The Door Into Fire (The Tale of the Five, Book 1)
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Herewiss, Prince of the Brightwood, decides to search other worlds for the secret of controlling the Power of the Flame in order to save his friend, Freelorn, exiled Prince of Arlen.
back of his mind, the pressure was becoming alarming. He let it build just a little longer, the red haze beating within the glittering framework like a second heart, throbbing, pulsing— Go free! he thought, and the sorcery flowed away and outward from him, sliding down the hill. He could see it now with the Othersight, instead of just sensing it as a construct inside him. Though it flowed like water, it still bore the marks of his structuring, faint traceries of words and phrases gleaming
could happen.” “Oh?” “Certainly. A cohort of Fyrd could find us. Or the Dark Hunt. Or the Goddess could sneeze and forget to keep the world in place, and we’d all go out like candles. Don’t be so grim, Lorn. It’ll work out all right.” Freelorn’s poor Blackmane, half-blind with the dust, sneezed mightily and then bumped sideways into Sunspark. Herewiss’s mount didn’t respond, but Blackmane danced away with a whicker of scorched surprise, nearly throwing Freelorn out of the saddle. He regained
apart. “A personal question, Lorn—” he said softly. “Yes, I did.” “Did what?” “Sleep with her last night.” He said it a little guiltily, shooting a glance at Segnbora out of the corner of his eye. “Before she did, I guess. And let me tell you, she was—” “Please, Lorn.” “Listen, I didn’t—I mean—” “Lorn, how long has it been since something like that mattered with us? You love me. I know that. I have no fears.” “Yes, well …“ “Besides,” Herewiss said, grinning wickedly, “so did I.”
square room, with a huge opening in the stone of the ceiling, like a skylight; it was positioned directly over what appeared to be a firepit raised some feet above the floor on a platform. Around the walls of the hall were doors opening onto vaguely lit passageways. Through one of these they could see a flight of stairs leading upward. The stairs were uneven, one broad one being staggered with two steep narrow ones as far up as they could see. “Well,” Herewiss said, “if this is the dining hall,
to you here, where there can be neither lying nor deception?” Herewiss scrubbed at his eyes and looked up again. “You’re still bleeding,” he said. “So are you, and that’s why. This is a peaceful place, there’s healing to be had here before we go on. But the thoughts of the living have power over those who’ve gone on, just as the dead have some influence over the lives and ways of the living.” “But you’re not really dead!” Herewiss cried. “You live, you’re here—” “I’m here. But living? Not the