Upon reaching the door, she muttered a brief curse. She’d been hoping the Mage would forget to ward the refuse-shaft door before he left, but no such luck. He might be inhabiting a less powerful body now, but Vadim Maur was too careful a Mage to leave even something as insignificant as a refuse chute unprotected against intrusion.

Ah, well. She’d hoped to be in a less precarious position for her first attempt to weave magic, but since when had the gods ever done her a kindness? If this was where she had to prove herself, so be it.

Carefully, using a combination of the detailed instructions Lord Death had so painstakingly planted in her mind and the sensations she’d gleaned from the High Mage’s mind, she summoned her magic. She’d intended to call only the smallest tendril, but instead her power came in a rush, flooding her body with sudden, electric sensation. Cool and sweet, intensely pleasurable. She closed her eyes on a wave of euphoria so great she nearly lost her balance and toppled from the slippery ledge.

The wards around the refuse-shaft door lit up, bright as flame in the darkness. Startled both by the brightness and her own intense power, she released her magic and crouched there, trembling, waiting for any hint that Vadim Maur had detected her activity.

One long moment passed, then another and another. A full chime she waited, but nothing happened. She wasn’t sure if Vadim Maur was still in the Well of Souls, if his distance from Boura Fell blinded him, or if her ability to hide her thoughts had become so strong she could now hide her magic as well, but whatever the reason, she couldn’t sense him. The usual weight of his dark omniscience was absent. There was no prying invasion of her mind, no evil snap of his hated voice jabbing into her brain demanding to know what she was about. There was only silence and solitude, the comforting aloneness of her mind.

She drew a deep breath and tried to calm her racing heart. If the High Mage had not sensed that unchecked flare of power, she might just be able to pull this off, after all.

“You can do this, Melliandra. You must do this.”

She fixed a picture of Shia in her mind, focused on the ice blue eyes, rimmed in dark cobalt. Shia’s eyes stayed bright and steady as Shia’s face faded, replaced by a younger, more masculine version of Shia. A child’s face. A boy. Shia’s son. Watching Melliandra with unblinking intensity. He was depending on her.

She summoned her magic once more.

This time, she braced herself for the rush of pleasure, clinging to her rope and panting as sensation crashed over her in waves. Was this what the Mages felt when they worked their spells? No wonder magic was everything to them!

The wards on the refuse door went bright again. She stared hard at the pattern, matching it thread by thread to the same one she’d seen through Vadim Maur’s eyes the last time he’d released the ward on the refuse shaft door. Nothing had changed, thank the Dark Lord.

Whispering, “You’d better not have betrayed me, Fey,” she closed her eyes and released the first of the weaves Lord Death had planted inside her mind. Magic swelled. Swallowing her fear and distrust, she surrendered control of her body—and her magic—to the Fey’s implanted instruction.

Her eyes flew open. She watched with intense concentration as the magic inside her rose, shaped itself, merged with the glowing threads of the ward and began to unravel it. She examined every sensation in minutest detail, every muscle that tensed, every nerve that tingled, every thought and breath and tiniest movement. And she painstakingly filed those observations away in the secret compartment in her mind so that she could take them out later for study.

Once she escaped Boura Fell, there would be no Lord Death to teach her magic; so until that day of freedom dawned, she was determined to learn all she could from every possible source, Mage or Fey. Shia’s son possessed powerful magic, and she would not let him face the world as defenseless as she had been all her life.

At last, the threads of the ward fell apart and disintegrated. She reached into her pocket for the dull knife she’d stolen from the kitchen. With a little maneuvering, she slipped it through the tiny crack between door and stone wall and released the latch.

The hallway leading to Vadim Maur’s spell room was pitch-black, but as Melliandra set her feet (carefully wiped clean of the muck from the refuse-pit walls) upon the stone floor and took her first step, the hall sconces sparked to life. She gasped and leapt back into the opening to the refuse shaft, fearing discovery, only to frown as the sconces dimmed almost instantly.

She waited a few moments, then cautiously lowered herself back into the hall. The sconces relit. She jumped again, instinctively, but soon realized the lights must be spelled to activate based on motion in the tiny space. She took a few cautious steps, ears straining for possible signs of discovery. When none came, relief loosened the tension in her shoulders, and she began to move with more confidence, examining her surroundings with swift, searching eyes.

A curling stair led up into the darkness of Vadim Maur’s personal chambers. Using the directions she’d gathered from eavesdropping in Vadim Maur’s mind, she made her way to the warded treasure rooms where he kept his most valuable magical implements. The next of Lord Death’s unwarding weaves opened the treasure-room door, and chamber’s ceiling sconces lit up as Melliandra slipped inside.

The walls were covered from floor to ceiling with shelves and drawers, all filled to the brim. Chests and cases were piled high against the far wall and stacked around and beneath a table in the center of the room. Her mind boggled at the sight of so many weapons, jewels, books and scrolls, cauldrons, chalices, and crystal flagons filled with who knew what.