The Spirit Lens Read Free Page A

royal connection and its excess of expectations had ruined my father, leaving him with no true friends, no money, no useful purpose to his life, and a marital contract sufficient to produce me, but naught else.
    At fourteen, I learned that no girl with a wit larger than an acorn would touch a male who wore the interlaced S and V on the back of his hand. The Camarilla mandated severe penalties for promiscuity, and when one of the parties hailed from the most notable, if not the most vigorous, of Sabria’s seventeen remaining magical bloodlines, inquisitorial scrutiny was assured.
    In the very year I turned sixteen and began my studies at Seravain, the coolness between the young King Philippe and the Camarilla broke into an open struggle for dominance. Determined to make my way in the society of mages, I had quickly dropped the Savin from my name. Seven years later, my ambition had died its humiliating death, my Savin bloodline too weak to carry me farther in a life of sorcery.
    “My lord . . .”
    At the end of a branched passage, Philippe touched a most ordinary-seeming door of thick oak. The door swung open all of itself. Cool air rushed out, bristling with enchantment. For one moment I allowed the mystical wave to engulf me, a sensory pleasure as deeply human as the smell of damp earth in spring. But nine years of practiced honesty required I speak nature’s inescapable verdict.
    “My lord, I must confess: I am no sorcerer, nor will I ever be.”
    He swung around to face me.
    “I am failed, sire,” I said, lest he had not heard enough. “Incapable of spellwork.”
    “I see. Yet you excelled in your studies. Reports say you are as intimately familiar with the history and practice of magic as anyone in Sabria—including those who wear the collar of a Camarilla mage. Is that true? Answer squarely, cousin. False modesty has no place here.”
    The truth was not so simple. Yes, I had read widely. But who would ever separate knowledge of sorcery from its practice? “I suppose one could say that, but—”
    “Skills can be bought. Knowledge takes much longer to acquire, and the ability to question, analyze, interpret, and deduce longer still. The capacity for loyalty is born in a man, reinforced, I believe, with family connection. I believe you the fit person to pursue a confidential, objective inquiry into a matter of sorcery. The burden of judgment is my duty and my prerogative. But if you take on this task, I shall give you freedom and resources to pursue matters as you think best. If you deem yourself unfit, turn right around and be on your way. My time is exceeding short.”
    Royal assassination. Magic bent to murder. The queen suspected. Were my eyes wholly dazzled with royal flattery that I would consider treading such dangerous ground? Did unseemly curiosity cloud my judgment? Or was I clinging to the improbable certainty that my life had meaning beyond breathing and dying?
    Perhaps reasons didn’t matter. My mentor, Kajetan, had instilled in me a determination to honesty, and I allowed that to be my guide. “Beyond the practice of sorcery itself, sire,” I said, “I do believe myself fit for such a task.”
    “Good. Because now I must unnerve you a bit more.” Philippe moved through the open door, his boots rapping sharply on the uneven paving of yet another passage. “The last man I set to this investigation, a skilled warrior and experienced diplomat, vanished nine months ago and is not found. For private reasons, I’ve allowed the public inquiry to lapse. Yet conscience nags that we speak not only of my personal safety, but of the security of Sabria herself.”
    We halted beside an iron door. Philippe hung his lamp from a bracket and unlocked the door with a plain bronze key, but he did not open it right away. The lamplight ringed his pale eyes with shadow and carved false hollows in his firm-fleshed cheeks.
    “I don’t believe in magic, Portier. For most of my eight-and-thirty years, I have judged