Dragonshadow (Winterlands, No. 2)
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Lord John Aversin--with the help of his mageborn wife, Jenny Waynest-- has fought and defeated two dragons, earning the title of Dragonsbane. But there are creatures more terrifying than dragons. Demonspawn from a dark dimension have learned to drink the magic--and the souls--of mages and dragons alike, turning their victims into empty vessels. And now they've stolen John and Jenny's mageborn son, twelve-year-old Ian.
In desperation, John seeks the help of the eldest and strongest dragon: Morkeleb the Black. But the demons have allies, too: a vast army poised to plunge the Realm into civil war. In the coming struggle, Morkeleb will sacrifice what he values most. Jenny will question everything she trusts and believes in. And John will embark on a perilous quest for the only things capable of defeating such powerful demons--even more powerful demons . . .
as well.” “Ah.” Jenny felt the tension in all of John’s muscles. Anger first, and then fear. “Was that somethin’ you knew, when you made me the spells to pass into the world behind the mirror?” he asked at last. “What they were likely to ask of me? Or that nobody here had the slightest intention of helping me pay this teind?” “I told thee they would trick thee, John Aversin,” Miss Mab said steadily. “And that it was not likely that thou wouldst leave the mirror with thy life.” “But you didn’t
of his thoughts in the back of her mind, like a wolf-killer hound grumbling about being put to watch pups. The liquid in the Demon Queen’s vial, like the vial itself, was dark red, shiny, and thick. Miss Tee told her it had been thinned with water and painted on the frames with a doghair writing-brush, but the liquid did not thin. Rather, it seemed to convert the water into itself. It was as if the runes of safeguard and countermagic, traced up the ribs and across the spiked plates of the
dizzying and tiny, took his breath away. Had it been his first flight he knew he’d never have survived. Like a child he’d have stared at the ground or the hills or the wonderments of the birds hanging so close to him in the air, and so have come to grief a thousand times. Heronax’s notes about ballast and steering had been less than helpful. For most of the day he was able to pick out and name every stream and tor, every copse and ruined farm, but later he got out his parchments and drew maps
he’d found in some old book …” “That was Heronax of Ernine,” protested John. “He flew from Ernine to the Silver Isles in it—wherever Ernine was—and I’ve gie near got the thing working properly now. You’ll see.” He gathered her hair up in his hands, an overflowing double handful of oceanic night, and bent to kiss her lips. His body pressed hers to the tall, smooth-hewn post, and her hand explored the leather of his doublet, the rough wool of the dull-colored plaid wrapped over his shoulder, the
even as they torment and devour men. Thus the magic of the Hellspawn can be used, one against another.” He looked across at Morkeleb. “Had you ever heard that before?” I had heard it, the dark voice of the dragon murmured in Jenny’s mind. The Hellspawn seek always to find ways into this world, for the hearts and the bodies of the living are to them as gold is to dragons, the medium of an art that gives them pleasure. They drink pain, as the dragons drink the music that dwells in gold. And I had