A Shadow on the Glass

by Ian Irvine

  Santhenar, Santh: The least of the Three Worlds, occupied by the old human peoples.

  Sard tree: A tall tree that dominates the swamp forests of Orist. Its papery bark is used for writing scrolls and its sweet sap for brewing lasee.

  Sea of Thurkad: The long sea that divides Meldorin from the continent of Lauralin.

  Secret Art: The use of magical or sorcerous powers.

  Secret of the Charon: The method of making and using the flute.

  Sending: A message, thoughts or feelings sent from one mind to another.

  Sentinels: Devices that keep watch and sound an alarm.

  Shand: An old man who works at the inn at Tullin, and is more than he seems.

  Shazmak: The forgotten city of the Aachim, in the mountains west of Bannador.

  Shuthdar: An old human of Santhenar, the maker of the golden flute. After he destroyed the flute and himself, the Forbidding came down, closing off the Way between the Worlds.

  Sith: A free city and trading nation built on an island in the River Garr, in southern Iagador.

  Skeet: A carrier bird, gray or blue-gray. Large, ugly and illtempered.

  Skretza: An untranslatable word of offense.

  Slukk: A Whelm epithet (very offensive).

  Span: The distance spanned by the stretched arms of a tall man. About six feet, or slightly less than two meters.

  Stassor: A city of the Aachim, in eastern Lauralin.

  Sundor: Once a proud city in central Meldorin, now just a village.

  Sweetcake: A thin round biscuit, between a bread and a tea-cake, but hard; sweetened with honey and flavored with petal water.

  Syndics: A ruling Council of the Aachim, sometimes a panel of judges. None can lie to them in formal trial.

  Szdorny: An Aachim term for one who is cunning and clever. It denotes both admiration and disapproval.

  Tale of the Forbidding: Greatest of the Great Tales, it tells of the final destruction of the flute by Shuthdar. The Forbidding sealed Santhenar from the other two worlds.

  Talent: A native skill or gift, usually honed by extensive training.

  Tales of the Aachim An ancient summary history of the Aachim, prepared soon after the founding of Shazmak.

  Tallallame: One of the Three Worlds, the world of the Faellem. A beautiful, mountainous world covered in forest.

  Tallia: A trusted lieutenant of Mendark. She is a mancer and a master of combat with and without weapons.

  Tar: A silver coin widely used in Meldorin. Enough to keep a family for several weeks.

  Tar Gaarn: Principal city of the Aachim in the time before the Clysm; it lay east of Crandor.

  Tell: A gold coin to the value of twenty silver tars.

  Teller: One who has mastered the ritual telling of the tales that form part of the Histories of Santhenar.

  Tensor: The leader of the Aachim. He sees his destiny as to restore the Aachim and finally take their revenge on Rulke, who betrayed and ruined them. He is proud to the point of folly.

  Terror-guard: The Whelm.

  Three Worlds: Santhenar, Aachan and Tallallame.

  Thurkad: The timeless city, the most ancient in all of Santhenar, and the wickedest. A very populous city on the River Saboth and the Sea of Thurkad. Seat of the Council and the Magister.

  Thyllan: Warlord of Iagador and member of the Council. He intrigues against Mendark and overthrows him as Magister.

  Tiltilluin and Tintilluin: Twin mountains guarding the high pass from Tullin to Bannador.

  Tintinnuin: A volcanic peak south of Tullin.

  Tiriel: Lover of Narcies, tragic heroine of the Lay of the Silver Lake.

  Tirthrax: The principal city of the Aachim, in the Great Mountains.

  Tolryme: A town in northern Bannador, close to Karan’s family seat, Gothryme.

  Triune: A double blending—one with the blood of all Three Worlds, three different human species. They are extremely rare and may have remarkable abilities.

  Trusco: The captain of the college guard and Wistan’s only friend.

  Tullin: A tiny village in the mountains south of Chanthed. Shand lives there.

  Turlew: A bitter, failed chronicler, now Seneschal to Wistan.

  Twisted Mirror: The Mirror of Aachan. So called because it does not always show true.

  Vartila: The leader of a band of the Whelm, and rival to Jarkun.

  Voice: The ability of great tellers to move their audience to any emotion they choose by the sheer power of their words.

