Mistwood Read Online Free Page A

man, but Isabel knew better; no one she had spoken to that afternoon could remember a time when he had not been high sorcerer. Nor was he particularly imposing, with a short beard and rather pudgy face. Sorcerers could make themselves handsome as easily as they could make themselves look young, but maybe in a century people got over vanity.
    I didn’t, Isabel thought. I cared about my hair. She pushed the thought out of her mind. The high sorcerer crossed his arms over his chest. He was wearing his formal sorcerer’s robe, red and richly embroidered with a thick white stripe running down the center.
    Isabel had spent the afternoon and evening circulating around the court, first in the throne room and then at the banquet that marked the end of the Challenge Days. Rokan had been right about the Shifter’s legendary wisdom; her instincts had guided her unerringly to the most useful people, even in a court about which she knew nothing. Twice she had started a political argument between two people who hated each other, then faded into insignificance and listened while they became indiscreet. One of the things she had learned was that the high sorcerer was considered one of Rokan’s strongest supporters, and that people were afraid of him.
    What surprised her now was that she seemed to be afraid of him—or at least, not quite as confident as she had felt around the other members of the court. She said coolly, “Did you come here to tell me something, or—”
    The high sorcerer flexed his fingers ever so slightly. A blaze of blue fire erupted from his open palm and hit her full in the face.
    The fire sizzled through her, through skin and bones and blood. It hurt . Lines of power zigzagged through her body, tiny explosions of pain trying to tear her apart. For a moment, just a moment, she thought it was going to work; she saw in her mind’s eye how her body would dissolve, come apart into wisps of mist and fog, swirl among the shadows and be gone.
    Then, abruptly, it was over. The malevolent energy burst out of her, though she had done nothing to repel it; and the magic, not her, scattered into the dim shadows of the stone walls.
    Before the last blue wisps had dissipated, the high sorcerer reached into his robe and flung out his hand. The knife flew across the few yards between them. Isabel caught it by the hilt, stopping the blade inches from her eyes. Her heartbeat didn’t even bother speeding up. She flipped the knife around to hold it by the blade, made a move to throw it, then tossed it to the side instead. “Anything else?”
    The high sorcerer was shaking. She could hear his breath coming fast and harsh; he clearly had barely enough strength to remain standing, let alone follow up with another attack. Isabel shook her head sympathetically. “That must have been a difficult spell. How much time did it take you to create it?”
    His mouth tightened. Isabel raised her eyebrows. “Oh, was it not just you ? How many sorcerers worked on it, and for how long?”
    He said nothing, but his expression told her she was correct. Suddenly her mind was almost overwhelmed by a flood of information about sorcerers—knowledge that must have been there all along, but that she hadn’t bothered to think about. She knew where the spell must have been created: at the School of Sorcery, an isolated stronghold on one of the South Sea islands where anyone with magical ability was trained and indoctrinated.
    Isabel crossed her arms over her chest. “It must have taken a lot of power; it tingled a bit. What a waste of resources. You honestly thought one of your spells could work on me?”
    “It did once,” the high sorcerer snarled.
    “What?”
    “Only for a second, but that spell worked, didn’t it? We sent you fleeing back to your woods with your tail between your legs. You’re not as invulnerable as you pretend.”
    A sudden memory, sharp and swift. She was standing in a courtyard, in a light gray mist of rain, turning to watch