The Threads of Magic by Alison Croggon (best books for students to read .TXT) 📗

FULL power. How many centuries? He couldn’t remember exactly; in his mind the past collapsed into a single gaping absence. All those years he had been forced to hide his true nature in the flesh of his descendants. All those moments in which he had bitten down his rage, concealed his strength, patiently building the foundations of his immortal realm so he would never be cast down again.

For the first time in an age he felt . . . joy. Yes, that was it. Joy. The exhilaration of absolute power. He could destroy this entire pathetic city if he wished. He could grind its every palace and hovel into dust. He could see the thoughts of each person inside its walls, shimmering knots of feeling that illuminated every winding street. All he had to do was swoop down, out of the shadowy realm where his soul soared, and any one of those flickering, living thoughts would be blotted out forever.

He had come to Clarel to ensure his mortal reign, to strengthen the line of heirs whose bodies would house his soul. The last thing he had expected to discover here was the key to absolute power in the realms of magic. But there it was: the soul of little Prince Clovis, melded by the witches into a spell that he himself was incapable of forging, the very spell that would cause their own downfall and his triumph.

The irony was delicious.

His heightened perceptions searching through the busy city of Clarel, he paused to savor the moment. Every life beneath his gaze was subject to his whim. Already his power was greater than anything imagined in the puny dreams of any emperor in history. Even inside the confinements of mortal bodies, his precious life constantly endangered by the frailty of flesh, he had always been the most puissant of them all: the first and the greatest of the Specters. And soon he would be far greater. Soon even death would have no dominion.

All he needed to set the keystone into the arch of his ambition were two souls: one flesh, one unfleshed. Once they were his, and his alone, no other Specter could begin to challenge him.

And even now those two souls hurried together through the tangled streets of Clarel, unaware of how he tilted above them on invisible ethereal currents, sensing his way ever closer to the soft chiming of their terror.

Nothing could stop him now.

AFTER PIP ABSCONDED FROM THE UNDERCROFT, HE remembered all his earlier fears about assassins. He didn’t want witches to cast some terrible spell on him, but he didn’t want to have his throat cut like poor old Olibrandis, either. And then there were the Specters. Amina seemed to think that Specters could track people down whenever they wanted.

Pip rubbed his temples. His head was aching: tiredness, he guessed. He really hadn’t had enough sleep. He wished he had a safe house to go to now. Pip had spent almost his whole life learning how to slip unnoticed through the streets of Clarel, but he knew nothing about protecting himself from Specters.

He was lost. Not totally lost, because he had a good sense of direction — like a homing pigeon, El said — but he wasn’t quite sure where he was. He knew it was somewhere near the Weavers’ Quarter, but he couldn’t seem to find a landmark: he was winding through small, anonymous streets and tiny squares, but there were no familiar buildings or statues. In the Choke Alleys, he knew every blind close, every escape route, every hole. He was much less familiar with this part of the city.

The farther he went, the more uneasy he felt. Thoroughfares that he expected to be crowded were spookily empty, and sometimes the wind carried a faint noise that sounded like people shouting or even the clash of weapons. He began to have a feeling that something was leading him astray. There was, he thought, something weird going on: none of the paths he chose were leading him in the direction he wanted. He was trying to get as far away from trouble as he could, but every street he entered seemed to bring him closer instead, as if the roads twisted as soon as he entered them.

He began to wonder if it was the witches, or maybe even Specter magic confusing him somehow. Then he shook himself. It was probably because he didn’t have a destination in mind. His strongest instinct was to go home, but he knew he couldn’t. He didn’t have a home anymore. Maybe his best bet was to scarper out of town altogether. Find a little country village, like the place he’d been born.

We should hide in the other place, suggested Clovis.

What other place?

Where we were before you made me bring everyone back. It’s safer there.

I’m damned if I’m going back into that Rupture, said Pip, with an effort. It was getting hard to argue with someone inside his own head. It’s horrible there.

El liked it, didn’t she? We could bring El and Oni with us, and then we wouldn’t be lonely. We would all be friends.

You did something to El to make her like it, said Pip. That wasn’t nice.

Nobody can find us there, said Clovis. Not even my father.

What’s your father got to do with it?

I think he’s looking for us, said Clovis.

What? Pip pulled up short outside an abandoned butcher’s shop. How do you know?

A rush of feeling tore through him: mostly fear, but mixed with longing. It took him a moment to realize that it was Clovis. It was getting more and more difficult to tell his own thoughts from Clovis’s.

I can hear someone calling me, said Clovis.

This is bad, thought Pip, and for a moment the confusion lifted: that was definitely his own thought. This is very bad . . .

Isn’t your father dead? asked Pip.

He misses me, said Clovis.

He doesn’t miss you, said Pip. He just wants to use you. Didn’t you listen