The Spirit Lens Read Online Free PDF Page A

seamless band of silver encircled his sinewed neck, wholly incongruous with his rough attire. And the collar’s fine lay of gold designated the wearer a master mage. Yet it was the voice that marked him as worthy of note . . . and the eyes set deep under heavy brows. The fiery green of new oak leaves, those eyes could slice paper edge-on. For certain, no common laborer had such.
    The fop snapped his hands to his sides and inclined his head. “Ilario de Sylvae, Chevalier ys Sabria, sir mage. And my good companion, Portier de Duplais.”
    “Divine grace, Master,” I said, bowing with my left hand laid on my right shoulder, the mark of my blood family clearly exposed. “We would appreciate a word with you on a matter of interest.”
    “I share no interests with aristos.”
    “I am the archivist at Collegia Seravain,” I said. “When examining our records—”
    “Go away. I dislike company.” The sorcerer hefted his burden a little higher and vanished into the oak and blackthorn scrub crowding the left side of the house.
    Ilario bolted after him like a startled doe. “Hold on, sir mage!”
    “Please, Master! Chevalier!” My call might have been floating dust for all it slowed them.
    I had no choice but to follow. I needed a talented outsider to pursue this investigation. If this mage had skills to match his arrogance, the level of knowledge his collar bespoke, and some quantity of honor that could be claimed or bought, we might have found our man.
    Thorny branches snagged my clothes, and my boots sank into the soft earth.
    However, the gangly fop darted through the tangle unhindered. “Hear me out, sir mage,” he called brightly. “We’ve brought you an invitation . . . an opportunity, one might say. If we could but sit for a moment, share a glass of wine, perhaps. My mistress will be most distressed if her offer is unheard. Most distressed . . .”
    Mistress? Enthroned god! I’d told the fool to let me handle this.
    Wrenching my sleeve from the barbed grip of the brush, I stumbled into a small, sunny garden: a few orderly hills and rows of vegetables, and a raised bed of close-planted herbs, swarming with bees. Garlic shoots and thick, low masses of dusty greenery bordered the plot.
    Astonishing. From the mage’s wild appearance, and the smoldering fury that tainted his words, one might better have expected devilish machinery or smoking pits.
    “I’ve tasks enough to occupy my time. Take your opportunity elsewhere.” The earth quivered when he dropped his loaf-shaped stone to the barren ground on the far side of the garden. At least fifty similarly shaped stones lay about the area, some stacked, some scattered randomly, some carefully trimmed and fitted into three walls set square to one another. Chips and flakes of stone littered the dirt.
    Ilario blotted his cheeks with his lace kerchief. “Please, good sir mage—”
    The mage whirled, his fiery gaze raking Ilario’s turnout from purple plume to sleek boots. He flared his nostrils. “If my oven was built, I could bake bread and serve a noble guest and his companion properly. Even a coarse meal would better suit your taste than converse with the likes of me. But my bakefire cannot be lit as yet, so you must leave my home unsatisfied.” He removed the pick and the iron bar from his belt and tossed them to the dirt. “ Leave . Do fine gentlemen like you understand a plain-spoke word?”
    Shivers cooled my overheated skin. No welcome here; the villagers had not erred in that.
    Squatting with his back to us, the mage shoved the new stone close to the others. His wide, long-fingered left hand palmed the height and width of the block as if to measure it against its fellows. The back of that hand, thick with black hair, was clean of any family mark, as the tale of Exsanguin bespoke. Odd how the right hand stayed so firmly inside his tunic. Was he armed?
    Despairing, I ventured into the dismissive silence. “If you would but allow me to explain, Master. My