Adept (The Essence Gate War, Book 1) - By Michael Arnquist Page 0,177

Fount, or merely coming to a land where all magic was rising to run rampant, that awakened this entity within him, but for some reason he believed its response that it had been with him since before that time.

A lifetime’s aversion to magic rose like bile in his throat, threatening to dislodge him from the center of the void. He was a warrior, raised among the Sil’ath. Magic was a perverse thing, an addiction for less disciplined races. An image appeared in his mind of Valkarr, his closest friend since childhood, with reptilian features twisted in shock and revulsion. Then came more flashing images: Innikar, Sariel, Prakseth––but no, Prakseth was dead. Amric shook himself, and sought the calm within once more.

It was not that simple. Whatever lurked inside him might be killing him or driving him slowly mad, it was true. But it had also saved Valkarr in Stronghold, had in fact saved all their lives. And while the strange dizzy spells had occurred at inopportune times, during periods of high stress and in the face of deadly threats, it seemed as if the other had been offering help each time.

Release me, it had told him. From what? To fight together, it had suggested. But how? By taking over his body? He felt another chill. Would this creature then assume control, never to relinquish it? Would Amric then become the entity within, little more than a persistent shade lurking at the back of its consciousness?

He shook his head. The thoughts sent fear lancing through him, but they did not match what he had seen and felt. The other had not wrested control from him in Stronghold, when he had been injured and at his most vulnerable. Instead, it had joined with him somehow, brought him unimaginable power at his time of need, and bolstered him to achieve the impossible. Afterward, it had retreated into seeming nonexistence again, fleeing before his scrutiny as it had done every time since, and as it had done here. These were not the actions of some unseen tyrant or assassin, awaiting only opportunity to strike him down. And the haunting, wounded look in its––in his––eyes had been disturbingly genuine.

The familiar presence gathered at his side. Even with his eyes closed, Amric could feel a tentative hand reaching for his shoulder, and an overpowering sense of worry washed over him. He opened his eyes to regard the other, once more his mirror image, and the hand froze in mid-reach.

“The dream, with the hidden cottage in the forest,” Amric mused. “That was your dream, not mine.”

The other hesitated, and then nodded.

“You fear me, fear my discovery of you,” he continued, fumbling for comprehension. “I can feel it in you, just as you react to my own state of mind. You have been remaining ever close, but evading my direct attention, terrified that I will find you and strike you down somehow, just as in the dream.”

The other drew back, almost cringing.

“That is why you come to me only in moments of distraction or weakness,” Amric said, eyes narrowing. “Only then are you bold enough to act. You seek to protect me, and yet you have this terrible fear of my wrath.”

His own grey eyes stared back at him, wide with apprehension. Amric burst out laughing, and the other started and blinked at the sudden sound.

“I still do not know what you are, my mysterious friend,” he said with a shake of his head. “But I can see that you are as scared of me as I am of whatever it is you represent.”

The other flashed a hesitant smile at him, but remained at arm’s length.

A harsh sound echoed faintly in the distance, shrill and grating. It was an alien shriek filled with rage and pain, and sudden memories of the waking world flooded back to Amric. The hive, his friends, the Nar’ath queen and her minions, the arrow fired by Thalya and the concussive explosion that had resulted; how could he have forgotten? His life and the lives of his friends hung in the balance as he wandered this surreal landscape.

“If I can hear that monster out there, at least I know I am still alive,” he said grimly. “I need to wake. I need to go back and fight. Now.”

His dark leather and oiled chain armor appeared, sheathing him in its fierce embrace. His fingers curled around battle-worn hilts, and the steel of his blades gleamed before him. The creeping white mists of the dream began