Read Online Daughter of Regals by Stephen R. Donaldson - Free Book Online

Scour. In a tone as gracious and
lovely as her person, she said, “My lady, your guests must have some respite in
which to refresh themselves, lest they lose their pleasure in dancing. If you
will permit it, I will offer some small entertainment for their enjoyment.”
    Her
voice and her suggestion chilled me. I feared her extremely. And—as ever—I was
unable to fathom her intent. But I could hardly refuse her offer. The callowest
youth in the ballroom would know how to interpret a denial.
    I saw
Ryzel shifting through the stilled assembly toward me. To temporise until he
reached me, I replied, “You are most kind, my lady of Lodan. What entertainment
do you propose?”
    “A
display of Magic,” she answered as if every word were honey and wine. “Mage
Scour has mastered an art which will amaze you—an art previously unknown in the
Three Kingdoms”
    At
that, a murmur of surprise and excitement scattered around the ballroom.
    Ryzel’s
eyes were wary as he met my glance; but I did not need his slight nod to choose
my course. We had often discussed the rumour that Scour’s research had borne
remarkable fruit. That rumour, however, had always been empty of useful
content, leaving us unable to gauge either its truth or its importance. An
opportunity for answers was not to be missed.
    Yet I
feared it, as I feared Queen Damia herself. She did not mean me well.
    My
throat had gone dry. For a moment, I could not speak. A short distance away
stood Count Thornden, glowering like a wolf while his Mage, Brodwick, whispered
feverishly in his ear. Scour’s grin made him resemble a ferret more than ever.
King Thone’s milky eyes showed nothing; but he had no Mage to support him now,
and he held himself apart from most of the guests. Until this moment, I had not
realized that my white muslin might become so uncomfortably warm. Surely the
night was cooler than this?
    Though
every eye watched me as if my fears were written on my face, I waited until I
was sure of my voice. Then I said as mildly as I was able, “A rare promise,
good lady. Surely its fulfilment will be fascinating. Please give Mage Scour my
permission.”
    At
once, Scour let out a high, sharp bark of laughter and hurried away into the
centre of the ballroom.
    Around
him, the people moved toward the walls, making space for his display. Gallants
and girls pressed for the best view, and behind the thick circle of spectators
some of the less dignified guests stood on chairs. Mage Ryzel ascended a short
way up the stair in order to see well. With a conscious effort, I refrained
from gripping the arms of my seat; folding my hands in my lap, I schooled
myself-to appear calm.
    Scour
was a small, slight man, yet in his black cassock he appeared capable of
wonders: dangerous. The silence of the ballroom was complete as he readied
himself for his demonstration. He used no powders or periapts, made no mystic
signs, drew no pentacles. Such village chicanery would have drawn nothing but
mirth from the guests of the manor. These people knew that magery was internal,
the result of personal aptitude and discipline rather than of flummery or show.
Yet Scour contrived to make his simple preparations appear elaborate and
meaningful, charged with power.
    It was
said that the blood of a distant Magic man or woman ran in some veins but not
others, gifting some with the ability to touch upon the secret essence of the
Real, leaving the rest normal and incapable. Whatever the explanation, Scour
possessed something which I lacked. And I had been so thoroughly trained by
Mage Ryzel— and to so little avail—that I needed only a moment to recognize
that Scour was a true master.
    Step by
step, I watched him succeed where I had always failed.
    First
he closed his eyes and clasped his hands together before him. Such actions
might be necessary or unnecessary, according to his gift for concentration.
His mouth shaped complex words which had no sound—again an aid to
concentration. Softly, then