Souldancer (Soul Cycle Book 2) Read Online Free PDF Page A

bristles his scalp had grown for want of a razor. He stared at the cracked ceiling, but his mind’s eye saw the last wolf-thing charging toward him—its talons sending up gouts of sand; the raw slashes over its eye glowing red as hot iron.
    The surprised look in that dark eye when an invisible wall had stopped the wolf’s charge.
    A pang of guilt stabbed Xander’s heart. However dire his need, he’d always resisted using his power directly on other living souls.
    That is a lie, he thought, and the unbidden memory of his mother twisted guilt’s knife. Xander recited a proverb against letting the past color the present. His guilt subsided, but the loneliness was worse.
    Xander was about to seek consolation in sleep when the linen curtain draped across the room’s entrance rustled. A grey-haired man in a priestly robe thrust the curtain aside and swept his gaze over the chamber. His vigilant eyes settled on the young Nesshin.
    Xander’s spirits lifted. “My Lord Pontifex,” he greeted Medvia’s high priest.
    “You’ve come back to us,” the pontifex said as he entered. The two priests who’d kept vigil over Xander followed. “Thank God!”
    Xander looked forward to visiting the pontifex each year. In addition to setting a lavish board, the old priest knew as many tales of pre-Cataclysm Mithgar as his father, and he told them more freely. “Thank you for saving me,” Xander said.
    The pontifex’s weathered hands made a dismissive gesture. “We merely gave you water and a place to lay your head. Your Nesshin hardiness did the rest.”
    Xander sat up, despite his muscles’ complaints. “Nonetheless, I am in your debt.”
    The pontifex exchanged a wary look with his attendants. “Then perhaps you can explain the mark.”
    “What mark?”
    “The one on your right shoulder.”
    The pontifex’s eyes held neither lies nor uncertainty. Xander pulled off his shirt and stared transfixed at what he saw.
    Three sinuous lines descended from a large empty circle, each touching one of three black shapes—a small square beside a diamond of equal size, and a large triangle below them. The pattern was wholly alien to Xander. He scoured it with his hand, but the mark didn't yield. There was neither scar nor scab. No sticky dampness of drying ink met his fingers. There was only the feeling of smooth skin, as if the symbol were a natural formation of his own pigments.
    Suspicion invaded Xander’s bafflement. “How did you know about it?”
    “I discovered the mark while checking you for wounds as you slept,” the second priest said. “None here have seen its like.”
    “Neither have I!” Xander insisted. Perhaps the light was not a dream, something whispered from the depths of his mind . Perhaps this is part of the same madness. He almost spoke these thoughts aloud, but for his conviction that doing so would only compound the mystery.
    “Our chief interest is your well-being,” said the pontifex.
    Xander hastily donned his shirt. “I am humbled by your concern for my safety, and I'm grateful for your help; but where is my father? Surely he told you how I was separated from the caravan.”
    The pontifex’s eyes widened for a moment, but then he frowned. “I must admit that I do not understand your question, young Xander.”
    “What is not to understand? I only want to know where my father is, and my people. I realize that he may not wish to see me. We parted on unhappy terms. Has he…told you of our last meeting?”
    The pontifex clasped his hands to his chest and approached Xander’s bedside. “I cannot answer what you ask of me, except to say what you must already know. The Nesshin are not expected for some days. Your presence here is the true mystery, my young friend.”
    Xander frowned. Still holding onto a shred of disbelief he asked, “Why do you expect the caravan so late? We have never missed opening day at the market.”
    “My son,” the pontifex said, “the market doesn’t open for six