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
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
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