The Road To Sevendor - A Spellmonger Anthology Read Online Free

another round for everyone.  Tyndal realized that he’d barely touched his glass, and with a shrug he finished it in one pull before holding it out for more. 
    “Yes, Master Rinden,” he asked, as respectfully as he could.  “What time do you think it might be . . . and where might I fine Ishi’s shrine?”
     

     
    Before he left, he checked on Alya, who had been given a small room of her own in the sprawling home.  Tyndal found her weeping, which sent him into a mad rush of emotion.  At once he wanted to protect her and soothe her, but this wasn’t a bandit, goblin, or over-friendly bargeman.   The cause of her sorrow was his master’s own family, and there was nothing he could do about that – as much as he desperately wanted to. 
    “I’m fine, I’m fine, Tyndal,” she assured him, wiping her tears.  “Just a little weepy.  It’s not their fault, I know that . . . I’m trying to be a good daughter-in-law, but . . .”
    “They just don’t know you well yet,” Tyndal offered, sounding far more confident than he felt.
    “They’re just being a good family.  I’m an outsider.  I talk funny, to them.  They know nothing about me or my people.  Yet we’re to be bonded by blood.  That has to be difficult for them.  I just wish Minalan was here, instead of . . . he would know what to tell them to calm the waters.”
    Tyndal very much doubted his master’s capability in that direction – from what he had seen, one of the most powerful magi in memory was not particularly adept with treating with the feminine mind – and the legion of women in Minalan’s house were no weaklings.   If Minalan was here, there was little he could likely say, in Tyndal’s estimation . . . but it did suggest how he might help his mistress.
    “Alya, there is a way,” he said, hesitantly, “a way to get a message through to Minalan.  I can do it.  Magically.  But . . . I’m not supposed to do that sort of thing.  It might attract . . . attention.”
    “Oh, could you?” Alya asked, her teary  eyes wide with hope.  “Tyndal, I don’t want to distract him or, or get us taken by the witchhunters, but . . . if I only knew what to do!”
    Tyndal swallowed, making the decision . . . and knowing it was the wrong one.  “I will,” he assured her.  “I’ll have to retrieve my witchstone, but I can send him a message, mind-to-mind, if it is a short one.”
    “I would be forever in your debt,” she said, taking his hand between hers.  “I’m so sorry to ask, but I need him, Tyndal.  Even if it’s to know he’s still alive.”
    The apprentice nodded.  “I’ll fetch it at once.  And then . . . well, if it works, I think I’ll go burn a candle at Ishi’s shrine in gratitude!”
     
    *                            *                            *
     
    The tiny shrine on the northern edge of the village was half the size of a peasant’s hut, yet far more grand, even through the thick mist that had rolled in from the river.  Tyndal approached in reverence – due to a historical peculiarity, his native land had no temples or shrines, and one of the things he’d been most impressed with since he left Boval Vale were the number, variety, and beauty of religious buildings.  The homes of the gods were sometimes humble, sometimes grand, but always interesting.
    Talry’s shrine to the mother goddess was a circular building made of mortared cobbles, rounded in the river.  There were round windows on three sides, aglow with the candles lit within, the product of other pilgrims’ prayers.  The doorway had the circular sigil that Ishi’s priestesses used to bless her holy grounds.  The air smelled of the sweet  incense the Great Mother preferred in offering.  The roof was a high-peaked cone, resembling a breast, a dome of glass at its summit.
    At this late hour it was unusual for the tiny shrine to be visited by anyone in the village, but as he drew