The Spirit Lens Read Online Free PDF

position as archivist led me to your name—”
    “We are sent , sir mage!” Ilario bellowed at the man’s back, while bulging his eyes and waggling his brows at me incomprehensibly. “My mistress believes that current mania for scientific advancement has unfairly turned popular opinion against the mystic arts. She has assembled a consilium of mages, graciously lending her particular prestige to their works.” He began to march up and down, bobbing his feathered cap like a cock in a hen roost. “Certainly your next question will be what works might these be? Unfortunately, I am incapable of telling you. Though I represent a woman whose intellect scales great heights, my own wit plods along the solid earth. My comrade Portier, here, himself a learned practitioner of your fantastical arts, could explain our aims better, but, of course, he is a modest man of modest rank and shy of intruding in conversation between his betters. Besides, my lady has particularly charged me to offer you her patronage. . . .”
    Blessed saints, the mage would believe we were both flea-wits. The fool Ilario had gotten it wholly muddled. We had agreed that I would assess the mage by luring him into a test of his capability and honor. Only when I was satisfied would we broach the matter of the queen’s mages and what we needed him to do. The queen knew—and could know—nothing about this mission.
    Yet, indeed, the mage twisted around and stared at Ilario with an intensely curious expression.
    “My lady relishes nurturing new talent. I can assure you . . .” Ilario’s prattle skidded to a stop under the weight of the mage’s scrutiny.
    The disconcerting gaze shifted to me. My skin itched. Unease swelled in my belly, reaching full growth, then relaxed again like a flower that buds, blooms, and fades all in the space of ten heartbeats. My soul felt abraded—exposed. Likely it was my conscience. Surely this man recognized the lies.
    “What game is this you play?” said the mage softly, returning his attention to Ilario. His dark brows knit a line. “Speak as yourself this time, lord.”
    Ilario’s lips parted, but no sound issued from between them. I, too, felt rendered mute.
    “Does truth pain a Sabrian chevalier so much?” The mage extracted a stylus from a jumble of tools in a wooden chest and scored the new block across several of its faces, rolling and marking it entirely with his left hand. “So, one or the other of you can tell me truthfully why you’re here. Or I can draw it out of your asses with a billhook. Or you can go away and leave me to my common labor .”
    A sighing breeze shifted the overhanging branches. The sultry gloom deepened. I rubbed my arms through the worn velvet of my doublet.
    I was no gullible stable hand who believed charmed cats could cure his pox or pond scum make his wife fertile. Though all agreed that Sabria’s greater magic had faded, I had studied the testimony of those who had seen mages soothe whirlwinds and stem the advance of poisoned tides. I myself had felt the balance of the five divine elements and the flow of power through my veins and deepest self—no matter that the result was naught but a sputter in the scheme of the world. But the vibrant and richly textured power swirling about this sunny garden was no more kin to the magic I had experienced than a sunset is cousin to a candle flame. Pressing the back of my hand to my mouth, I fought a compulsion to spew King Philippe’s secrets, though the mage had not even raised his uncommon voice.
    Ilario’s golden skin took on the hue of sour milk. He swallowed, blinked, and dabbed at his quivering lower lip, then straightened his long neck as if for the headsman. “My apologies, sir mage. Allow me to clarify. That my kinswoman defies popular beliefs with support of sorcery is true. What I failed to mention is that she is interested in certain areas of magical pursuit that many people might consider . . . unsavory. And I must confess that my