Curse of the Shadowmage by Anthony Mark Read Free Book Online Page A

control of your senses when gazing into the crystal,” Morhion told the boy sternly. “Once lost in its depths, you might find it is not so easy to return.”
    Kellen nodded, apprehension written on his round face. Morhion reminded himself that, despite Kellen’s remarkable perceptiveness, he was still only a boy of eleven winters. The mage’s expression softened. “Pear not, Kellen. You will never become lost in the crystal so long as I am near.”
    Kellen smiled at the mage. “I know, Morhion.” He touched the smooth surface of the crystal. “It is magic, then, isn’t it?”
    Morhion nodded. “There are some small magics bound into the crystal, yes. But they merely provide the catalyst, that is all. True magic comes from within.”
    Kellen thought about this for a long moment. Then he asked, “What is the world I perceived in the crystal, Morhion?”
    “I cannot say, Kellen. There exist many worlds beside
    our own. There are mages who believe that some of these worlds are the wells from which we are able to draw our magic. Perhaps just such a world you saw.”
    Outside the arched window, the full orb of the moon was rising above Iriaebor’s spires. The autumn evening was chilly, although Morhion’s study was warm and comfortable. Most people thought mages live in drafty old towers littered with musty tomes and rotting scrolls. Morhion enjoyed living against stereotype. Vibrant tapestries hung from the circular chamber’s stone walls; the floor was thick with expensive Amnian carpets. Books, parchments, and all manner of magical paraphernalia were arranged neatly in dark wood cases, and a fire burned brightly in a copper brazier in the room’s center.
    Morhion poured two cups of spiced wine. As he handed one of the silver cups to Kellen, he watched the boy. The mage found he was curious to discover the limits of Kellen’s abilities. True, such inquiries would be premature. Most youths did not test their magic until their fifteenth year, or even later. And yet…
    Morhion moved to a glass cabinet and took out a small wooden box. He set the box on the table before Kellen, opening the lid. Inside, resting on a cushion of purple velvet, was a small, dark stone. Carved into the pebble was an arcane sigil, the rune that symbolized magic.
    “I want you to pick up the stone, Kellen,” Morhion said, gazing at the boy intently.
    Kellen bit his lip in thought, studying the pebble for a long time as if trying to unlock its mysteries. Finally he shrugged. Reaching out, he picked up the stone. It lay small and dark in the palm of his hand. Morhion leaned forward, eyes glittering. Now, he thought. It should come now!
    Nothing happened. Kellen opened his mouth as if to say something. The words were never uttered. The dark
    stone flared with brilliant green light, shards of emerald illumination spraying outward, dancing crazily across the walls and ceiling. There was a sizzling sound, and the smell of burning flesh. Kellen cried out, dropping the stone. Abruptly, the blinding green light dimmed.
    Morhion blinked, clearing his vision. The stone lay on the mahogany table, dark and ordinary-looking once more. Kellen clutched his left hand. His face was pale and drawn. Morhion reached out and gently unclenched Kellen’s fingers. Branded on the boy’s palm was a mirror image of the symbol that was carved into the pebble—the rune of magic.
    Kellen looked up at the mage, his pain suddenly forgotten. “What does it mean, Morhion?”
    Morhion did not answer. Instead, he slowly raised his own left hand. In the center of his palm was an old, puckered scar—a duplicate of the blistered mark on Kellen’s hand. Kellen was bursting with questions, but before he could voice any, Morhion shook his head, silencing him. This had been enough for tonight. He drew a silk handkerchief from a pocket and tied it loosely about the boy’s wounded hand.
    “Go to the inn, Kellen, and find Estah,” Morhiftn instructed. “She will heal your