GHOSTS OF DARKHAVEN — Chapter 1 (excerpt)
© 2003 Douglas Watson

Violet light glimmered around the rim of the silver chalice on the dining table. Jurin’s forehead ached with the strain of magecraft; still he focused on the spell. The chalice faded gradually from sight, as one part flickered into transparency, then another.

Jurin let out a gasp, and the chalice sprang back into plain view. He blinked hard, massaging the ache from his temples, and leaned back in his chair. Invisibility was one of the few spells he knew, aside from the protective Wardings and other day-to-day magecraft used by everyone. He’d performed the same invisibility spell each day since his return from Darkhaven, but it still demanded as much mental effort as ever.

That worried him. More than a week had passed since he and Orienne and the others had eliminated the Dark Shadows — mysterious forces capable of channeling the mental energy of magecraft into a fearsome, destructive power. With the Shadows gone, magecraft here in Arindel should have become easier virtually overnight.

Then why hadn’t it?

Did the source of magecraft, deep within the Faeyenwood, need more time to recover from the long-term demands of the Shadows? Or, more sinister: was some residual Shadow influence still drawing magecraft energy for its own deadly purpose?

He turned his attention to a second object on the table: a mother-of-pearl disk, two or three inches across, fashioned from the scale of a gigantic water-serpent. A stylized diagram of a closed eye had been neatly etched onto the smooth surface, and a silver chain had been threaded through a small hole near the disk’s upper edge.

Using such a talisman involved more finesse than mental effort. The magecraft already lay within the talisman, needing only to be unlocked. He’d invoked this talisman once before, to find the hidden doorway into the island of Tchaminahuan. If the talisman could reveal a doorway, might it also reveal a clue regarding any lingering Shadow presence?

If only Orienne were here, she might know what to look for. Her magical expertise eclipsed his a hundred-fold. On the other hand, he possessed a skill Orienne lacked — and it had nothing to do with magecraft. He was a Solver, licensed in the art of logical deduction. His Solving ability had proved essential in defeating the Dark Shadows. Maybe he could clear up this remaining question on his own.

He stood up from his chair and looped the silver chain around his neck, letting the talisman hang down against his chest. He circled the smooth mother-of-pearl disk with his fingers and thumbs. He held his breath for several seconds; then the eye in the center of the talisman flashed open. A low, droning hum filled his ears, overtaken suddenly by a rushing of wind. The talisman grew warm against his fingers. An image of a gate appeared, a massive portal of weathered timbers and wrought-iron hinges: the Gladrisgate, one of only three entrances through Arindel’s fortified city walls. To the left of the gate, a wide balustraded flight of stone steps led up to an arched double door of polished wood, studded with gleaming brass.

The entrance to the Guildhall.

A knock sounded: a series of sharp raps, knuckles on wood.

Was someone knocking at the Guildhall door — from the inside?

Jurin of Gladrisfarne, you belong with us. The words weren’t spoken aloud. They reached Jurin’s mind by thought-transference. He’d heard those words before, from a wraith, a servant of Darkhaven, and he knew their significance. He’d fallen behind the Shadow’s encroaching rim during the destruction of his home town, Gladrisfarne; he’d been one of the few to witness that desolation, and survive. Since then, the Shadows themselves had been destroyed … but perhaps a vestige of their influence remained, buried deep within his mind.

The knocking intensified to a pounding. The Guildhall door loomed larger in his vision.

He felt drawn towards it, helpless, like a swimmer fighting against a torrent.

You belong with us.

Not with the Guild, surely? Although the Mages’ Guild commanded a position of respect here in Arindel, Jurin viewed them with the deepest distrust … especially since Proth, the former Chair of the Guild Council, had fled the city in disgrace, following his support of a murderous attempt to overthrow the Royal House.

The Guildhall door appeared ever closer, just a few paces away. Then the vision cleared. Across the room stood his own modest front door.

Another knock.

Had they tracked him here, to his house?

A rattling, of someone outside trying the latch. He increased his Warding in an attempt to hold the door closed. Pain stabbed across his temples with the effort of magecraft, but the latch held; the door remained locked.

"Jurin!" A voice outside the door, distorted by the rushing of wind.

The rattling of the latch stopped. Then, starting from a rapidly expanding hole in the center, the door disappeared before his eyes, like burning paper evaporating away to nothing.

Jurin dropped the talisman with a startled cry, blinking to clear the image from his mind. The noise of rushing wind stopped, but the image refused to clear.

A cloaked figure stepped through the archway where his front door had stood a moment ago …