Sword Bearer (Return of the Dragons 1)

I know; that’s why I held this image. I can’t get it any clearer though. We’ll move on.

The images started to flow past again, fast and fluid. I couldn’t keep up with them. I assumed Marga could, but it seemed to be causing her great strain. Her face was scrunched up with concentration, and then she groaned again. The images stopped moving. They were frozen on a picture of a small boy and three adults. Although I’d never seen a picture of my uncle, I knew at once who the four people were: my mother, my father, my uncle and me.

There were a number of strange things about the picture.

Even though I couldn’t have been more than three, or four, I looked unnaturally aware. And through the crystal ball I could sense magic in the image.

“There’s something strange here,” I said.

Marga nodded, her face still strained. “Use your third eye, and look at everyone.”

I did as she told me. I closed my two eyes and opened the third, looking into the ball, falling into it. I saw my father, a bright orange man; my mother, golden yellow; myself as a boy, bright orange, and green, and blue, a rainbow of swirling colors, which was odd enough. But then I saw my uncle.

I brought my hands up to my head, but it changed nothing.

The man’s aura was red.

Blood red.

And when I opened my eyes, it was like my uncle’s green eyes were staring at me, with desire, and arrogance. And a smile.

I almost pulled out, pulled my hand away and broke the link. But Marga gripped my hand tighter.

He’s not looking at you, foolish boy. Look at who he’s looking at.

Not looking at me? Then who was he looking at? I looked again at the picture, looked at everyone’s faces, at their eyes. Looked at my four-year-old self. I looked at my uncle again, and put it all together.

Marga was right. He wasn’t looking at me. My uncle was looking at my mother. And not like a brother-in-law.

Again I wanted to break the link. I pulled at my hand but Marga kept it clasped in hers.

I’m sorry if this is hard on you. Just a little while longer, Anders, and we’ll be at the heart of this.

That’s what I’m afraid of.

She squeezed my hand again and the images rolled.

Marga stopped suddenly on a picture of just me, my mother, and my uncle. I was crying. My uncle’s face seemed red with fury. His aura was bright red. My mother, in tears, was hugging him. I must have been four years old.

She left the image, and the images spun quicker then than I could absorb them. She brought it back to the image of my uncle, my mother, and me.

It’s as I thought. This is the last image of your uncle.

You’re sure?

There are no more images after this, except in your future, after he changed.

We broke the connection then and Marga let out a low groan. Her face was covered with sweat, although the room had grown unnaturally cold.

I frowned. “Are you all right?”

She nodded. “I will be. I am not used to scrying into such powerful memories and futures.”

I kept silent for a moment.

“I know my uncle left when I was little, but my parents never told me anything about it. Now I can’t even talk to them about it.”

Marga shrugged. “They would have lied to you anyway, Anders. And there are mysteries here that I doubt even your parents fully understood.”