“Ritathan,” Obeda scolded him.“It takes but a moment to teach that,” she said, wiping a spoon clean with her napkin.
“More ale,” Forterran signaled the staff.
“You can teach me to scry?”Halithe asked as the servers approached and started to clear the dishes.
Obeda laughed.“I’m afraid you will be disappointed.I can show you how it’s done, but you must teach yourself through practice.”She held up the spoon.“Stare into any reflective surface,” she said.“Focus your will on what you wish to see.Keep your breathing deep and regular.”
“That’s it?”Halithe asked, disappointment warring with rising excitement.
“That’s it.”Obeda handed her the spoon.“Now it’s practice, I’m afraid.You can use almost anything, eventually.A mirror, a bowl of water for beginners.Later, you can try to use non-reflective items, such as smoke or—”
“Fire,” Ritathan added.
Obeda rolled her eyes at him but nodded.“Your will determines what you see and to what depth.But be careful.Some see the present, a few see a future, and rare ones can see the past.”
A soft snort came from Ila.Halithe glanced at her but the older woman was still asleep, her chin on her chest, her breathing soft and slow.The servers took extra care not to disturb her.
“Mother’s heart is not strong,” Forterran muttered.“She tires easily.”
“And yet,” Ritathan gestured toward the tent where the portal was.
“She’s keeping the portal up?In her sleep?”Halithe asked.
“Yes,” Forterran said simply, but with clear pride.
One of the servers cleared her plate, and gestured to the spoon in her hand.Halithe hesitated.
“Keep it,” Obeda smiled.“To practice with.”
“Fire is better,” Ritathan grumbled as the servers refilled the drinks, and disappeared back into the tent.
Forterran drank deep, sighed, wiped the foam from his lip, and focused on Halithe.“Tell me again about the bond-cord.”
Halithe quickly swallowed her mouthful of ale, not expecting the question.“It stretched, thin and tight, all the way up the mountain.”She tried to be as detailed as possible.“Thin and taut, golden in color, with red drops that glistened like rubies.”
“Those red drops are the life blood of the sacrifice the spell required,” Forterran said grimly.
Halithe caught her breath, glancing at Ritathan, who was nodding in agreement.She felt sick at the idea.Her Caris, bound by…
Forterran was grim as he studied the foam on his half-empty glass.“I wish I knew what Satia is up to.”
“Don’t you have sources in the palace?”Obeda asked.
“I used to have a Chained Mage in the palace,” Forterran grumbled.“Who was a far better source of information than kitchen gossip and loose talk among the guards.”He glared at Ritathan.
Ritathan shrugged.
Forterran sighed and rubbed his chin.“So a marcus, with the aid of a vore, may have smuggled a newborn out of the camp and managed to take it to the Wastes, while being pursued by a Bondmaiden assassin.”
“What happens if the Bondmaiden dies?”Ritathan mused.
“I have no idea,” Forterran said.“But she’s not dead, is she?The cord wouldn’t just hang there if she were dead.”He looked off into the distance.“Almost as if it is waiting.”
“What does it mean?”Halithe said.
“I have no answers.”Foreterran sighed.“I’m not sure that even Satia knows what happens if a bond-slave dies.”He rubbed his hand over his face again.“Our Guild is in mourning.We spent a small fortune in black bunting to drape over all the gates, doors and windows of the Guild Hall.I pulled all of the Guild members and their apprentices into mourning ceremonies at the Tower.”
“Wish I could have attended.”Ritathan raised an eyebrow.“Who gave the eulogy?It wasn’t Normand, was it?Did Elsena weep?”
