Chapter 20

Tam pulled at the long, green stalk, but when it would not budge, he began digging the root out of the soil with his fingers. He brushed the dirt from it as best he could and then picked up a rock and began smashing and grinding it into another rock. He worked quickly as he knew they were out of time. He grabbed the stack of assorted leaves he had gathered and crumbled them into the root paste.

“I should boil this,” he said, “but we don’t have time, or water, or a fire.”

“You think that will work? Where did you learn it?” said Uthey.

Tam glanced over his shoulder, pausing to listen for danger. Hearing nothing suspicious, he went back to grinding. Once everything was mixed together, he scooped up a glob and smeared it into the bite wound on Uthey’s arm. Then, he moved on to the man’s leg. Finally, he said, “From a master healer of the mundane.”

Uthey chuckled. “Was he a king, too?”

“The same. I mean, he wasn’t king at the time. He was just a traveler we met in a tavern. I didn’t think I was paying attention when he talked about plants, but”—he pointed to his head—“it’s this hole. I’m remembering things that happened long ago as if they happened yesterday.”

“Hmm, a remedy invented by a tumor. This stuff’ll probably kill me.”

Tam felt the man’s fevered skin. “You’ll die anyway.”

“Good to know,” said Uthey.

When he was done applying the paste, Tam scraped the remainder onto a large leaf and folded it over to fit in his pocket. Then, he smeared the rock with fresh deer dung, turned it over, and buried it.

“Why did you do that?”

“To throw them off if they have dogs. They’ll track the scent.”

“Good thinking, but I don’t think anyone’s coming after us. It’s been … I don’t know … days, weeks? Probably most of them were killed in the attack. The rest will have sought help or gone to the quarry.”

“Someone is coming. Can’t you feel it?” said Tam. His gaze darted about then he looked back at Uthey with urgency. “It’s in the wind. It sounds different.”

“You’re bleeding again,” said Uthey.

Tam absently wiped his nose and then realized he had used the hand smeared in dung. He glanced up again. The wind had changed. It hummed in synchrony with the pounding in his head. “We have to go,” he said.

He helped Uthey to his feet, and they stumbled through the forest along the riverbank. It was well past midday when they came to a low point where the bank disappeared, and they trudged across a sandbar to the river’s edge. Tam lagged behind to the extent their chain would allow to cover their tracks, and Uthey was in no condition to argue. They drank and bathed, and then Tam reapplied the paste to Uthey’s wounds.

The former mercenary said, “I think I’m feeling a bit better. The water helps.”

Opening another pouch made of leaves, Tam examined the last of the previous day’s berry harvest. He handed half of them to Uthey then unceremoniously shoved the other half into his mouth.

Uthey said, “This might be our last meal. We should savor them.”

Tam watched the river. Did it look normal? He said, “I don’t plan on dying.”

Uthey tugged at the collar shackle. “Well, when I die, you can cut off my head.”

“You’re not dying, either,” said Tam. “Besides, I no longer have a sword with which to remove your head.”

“Yes, your slippery fingers,” said Uthey.

“If you hadn’t fallen over the ravine, nearly yanking my head off, I wouldn’t have dropped it.”

“It was not my fault that I lost my balance due to the fever,” said Uthey.

“No matter,” said Tam. “We will rid you of the fever soon enough.” Then, he lurched to his feet and dragged Uthey from the sand. Wiping their tracks as they shuffled along, he pulled Uthey back into the forest on the other side of the sand bar. They had walked a few dozen feet into the thicket when Tam tugged Uthey down to crouch behind the undergrowth.

“What are we doing?” said Uthey, “I thought I was the one who was supposed to go mad from fever.”

“Sh,” hissed Tam, and then he pointed toward the river.

A boat came into view. It carried only nine soldiers, but it was followed by at least a dozen more like it. The soldiers pulled the boats onto the sand bar and then set to making camp. Tam watched them for a few minutes and then motioned for Uthey to leave. They hurried deeper into the forest, trying to make as little sound as possible. Once they were far enough away, Tam allowed Uthey a moment to catch his breath.

Uthey looked at him and said, “What are Ashaiian soldiers doing this deep into Verril?”

Tam said nothing as he listened to the wind and trees.

“Maybe they’re here to rescue you,” said Uthey, his chuckle becoming a wheeze, but he continued to jest. “Maybe it’s your king.”

“They do not serve my king,” said Tam. “They are the enemy—for now.”

They both jumped at the sound of branches crackling behind them. When they turned around, they were confronted by three grinning men in armor bearing weapons. One stepped forward as two more appeared behind them.

“What do we have here?” said the leader.

“Looks like two escaped slaves,” said one of his men.

Uthey whispered, “What are they saying?”

Tam realized the men were speaking Verrili. He knew he could not defeat them all. If Uthey had been well, they might have put up a fight; but, as it was, any protest would end in pain and suffering.

 “I think we made a mistake,” he said in Gendishen.

Another man with broken teeth, who also spoke Gendishen, said, “I’d say you’re right.”

