The White Mists of Power Read Free Page A

pain. Seymour shoved the staff into the hard dirt. He closed his eyes, picturing his luck web rising from his shoulders and wrapping itself around the staff. He shaped the web into the form of the man behind him. Then Seymour opened his eyes and snapped his fingers.
    He could see nothing different. Panic rose in his stomach. The man had gotten to his feet and was swaying as if he were going to fall again. Seymour grabbed the man by the waist and propelled him forward. They had to get out of there, get behind the traps.
    They stumbled forward, between the tall, moss-covered trees. Seymour stopped and reached into the undergrowth, setting the traps. They had to work. If they didn’t he would be in trouble. As it stood, he figured that he could take the man home for at least a short time. Lord Dakin didn’t know that Seymour still lived, which meant that he didn’t know about the cabin, as Seymour had feared all morning.
    He led the man down the dirt-covered bank into the brook. It was a dying tributary of the river that bordered Dakin’s land–barely enough water to get their feet wet–but enough to stall the hounds after they escaped the traps. Seymour helped the man through the water and up the other bank to the small clearing where his hut stood.
    A howl echoed through the forest, followed by several more. Seymour had heard that sound from a distance four times in the past three weeks. The hounds had found their quarry. The man turned, his entire body trembling. Seymour felt his own shoulders relax. The Old Ones were smiling on him. The spell had worked.
    “We have a little time now,” he said. “The hounds think they have found you.”
    The man glanced once at Seymour and then looked away. The man’s reaction–or lack of reaction–stifled some of Seymour’s pleasure at his success. The man should have been surprised that a magician had helped him. Instead he seemed to accept it. Seymour shrugged inwardly, wondering who the man was and why Lord Dakin wanted to kill him.
    They walked across the path leading to the hut. Grass almost as tall as Seymour brushed against them, tickling his skin and making him itch. He was glad that he hadn’t cut the grass away from the path. It would be hidden to anyone who didn’t know it was there.
    The hut was made of stone and smelled damp. Seymour stepped ahead of the man and pushed open the heavy wooden door. Inside, the hut was dark and chilly. The fire had gone out. Seymour had to squint to see the furniture. He helped the man into a chair beside the fireplace, then stacked fresh wood inside the hearth, and started a new fire. When he had come here the first time, he had used the last of his luck to do a simple child’s spell on the fires made in the hearth. Any smoke rising from the fire would be colorless and odorless. He was glad that spell had succeeded.
    As soon as small flames licked at the logs, Seymour rose. The man hunched in the chair, his hands to his face, breathing heavily. Seymour found his water bucket, dipped a cup in it, and touched the man gently on the shoulder. The man raised his head and opened his eyes.
    He took the cup from Seymour and drank. The man’s gulping noises were loud in the quiet room. When the man finished, he leaned back and closed his eyes. Within seconds his breathing was easy and steady.
    Seymour stared at the man for a moment. His mother had taught him healings for burns, mostly as a protection from his own mangled spell-casting, but she had never taught him how to treat cuts and lacerations. Seymour had watched her, though, when she worked in Lord Dakin’s house. She always cleaned the wounds first.
    He brought the water bucket over to the chair. The fire was burning brightly now. Shadows danced across the walls. Light caressed the chairs, the bed, and the table that made up most of Seymour’s possessions. The man’s face was haggard in sleep. His mouth was slightly open, and his features had sunken into his face. His body was