connected to the frame, shake like a snake in truth. Natalie’s quick reference to the working sending out a seeking tendril finally made sense. Its impression of unwinding halted after a minute, then it apparently stopped moving except for the lazy side-to-side slithering. Marik felt his strength waning. The circle drew power through him to form the etheric serpent that sought the working’s target. Luckily the energy he siphoned from the vale line flowed into him at the same speed the circle sucked it out. The feel of energy rushing through him was unsettling. He acted as a simple conduit between the etheric energy source and the scrye. The seeking serpent rotated so slowly it took him several minutes to notice it moved at all, traveling around the mirror in a sunwise direction. After two full candlemarks, it rotated around to the position where it had started. When it reached its initial point, the etheric serpent abruptly disintegrated. “Damn it!” “What is it?” Tollaf swiveled from his piles, into which he had made no noticeable progress. “No luck?” “The working suddenly fell apart. What does that mean?” Tollaf returned to check the mirror. “Probably that he’s dead or too far away for the scrye to find him.” Marik scowled. “And how far is that?” “How would I know? Use your blood. That’s a stronger catalyst, and it might have the strength to find him. Your hair obviously doesn’t.” Marik ran a thumb over the sharp knife edge. “How much? I’m not about to slash my wrists.” “Don’t be a fool! It says right there that only a small amount is required.” Tollaf thumped his hand against the pages to illustrate his point, which knocked the heavy book over backward. It fell to the floor, corner first, and smashed his foot. The old man yelped to Marik’s immense satisfaction. Pained dancing and curses resounded until the chief mage retreated. Marik’s glee faded as he studied the knife. A quick jab cut open his index finger. He swept away the hair and dripped blood into the bowl until the flow stopped. When it did the porcelain held a thin layer resembling the dregs of a tomato soup lunch. Three candlemarks later, he nearly fell from his stool. He had never channeled so long in his life. The etheric energy poured through him without needing any shaping, but he had to work to maintain conduits he normally did not need to think about once created. His body shuddered as if he had spent the entire day digging trenches again. And the bastard etheric serpent had barely completed half its circuit. A thump at his elbow nearly startled him into losing his hold on the power. Surprisingly, when he looked sideways, Tollaf’s aura moved away from him. On the table he found a tankard of water and several biscuits. Drinking the water refreshed him as much as a quick nap. He grudgingly admitted the old man might not be all bad. Perhaps only ninety percent so. Marik bit into his fourth biscuit when the seeking serpent reached its two-thirds mark. It pointed almost due west. Night had fallen long ago and he hoped the working would finish before midnight. A sudden shimmer from his peripheral vision grabbed his eye. He bent his attention to the silvered glass, willing it to show his father. The image solidified. Marik drank in the entire scene in an instant. Two men sat before a blazing hearth. One could be no one other than Rail Drakkson. Marik recognized his entire body’s set in an instant, but he sat with his head held in his hands. His cheeks had not been shaved anytime recently. He looked haggard. Deep breaths bellowed from his lungs as if he had just run a race. Under his eyes were deep shadows. Everything about his bearing suggested that Rail was an ill man. Marik had instantly focused on his father, back straight as a sword while he studied the scene in Tollaf’s mirror. A sharp movement