Shadow Moon by Chris Claremont & George Lucas

Author:Chris Claremont & George Lucas
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2018-04-17T04:00:00+00:00

Through the Demon’s “eyes,” Thorn beheld the most magnificent lie.

The figure is tall in a way Willow has never been, and handsome in a way Willow never dreamed of being. In the main, the features are his, but they’ve been shaped and polished to push him more toward the Daikini, what most men would consider craggy good looks. A ready smile of welcome without a hint of shyness, laughing eyes that view the assemblage with true delight, this is a man whose every move and gesture proclaims a generosity of spirit to go along with his gentle strength. There are more lines than one would expect in a face of his age, testament to the price paid for the knowledge and power that swirl from his shoulders like a greatcloak.

His colors are white and gold, the one so pure, the other so bright, it hurts to look at him. His tunic is cut to emphasize the sweep of his powerful chest, while equally snug-fitting trousers do the same for shapely legs. His boots echo the curve of his calf, one more dynamic element in an ensemble already pushing the outer edges of fashion. Gold thread is worked through the fabric of the garments, apparently for aesthetic effect, in a random display that catches the light and amplifies it so that every movement the sorcerer makes triggers a flashing cascade of micro-sunbursts, a display easily as dazzling as the fireworks prepared to celebrate the conclusion of the Ascension.

As Willow’s stride eats up the distance from entrance to altar, Thorn has a suddenly absurd vision of dust motes scrambling with frantic desperation to get out of his way, lest the slightest contact mar the perfection of his costume.

Thorn can’t watch, can’t bear to. And yet cannot tear his eyes away. This false Willow is too splendid a glory for any living being, mortal or otherwise, to resist.

Were he himself, he would be lost. Fortunately, the Demon defines Its nature by discerning the patterns in everything and then unworking them.

The threads, he realizes, with a thrill of horror, the flashes! It’s how they catch the light when he moves!

It is a variation on the spell that has been used to Cloak the barracks. Again, nothing very sinister, on the face of it. The simplest kind of glamour, used by touring conjurers to place their audience in a more receptive mood, and easily deflected by any sorcerer worth the name. One of the first lessons taught any decent practitioner of the magical arts is how to recognize and protect yourself against such manipulation; it is something done automatically. Yet the web being woven here is such a masterpiece of deception that simply to behold this deceiver—Thorn refuses to think of the impostor as Willow, deciding in that instant that Deceiver is the name he’ll use from then on—is to become ensnared, and once caught, the thought of protecting themselves further nevermore enters anyone’s head. It is as though the Deceiver has access to their most secret souls, that somehow he knows all present more intimately than they know themselves.

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