Page 90 of Magick and Lead
“Ollie! Your intrepid Torouman. Always a sensible fellow,” the prelate said. “Still… one can’t help but be curious…”
A bowl of fruit sat in the center of the table. He slowly reached out, dumped the fruit, then took the bottle of wine and began pouring it into the bowl.
“Don’t,” I warned, but he ignored me and kept pouring until the bottle was empty.
“You could know the truth, Essa. Will Charlie betray you? Will he remain true?”
“I’m not interested in the deceit of your demons,” I said through bared teeth, though it took effort to keep from looking down into the wine.
Kortoi was already gazing into the bowl.
“I see him flying over the water,” he said, his voice low and hypnotic. “I see ships. Hundreds of ships. An armada. An invasion is coming. It will wash over this land like a wave....”
At Kortoi’s words, curiosity rose in me like a thirst, and I felt my gaze drawn down to the wine. For a second, I saw nothing but dark liquid. Then, objects began to take shape in its depths, a series of fleeting images in rapid succession. Charlie’s plane over the water. Hundreds or thousands of ships. Fire. The towers Charlie had called skyscrapers, burning. Charlie was trapped inside a smaller building, and it was on fire. He tried to get out but couldn’t. Flames encircled him. Smoke filled his lungs, blinding him. He was dying; I knew he was dying.
I stood up in a panic, banging into the table. Wine splashed out of the bowl, and the vision disappeared.
My first impulse was to go to Charlie, to save him.
But that was the trouble with scrying. There was no way to know if what I saw was taking place now, or whether it would take place soon, or in the distant future, or whether it was part of some hypothetical future that would never take place at all.
Even if it was happening now—or about to happen—I had come here to kill Charlie, hadn’t I? If he died and I didn’t have to be the one to do it, that would be the best outcome I could hope for, I told myself—as I clasped my hands together, trying to stop their trembling.
My eyes fell on Kortoi.
“Is this vision true?”
His smug grin made my blood sizzle like grease in a skillet. He shrugged.
My fist slammed down on the table. “Is it true?”
“All visions are true in one world or another, Essa,” he said. “But what will come to pass inthisworld? You must use your heart to discern that.”
I drew my dagger, pacing. What did my heart say? That an invasion was coming to Admar. That felt true. If the scale was as large as it appeared to be, it could wipe away our enemies and end the war. That would be welcome news. But if Charlie were to be caught up in it somehow…
I—Essa the woman—wanted to go to Charlie, to prevent whatever bad fate the vision foretold. But Essaphine, queen of Maethalia, Irska of the Skrathan—her duty was to escape alive with her prisoner and save her dragon. To let Charlie die. To break his bond with Parthar as I’d set out to do. To bond the little stellhan with a loyal and experienced Skrathan, and in so doing, claim a weapon that might secure my kingdom for a generation.
But could I do it? Could I really let Charlie die?
“What will you do, Essaphine?” Kortoi asked in a teasing, singsong voice.
I stepped toward him, brandishing the dagger. “I ought to finish what I came for. Cut your throat and rid the world of you.”
“Yes, but what about your dear Othura?” he crooned. “Do you remember the dragon that attacked you and your mother, Essa? The day you lost your arm? If left unchecked, the poison in Othura’s veins will make her like that.”
His words stopped me cold.
Of course, I remembered that dragon. Even though I’d been only five years old, the memory would never leave me. The beast had been skeletal, with vacant black eyes. And it had radiated an empty malevolence that still haunted my nightmares to this day. Had Kortoi’s dark arts created that beast? Had he sent it after my mother that day? Was Kortoi responsible for me losing my arm?
If so, the reasons to slaughter him were multiplying…
But my dragon sense told me he wasn’t bluffing. Cut his throat, and I’d be subjecting Othura to a horrible fate—a fate worse than death could ever be. I’d lose her.
The prelate seemed to understand my thoughts as clearly as if they were written on my face. His grin was one of a man finishing out a game he already knew he’d won.
“But,” he said, “Do as I said. Take me with you. Let me live. Deposit me on Dorhane, and I will lift Othura from her curse. And help you reclaim your crown.”
Othura heard his words through me.
