The Price
by Michael R. Fosburg
I saw little of the Arch-Wizard,
only half-caught glimpses
of withered flesh,
of hair bled white
as dandelion fluff.
He sailed dark oceans
which no captains knew; turned
a different face
to each new land.
Few dared his eyes.
I dared, once,
drunk on dreams of high-sorcery,
craving secrets with every breath.
After, they confined me, screaming,
to my quarters — forced brandy
down my throat until I slept.
The mages teach us
That every spell
has a price.
I have seen those far, dark oceans
through his far, dark eyes —
and I know the price he paid
for the art,
how the emptiness inside
when the magic is spent
howls like dark winds
through cold mountains.