Read The Lost Prince for Free Online Page A

magical energy is a matter of great debate,” Lelani said. “Scholars, sorcerers, and clerics have had passionate arguments—even coming to blows. Some clerics believe it is the lifeblood of the gods coursing through all creation. They become incensed when wizards use the power outside of what is prescribed in their dogma. The true source of the energy is a mystery.”
    “So Dorn is using the same magic we are … the intent is what makes magic dark, not the spell itself?”
    “Dark?” she queried. Her eyes thinned and settled on his contemplatively.
    “You know … black magic. Casting spells for devils, turning people into mice to feed their pythons.”
    “Seth, that is not dark magic. I told you, the energies pass no judgments on the spell caster’s intent. Such spells, constructed to convey a sense of evil or foreboding, serve really to fuel the caster’s self-image. The magic doesn’t care if the caster prefers to wear black robes instead of white, spiderwebs over roses, or pentagrams to circles. All that is required is access and communication.”
    “But your reaction just now…?”
    “Dark magic is a perversion—banned in Aandor. It forces the energy to act against its own well-being. After you render a spell, the energy you used continues through the multiverse in some form or another. Dark magic, however, wrests control of the energy, captures it, or destroys it.” She turned serious, solemn. “You do not want to provoke or harm the magic … it could curse you.”
    Cat and Cal emerged from the clerk’s office in better spirits than they went in. “I’ll have you know there are plenty of brilliant police officers,” he overheard Callum say to his wife.
    “Mostly on television,” Cat responded.
    “Where to now?” asked Seth.
    “To talk to a man at a diner,” said the cop.

CHAPTER 3
    THE TIPPING POINT
    1
    The examining room conveyed to Dorn a cold, antiseptic feeling of death. Its bright red hazardous materials box blared radiantly against the room’s mint hue. Posters under the fluorescent lights illustrated unique maladies—a travel advertisement warned of inoculations to stave off the dangers in Africa. This lord of Farrenheil, nephew to the archduke, could not remember a more humbling experience—even in the earliest days of his youth, when his nascent susceptibility to magic subjected him to his family’s contempt. Dorn was cognizant of their distrust of his abilities. Magic was simply not the attribute of a prince. Sitting naked in a paper gown, it was clear there was nothing to be done about his ailing health on this earth. His only chance to live was to return to Aandor, and the only way to return to Aandor was victorious. Victorious or not at all , were his aunt’s exact words. He had to complete his mission. He had to murder his cousin, the prince.
    The debilitating migraines and voices plagued him more each day. So desperate was he to stay this coming tide, he had turned to the quacks and charlatans of this universe for a local remedy. His servants pretended not to notice, but his periods of incapacitation and irrationality were growing more frequent. How long can a man plagued with madness retain their loyalty?
    Medical implements lay before him on the counter. If he thrust the scalpel into his temple, would it stay the pain, cut out the voices?
    No inoculation would have prepared Dorn for this trip. That his group was ill prepared was an understatement. Who knew the court mage of Aandor, Magnus Proust, had discovered a bridge between universes? Dorn often remarked that Proust’s reputation was bloated—the endless accolades simply enthused hyperbole. And yet Proust, with his power and great knowledge, was impotent against Farrenheil’s invasion. Invasion? It was an onslaught. They took the capital and most of the kingdom in a single day. This last trick of sending the prince across universes was the final desperate gasp of an extinct house.
    Dorn offered a small