  Vuula: Karan’s mother, who killed herself after the death of Galliad.

  Wahn Barre: The Crow Mountains. Yalkara, the Mistress of Deceits, had a stronghold there, Havissard. A place of illomen.

  Walf: A smuggler who guided Maigraith and Karan to Fiz Gorgo.

  Way Between the Worlds: The secret, forever-changing and ethereal paths that permit the difficult passage between the Three Worlds. Closed off by the Forbidding.

  Whelm: Presently servants of Yggur, his terror-guard; formerly Ghâshâd.

  Wistan: The seventy-fourth Master of the College of the Histories and of Chanthed.

  Yalkara: The Demon Queen, the “Mistress of Deceits.” The last of the three Charon who came to Santhenar to find the flute and return it to Aachan. She took the Mirror and used it to find a warp in the Forbidding, then fled Santh leaving the Mirror behind.

  Yggur: A great and powerful mancer. Formerly a member of the Council, now a renegade, living in Fiz Gorgo. His armies have overrun most of southern Meldorin.

  Zain: A scholarly race who once dwelt in Zile and founded the Great Library. They made a pact with Rulke and after his fall were slaughtered, the remnant exiled. They now dwell in Jepperand and make no alliances.

  Zile: A city in the northwest of the island of Meldorin. Once capital of the Empire of Zur. Now chiefly famous for the Great Library.

  Zophy: Llian’s mother, an illuminator.

  Zurean Empire: An ancient empire in the north of Meldorin. Its capital was Zile.

  * * *

  GUIDE TO

  PRONUNCIATION

  There are no silent letters, and double consonants are generally pronounced as two separate letters; for example, Yggur is pronounced Yg-ger, and Faellem as Fael-lem. The letter c is usually pronounced as k, except in mancer and Alcifer, where it is pronounced as s, as in manser, Alsifer. The combination ch is generally pronounced as in church, except in Aachim and Charon, where it is pronounced as k.

  Aachim Ar’-kim Chanthed Chan-thed’

  Charon Kar’-on Faelamor Fay-el’-amor

  Fyrn Firn Ghâshâd G-harsh’-ard

  Iagador Eye-aga’-dor Karan Ka-ran’

  Lasee Lar’-say Llian Lee’-an

  Maigraith May’-gray-ith Neid Nee’-id

  Rael Ray’-il Shuthdar Shoo’-th-dar’

  Whelm H’-welm Yggur Ig’-ger

  Meet the Author

  Ian Irvine, a marine scientist who has developed some of Australia’s national guidelines for protection of the marine environment, has also written twenty-seven novels. These include the internationally bestselling Three Worlds fantasy sequence (The View from the Mirror, The Well of Echoes, and Song of the Tears), which has sold over a million copies, a trilogy of thrillers set in a world undergoing catastrophic climate change, Human Rites, and twelve books for younger readers, the latest being the humorous fantasy quartet, Grim and Grimmer.

  Mike Benveniste

  Also by Ian Irvine

  THE THREE WORLD SERIES

  THE VIEW FROM THE MIRROR QUARTET

  A Shadow on the Glass

  The Tower on the Rift

  Dark is the Moon

  The Way Between the Worlds

  THE WELL OF ECHOES QUARTET

  Geomancer

  Tetrarch

  Scrutator

  Chimaera

  SONG OF THE TEARS TRILOGY

  Torments of the Traitor

  The Curse on the Chosen

  The Destiny of the Dead

  THE TAIN
TED REALM

  Vengeance

  Rebellion

  Justice

  If you enjoyed

  A SHADOW ON THE GLASS,

  look out for

  THE TOWER ON THE RIFT

  The View from the Mirror: Book 2

  by Ian Irvine

  In this second volume, Karan, a young Sensitive carrying the blood of all three Worlds, comes into possession of the Mirror of Aachen, which holds the power to heal—or destroy—World relations. But as war rages, Tensor, the leader of the Aachim people, steals the mirror and flees with the young chronicler Llian, leaving all to wonder how they plan to use this magic.

