Trail Of The Torean (Book 2) Read Online Free Page B

old man slipped a coin onto the dragon box, too.
    The ball traveled around the wheel.
    “Dragon,” the old man whispered, rubbing the cloth and closing his eyes in another prayer. “Give us a dragon.”
    Garrick brushed the man’s shoulder, and the essence of Sjesko’s life force finally swelled in response. Its sweetness was pleasant against the backdrop of stale tobacco. This energy was different from the flow that came from the plane of magic in the same way that an ocean is different from a river. It rose and fell on its own. It shifted and roiled with never-ending motion. The traditional magic that Alistair taught came in a single vein that could be restrained with the gates and locks a mage created from his own sense of control and discipline. But Braxidane’s magic ran wild. Braxidane’s magic flowed with inner power. It needed. It yearned. It rose up against his gates as if they were toys to be played with or as if they were distant mountain to be climbed and explored. Braxidane's magic seemed to actually be excited at their discovery.
    Could he mix these two powers, he thought as the ball rolled—was it possible?
    Now was not the time to experiment, but perhaps he would try it later. Perhaps tomorrow he would leave the city and go someplace where he could be alone to work on it. The ball slipped down the bowl and circled in oblong loops.
    Without conscious thought, Garrick found himself molding life force around the dark disease that permeated the man’s liver. When he completed his work, the cancer was no more.
    The ball clattered into a well.
    The old man clenched his fist in victory.
    “Dragon two,” the croupier called. He tossed coins toward Garrick and the rest of the winners.
    Mustache smiled and stood taller.
    “I told you,” he said, looking at Garrick. “Follow me and you’ll soon be rich.”
    “Place your bets,” the croupier said.
    Coins rattled. Garrick picked up two of his four coppers to place them back into his bag.
    “Pulling lucky money off the table?” Mustache said.
    Everyone stared at him.
    “I don’t need you to tell me how to play,” Garrick replied as he firmly slid all four of his coins to a different box on the grid.
    “Griffin five,” he said.
    Mustache’s eyes sparkled.
    Garrick would win only if the ball fell into griffin five—not just any griffin slot. For the added risk, the bet paid off twenty times rather than a mere doubling.
    “Well played, sir,” Mustache said. He slid his own pile to the same griffin box that housed Garrick’s bet. “This time we’ll see where your lead takes us.”
    Garrick smoldered, feeling somehow belittled.
    The rest of the players placed their bets, and the croupier rolled the ball. “Griffin,” the old man said, rubbing his cloth again. “Give us a griffin.”
    The ball clattered over empty wells to fall into a basin.
    “Griffin five,” the croupier said.
    The players gasped and cheered.
    “Well done, my friend. Well done,” Mustache said.
    “Follow me and you’ll be fine,” Garrick replied.
    The croupier’s nostrils flared. “Something’s not right,” he said, glaring at Garrick, then the Mustache.
    “What do you mean?” the old man asked.
    The croupier put his hands on the table. His forearms were like the trunks of oaks.
    “I got no complaint against travelers stepping to the table and winning twice, but I draw the line when they stink of sorcery.”
    The old man gasped. The woman stepped swiftly backward.
    “What do you have to say for yourself, wizard? You reek of Torean waste.”
    “I used no sorcery on your game, sir.”
    “He’s won fair and square,” Mustache piped up from across the table.
    “Fair and square my arse,” the croupier said, keeping his gaze on Garrick. “The two of you walk in here a few minutes apart and start to winning. A minute later there’s sorcery in the air. I don’t like what that suggests.”
    “Are you calling us both cheaters?” Mustache said, his jaw jutting at