The Road To Sevendor - A Spellmonger Anthology Read Online Free Page A

closer Tyndal saw a figure in a blue mantle, head bowed before the gilded statue of Ishi.  Even through the cloak he knew it was Ansily.
    He suddenly stopped.  What do I do now? He asked himself.  Why was he here?  Was he paying court to the innkeeper’s daughter, the way the ranchers of Boval did to each other’s daughters?  The inn she described did sound like a worthy livelihood, and the life couldn’t be as hard as that as a stableboy.   If he could learn to be a mage, he could learn to keep an inn.
    But he was a mage.  He had obligations, and responsibilities.  His conversation with his master through the new spell Lady Pentandra had contrived had reminded him of that – pointedly.  Far from chewing him out over connecting magically, Master Minalan had given him some excellent advice about how to deal with the situation in the baker’s home . . . and a powerful new reason to fear the agents of the Censorate.
    So what was he doing . . . here?  This had nothing to do with either Alya’s domestic troubles or hiding from the Censorate.  Meeting Ansily here in the middle of the night served no useful purpose, and (his usually-quiet conscience was screaming at him) even increased the risk that he and his mistress would be discovered.   He couldn’t be an innkeeper – he was going to be a spellmonger.  Or a warmage.  Or something, but with a shard of irionite and half an idea of how to use it, Tyndal didn’t see a lot of innkeeping in his future.
    He was about to turn on his heel and head back to the bakery when the figure in the temple turned, peering anxiously out into the darkness and biting her lip.  The flash of her eyes in the candlelight and the curve of her neck were all he really saw through the mists, but suddenly his conscience was mute and his feet were propelling him into the shrine.
    “I was wondering if you were going to come,” she said, quietly, not breaking her reverent pose. 
    “I . . . felt in need of prayer,” he said, uncomfortably.  She giggled.  He relaxed.  A little.
    “I often do, at this time of night,” she said, turning to greet him.  “You know, there is a legend that Ishi’s daughter, Delanora, was placed in charge of the river, for a time.  She wasn’t particularly good at being a river goddess, due to her restless nature, but she did her best.  One night a priestess called for her aid, to help carry a young couple to safety, as she was a noble and he but common,” she explained.
    “Why didn’t she just—”
    “Shh! My legend!” Ansily insisted sharply.  “Anyway, this priestess was trying to get the goddess to bear their boat upstream, away from their pursuers . . . but Delanora wasn’t listening.  Instead, they were forced downstream and made landfall at Talry.”
    “That was convenient,” observed Tyndal, his eyes jumping from freckle to freckle. 
    “Wasn’t it?  Too late Delanora came to the priestesses’ aid.  But she was so contrite that she contrived a thick river mist to cloak the young lovers until their pursuers had passed.  So powerful was the mist that it concealed them from even the other gods, and they were able to escape downriver and live happily ever after in another land.”
    “That seems—”
    “I’m not done.  Because the spell was so powerful, it is said that ‘what happens within the river mists of Talry will not be seen by the gods themselves.’”
    “But I came through the mists and I saw just fine,” objected the apprentice.
    “You . . . have no appreciation of culture,” Ansily said, her lips cocked to one side of her face.  “Or subtlety.  Ishi’s idol is right there . . . does a girl have to rip open her dress and push her twins in your face before you can take a hint?”
    Tyndal was struck dumb.  Was she . . . ?
    “Well?” Ansily demanded.
    “If I say ‘yes’, will you?”
    The innkeeper’s daughter rolled her eyes expressively.  “Tyndal, you are impossible!  I’m going to scream