  1

  THE WAIF

  The Great Hall was dark. The glow from the burning city did not penetrate the velvet drapes. The shouts, thescreams, the clash of weapons up the hill—all just a murmur from far away. In the room there was no conscious being, no intelligent life. The broken door banged in the wind, the hinges bawled, striking a dreadful lament, crying to the dead to rise. The members of the Conclave lay silent.

  Hours passed. In the darkness one man dreamed. Dreamed that he lay cast down and senseless while the army of his mortal enemy poured through the gates of Thurkad. Get up! he screamed. Only you can save your city. But he could not wake.

  The tramp of marching feet echoed in his dreams—they were hunting him! He gave a wrenching groan that tore through the fog in his brain and woke, bolt upright in the dark. His heart was racing. Where was he? Hardly knowing his own name, aware of little more than a growing terror, he felt around him. The things he touched were blank pieces. He could not put a name to the least of them

  A horn blasted, not far away. Panicking, the man clawed himself to allfours, sagging across the room like a rubberkneed crab, tripping over bodies, cracking his head against a table leg. Something smashed under his weight, the shards stabbing into the palm of his hand. He picked out pieces of curved glass, feeling the blood run down his arm. Smelling spilled oil on the floor, he felt around for the lantern but his numb fingers snapped the flint a dozen times before it lit. He lurched in swaying arcs back and forth along the rows of benches, then fell down in front of a tall woman who lay on the floor like a fallen statue. Yellow light bathed long limbs, dark hair, skin as rich and smooth as glazed chocolate. Her eyes were open and her lips wet, but the woman made no sound, gave no sign that she saw anything.

  With shaking hands he brought the lamp down to her eyes. It registered nothing. The light showed him clearly—a slim man of average height and uncertain age, with blue eyes and thin, wild hair. His sallow skin was sunk into deep creases; his scanty beard was lank.

  The man’s face was wracked. “Tallia!” he sang out, a wail of pain. “For pity’s sake, wake!” He rocked on his haunches, overcome by the magnitude of the disaster, shuddered and bent over her again. Putting his bloody hands around her head, front and back, he tried to force open the blocked channels of her brain, straining so hard that his breath came out as a series of little groans.

  In his head the tramping grew so loud that it blocked out all thought. He closed his eyes but the images shone out brighter than before, row after row of soldiers. The mind that directed them—his enemy—was as cold and unstoppable as a machine.

  “Tallia,” he screamed. “Help! Yggur’s coming for me.”

  Tallia’s pupils, which had imperceptibly contracted to points of darkness, expanded in a rush and she knew him. “Mendark!” she whispered.

  Mendark threw his arms around her. Tears starred his eyelashes. They struggled to their feet, swaying together, then Tallia’s eyes rolled and the room tilted in slowmotion confusion. He clung to her until she was steady again.

  “What happened?” she asked. “I don’t remember anything.”

  Mendark held the lantern high. It showed the hall in chaos: tables and benches overturned, lamps smashed, papers and people scattered like hay.

  “Tensor violated the Conclave,” he said, grimfaced.

  “Conclave?” Tallia rubbed her forehead as if she could stir her brain back to life.

  “I called a Great Conclave,” he replied, “to recover the Mirror from Thyllan the usurper, and to free Karan.”

  “I can’t remember,” said Tallia, shaking her head.

  “Yggur’s not far away. I can sense the hate in him.”

  Tallia did not ask him about that. Mendark was a sensitive. He knew. She squatted down, rocking back and forth on her heels.

  “Tensor struck down the Conclave with a mindblasting potency,” Mendark went on. “A terrible spell.”

  “Tensor betrayed us?” she whispered.

  “Yes, and fled with the Mirror. What’s he going to do with it? I’m afraid, Tallia.”

  “It’s starting to come back!” Tallia slumped on the chair. “Oh, my head is bursting!”

  “And mine, but we must get going.”

  Mendark handed her a jug, a tall, waspwaisted vessel of darkblue porcelain. Tallia drank from it greedily, spilling water down her chin and her shirt. She wiped her face with the back of her hand, nodded, which made her wince, and said, “What do we do now?”

  “I can’t think. The Council is in tatters.”

