a trap?”
Maigraith took an eternity to focus on Karan’s frightened face. She spoke lethargically. “No. Not for me anyway. It’s just—it calls to me, as though it were mine. It’s—it’s as though there’s a lost world inside.” Her eyes forgot Karan and snapped back to the Mirror.
Karan felt a momentary dizziness, Maigraith drawing on her strength through the link. What on earth was she doing? This was so unlike her. Karan’s face was bloodless. “Maigraith. We must fly. I can
feel
him coming.”
Maigraith tore herself away. “Let us go then,” she said in a strained voice, but it was too late. There were footstepsoutside the door, as loud as thunderclaps to Karan’s heightened senses.
Maigraith pushed the Mirror into Karan’s hands and thrust her below the level of the desk. Karan wanted to hurl the Mirror out the window. The metal was warm in her hands. Her gaze was pulled down; her life changed forever.
The writing scrolled across, then stopped….
If you come to read this, I have for you a message, a warning and a task
, Karan read. Then the letters faded and the face of a woman appeared, looking down as if trying to work a device with her hands. Karan stared. The likeness to Maigraith was astonishing, though the face was older, the dark hair woven with silver and the eyes were of deepest indigo. The woman looked up and her lips moved.
“Take it,” she seemed to say.
The door swung open. Karan touched the image with a fingertip. The Mirror went blank. She peered around the edge of the desk. A man stood in the doorway. They were in no doubt who he was, for he looked just like the magus of all the tales. Karan wondered if he used that illusion to bolster a more meager form. Remarkably tall he was, bleak of eye and the hair curving across bis brow was black as the wing of a crow. He did not look old, but like all mancers he had extended his life many times over.
It was Yggur—the warlord who had overrun the southwest of the island of Meldorin. Yggur, whose strength and cunning were legend.
He tossed the hair from his eyes and the light caught the brittles planes of his face, the jutting black brows, the dark ovals around faded eyes—frost on slate. Into the room he stepped, all-powerful, all-knowing, confident in his terrible strength. His chest was broader than Maigraith’s shoulders. She knew at once that there was no escape.
“Thieves!” he said, his voice as mellow as butter. “In my library!”
Maigraith exerted all her strength to oppose him. The illusion, if illusion it was, faded. He looked the same but now she saw that his right leg moved stiffly and he winced as if it hurt him, just a twitch of the cheek. Another surprise. He might be a mancer, as she was, but still he was just a man—very strong, but not more than human. Maigraith put herself between him and Karan’s hiding place.
“Who are you?” He spoke haltingly now, packets of few words; even to form them seemed an effort. “Which of my ancient enemies has sent you?” His forehead corrugated, a muscle jumped in his lip. “Have you come from Thurkad,
from Mendark
?” Rage, but disquiet too.
“My name is Maigraith,” she said boldly, though she was deathly afraid, “and my business is my own. I will tell you nothing.”
Yggur took another step toward her and Maigraith quailed. His presence was overwhelming. The painful movements, the halting speech, the sense of overcoming great obstacles, only added to the potency. She felt confused, hesitant, for it seemed that he knew her weaknesses as well as she did. Faelamor had neglected, perhaps deliberately, that part of her training where will is matched against will, and the sheer force of him shocked her. Maigraith was trained to submit, she shrank from confrontation. Karan was right, she was not up to this job.
Yggur trembled, mastering himself with difficulty. Then, as if a window had opened, she saw directly into his mind, saw that he suffered too. It was
Maigraith took an eternity to focus on Karan’s frightened face. She spoke lethargically. “No. Not for me anyway. It’s just—it calls to me, as though it were mine. It’s—it’s as though there’s a lost world inside.” Her eyes forgot Karan and snapped back to the Mirror.
Karan felt a momentary dizziness, Maigraith drawing on her strength through the link. What on earth was she doing? This was so unlike her. Karan’s face was bloodless. “Maigraith. We must fly. I can
feel
him coming.”
Maigraith tore herself away. “Let us go then,” she said in a strained voice, but it was too late. There were footstepsoutside the door, as loud as thunderclaps to Karan’s heightened senses.
Maigraith pushed the Mirror into Karan’s hands and thrust her below the level of the desk. Karan wanted to hurl the Mirror out the window. The metal was warm in her hands. Her gaze was pulled down; her life changed forever.
The writing scrolled across, then stopped….
If you come to read this, I have for you a message, a warning and a task
, Karan read. Then the letters faded and the face of a woman appeared, looking down as if trying to work a device with her hands. Karan stared. The likeness to Maigraith was astonishing, though the face was older, the dark hair woven with silver and the eyes were of deepest indigo. The woman looked up and her lips moved.
“Take it,” she seemed to say.
The door swung open. Karan touched the image with a fingertip. The Mirror went blank. She peered around the edge of the desk. A man stood in the doorway. They were in no doubt who he was, for he looked just like the magus of all the tales. Karan wondered if he used that illusion to bolster a more meager form. Remarkably tall he was, bleak of eye and the hair curving across bis brow was black as the wing of a crow. He did not look old, but like all mancers he had extended his life many times over.
It was Yggur—the warlord who had overrun the southwest of the island of Meldorin. Yggur, whose strength and cunning were legend.
He tossed the hair from his eyes and the light caught the brittles planes of his face, the jutting black brows, the dark ovals around faded eyes—frost on slate. Into the room he stepped, all-powerful, all-knowing, confident in his terrible strength. His chest was broader than Maigraith’s shoulders. She knew at once that there was no escape.
“Thieves!” he said, his voice as mellow as butter. “In my library!”
Maigraith exerted all her strength to oppose him. The illusion, if illusion it was, faded. He looked the same but now she saw that his right leg moved stiffly and he winced as if it hurt him, just a twitch of the cheek. Another surprise. He might be a mancer, as she was, but still he was just a man—very strong, but not more than human. Maigraith put herself between him and Karan’s hiding place.
“Who are you?” He spoke haltingly now, packets of few words; even to form them seemed an effort. “Which of my ancient enemies has sent you?” His forehead corrugated, a muscle jumped in his lip. “Have you come from Thurkad,
from Mendark
?” Rage, but disquiet too.
“My name is Maigraith,” she said boldly, though she was deathly afraid, “and my business is my own. I will tell you nothing.”
Yggur took another step toward her and Maigraith quailed. His presence was overwhelming. The painful movements, the halting speech, the sense of overcoming great obstacles, only added to the potency. She felt confused, hesitant, for it seemed that he knew her weaknesses as well as she did. Faelamor had neglected, perhaps deliberately, that part of her training where will is matched against will, and the sheer force of him shocked her. Maigraith was trained to submit, she shrank from confrontation. Karan was right, she was not up to this job.
Yggur trembled, mastering himself with difficulty. Then, as if a window had opened, she saw directly into his mind, saw that he suffered too. It was
Similar Books
