The image in the mirror flickered and glowed a pale orange. Reynold ignored the summons and continued to pack. He’d barely been back home in Vitreah a year and already his mother was sending him back to that infernal sand kingdom. The only good thing that had come out of that place has been his advisor, Meeshmaltok–even if the man was unnerving. Besides, orange wasn’t his advisor. That would be closer to ruby or blood. Which meant whoever was trying to communicate with him wasn’t important. Although if it was his advisor and he ignored it. . . .
He double-checked the shade just to be certain.
Nope. Not Meeshmaltok. Weak orange. Which meant it was his insipid brother’s pet magician.
The light intensified, engulfing his tall, dark haired and fair skinned image. Whatever Harcourt wanted he must think it important or he wouldn’t be pushing his “master of parlor tricks” so hard.
Reynold gave his doublet a quick tug and sighed. Everything was always an emergency to Harcourt. When, in truth, it was always nothing. He touched his index finger to the mirror and it flared to a blinding intensity then dissipated. Now, instead of his image, his shorter, darker brother peered at him. “Reynold?”
“Yes, Harcourt. Who else would it be?”
Harcourt shrugged, not saying what they both knew, that he feared Meeshmaltok would be the one to activate the mirror.
The silence between them dragged on, slowly draining the strength from Harcourt’s magician. But it was Harcourt’s move. He had activated the mirror, so he obviously had something to say. And from his twitching and inability to maintain eye contact, it was something upsetting. In everything but this, Harcourt was the spitting image of their father: stocky with dark hair, dark eyes, and swarthy complexion.
Harcourt’s image wavered, but he remained silent.
For the sake of all that was good. There just wasn’t time for this. “Well? What is it?”
“She knows.”
Reynold sighed, again. The “she” had to be Wintherford’s daughter. He’d heard this rant a thousand times since enspelling her. “She doesn’t know. She would have written Wyndham and I’m having his correspondences examined.”
“But I tell you she knows.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do.”
No, Harcourt’s similarity to their father ended with looks and name. He certainly hadn’t inherited any of the King’s intelligence. “Did you talk to your magician?”
Harcourt nodded.
“And?”
“He couldn’t tell. He says the spell is still there but it’s changing. I mean she’s not, you know, entirely herself, but there’s still, well–”
“Harcourt, I’m busy.” Enough was enough. He was bringing the wench back to court to keep an eye on her, surely that would have satisfied his paranoia. But apparently not.
“What are we going to do about her?”
“I don’t really care. I leave for Kardesh tomorrow and mother is expecting you home within the week. I suggest you decide something and get on a ship by tomorrow.”
“But–”
“I will not leave mother here alone with the merchant barons. She may come up with another employment initiative for the poor and convince these idiots it’s a good idea.” Reynold touched the mirror, ending their conversation.
Ancient Father above! His brother was an imbecile. There was no reason for the spell not to hold. Meeshmaltok wasn’t some parlor mage. He was a great sorcerer. He created powerful spells, like the one on the mirror, that would last for an eternity.
At that thought, he glanced at the mirror. It showed no sign of its previous enchantment. He couldn’t see his brother in it, just himself in his favorite blue doublet, his massive bed behind him, and the large oak door beyond that.
He grabbed the velvet cover from the floor and threw it over the mirror. There was something unnerving about magic. It created too many variables, made outcomes uncertain. It was no wonder after the short-lived wizard’s war his great grandfather had made it illegal for all but the royal family to employ magic.
“You don’t have to keep it covered, your Highness.”
Reynold bit back a yelp and adjusted the cover to hide his surprise. “I think your great magic should be kept safe.”
“It will resist accident.”
With a shrug Reynold regained the rest of his composure, and turned to face his advisor. Meeshmaltok wasn’t a big man, neither in height nor girth. By Meriduinian standards he was slight, breakable. Of course most of the men from the southern kingdoms were considered slight by his country’s standards. But there was something even more fragile about the sorcerer. Perhaps it was his colorless visage. With white skin, hair, and eyes, he reminded Reynold more of a porcelain doll than a man. Or, perhaps it was that Reynold couldn’t determine his age. If he looked old he wouldn’t seem so. . . .
“Strange, my Lord.”
Reynold jerked out of his thoughts. “What?”
“You haven’t packed? That’s not like you.”
“I’ve packed.”
The sorcerer moved to the table beside the bed and picked up a crystal bound in gold. “You’re forgetting this. How can you contact me if you don’t have it?”
“Because, my good advisor,” said Reynold with a tug to his doublet. “You’re coming with me.”
“Really.”
“I need your advice on which King to make an alliance with.”
“Of course, my Lord. But would I not best serve you from here?”
“We’ll only be gone for a few months. Harcourt is capable of keeping things together here.”
“My Lord?”
Reynold moved to the double doors. “Mother has commanded me to take you, and, as far as I know, I am not yet king.”
“Of course, my Lord.”
“As for Harcourt, well, if he’s here, he’s not causing trouble in Mythnar before his time, now is he?”
“Yes, my Lord.” Meeshmaltok frowned.
Reynold didn’t like the situation either, but until he was King there was little he could do about it. “One question, advisor.”
The sorcerer nodded and handed Reynold the crystal.
“The spell on the Wintherford girl. Does it hold?”
Meeshmaltok raised a white eyebrow but didn’t respond.
“I thought so,” said Reynold, taking the man’s silence as an affirmative. “Why couldn’t Harcourt have just killed the girl from the start?”
“I think it had something to do with her father’s good will.”
“Ah yes. Our bank.”
