The Soul Mirror by Carol Berg Read Free Book Online

and slid to the ground. He’d be no protection against these five. He did not appear to carry so much as a knife. Not that I was better prepared. My zahkri, a Fassid bandit knife given me by my Cazar grandfather, remained in Remy’s cart. When my uncles had tried to teach me its nastier uses, I’d practiced only long enough to make them happy before escaping to less barbaric enjoyments.
    The leader’s thick accent spoke of Norgand, the ever-hostile tribal lands of rock and ice and fire that constricted Sabria’s northern sea routes. But these were neither marauders come downriver nor other common highwaymen. He had called Duplais steward and a woman’s heinend , or bond slave. They knew him. But their bizn —business—was with me.
    I was not so frightened as I would have expected. Though the cruel nature of my father’s crimes implied the like from any rivals, facing danger seemed easier than anticipating. But if I was to survive, I’d best pay attention.
    The masked man motioned to his companions. One held our horses’ bridles, while the other threw my satchel to the ground. Duplais’ shabby leather case soon joined it. These two and the two riders who’d come up from behind wore simpler masks and no hoods, which left their hair and necks exposed. I judged them no cadre of Norgandi mercenaries, either. Ebony skin and black, tight-curled hair named one man a Fassid. Norgandi believed the Fassid to be Fallen and would never work side by side with them.
    The two behind dismounted and joined their fellows, weapons bristling.
    “We’ve naught of value, wegheind ,” said Duplais, naming the leader an ox’s rear, as the Fassid cut his purse and a velvet spall pouch from his belt and dropped them beside our bags. “The coins in my purse won’t cover the first bribe for your jailer. And surely you were taught that those who dare touch sanctified spalls are doomed to wander Ixtador Beyond the Veil for a thousand years.”
    Kneeling beside our belongings, the masked Norgandi emptied Duplais’ spall pouch into his hand and examined the three stone chips—struck from tessilae to be constant reminders of honored dead. “We’re nae worrt by yer god’s punishings o’er splits of stone. Die with honor, and the Mariner sails un direct ta Skyhallow. Nae cruelish wanderwalks out of time. As tae valuing, oor bizn is oor own.”
    Duplais’ glare roved from one of the masked men to the next as if committing them to memory. One of the four was missing a finger on his left hand. One wore gold hoop earrings, and a zahkri at his belt, yet he was not Fassid, but rather brown-haired and thick boned.
    Discarding pouch and spalls over his shoulder, the leader dug into my book satchel. Spiderwebs brushed my face and hair.
    “Ah! Look-see . . .” He pulled out the books I’d packed for Ambrose. One by one, he examined the titles, riffled the pages, and carefully traced his fingers over random text.
    I drew back, a creeping, wriggling certainty churning my gut. As sure as my name, the masked man was using spellwork to examine the books. His mask covered his neck, so I could not see if he wore a mage’s collar, and his gloves hid any blood family’s handmark.
    One by one he discarded my books. With a muffled curse, he upended my bag and pawed through the papers and silly oddments I had snatched up to bring with me. Family birth warrants and the Camarilla validations of our handmarks. My parents’ marriage contract. Montclaire’s planting book, which I would need to return to Bernard, merited a brief look. A thumb-sized portrait of my mother. The journal I’d not written in since I was an overimaginative twelve-year-old. The magnifying glass from the study. The engraved silver scissors Mama had given me on my sixteenth birthday. Bits and pieces of a life in splinters.
    The Norgandi seized on the journal at once and set it aside. Had I not been increasingly sick at the thought of his magic working, I would have laughed at the