Cordimancy Read Online Free PDF Page B

guarantee such an outcome in the heat of combat? Could he even bring himself to wound his father if he had the chance?
    Would Hasha just surrender? That might allow Toril to claim victory long enough to attend the council, but the staff would have to be relinquished eventually. Enraged by flouted customs, the clan would repudiate any of Toril’s decisions, and Hasha and Toril would become outcasts. Worse still, the entire parijan would be dishonored.
    Hasha was still staring at him, demanding an answer. He’d asked for trust...
    “Of my own free will, I challenge you for the staff of Kelun,” Toril announced, scarcely able to believe the words coming out of his mouth. “Here and now I will defeat you with whichever weapon you choose, or forfeit my life in the attempt.”
    “The challenge is made and cannot be retracted,” the Voice said, confirming adherence to protocol. She turned to Hasha.
    “I accept,” Hasha said. “Let the will of The Five be done.”
    The Voice nodded gravely. “The weapon?”
    “Magic.” Hasha rang the bell on the table to summon a servant. “Fetch me some clay,” he said to the young girl who opened the door. “The kind they use for pottery.”
    The surprise on Toril’s face faded into a grin.
    Like the Voice, who’d written words and rubbed ashes on her ear lobes to transmit a message to a remote listener, Hasha was a hand—someone who kindled magic by focusing on tactile sensations from the palm or fingers. He no doubt wanted the clay so he could sculpt whatever effigy he needed to attempt an attack on Toril.
    Hand magic was slow, and Hasha was weak. As the majority of folk who could not kindle at all, he did without magic in his day-to-day business; the effort to work it depleted him for even the smallest effect.
    Toril, on the other hand, was a gifted lip. If he knew proper words, he could just speak them—and the act of shaping mouth and throat focused power to his bidding. In fact, his talent triggered regular boasts within Toril’s clan, and within his own parijan in particular; no labimancer of comparable ability had emerged from the southern regions in quite some time.
    Magic was unquestionably a mortal weapon, but Toril’s father had laid a foundation for cleverer use. All Toril had to do was terminate Hasha’s kindling, and the conditions of the challenge would be satisfied. Hasha wouldn’t miss what he didn’t need anyway, and no blood would be shed. Nobody could impugn Hasha for losing.
    The older man had a reputation as a wily strategist, but this would go down as a true masterstroke. Rovin and Gorumim would be furious but unable to dispute the outcome.
    So how do I do it? Toril wondered. His studies of magic had been diligent, but he knew of no way to suppress another’s magical abilities directly.
    The kindling is the key , he thought. A fire can’t begin without a spark. If he could prevent Hasha from applying his talent...
    Numb his hands? Toril searched his memory but could recall no way to express that particular idea in the ancient language that conveyed magical intent. Rougher phrases jostled. Let your fingers burn? Forget what you’re thinking? Feel nothing in your touch?
    He didn’t want to do harm; anything he said needed to be precise, without side effects.
    Rapping at the door, the servant entered with a bowl of potter’s clay, wet with slurry. Behind her, Toril could hear the sound of clapping and revelry as the feast crescendoed.
    What would his new wife think when she heard he had deposed his own father in the first moments of their married life? Would she believe his explanation?
    What about his in-laws? They already suspected his meddling in the matchmaking that led to betrothal; would his absence at the feast be interpreted as additional evidence that he disrespected tradition or them?
    “I am ready,” Hasha announced.
    Toril met the Voice’s questioning look with a nod.
    “Then begin,” the Voice said. “Fight with honor.”
    Hasha