Just as when a film editor tightens and sharpens the focus of a film, an author must tighten and sharpen the focus of his or her words. Sometimes it's a whole scene; sometimes it's little more than a mood. Here's a bit that occurred early in Dante's sojourn with Xanthe...

Dark Again

"Out, magus."
     It was most tempting to bury my head in my blanket and pretend I didn't hear Hosten's morning greeting. No lamplight broached the doorway, and the world was yet black as pitch, though it had been well after middle night when the lady had dispatched me to the hole.
    "Can't you let a man sleep until the sun is - ?" The palace bells were ringing noonday.
    Gods, gods, gods… Growling, moaning, I clawed at my face, then flailed at my surroundings, knocking over the clay pot and raising a stench. When large hands grasped my shoulders, I slapped them aside, struggling mindlessly as they took control of me again and dragged me out. Fiery lancets tore at my eyes as on the day Jacard had ruined them.
    The circumstances of my seeing remained loathsome, but terror knew no fine morality now I was blind again. Why hadn't I stored up more of seeing . . . colors . . . shapes . . . the view from every window? I'd grown careless and lazy. How stupid I'd been to think she would leave it - or to imagine I didn't care.
    The thorn manacles went on and wooden plugs stoppered my ears. The stink of Hosten's sweat-soaked leather filled my nostrils as his familiar hands set me stumbling down the passage. Or perhaps it was my own stink. Subduing panic, I began counting turns and grasping for direction. No longer accustomed to memorizing my way, I quickly lost track of our route. To Jacard's dungeons, I guessed. My time was up. All this posturing wasted, and nothing accomplished.
    But when the captain dropped my arms and left me standing alone in the everlasting dark, my nose informed me I was in no dungeon. I smelled lemon flowers. Xanthe was here. Other smells mingled with scents of leather and damp wool. Garlic from my left…woodsmoke from the right…perfumes…lavender. Others were here, too. Watching.
    Discipline, fool. Do not grope about. Do not make a show. I lowered myself slowly to a bare floor, looped my arms over raised knees, and said nothing. Discipline helped mask my trembling, at least. I steeled myself for the lash, for cold water, for fire, needles, or whatever surprises she might have in store. I could not work magic or all this was wasted. Could not. Could not.
    Perhaps an hour passed. Perhaps three. I told myself that I could still do what I needed to do, maybe better if my focus was back on escape and rescue and the simmering magics of Mancibar. I could manage without the lady's foul gift.
    Lies to oneself are the easiest to tell.
    Eventually a rough hand jerked me from the floor and marched me away. The darkness of my cell was as nothing to the darkness inside me. Arms tight about my chest as if to confirm my body yet lived, I knelt on my pallet, rocking, stifling my keening.
    A lifetime later, the bolts slid and the door scraped. Blessed light seeped around my closed eyelids. Tears flooded my eyes, not solely a result of the shocking glare.
    Hosten said nothing as he locked the inhibitors in place yet again. I did not tease or prod him as I did on other days. Rather I fixed my gaze on the window openings, on the deep blue afternoon, the wisps of cloud, the mottled reds and browns of the outbuildings, the green of winter vegetation threading the angular red rocks of these hot lands.
    Had it been only a reminder of her power? Had I forestalled some intricate entertainment by my refusal to play? Whatever the case, whatever complacency I had allowed to build was in me no longer.
    Xanthe mentioned nothing of the incident, but fed me without delay, then waved me to my corner to kneel and wait.

Home