Changespell Legacy Read Online Free Page A

for signs of the exploding hazel bush. It has melted into something else.
    Tied at a distance, her palomino mount rattles air through its nose; it is as wary as she, and cannot seem to decide whether to watch before or behind itself. It lifts its head to call to the empty woods, a stallion's cry.
    "Hush," Sherra says absently, thinking it anxious. She knows only as much of horses as she must, and in this place she has other things on her mind. Keeping an eye on the quiescent earth, she gathers her concentration for the spell that will tag this spot for the Council wizards, allowing them to accomplish the tricky business of transporting without a formally established booth.
    The horse calls out again, craning his head against the halter lead; this time he sounds less demanding, more welcoming—a lower call, more musical. Sherra ignores him, finishing her spell, unaware of the subtle creep of earth before her.
    Almost immediately the Council begins to arrive. Seventeen of them altogether, the very best of Camolen's best . . . everyone but Arlen, who is too far away to accomplish free transport. The wizards who oversee all of Camolen's magic, policing their own, protecting everyone else.
    None of them have ever seen anything like this growing miasma in northern Siccawei's woods. None of them know what has caused it. They throw a tentative identifier spell at it, the most basic of spells that identifies only intent—benign or malignant. They don't expect it to work.
    It doesn't—but the ground heaves at the offense, and a tree trunk spits out what was once a bird.
    They eye each other in alarm, and Sherra steps forward to invoke the most gentle of healing spells, the most benign of magic. All seventeen of them stumble backwards in alarm as pebbles spurt up from the muddied, melted patch of woods, ducking as the missiles rain down through the trees.
    The palomino snorts alarm.
    There will be no more magic used here; they will bring in null wards to contain this spot while they try to understand it—although even Camolen's finest find themselves uncertain it can be understood at all. They congratulate themselves on acting so quickly, on keeping news of this strange area so confidential so they can respond to it without inciting panic.
    The palomino nickers; even Sherra recognizes it as a greeting.
    But they see nothing. No one.
    And then they feel the magic.
    It is not of their making.
    Raw magic, magic without control, without signature. It brings the disturbed woods to sudden, violent life. The ground reaches for them—
    Carey shifted his weight, gave his leg a subtle stretch, and leaned over the rails of the indoor ring to watch the growing frustration on Jess's face—an interesting contrast to Jaime's slightly distracted patience. She knew as well as Carey that Jess's biggest challenge as a riding student was that she expected too much of herself—expected to understand new things right away, expected to do them right the first time, expected to figure things out before she was told.
    Just because her every gesture, every expression, spoke so loudly of who—and what—she was.
    Because she had an insight no one else could match.
    Carey knew, and Jaime knew, that there was such a thing as expecting too much, even from a riding student who had started life as a horse. But Jess hadn't yet accepted that philosophy.
    Carey glanced behind him as someone entered the long, wood-sided structure; this end held what was meant to be a large viewing area separated from the riding area by wooden fence rails and a wide gate.
    But Anfeald held more individual training sessions than it did schooling clinics, and inevitably the generous viewing space did double duty as storage, with hay overflow, training rails, rakes and shovels and wheelbarrows nibbling away at its edges.
    Sliding the door closed he found not Arlen—only a day into Jaime's visit, and she already had them looking to every open door in sympathetic anticipation—but