Page 52 of Path of the Dark
Waiting until Gael and Saskia ended their conversation and moved away, Mysandra let out a long, measured breath.
Hands clenching by her sides, she attempted to rein in the alarm that pulsed through her. She’d suspected Gael was up to something from the moment he’d first entered her study, and he’d just confirmed her fears. She hadn’t believed him when he’d told her those old parchments in his room were training texts. She’d been planning on breaking into his chamber and having a look for herself, but he’d just saved her the trouble.
Although she wished he’d revealed exactlyhowhe was planning to neutralize the dangerous side-effects of Stynix.
Turning on her heel, Mysandra swept from her garden, in between rows of lavender and daisies. Indoors, she retrieved her cloak. In her haste, her hands fumbled as she tied it around her throat. Made of light wool and dyed a dull-grey, it made her blend in with the other middle-aged ladies of The City of Tides. Her white robes drew unwelcome attention, especially in times like these.
Some folk believed the enchanters of Veldoras to be in league with the enemy.
Mysandra’s belly clenched at the thought. If she didn’t do something, they soon would be.
Bowing her head, she hurried up the squalid alleyway, away from the House of Light and Darkness.
Noon was approaching and warm light filtered down onto the cobbled streets of Veldoras. Mysandra had been enjoying the feel of the sun on her face in her garden earlier before overhearing Gael and Saskia. However, all thoughts of relaxing in the warmth fled now.
She had an urgent task to complete.
Leaving the slums behind, she crossed the humpbacked Bridge of the North Wind. The tide was out and mudlarks—small children who combed the river bed for coins—were up to their knees in river silt. There were more of them these days, more orphans whose parents had died during the siege.
Anthor soldiers patrolled the bridge, their black armor and steel blades gleaming. One or two of the soldiers cast her a curious glance as she passed. Mysandra didn’t acknowledge them. As far as she was aware, the High Enchanter was still allowed to walk the streets of the city without an escort, plus, she’d hidden her robes in a deliberate attempt to blend in.
“Hey you!”
Mysandra’s heart leaped, and she skidded to a halt. Dread clamped down on her throat as she glanced back over her shoulder. However, the soldier who’d called out wasn’t looking in her direction. He was striding toward a young man on The Spiral Way, who was making an obscene gesture at him.
The youth ran off, and the soldier broke into a sprint, giving chase.
Mysandra’s breath gusted out of her. Pulse racing, she turned and continued on her way. Her nerves were getting the better of her now. Sweat trickled down between her shoulder blades underneath her heavy robes. She wished the day wasn’t so warm.
A short while later she reached a wide street overhung with awnings. By this stage, Mysandra was out of breath, both from panic and exertion. She’d put on a lot of weight over the last few years and didn’t usually take brisk walks.
A crowd thronged the thoroughfare, and the chatter of voices echoed off the stone walls of the surrounding buildings. This was the Street of Iron, Silk, and Oak—where many of the city’s artisans resided. Mysandra passed a row of shopfronts, where carpenters, smiths, and tailors all worked. But she wasn’t looking for one of them. She didn’t halt until she reached the end of the street, where a goshawk scribe plied his trade.
He was a tall, angular man hunched over a rickety wooden table. Behind him perched a row of goshawks. They were small birds of prey, with mackerel patterns on their necks and breasts, and grey or brown wings. Each wore a tiny collar.
Mysandra stopped before the scribe and struggled to recover her breath.
“How much to send an urgent message to The Royal City of Rithmar?” she panted. “With your swiftest bird.”
He inclined his head, keen gaze narrowing. Mysandra tensed and fought the urge to adjust her cloak. Hopefully, it hid her white robes. “One gold talent,” he eventually drawled.
It was extortionate, yet Mysandra didn’t have time to haggle. Perhaps the war had raised the price. Whatever the reason, she couldn’t delay. Gael was planning on using Stynix-enhanced enchanters to wage war against Rithmar, and Reoul of Anthor’s son had been sent to kill the Thûn heiress.
Gael didn’t know anything of Mysandra’s history. Although she’d spent the past twenty years in Veldoras, she hailed from The Royal City.
Mysandra had admitted Gael and Saskia into the House, for she’d sensed that she had little choice. She’d hated helping the Anthor king and his subordinates, but had forced herself to submit to it.
But now that she knew the truth of what Gael was planning, something had to be done. Rithmar had to be warned.
Withdrawing a coin purse from her robes, she took out a gold talent and placed it on the table.
The scribe nodded, accepting the job. He then picked up his quill and dipped it into the ink pot. “To whom do I address the message?” he asked, reaching for a slip of parchment.
Mysandra’s mouth pursed, and she hesitated a moment. “To Asher,” she replied after a pause. “The High Enchanter of the House of Light and Darkness.”
