From Uncial Press
Book
2 of the Zygradon Chronicles
Excerpt:
How old was the boy now? Fourteen? Mrillis had a fleeting moment of feeling incredibly old. Where had the time gone? He had been younger than Athrar was now, when they first met; although he doubted the boy remembered, being practically a newborn, spending most of his time eating and sleeping.
Mrillis couldn't remember a time when life had been that simple for him. Had it ever, even when he was a newly orphaned boy, watched over by Le'esha and Graddon?
Then all other thoughts fled as he felt a pressure, a presence pushing against him. That particular resonance of a Noveni touched with imbrose grew stronger...as Athrar rode closer. Mrillis almost reined his horse to a stop, to give him time to comprehend. Instead, he gathered up his sense of self and sent it questing along the Threads, toward that untrained, fledgling imbrose.
Athrar? He nearly burst out laughing when the oncoming rider yanked on the reins, making his horse swerve and half-rear up in reaction. So, you can hear me. That's very good, for someone untrained in imbrose.
Mrillis? The boy's mental voice cracked just like his physical voice did. I'm not insane? I'm not imagining it?
Not at all. When did it start?
Lady Ceera gave me a ring made of star-metal for solstice. It...it sang to me, even before I took it from the pottery box that held it. By this time, the two riders were close enough for Mrillis to see the strained, crooked grin on the boy's square-cut face.
"Better stop that and talk normally," he called. "You're draining yourself." He bit his lip against another grin at the relief clear on the boy's face. "Estall bless us, but you've grown. Ceera won't recognize you." He shook his head in amazement.
Athrar had to be two hands taller than he had been half a year ago. He had lost the childish roundness in his cheeks, and the hands gripping the reins were long and narrow and showed calluses from hours practicing with sword, bow and spear.
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