Foundling Wizard (Book 1) Read Online Free PDF

small pile of neatly stacked coins. ‘Five, no, six of them,’ he thought. He concentrated recalling the detail of the coins that his mother had handed him.
    The mist formed in his mind, and the fogginess overtook him. He tried to stay focused on the coins. He thought he was making progress when, suddenly, a stabbing pain shot up behind his eyes, blinding his imagination. He gasped for air and opened his eyes. They were still fuzzy and clouded over. He could make out a nebulous cloud of mist on the blanket in front of him, but no coins.
    The stabbing pain intensified to a crescendo of agony. Lorit grabbed at his temples, pressing his palms hard against his head, trying to stop the pain. He fought back the scream he wanted to let out; he was afraid that he’d be discovered if he made any noise. He suffered in silence for a while, before the pain started to wane.
    Eventually, with the pain down to a simple headache, Lorit was able to slip into a troubled sleep.
     
     
    It was dark, and the fog was thick. It enveloped Lorit. It squeezed him until he felt he couldn’t breathe. Lorit struggled to clear his head, but he couldn’t drive the fog away. He fought, but it made little difference. A faint light appeared far off in the darkness. He tried to focus on the light. It was vague, and Lorit couldn’t make out what it was.
    The light slowly grew stronger, increasing in intensity as it drew closer. Lorit was unable to determine who or what the figure was. He couldn’t clear the fog from his head. Fear gripped him, as it had in the meadow. The fog grasped at him, smothering him in its icy grip even as the light coalesced into the shape of a man.
    The figure slowly sharpened. It took the form of an old man. He was tall and thin, but straight of stature. He wore white robes that dragged along the ground as he walked.
    In his left hand, he held a long staff of gnarled wood polished by wear until it gleamed. Atop the wood was a large gold gem that glowed with an eerie light. In his right hand he carried something that Lorit could not make out.
    “Who are you?” Lorit asked. The words were thick in his throat.
    “I am Zhimosom,” the old man replied. He solidified until he was clear and sharp, standing right in front of Lorit. He approached and bent over, leaning on his staff. He paused and examined Lorit, as he lay there helpless.
    Lorit fought to get up, but was unable to move so much as a muscle. His limbs felt heavy and numb, as if he were wrapped in a blanket. He struggled ineffectively to stand, or at least sit up.
    “Don’t try to move,” the old man said. “You can’t.” He waved his hand over Lorit.
    Lorit felt firm hands gently lift him into a sitting position. He looked at the figure, not knowing what to expect.
    Zhimosom slowly lowered himself onto the hay, until he was seated directly in front of Lorit. He placed the staff next to him and held out his right hand. It contained a shiny red apple.
    “Your work?” he asked.
    Lorit looked at the old man’s face. He wore a long, thick white beard, just as white as his full head of hair. Both were as pure as the winter’s snow. “I don’t know what you are talking about,” Lorit replied.
    “This,” he said, shaking the apple. “Is it your work?” He looked intently into Lorit’s eyes.
    Lorit kept quiet; he didn’t know who the old man was, but he wasn’t about to admit to anything.
    “Come, come, boy. I am a senior Wizard. Did you think that you could conjure something like this without shields and NOT have every wizard within a hundred leagues of you instantly know it?”
    He leaned in closer to Lorit and continued. “How do you think the priests find you, boys? Until you learn to control your magic, every wizard around can feel everything you do.”
    He tossed the apple into the air, and it vanished. “It looks like you need more convincing,” he said.
    Zhimosom folded his hands together as if in supplication. He slowly moved them apart. Between