The Bone Doll's Twin Read Free

She earned praise for her herb craft, but as soon as the ignorant old fellow discovered that she could make fire with a thought, he bound a witch charm to her wrist and sent her home in disgrace.
    With this taint on her, she’d found little welcome in her village and no prospect of a husband.
    She was a spinster of twenty-four when Agazhar happened across her in the market square. He told her later that it was the witch charm that had caught his eye as she stood haggling with a trader over the price of her goats.
    She’d taken no notice of him, thinking he was just another old soldier finding his way home from the wars. Agazhar had been as ragged and hollow-cheeked as any of them, and the left sleeve of his tunic hung empty.
    Iya was forced to take a second look when he walked up to her, clasped her hand, and broke into a sweet smile of recognition. After a brief conversation, she sold off her goats and followed the old wizard down the south road without a backward glance. All anyone would have found of her, had they bothered to search, was the witch charm lying in the weeds by the market gate.
    Agazhar hadn’t scoffed at her fire making. Instead, he explained that it was the first sign that she was one of the god-touched of Illior. Then he taught her to harness the unknown power she possessed into the potent magic of the Orëska wizards.
    Agazhar was a free wizard, beholden to no one. Eschewing the comforts of a single patron, he wandered as he liked, finding welcome in noble houses and humble ones alike. Together he and Iya traveled the Three Lands and beyond, sailing west to Aurënen, where even the common folk were as long-lived as wizards and possessed magic. Here she learned that the Aurënfaie were the First Orëska; it was their blood, mingled with that of Iya’s race, that had given magic to the chosen ones of Skala and Plenimar.
    This gift came with a price. Human wizards could neither bear nor sire children, but Iya considered herself well repaid, both in magic and, later, with students as gifted and companionable as Arkoniel.
    Agazhar had also taught her more about the Great War than any of her father’s ballads or legends, for he’d been among the wizards who’d fought for Skala under Queen Ghërilain’s banner.
    “There’s never been another such war as that, and pray Sakor there never shall be again,” he’d say, staring into the campfire at night as if he saw his fallen comrades there. “For one shining span of time wizards stood shoulder to shoulder with warriors, battling the black necromancers of Plenimar.”
    The tales Agazhar told of those days gave Iya nightmares. A necromancer’s demon—a
dyrmagnos
, he called it—had torn off his left arm.
    But gruesome as these tales were, Iya still clung to them, for only there had Agazhar given her any glimpse of where the strange bowl had come from.
    Agazhar had carried it then; never in all the years she’d known him had he ever let it out of his possession. “Spoils of war,” he’d said with a dark laugh, the first time he’d opened the bag to show it to her.
    But beyond that, he would tell her nothing except that the bowl could not be destroyed and that its existence could not be revealed to anyone but the next Guardian. Instead, he’d schooled her rigorously in the complex web of spells that protected it, making her weave and unweave them until she could do it in the blink of an eye.
    “You’ll be the Guardian after me,” he reminded her when she grew impatient with the secrecy. “Then you’ll understand. Be certain you choose your successor wisely.”
    “But how will I know who to choose?”
    He’d smiled and taken her hand as he had when they’d first met in the marketplace. “Trust in the Light-bearer. You’ll know.”
    And she had.
    A t first she couldn’t help pressing to know more about it—where he’d found it, who had made it and why, but Agazhar had remained obdurate. “Not until the time comes for you to take on the