The Exile and the Sorcerer by Jane Fletcher

Author:Jane Fletcher [Fletcher, Jane]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, Lesbian, Contemporary, Romance
ISBN: 9781933110325
Google: 9MYYAAAACAAJ
Amazon: B0042P5H2A
Publisher: Bella Distribution
Published: 2006-01-31T23:00:00+00:00

Part Two

The Sorceror

CHAPTER TEN—A Student of Magic

The wind blew in sharp gusts over the castle walls, sending flurries of snow to swirl and chase around the battlements. Stars glittered coldly in the clear night sky between the boughs of trees growing in the enclosed courtyard. A warmer, yellow light spilled from the thin arrow slits of the great hall and lay in bars across the trampled snow covering the cobblestones. Icicles hung from lintels, but the windows, sealed by magic, allowed no cold drafts to enter the building.

Inside it was warm and still. The steady light from several small floating spheres was supplemented by the red glow from the stone-built fireplace. In front of the hearth lay a brown bear, sleeping peacefully on a rug like a huge dog. Its faint snores and the crackling of flames were the only sounds.

The hall was clearly a workroom. Charts and well-stocked bookcases lined the walls. Open shelves held collections of dried herbs, bones, stones and arcane instruments. Larger items were stacked in corners. Dozens of stoppered bottles, filled with a multicoloured assortment of liquids, reflected back the firelight from every part of the room. The flagstones of the floor, although stained and pitted in places, were swept clean.

An open wooden staircase was fixed to the wall at one end. It gave access to two doorways. The lower of these was halfway up the wall; the higher was level with the blackened timbers of the rafters. The opposite end of the room had a raised dais with an ancient table. Its scorched and battered top was bare apart from an open book, an ink bottle and a pen.

A floating sphere hung over the table, but this one was very different to the lamps. It was nearly two feet in diameter. A green sickly tincture rippled over it, while the surface quivered in the soft currents of air, like a soap bubble. The light from the fire and lamps did not appear to touch the sphere. It was semi-transparent, but the indistinct outlines seen through it did not look like the far side of the room. It did not move, but it still gave the unmistakable impression of searching - or hunting.

Some yards away sat the sphere's creator, Jemeryl, oath- bound sorcerer of the Coven at Lyremouth. She leaned back to view her handiwork. Her chin was supported by her cupped hand. Her free arm was draped along the back of the chair. One leg was hitched over the armrest. Her clothes were loose fitting and clearly chosen for comfort rather than to reflect her status. They looked not so much as if she had slept in them, but rather that it would be hard to tell if she did. Her face was composed of angles, narrow chin, pinched nose, chiselled cheekbones. Her hazel eyes studied the green sphere intently. Then, slowly, the serious expression gave way to an impish grin, that transformed her face in a display of youthful delight. Her fist punched the air in triumph.

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