Trumps of Doom Read Online Free PDF

enormous prospect, blazing with new constellations, their light sufficient to cast our shadows onto the wall behind us.   She leaned over the low parapet, her skin some rare polished marble, and she looked downward.
    “’They’re down there, too,” she said.   “And to both sides! There is nothing below but more stars.   And to the sides .   .   .”
    “Yes.   Pretty things, aren’t they?”
    We remained there for a long while, watching, before I could persuade her to come away and follow the tunnel farther..   It bore us out again to behold a ruined classical amphitheater beneath a late afternoon sky.   Ivy grew over broken benches and fractured pillars.   Here and there lay a shattered statue, as if cast down by earthquake.   Very picturesque.   I’d thought she’d like it, and I was right.   We took turns seating ourselves and speaking to each other.   The acoustics were excellent.
    We walked away then, hand in hand, down myriad ways beneath skies of many colors, coming at last in sight of a quiet lake with a sun entering evening upon its farther shore.   There was a glittering mass of rock off to my right.   We walked out upon a small point cushioned with mosses and ferns.
    I put my arms around her and we stood there for a long time, and the wind in the trees was lute song counterpointed by invisible birds.   Later still, I unbuttoned her blouse.   “Right here?” she said.
    “I like it here.   Don’t you?”
    “It’s beautiful.   Okay.   Wait a minute.”
    So we lay down and love till the shadows covered us.   After a time she slept, as I desired.
    I set a spell upon her to keep her asleep, for I was beginning to have second thoughts over the wisdom of making this journey.   Then I dressed both of us and picked her up to carry her back.   I took a shortcut.
    On the beach from which we’ d started I put her down and stretched out beside her.   Soon I slept also.
    We did not awaken till after the sun was up, when the sounds of bathers roused us.
    She sat up and stared at me.
    “Last night,” she said, “could not have been a dream.   But it couldn’t have been real either.   Could it?”
    “I guess so,” I said.   She furrowed her brow.
    “What did you just agree to?” she asked.
    “Breakfast,” I said.   “Let’s go get some.   Come on.”
    “Wait a minute.” She put a hand on my arm.   “Something unusual happened. What was it?”
    “Why destroy the magic by talking about it? Let’s go eat.”
    She questioned me a lot in the days that followed, but I was adamant in refusing to talk about it.   Stupid, the whole thing was stupid.   I should never have taken her on that walk.   It contributed to that final argument that set us permanently apart.
    And now, driving, as I thought about it, I realized something more than my stupidity.   I realized that I had been in love with her, that I still loved her.   Had I not taken her on that walk, or had I acknowledged her later accusation that I was a sorcerer, she, would not have taken the route that she took, seeking power of her own-probably for self protection.   She would be alive.
    I bit my lip and cried out.   I cut around the braking car in front of me and crashed a light.   If I had killed the thing I loved, I was certain that the opposite was not going to be true.
     
     
     

CHAPTER 3
    Grief and anger shrink my world, and I resent this.   They seem to paralyze my memory of happier times, of friends, places, things; options.   Squeezed by the grip of intense, unsettling emotion, I grow smaller in my single-mindedness.   I suppose it is partly because I have discarded a range of choices, impairing in some measure my freedom of will.   I don’t like this, but after a point I have small control over it.   It makes me feel that I have surrendered to a kind of determinism, which imitates me even more.   Then, vicious cycle, this feeds back into the emotion that drives me and intensifies it.   The