Read Online Magesong by James R. Sanford - Free Book Online Page B

trying to see the lie, and
found nothing but clear glass, no hint of camouflage.  His pursed lips formed
something like a smile, and he nodded curtly, walking past her and toward the
central staircase.
    An empty cell lay next to the dormitory.  He tossed his
duffle onto the cot and quickly changed into his robes, hanging the ceremonial
bronze dagger by a silver chain from his wide silk belt.  In his younger days
he carried a fighting knife strapped to his forearm under the sleeve of the
outer vestment.  Now he openly wore the glove.  It was known as the Gauntlet of
the Ashen Hand, but it was more a glove than a piece of armor, napped grey
leather with a skeletal hand outlined in pearl studs.
    He had caught wind of it in an old Drendusian jest that
mentioned a sorcerous assassin named Myrdas, who used an evil glove that killed
with one touch.  When he showed the passage to Logic, his old acquaintance said
that he didn't think a single name was enough of a clue.  But Ephemeris began
living in the outer library, and after two months of reading came across the
name of a baron that Myrdas had supposedly served.  It took him a few more
months to sail to Drendusia and find the old baron's estate, and there was
where he got lucky.  The town register recorded that a Voormin Myrdas had died
of plague there in the time of the story.  Playing a hunch, Ephemeris stole
into the estate's graveyard that night.  He could not locate a marker with the
name Myrdas on it, but he did find the tombstone of the old baron himself.  According
to the date, the baron had outlived the assassin.  He lay down on the grave and
dreamspoke right there with the dead baron, who told him that they had buried
the accursed glove along with Myrdas in a grave marked "Yeoman" in
the commoner's cemetery near the village.  Digging up Myrdas had been the hardest
part of the whole quest.
    Now Ephemeris never worried about anyone laying hands on
him.  After all, what was the point in having art and sight and power if a few
hooligans could still bludgeon you senseless in a dark street?  Not that he
really feared such a thing; he knew a few tricks that would scare any ruffian
out of his mind.  But that was really not the way of the society.  If anyone
threatened him physically, he wanted to make them very sorry.  When at last the
final grammarie was revealed, he would be able to call down a rain of swords,
would have the power to level cities.  For now, he carried the glove.
    After tying the elaborate collar he stepped into his sandals
and checked himself.  All that remained was the wand.  He took it out of the
travelling case, the golden headpiece of dragon's wings gleaming in contrast to
the black coral haft inscribed with the six symbols of the final grammarie. 
The wand had no enchantments upon it, but Ephemeris thought that it lent
elegance to the costume of the outer circle, and it showed everyone at a glance
that he had proved himself to be a formidable spell-caster.  Those of lesser
skill and power received the brass book.
    Leaving his worldly things in the cell, he raised the hood
of his robe and made his way to the outer shrine.  At the door he paused,
slipped out of the sandals, and entered barefoot, passing an invisible barrier
that shut out all sound.
    The room was six sided, and the altar, a huge dragon worked
in silver with emeralds for eyes, stood opposite the entrance, the great ribbed
wings stretching almost halfway around the room.  A parqueted floor described
the symbol of the seventh essence in gold and black woods.  Six times six
candles that never burned down threw light from alcoves in the marble walls.
    Ephemeris knelt before the dragon idol, placing his wand
aside before prostrating himself fully on the floor, his arms spread wide.  It
took some time to properly enter the meditation . . . then he was there, face
down in the cavern of ice.  The frost dragon towered over him, he knew.  He
dared not look, but he could feel