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Princess's head. Avelaine gasped.
'You are mine now,' Faisix said softly. 'This geas I lay upon you, Avelaine of
Pendaire. You shall never rest until your brother lies dead at your hand.'
The Princess stood, reasonless as a beast. Her hands accepted the sword Faisix
offered with a dreamer's incom-
prehension. No longer wearing Darion's face, the Regent drew a thin,
ceremonial dagger from his belt.
Faisix took the knife and nicked his palm with a swift motion. Blood welled,
black against pale skin. He mut-
tered an incantation, then raised his slashed hand and let the wound drip like
a libation over the ring. A thunderous blast reft the air. Wind tossed the
hair from Elienne's face, and the candles streamed like specters gone mad.
The pentagram flared, red to violet, and crackled sparks, seeming for a
prolonged moment to enclose the blackest pit of Hell.
Within, Elienne saw movement: a glint of scales like smoky quartz edging the
arch of a serpentine tail. Then the darkness parted and dispersed like smoke,
and she beheld the equine demon Faisix had once ridden over the ice plains of
Ceroth. Sparks shot from restless hooves, and, yellow as lamps, its eyes
gleamed with a man's intelligence. Dazed by fumes, and battered beyond mortal
reason by the proximity of unnatural forces, Elienne was slow to recognize she
viewed the Regent himself, hide-
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ously transformed.
She wrenched at her bonds until pain made her dizzy.
Through blurred eyes, she saw Avelaine mount. The sword flashed once in the
flamelight, severing the five candles at the apexes of the pentagram. Thin wax
shafts toppled, trailing ragged flags of smoke, and extinguished with a
sheared-off hiss against the floor. The connecting
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lines flickered out. Elienne swallowed, tasted sweat. A
triad of candles burned at the angles of the ward that confined Minksa's soul.
All else lay shrouded in darkness.
Elienne seized the mirrowstone, braced for disaster.
The stone's depths shone warmly, lit by an open-air campfire. Darion sat on a
gilt-trimmed saddlecloth, with knees drawn up, and his head resting on crossed
wrists.
Lumped like dark hillocks about him, the men-at-arms slept under damp wool
blankets, armored still, she saw, by the light that pricked helms, weapons,
and mailed limbs.
Faisix's apparition had not yet arrived.
The mirrowstone slipped from nervous fingers. If she was to help the Prince,
she had little time to act; her only chance lay in the glowing triangle across
the room, where
Minksa's imprisoned spirit huddled in abject despair. If, somehow, the child
could be freed, Ma'Diere's Laws might lend advantage enough for her to regain
command of her possessed flesh from Avelaine, and so disrupt
Faisix's geas of murder. The chance was slim, and danger-
ous; Elienne knew her own ignorance of sorcery might precipitate disaster. Yet
Ielond had not chosen her for timidity.
The cords could not be loosened; the chair, then, would have to be included in
her plans. Elienne grimly bit her lip and shoved against the floor with her
feet. With a screech, the legs skated a foot across the tiles. Elienne battled
a queasy rush of vertigo. She lowered her head quickly, to prevent herself
from fainting outright.
She would have to change tactics. Even if she managed to retain her senses,
the noise alone would surely attract the mutes. Urgently, Elienne searched the
shadowed room for inspiration.
Her eye fell on the rucked outline of a throw rug piled beneath a book stand.
Grasping the chair seat firmly, she
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yanked upward as she kicked, her intent to lift the chair clear of the floor.
But the motion jarred her arms to the shoulders, and pain channeled like
molten metal down her nerves. Against all effort of will, she cried out. Sweat
dripped like tears down her temples and cheeks.
Eiienne drew a shallow, ragged breath. The rug was beyond her means, but any
cloth would do as well. She tugged at her skins and with shaking fingers tore
the soft chemise from beneath. Then she tilted the chair and eased the fabric
under its legs with her foot. This time the chair slid more smoothly, noise
reduced to a muffled rumble, and with clumsy persistence, E!ienne propelled
herself toward Minksa's confined spirit. The chair caught once, on an uneven
square of tile, but Elienne pressed doggedly forward.
The chair rocked to a halt before the heated line of the triangle. She picked
out the thin glimmer of the figure within. The girl bent, tightly crouched,
her face buried in the crossed shield of her arms.
'Minksa? Elienne's voice seemed slurred, even to her own ears. The spectral
shape did not stir. Perhaps the child could hear no spoken word, removed as
she was from her flesh. But E!ienne refused to abandon hope.
'Minksa, are you listening?'
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The child stayed motionless.
'Minksa, you must . . .' Elienne's voice cracked, and
new tears sprang hotly in her eyes, silvering the faint, phosphorescent image
of the imprisoned soul before her.
'Minksa, his Grace's life depends upon us now. I think we can save him, if you
will help.'
Within the triangle, the child stirred. Elienne knew a wild surge of hope. The
small, translucent hands unclasped, and Minksa raised a face imprinted with
misery. 'Lady, I cannot.'
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Cut to the quick by the need for haste, Elienne's response was brisk to the
point of brutality. 'You can try.'
Anguished, Minksa shook her head.
'Does our friendship mean nothing?' Elienne reached fiercely for the candle at
the nearest corner of the triangle, as though to pinch off the greenish flame
at the wick.
'No! Lady, I beg you!' Minksa flung herself at the barrier. 'You'll come to
great harm if you touch that.'
The enclosure flared red as Minksa struck its perimeter.
She fell back with a cry of pain, and knelt, weeping, though no tears fell.
Elienne tried to balance urgency with gentleness.
'Minksa, Darion could be killed if we don't act quickly.
Then all of Pendaire would suffer. Will you help?'
Minksa sat back on her heels, an expression beyond her years molding her thin
face.
'Child, what in the Name of Ma'Diere troubles you?'
'Lady, I daren't help your Prince, for my life's sake.'
Minksa turned her face away. 'Darion of Pendaire would condemn me to the
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