The Weight of Years (23)

I burned to read the letter for myself, but Alariyon would detect my encroachment at once.

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I burned to read the letter for myself. I could farsend to the kitchen or the street without anyone batting an eyelid, but every mage had at least SOME protections around their chambers, their secrets — even a mage as trusting and conventional as my brother.

Alariyon would detect my encroachment at once. I couldn't waste any more time on the idea.

And while I trusted the word of the Lanstone in general terms, it had also proven itself capable of lying, if so instructed, and of withholding vital information. One day I'd find a way to read the letter, but for the time being I needed to let myself be reassured by the Lanstone's words.

Mother's chambers no doubt had similar protections, although I wasn't surprised that I couldn't detect their presence as I entered.

I felt like a trespasser, but there was no specific proscription against me being here. And despite the preternatural lack of dust, the weight of years pressed down on me. Laughter and tears. Love and hate. Hope and despair. 

After too long wallowing in the past, I turned to my purpose. 

According to the Lanstone, Mother's letter directed Alariyon to a book. A large red book, on a shelf left of the main window in Mother's study. 

And this was my test. My test for Mother, Alariyon, and the Lanstone all at once.

I entered the study, headed to the window, and found the correct shelf. And there was the red book. The Lanstone had spoken the truth about it, and so perhaps the rest of the letter was more likely to be true. And Alariyon had not read the book, or had not taken enough heed of Mother's suggestion to keep it with him for study. I would.

I pulled the red book from the shelf, and slipped it into my backpack, already containing a number of other things.

I had everything I needed.

I gathered my Art around me, and farsended.

Continue reading with Part 24.