«Torvan … » Narena and Faerah had now tapped the memories of that mother, the feelings the boy Mage had reciprocated until he grew old enough to know that one day he would be her master. Using those memories, the shei'dalins spun a vivid illusion of the boy's mother, the sound of her voice, the sweet smell of her skin, the soft warmth of her embrace in those too-brief moments when she was allowed to hold her child. «Torvan, dear one," the boy's mother pleaded «Please tell us what we need to know. Please, my son. Trust us.»

Ellysetta swayed. It was almost as if she were there in the weave with the shei'dalins and the Mage and the Mage's memories. She knew the instant the crack into the Mage's mind opened a little further, gasped as the shei’dalins plunged deeper.

«Tell us what you know, Torvan. Tell us. You cannot hold back. You don't want to hold back. The need to speak, to confess what you know, is too strong to resist.»

The shei'dalins' fingers tightened on the Mage's face, and another wail was wrung from his soul as a surge of fresh power bolstered their weave,

They had tapped other memories of his youth. Rain was wrong: Mages weren't born evil. They weren't born without a conscience. They were a product of their upbringing and the dark weaves of Azrahn that they were taught to spin when they were too young to know the danger. That sort of power was a heady drug for anyone, let alone a child.

Once Torvan donned the green robes of a novice Mage, earning the approval of his teachers and masters became the goal of his daily existence. That desire soon grew into a personal need to excel... to be better, stronger, more capable than his fellow novices. But it was only at age ten, when he watched his master force an umagi to commit unspeakable acts, that the true hunger for power over others blossomed in his Azrahn-darkened heart.

Cruelty came soon after, born from a mix of boredom and a driving urge to destroy every hint of weakness and emotion in his soul. Weak souls were slaves. Strong souls were masters. And it was much, much better to be a master than a slave.

Soon he moved from novice green to apprentice yellow, then Sulimage red. His rapid rise in rank and exponentially increasing talents caught the eye of a daring young Primage who had just ascended to the blue. Together with a handful of like-thinking Mages, they spoke in hushed whispers and thoughts stored in the small, private area of their minds that every Mage learned to create—the area that, in fact, separated Mages from umagi, though only a truly powerful Mage could keep even a small portion of his mind secure against the master who had claimed his soul as a child.

Torvan and his mentor talked about the rule of Demyan Raz, and the hidebound traditions of the Mage Council. They shared treasonous, revolutionary thoughts and plotted ways to increase their own powers by supplanting older but less talented Mages. They even conceived the idea of breeding stronger, more powerful umagi by crossing magical bloodlines.

And then the Mage Wars began. Gaelen vel Serranis slaughtered Demyan Raz and every last member of his clan—erasing the most powerful Mage family in Eld and upsetting the balance of power: As the Wars raged. Primages fought like vicious dogs to ascend to the dark throne of Eld. Intrigue, betrayal, even murder became commonplace in the great Mage Halls scattered across the land.

It was Torvan's mentor who finally succeeded where all the others had failed. Torvan's mentor whose revolutionary ideas and forethought had led him to build the first underground stronghold, into which his trusted inner circle and a few thousand Mages and umagi fled when Rain Tairen Soul scorched the world. It was Torvan's mentor who assumed the mantle of power and claimed the purple robes of the High Mage of Eld.

And soon, very soon, it would be that same mentor who would lead Eld back to greatness. Then all the world would tremble and fall prostrate before them. And all the world would venerate the name of Torvan's mentor, the High Mage Vadim Maur.

Vadim Maur. The mere mention of that hated name sent a bolt of fear shooting through Ellysetta's veins.

As if alerted by her fear, a familiar sentience suddenly turned its dagger-sharp attention in her direction. Ellysetta gave a choked scream and flung herself backward. She yanked her consciousness back into herself and raised her mental barriers in a flash. Her hands clutched Rain's arm so tightly, her nails broke against the unyielding surface of his golden war steel.

"Fey!" he cried. A six-fold weave sprang up around her the same instant twenty red Fey'cha daggers sank into Eld flesh. The Mage died. Ellysetta's knees gave out and she collapsed in Rain's arms.

Still kneeling by the dead Mage, the vol Oros sisters continued to hold his head and spin their Truthspeaking weave. Several concerned warriors tried to pull them away, but they resisted until another group of Fey yanked the body of the Mage out of their grip.

"What just happened?" Rain demanded. "Ellysetta?"

Still trembling, her throat too tight to speak, she shook her head and tried to swallow. "The High Mage ... he was there. While they were Truthspeaking that Mage, he was there."

Rain's head snapped up. His gaze pinned the vol Oros sisters. "Narena? Faerah?. Did either of you sense anything?"

"Aiyah, but it wasn't our Truthspeaking that drew him." The pair turned their piercing eyes on Ellysetta.

"I wasn't Truthspeaking. How could I be, when I've never done it before? Ellysetta paced the confines of Lord Teleos's private audience chamber. The Fey had Fired the body of the Mage and dispersed the ash into the winds, and Lord Teleos had offered his personal chambers for the use of Rain, Ellysetta, and the vol Oros sisters.