Page 12 of A Healer's Wrath

Danai, who normally sat quietly when the Mages gathered, snorted aloud.

“Something funny, Danai?” Amicus asked.

“‘Danai’s disaster.’ It sounds like a play the mummers might put on in a tavern.” He shook his head. “You lot scared the life out of me. I know you meant well, but having nine Mages light up like fireworks is an image I’ll never get out of my head. I thought you were going to fry me to a crisp.”

“It took us a week just to get you to sit and listen,” Gareth said, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “I’ve told that story in a hundred inns over the years. It works better as a comedy than a drama.”

A ripple of laughter made its way around the circle.

“I’m glad you were amused,” Danai said, crossing his arms and staring at the far wall.

“Come now, child. No harm came to ya,” Isoldå soothed. “Ya have t’ admit, ‘twas—”

I cleared my throat. “Can we look forward, please? Anyone opposed?”

I looked around the room for dissent, but no one spoke.

“Good. Kelså, you should leave immediately. You should not have too much trouble scrying for her once you arrive in the capital. The rest of us will wait here until you return.”

“Seriously?” Tasha leaped from her seat and raised her arms. “You want me to sit around and wait for her to come back?”

Ignoring Tasha’s protest, I rose and turned to Kelså. “Come back quickly, please.”

“Yes, Grand Mage.” She inclined her head, then vanished.

Chapter six

Kelså

Traveling was no more complex than any other magic. I thought my destination, pictured it in my mind, and willed myself to arrive in that place. Some Mages preferred to use hand signals, though, in truth, they served little more purpose than to add drama to a simple thought. Tasha would have waved her arms and spoken nonsensical words. She forever loved a stage and the adoration—and fear—that came from non-Mages who witnessed her acts.

Power had that effect on many of our number. For all the good we could do with the Phoenix’s gifts, too many of my brothers and sisters relished their own grandiosity over all else. I supposed that was the way with people, Mage or not.

I sighed and glanced around to get my bearings. The manor house was one of my oldest possessions, though I rarely slept beneath its roof. I had established similar estates in each major city throughout the known world. Besides the convenience and comfort of a familiar place to lodge, each manor was also equipped with a library, laboratory, and scrying room, allowing me to continue my research wherever my Travels might lead me.

I strode around a pair of chairs and stood before a large buffet that consumed much of the far wall. Intricate vines and leaves ran along its legs and sides, while deep etchings of woodland creatures frolicking in a forest illustrated the front. I ran my fingers around the edge of the scrying bowl that sat atop the buffet’s smooth surface. Blue magical flames from nearby candles flickered in its silver working.

“I suppose it is time.” I drew in a deep breath and held it. Scrying was simple enough, but the act of peering into another’s life felt intrusive each time I sought answers in the bowl.

I retrieved a pitcher from the washroom and filled the bowl. My Light leaped at my call, and the waters in the scrying bowl rippled. As quickly as the ripples began, they stilled, and an image of a young woman resolved. The girl’s silky black hair trailed down the front of her smock. The garment should have been white, a pristine fabric marred only by the hair falling across it. But there was blood, so much blood. She was bathed in it.

I leaned closer, as if to comfort the child. “She looks so exhausted, and . . . her eyes . . . she’s been crying.”

The image moved with the girl’s eyes as she placed a gentle hand on the brow of an older man who lay on a wooden table. The man was pale, gravely so, but his chest rose and fell with steady breaths.

His chest . . .

I squinted, examining every part of the man. His face was caked with blood, yet no wounds were visible, not even a scratch. A pale line the width of my palm streaked across his chest.

“A freshly healed wound,” I muttered. “But no stitches.”

I glanced around the room: glass bottles on shelves, stacked linens, silver instruments hanging in a perfect line.

“Not at home? An infirmary, perhaps?”

I closed my eyes and the water rippled, the image shimmering into the air above the bowl and vanishing in pinpricks of Light.

I stepped back and leaned against the back of a chair. “Perhaps it is time I paid the Queen a visit.”