A mirthless smile touched his lips. “It’s funny you should say that, Mari. You see, I’m afraid, too.” He approached, enfolding her in his strong, lean arms. She stiffened for a moment, then melted into his embrace. His whisper was fierce now. “I know I’ve been acting strangely lately. I do feel … different somehow. And the truth is, I don’t know why. Perhaps it’s something I’ll be able to find out on my next mission. But whatever is happening between us, believe me when I tell you this, Mari. I would never harm you. Do you understand me? Never.”
“I know that, Caledan.” She held on to him, feeling his hard, muscular body beneath her hands. Yet she could not shake the disturbing sensation that this was not her Caledan she held in her arms, but a stranger. “Perhaps, after we’ve been apart for a while …”
He pressed a finger softly to her lips, silencing further words. Slowly, he ran his finger down her chin, her throat, to the leather laces that bound her green jacket. He bent down and kissed her. She returned the kiss urgently. Their clothes slipped softly to the floor as he bent to blow out the single candle. For a time, fear was lost in the familiar warmth of each other’s touch.
Later, when she floated drowsily in the misty realm between sleep and waking, she thought she heard him rise from the bed. A softness touched her cheek, a low voice whispered in her ear.
“Fare thee well, Harper.”
Perhaps it was just a dream. But in the morning, when she woke to gray daylight, Mari found herself alone and shivering beneath the bed covers.
Three
The boy sat at a table high in the mage’s tower, chin on hands, gazing into the multicolored center of a small, pyramid-shaped gem.
“Tell me, Kellen, what do you see within the crystal?”
Morhion spoke softly as he paced around the table. His long vest of dusky purple rippled gently as he moved, causing the runes embroidered on its edges to undulate like silver serpents.
“I see the light of the candles, refracted by the crystal’s facets,” Kellen answered solemnly.
“Are you certain that is all?” Morhion’s voice was almost hypnotic. “Look deeper, Kellen. Do not be so certain you already know what you will see. Open your mind to unexpected possibilities.”
Kellen frowned skeptically but leaned over the crystal once more, furrowing his forehead in concentration. “I see … I see …” Suddenly his green eyes widened. His voice became a whisper of wonderment. “I see stars, Morhion! Shining against the deepest sea of black. And there are bright moons, fiery comets with glowing tails, and … and a strange orange ball with striped rings around its middle. I don’t know what it is, but I can tell that it is very large. Larger than I could even imagine.”
A fierce spark glinted in Morhion’s ice-blue eyes. “Yes!” he said quietly, more to himself than to the child. “Well done, Kellen.”
“It is all so beautiful,” the boy said dreamily. He was swaying in his chair now.
“Do not lose yourself in the crystal!” Morhion warned sharply. He gave Kellen’s shoulder a hard squeeze, snapping the boy out of his trance. Kellen gave a shudder, then with great effort turned away from the gem. “You must always maintain control of your senses when gazing into the crystal,” Morhion told the boy sternly. “Once lost in its depths, you might find it is not so easy to return.”
Kellen nodded, apprehension written on his round face. Morhion reminded himself that, despite Kellen’s remarkable perceptiveness, he was still only a boy of eleven winters. The mage’s expression softened. “Fear not, Kellen. You will never become lost in the crystal so long as I am near.”
Kellen smiled at the mage. “I know, Morhion.” He touched the smooth surface of the crystal. “It is magic, then, isn’t it?”
Morhion nodded. “There are some small magics bound into the crystal, yes. But they merely provide the catalyst, that is all. True magic comes from within.”
Kellen thought about this for a long moment. Then he asked, “What is the world I perceived in the crystal, Morhion?”
“I cannot say, Kellen. There exist many worlds beside our own. There are mages who believe that some of these worlds are the wells from which we are able to draw our magic. Perhaps just such a world you saw.”
Outside the arched window, the full orb of the moon was rising above Iriaebor’s spires. The autumn evening was chilly, although Morhion’s study was warm and comfortable. Most people thought mages live in drafty old towers littered with musty tomes and rotting scrolls. Morhion enjoyed living against stereotype. Vibrant tapestries hung from the circular chamber’s stone walls; the floor was thick with expensive Amnian carpets. Books, parchments, and all manner of magical paraphernalia were arranged neatly in dark wood cases, and a fire burned brightly in a copper brazier in the room’s center.
Morhion poured two cups of spiced wine. As he handed one of the silver cups to Kellen, he watched the boy. The mage found he was curious to discover the limits of Kellen’s abilities. True, such inquiries would be premature. Most youths did not test their magic until their fifteenth year, or even later. And yet …
Morhion moved to a glass cabinet and took out a small wooden box. He set the box on the table before Kellen, opening the lid. Inside, resting on a cushion of purple velvet, was a small, dark stone. Carved into the pebble was an arcane sigil, the rune that symbolized magic.
“I want you to pick up the stone, Kellen,” Morhion said, gazing at the boy intently.
Kellen bit his lip in thought, studying the pebble for a long time as if trying to unlock its mysteries. Finally he shrugged. Reaching out, he picked up the stone. It lay small and dark in the palm of his hand. Morhion leaned forward, eyes glittering. Now, he thought. It should come now!
Nothing happened. Kellen opened his mouth as if to say something. The words were never uttered. The dark stone flared with brilliant green light, shards of emerald illumination spraying outward, dancing crazily across the walls and ceiling. There was a sizzling sound, and the smell of burning flesh. Kellen cried out, dropping the stone. Abruptly, the blinding green light dimmed.
Morhion blinked, clearing his vision. The stone lay on the mahogany table, dark and ordinary-looking once more. Kellen clutched his left hand. His face was pale and drawn. Morhion reached out and gently unclenched Kellen’s fingers. Branded on the boy’s palm was a mirror image of the symbol that was carved into the pebble—the rune of magic.
Kellen looked up at the mage, his pain suddenly forgotten. “What does it mean, Morhion?”
Morhion did not answer. Instead, he slowly raised his own left hand. In the center of his palm was an old, puckered scar—a duplicate of the blistered mark on Kellen’s hand. Kellen was bursting with questions, but before he could voice any, Morhion shook his head, silencing him. This had been enough for tonight. He drew a silk handkerchief from a pocket and tied it loosely about the boy’s wounded hand.
“Go to the inn, Kellen, and find Estah,” Morhion instructed. “She will heal your hand. But the burn will scar. You will bear the mark of magic all your life.”
Kellen nodded gravely. “I know.”
“And if Caledan is angered at what I have done, send him to me and I will speak to him.”
Kellen shook his head. “My father isn’t in the city, Morhion. He left last night on a journey for the Harpers. Hell be gone for a tenday at least, if not more.”