds of the forest, day or night. <p>His hair flew about his face in stray tendrils that invariably escaped from the abbreviated ponytail at the back of his neck. He wore his own handiwork; a deep blue linen doublet, its smooth finish flecked with a subtle sheen in small dots scattered across the field, and leggings in a darker hue of blue. His linen undershirt, softened by many washings, still kept most of its pale gold color, and his navy cloak with its scarlet lining swirled around him with every step. <p>He welcomed the solitude here, where his unique appearance and unusual abilities were unquestioned by the trees, the wind, and the creatures whose habitation he walked. Back in the hamlet where he labored and slept, his chestnut mane and green eyes served to flag the fact that he was different. His outcast status was sealed early in his life when he displayed the uncanny ability to read truths before they were spoken. He could still hear a truth screaming at him from behind a lie, but he no longer advertised the fact. <p>Something caught his eye this afternoon, something that struck him as out of place. A glint of pewter shone from between a battalion of dark tree trunks. Against nature's matte palette, the metallic gleam served as a beacon to his curiosity, drawing him like a lodestone. <p>Curiosity turned to awe as the pewter pooled into molten silver. A shaft of sunlight shot through the leafy ceiling, setting the mist aglow. Slowly the shimmering cloud coalesced into a recognizable figure; an old man, stooped, his snowy hair and beard hanging to his waist. A loose, pale gray robe flowed around his body. (Was it silk, or had someone spun metal into cloth?) A deeply lined face surrounded eyes as dark and mysterious as shadows, the twin ghosts of a new moon, the faint luminescence of a cat's eyes at midnight. <p>Only it wasn't midnight, and this was no cat. <p>When the old man spoke, his voice was as elusive and as omnipresent as the wind. "Shamar du Leane, I have waited for all these years. I wondered if it would ever come to pass, and now, seeing you here..." <p>The ancient voice broke. Profound grief whirled through the trees, wringing the leaves in sympathy. "I know that the prophecies are true. You are all that was foretold and more."</p> <p>Shamar wasn't sure whether to be impressed or annoyed. The old man had appeared magically, and Shamar gave little credence to magic. The way Shamar saw it, magic was merely sleight of hand employed in the place of more honest work. Anger bubbled up in him, irritation at the intrusion and at the unseemly display of chicanery. He swallowed the reflex, forcing a polite smile. "Good afternoon, Sir." He gave a curt bow at the waist.</p> <p>To his amazement, the old fellow laughed. Out and out <em>laughed</em>, in rich peals that echoed around them like the bells of an abbey. "A courtier's chivalry, no less!" <p>Shamar was rather nonplused. He knew all of the legends, of course. Only the True Ancients were permitted to wear the colors of the elements. Until now, Shamar had assumed that the Ancients were merely the figment of the legends. The intruder must, therefore, be an Ancient. Until now, Shamar never supposed he would meet one of them. They were the stuff of dreams and idle fantasies! He leaned back, bracing his spine against the rough bark of a cedar, fighting the urge to dismiss the little man as a lunatic freed from his keeper.</p> <p>The old mouth drew into a grim line and the musical voice turned to a low growl. "You'll need to clear your head, young one. I can see your thoughts too well. You think I'm a bit nicked, do you? And you discount what your own eyes have seen." The elder tilted his head and sighed, his shoulders slumping. "Perhaps 'tis just as well you doubt, though. Your way is not an easy one, and you'll not be given reprieve for naivetè. Sadly, even the best of the King's men were deceived before." The Ancient raised his eyes heavenward, then dropped his gaze to Shamar.</p> <p>And when he did, Shamar gasped at the quicksilver flames dancing in the stranger's pupils.</p> <p>All around them, the forest went silent. The breeze stilled. The trees folded their leaves and needles in quiet anticipation of an answer. The question wasn't voiced, and yet it hung on the air as plainly as the sun in the sky. Shamar let his gaze travel beyond the old man's robes, beyond his lined face, beyond the shadowy blue eyes dancing with cool silver fire. For the first time in over a decade, Shamar openly read a soul. Suddenly the need to hide his gift was unimportant. Discerning the truth was more critical than facing the accusations of witchery.</p> <p>And when the Ancient One's soul spoke to him, Shamar's face drained of its color, because it was <em>all</em> truth.</p> <p>The Ancient nodded, his eyes widening. "Tis real, then," he whispered. "You CAN see. Mercy in heaven, you are in far more danger than I had thought!" He wrung gnarled hands in front of him, and the shiny silk rustled with a distinctly metallic tone. "Child, you are much more than you know now. We must hurry. Can you tell my name?"</p> <p>Shamar blinked, then stepped back. "Are - Are you trying to trick me?" he asked, suddenly wary. "How would I know your name? It's not written on your face!"</p> <p>The old man snapped, "Tell me my name, Shamar du Leane!"</p> <p>Shamar didn't want to answer, but his mouth opened and the words spilled out before he could stop them. "You are the True Ancient Gueren, Magician and Advisor to King Lura III, and keeper of the Crown."</p> <p>Gueren replied solemnly. "Yes, my boy, you are correct. And you have been chosen by fate to find the one true Prince of the Realm before it is too late."</p> <p>"Too late for what?" Shamar asked, confused.</p> <p>Gueren dismissed Shamar's query as he leaned in to hiss, "You'll not ride alone, young Master. Find the one you trust the most, get you a good horse each, take provisions and water and leave quickly. I fear an ill wind is blowing, and it will not hesitate to destroy everything that is dear to you if you don't act quickly."</p> <p>A chill ran down Shamar's spine and he suppressed the urge to run away like a toddler in the face of a lioness. He settled for pasting on a polite smile while he searched his mind and his surroundings for an avenue of escape.</p> <p>Gueren shook his head, the slightest hint of wistfulness about his wrinkled face. "So like your mother, child. She was a doubter, too, yet she brought such joy to the court in her day." The odd little man dropped a small leather pouch into Shamar's hand, pushing Shamar's fingers up and around the bag. "This will be your passport and your guide. Guard it as though the universe depended on it. If you only knew..."