  The Council was an alliance of wizards and scholars, of which Mendark had been Magister until his recent overthrow. He ticked the members off on his fingers. “Tensor’s gone, Nelissa is dead. Thyllan is my enemy and will never be otherwise. Old Nadiril is far away in Zile; he hasn’t come to a meet in years. Wistan is likewise out of reach in Chanthed. That only leaves me, Hennia the Zain and Orstand between us and ruin. Where’s Orstand?”

  Tallia looked around. “I can’t see her.”

  “Find her and Hennia. Protect them at all costs! I’ve got to get to the citadel. If Yggur learns that they lie here helpless… Ahh!” he wailed. “There’s no time!”

  Mendark looked as bad as she felt. They were both wracked by aftersickness, the byproduct of using wizardry, the Secret Art, or being too close when someone else did.

  Outside, where all had been silent, they now heard shouting and screaming. Mendark wobbled his way to the door. The street lamps still burned. The street was wet, though it was not raining now. People streamed past, clutching pathetic treasures.

  “What news?” cried Mendark, but his voice went unheeded. He picked up a spear that lay on the road and stepped into the path of the refugees, blocking their way. “I am Mendark!” he thundered, though it took most of his strength. “ What news?”

  “The enemy has come through the northern gate,” said a bearded man, gray hair plastered to his head. He cradled a whimpering baby in the crook of one arm. Little blue toes stuck out of its sodden blanket, curling and uncurling. “It’s said that Thyllan is dead. Who leads us now?”

  “ I lead!” Mendark cried. “I am Mendark. Magister once more! Go, tell everyone that the real Magister is back. We will defend the walls of the Old City and strike outwards until the whole of Thurkad is free again.”

  The crowd, which was growing every minute, stared at him in silence. He raised the spear above his head. “Go, you fools!” he roared. “I am your only chance.”

  As they scattered he heard a few thin cries of “Mendark! Mendark has returned!” though whether they went in hope or in fear of him Mendark could not tell.

  “Poor fools,” he said under his breath. “What chance is there for Thurkad now?” He lumbered back up the steps.

  “Tallia,” he shouted, and she came running, awkwardly, as if her knees had frozen solid.

  “There are…” she began.

  “No time!” he snapped. “You must do as best you can. I will rally our armies, what’s left of them. Bring the Council to the citadel, and anyone else who can help us. I’ll try to send aid, but don’t wait for it.”

  “But Mendark…”

  “Whatever it is, you must deal with it.” He stood there for a moment, his face haggard, then ran out. His unsteady footsteps echoed on the stones.

  “But most of the
people here can’t even walk,” Tallia said softly. “Important people, vital for our defense. How am I to deal with them, alone?” Thurkad was the greatest and oldest city of Meldorin. If it had fallen so quickly, where could they hope to find refuge?

  She went to the door and looked out, but now the street was empty, silent. Misty rain began to drift down. What could she do? Hesitating in the doorway, Tallia noticed a movement in the alley across the street. Someone had put their head around the corner and quickly pulled it back again. The little thin face was curiously familiar.

  It was the street urchin who had guided Llian to Mendark’s villa several weeks ago. Llian had so charmed her that she had refused a silver tar in payment, a fortune for any street child. What was her name?

  “Lilis,” Tallia called softly. “Lilis, come forth.”

  The head peeked around again. It belonged to a hungrylooking girl who seemed about ten, a longfaced waif with platinum hair. Her ratty clothes were spattered with mud up to the waist.

  “Come here, Lilis, I need you.”

  Lilis emerged onto the street, looked this way and that and slunk across to Tallia. In the light from the doorway she looked even shabbier than before.

  “What does you want?” she squeaked, looking tremulous.

  “Come inside.”

  “Into the Great Hall?” The squeak became a horrified whisper. “Could be whipped for that.”

  “Nonsense. The old Magister is back and I am his chief lieutenant.” Tallia took Lilis’s thin wrist and led her inside. “Look,” she pointed. Many of the richest and most powerful people of Thurkad: justices, legislators and wealthy merchants were strewn about like carcasses in an abattoir. “We’ve got to get them to the citadel.”

  Not far away a tall man twitched and shuddered. He was meanfaced, with a misshapen cudgel of a nose and a swollen gash across one cheek. His pale, almost colorless eyes stared unseeingly ahead. It was Thyllan, who had ended Mendark’s tenure as Magister not long before the Conclave.