An abandoned boy, a grieving prince, and a reclusive sorcerer find themselves caught in a web of peril and mystery...
Domi, a young thief abandoned on the street at birth, just wants to save his dying foster mother. But first, he must survive the m...
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Daedalus lay in the lavender early morning light of his palace's western garden and inhaled through his nose. For a count of four, humid air from his sauna flowed into his lungs.
He exhaled twice as long, lips pursed as he pushed the air from his chest, calm and unhurried.
Shoulders sinking into the bamboo mat beneath him as relaxation deepened, he drew another breath. As he allowed the air to expand his belly, the scent of peaches and damp soil filled his nose. He released the breath again, his exhalation a soft hiss.
"Very good, Basilicus." Peritia's voice flowed over him, as sweet and soothing as a bubbling brook. "I believe you're ready to try a more advanced approach this morn. Now, I want you to continue to focus on your breath, but begin to allow yourself to visualize the garden. Domus Onychini is your home. You played in the Onyx Palace's garden as a child. You know it like your own body. See its blossoms, its shrubs, and vines."
Daedalus let his imagination wander the familiar landscape. In his mind, his feet trod barefoot through the dewy grass of one of the manicured greens. Tiered rows of glowing blue blossoms gleamed on the terrace to his right. To his left, birdsong echoed from fruit-laden branches in the peach orchard.
He meandered through the trees to the vine-bordered arbor beyond, skimming his fingertips over its shaded bench as he passed. Near the back rose the gabled roof of his red cedar sauna. He stepped within its warm interior.
"Feel the steam rising from the weeping wall," Peritia guided in her hushed voice. "Do you smell the mineral water bubbling up from the hot spring below?"
"Yes," he said, his voice thick and a thousand miles away. The humid air smelled of creosote bushes and ozone. Of Rain.
"Allow the scented steam to brush your cheek and gather as dew on your skin. Breathe in the mist. Let it travel down to your lungs and circulate within you."
He visualized the steam without effort. It drifted in lazy tendrils about him, diffuse and undefined. Drawing the mist to him, he encouraged the vapor to condense and collect on him. In him. Thickening.
"This water is your blood," Peritia said. "This air is your breath. Now, inhale, Basilicus, and exhale. In and out, rapidly. Stir and heat the mists. Imagine clouds gathering inside you, all around you. Clouds of your blood and your breath."
He did as instructed, increasing his breath rate as his tutors taught him since early childhood. In his mind's eye, the mists—stormy crimson and bronze now—condensed, churned, and blossomed about him, cloaking his body in clouds and filling his veins with thunderheads.
Peritia's pleased voice washed over him. "Good, Basilicus. Now, don't let them grow too hot or swift. Nice and easy. You're not running a race. You don't have a fever. Slow your breathing. Let your heart rate come down a little. Good. Now, do you feel the sweat welling on your skin? Beading?"