</p> <p>The Ancient took the boy's arm, and Shamar felt an instant shock. An earthquake rumbled within his skin, shaking his very core. All of his doubts were overturned in an instant as the scents of the forest were overtaken by the acrid smell of his own fear. Power flowed through him, something stronger than fire, brighter, and more dangerous. It took a moment for him to realize that this current was not altogether new. It was a part of him and had been from the day of his birth. The old man only opened a gate, and the long-imprisoned secret poured out in a stream that flowed between them, crackling and sparkling with unmistakable power.</p> <p>The villagers believed in magic as a potent thing. They shunned and decried it in the light of day, seeking it out in the shadows of night to snare a lover or wealth. But this... This wizard, with a mere touch of his hand, showed Shamar du Leane that for some, magic was much, much more.</p> <hr></hr> <p>Gueren's eyes bored into the younger man's, a wordless demand for answers to he was afraid to ask. The boy had no idea of his importance, yet even if there had been time to explain everything, it wouldn't be prudent. The Ancient prayed to the cosmos that Shamar couldn't read him fully and couldn't sense his panic. Of a truth, some things were best left hidden. Gueren told himself that it was more than his own guilt coming back to haunt him, guilt for a crime committed in another time, another world.</P> <P>Shamar's reaction to Gueren was nothing in comparison to what the old man felt at the point of contact. If the lightning razored from the heavens and struck him, it would be nothing next to the shock when his fingers brushed Shamar's flesh. Several moments later, Gueren's heart still turned somersaults in his chest and each breath came only with supreme effort. Like Shamar, he clung to the strength of the forest to remain upright, bracing his palm against the gnarled trunk of an ageless cedar.</P> <p>Shamar clearly had no concept of the power that he wielded, nor did the young man seem to care. That could be both a blessing and a curse; a blessing, because the boy's ego wouldn't get in the way. A curse, because ignorance could get him killed, and who knew what would be lost in the cascade of consequences that would inevitably follow.</P> <p>Gueren squinted up at his charge, craning his neck and trying to adjust his eyes to see more than the sunlight that haloed Shamar's head. What he wouldn't give for a healer's touch to repair his failing vision! But there were no more healers with the old skills any more, so he tucked the thought away in the recesses of his lost hopes and dreams, and turned his attentions back to Shamar.</P> <p>The boy's intelligence was positively staggering. Shamar could inventory the trees and assign a number at a glance, without conscious effort. Schooled in reading and writing -- an unusual education for someone who was ostensibly destined for nothing but a weaver's loom -- Shamar would be able to apply the principles to learning another language in the space of a day or two. At this point, it was untapped ability, but ability nonetheless. Gueren drew his lips into a grim line. The superstitious fools of the village had nearly killed Shamar's abilities as it was. Thanks be to all that was holy that they didn't know the whole of things!</P> <p>Gueren shifted his weight, his focus adjusting to the subtle change in angle. He could see the mother shining from the son now. Shamar had her aristocratic profile, her glistening emerald eyes, and her strength of character. There was evidence of the father, as well, though the things of his father that really mattered were the things hidden.</P> <p>As a child, Shamar had been an insatiable student, begging to be taught, his mind a sponge that actively collected any and all information offered him. As a young man, he gathered his knowledge in more subtle ways, still driven by the need to know. Hiding in the outlines of shadows, Gueren had watched, waiting for time to unfold, resisting the urge to reveal himself, to shout out the prophecies and to interrupt the moments when the boy had been bullied as a child.</P> <p>But it wasn't meant to be, and Gueren knew too well the price of toying with fate.</P> <p>There was no time for a lengthy verbal discourse now and no time for courtesies. How ironic that, after centuries of waiting, urgency now drove a hard bargain. The quest began now or the opportunity for redemption would be forever lost.</P> <p>Having already employed a command spell, Gueren's gestures and thoughts poured out directions, a road map to a place in time that once existed and would again exist, a world apart from the village where Shamar now lived. From time to time, doubt flickered across the boy's features, yet Shamar continued to listen to the things spoken without words, things cried out in silent anguish, things begged from deprivation of the soul. Shamar's mind had always been attuned to things others could never hear, even if he didn't always grasp their significance. Slowly, though, Gueren broke through Shamar's resistance, defying disbelief and molding new awareness.</P> <p>When the link was finally broken, the Ancient staggered back, his knees trembling beneath him from the residual power of the exchange.</P> <p>And it had been an <em>exchange</em>, a two-way flow of power and information. Shamar's memories and psyche had filled in blanks where Gueren hadn't even been aware of blanks. The boy's heart and soul shone through the strong, delicate strands that bound them together. Gueren's orders weren't dismissed, but neither was Shamar truly commanded by them. Shamar's iron will would not be swayed by the powers of magic or mind, not even the magic or mind of an Ancient.</P> <p>That, too, had been unforeseen, though it merely reinforced Gueren's growing respect for his charge. Their enemies would not easily bend this boy, nor the companion he had already unwittingly chosen to accompany him on his quest.</P> <p>Finally content that he had done all he could, Gueren allowed himself to melt back into the winds, welcoming his rest. It was begun.</P> <p>The Gods help them all.</p> <p style="font-size: 10pt"><a href="id3.html" target="_top">Next >></a> </td></tr> <tr><td style="padding: 10px; font-size: 9pt">© 1987-2006 by LeiLani Dawn<br />all rights reserved</td></tr> </body> </html>