Free Touch of the Demon by Diana Rowland Page A

at the palace’s south face and then into the spacious corridor—the one Ilana had taken me through—that led to the garden with the columned pavilion. He ushered me down a side hallway and into a snug courtyard with a fountain against the far wall. A faas filled an urn from the tumbling miniature waterfall, then hopped through a nearby doorway. The smell of roasting meat clued me in that we were probably near the kitchen. I headed to the fountain and stuck my hands under the cool water, keeping them in long after the dirt was washed clean as I tried unsuccessfully to shake the sense of dread.
    “What has disturbed you?”
    I nearly jumped out of my skin at the familiar and potent voice behind me. I whirled to see Mzatal regarding me with slightly narrowed eyes, hands behind his back.
    “Nothing,” I muttered, shaking water from my hands. Maybe that would keep him from noticing that they were trembling.
    His eyes narrowed a fraction more as he reached out and took one of my hands. “What has disturbed you?” he repeated as he held it flat between his. A tingle of warmth spread through my hand, and the dull ache from the scrapes faded.
    He healed it
, I realized with astonishment. What the hell happened to the lord who was about to snap my neck? “I don’t know why I freaked out so badly,” I said. “In Szerain’s shrine place, Turek showed me an image of a knife. A dagger. That’s it.”
    “Szerain’s blade, Vsuhl. Hidden, lost.” Mzatal released my hand and then took the other. Once again the warm tingle spread through my palm, and to my surprise, in mybruised knees as well. Yet he didn’t release my hand after the warmth faded. “And still you tremble,” he said.
    “Yeah, it…” I grimaced and struggled to get my mental equilibrium back. It didn’t help that I was reeling a bit from Mzatal’s bizarre behavioral shift from “scary motherfucker who will snap your neck” to “oh let me heal those booboos on your hands.”
    “I guess it was a panic attack,” I said, though even as I did so, I frowned. I’d never had a panic attack in my life. “Last couple of days have been a bit stressful.”
    He continued to hold my hand. “Kara, breathe.”
    I scowled. “I
am
breathing.”
    “And
still
you are trembling,” he replied, voice persuasive and melodic. “Focus only on the breath. Three breaths. Then call up in your mind’s eye the
pygah
sigil.”
    My brow creased in bafflement. “The what?”
    One eyebrow lifted in what might have been surprise before he repeated, “The pygah.”
    I shrugged. “I have no idea what that is.” Was he fucking with me?
    Mzatal released my hand and traced a simple, harmonious form in the air, visible to me even with the collar on. He lowered his hand, smiling ever so slightly as it began to tone softly. “The pygah. The balancer. Foundation for breath work for a summoner.”
    “Show me again how to make it…please?” I asked, deeply curious, and at the same time wondering why the hell I didn’t know this if it was supposed to be so fundamental.
    He flicked his fingers to send the current sigil away, then traced the simple loops again while I watched closely. As he finished, he touched it with potency, an infusion of power to bring it to life, like turning on the electricity. “You followed?” he asked with a questioning tilt of his head.
    I nodded. I had no idea how to initiate a floater and knew I couldn’t even try while I wore the collar, but I’d memorized the pattern.
    “Now, trace it in your mind and breathe,” Mzatal said, exuding patience.
    A mental tracing? I complied, doing the three breaths thing, oddly surprised to find that it really did help, despitethe collar. He nodded, approving. “Now you have the perspective to look at your fear.”
    “Okay,” I said, brow creased in a frown. “Now what?”
    “The rest is simple,” he said. “You have already, during a most challenging manifestation, recognized that which is you, and that