The man nodded for them to move. After another ten paces through the forest, they reached the edge of the tree line where the land dropped off a cliff. It looked to be more than a hundred feet to the base. At the bottom was a massive pit where hundreds of slaves were pushing carts, hauling rocks, and breaking boulders. Some disappeared into caves in the sides of the cliffs, some were whipped as they worked, and others were thrown into a smaller pit for the dead.

The man with the broken teeth leaned over Tam’s shoulder so that Tam could smell his putrid breath as he spoke. “Welcome to the quarry.”

There was only one way in and out of the quarry, and it was by a platform on the other side of the pit that was raised and lowered with ropes. Once Tam stepped off the platform onto the rugged detritus, he knew he would have to find a way to escape. He was practically as far from Cael as he could get—on the complete opposite side of the Souelian. No one knew where he had gone. No one had witnessed his kidnapping; and even if they had, no one in Uthrel would talk. To his friends, he had just disappeared. In the unlikely event that someone tracked him to the Isle of Sand, they would never know where he had been sent afterward. He would be trapped in the quarry for the rest of his short life. There was no way Rezkin could find him. Not even the Rez, himself, would find him.

 

 

“I’ve found him,” said Connovan, and Tieran looked up with a sigh of relief.

“Where is he?”

“He was taken by slavers to the Isle of Sand,” said Connovan. With a mischievous grin, he said, “Perhaps I should go after him.”

“No,” said Tieran, a little too hastily. “Rezkin should return soon. He will decide what to do.”

Connovan tipped his head. “I leave it to you; but, remember, many do not survive the Isle of Sand. He will eventually be sold, if he has not been already. The longer we wait, the harder it will be to find him.”

Tieran exhaled heavily. “Tam is strong. We must have faith that he can hold out.”

Connovan tilted his head in the same unnerving way he had seen so many times from Rezkin. “Perhaps he is, perhaps not. If he fails, he was not worthy of his apprenticeship. Testing Rez’s pet is not your motivation, though.” His tone shifted to accusation. “You have orders to keep me from leaving.”

Tieran sat back and tapped his finger on the desk. He forced himself to meet Connovan’s predatory gaze. He said, “I was not supposed to allow you off the island. I permitted your trip to Uthrel due to the exceptional circumstances.”

“Permitted? You practically begged.” A small silver knife appeared in Connovan’s hand. He spun it over his fingers, seemingly without effort. “If I desired to leave, you could not stop me.”

Tieran sucked in a breath. He felt a shift in the space around him as if something was there but just out of sight. He said, “No, but they can.”

Two of the shielreyah materialized, one beside him, the other next to Connovan. The former Rez’s gaze traveled the length of the vaporous warrior. He said, “I was not aware they respond to your call.”

Neither was I, thought Tieran.

“We respond to the will of the Spirétua Syek-lyé,” said the one closest to Connovan. Tieran thought his name was Cikayri, but he found them difficult to tell apart.

“He is not here,” said Connovan.

“He is everywhere,” said the Cikayri. “You will not leave Caellurum. You will not harm the kin of the Spirétua Syek-lyé.”

Tieran scowled at Connovan. “You were considering killing me?”

“Of course not,” said Connovan. “Maiming, perhaps—just a bit.” He glanced at the shielreyah next to Tieran. “These things do present a challenge. Still, they can be fooled. I heard about the attack. People were kidnapped. People died.” He glanced at the one next to him again. “They are not infallible.” Connovan stood and performed an unnecessary courtly bow. He paused as he was about to speak. Then, he said, “You really should decide on a title. People do not know how to formally address you.”

Tieran grumbled, “Must we lean so heavily on titles?”

Connovan said, “You are not sounding like yourself, Lord Tieran. So many years of your father’s teachings spoiled. Has being labeled a traitor caused this destruction? It is such a little thing, really.”

Gritting his teeth, Tieran said, “My father did not seek to make me a great man. He only wanted to make me like him. Rezkin has shown me a better way.”

Connovan nodded. “I believe he has, Lord Tieran. The question is why?”

 

 

When Frisha lay down, she thought she would never be able to sleep. As it was, though, she slept soundly through the evening, night, and half of the next morning. She wiped the sleep from her eyes then washed and combed her hair before reapplying the face paints as Celise had shown her. She then headed to the king’s office in hopes of finding Tieran. She opened the door to find him slumped over the desk.

“Are you busy?” she said.

He lifted his head. “I am excogitating.”

Frisha’s face flushed. “Uh, sh-should I give you some privacy?”

His slack jaw and furrowed brow expressed utter confusion. Then, he laughed and shook his head. “It means to think through or figure out something.”

Frisha huffed, her face heating again. “That is a ridiculous word. Why did you not say that in the first place?”

Tieran picked up the book that lay open on the desk, turning it so she could see the title. The Inviolable Mind: A Guide to Tactical Supremacy. “I read it in here,” he said. “I have been lax in preparing for my duties and am now making up for lost time. Do I sound more astute?”

“It makes you sound pompous.”

“Ah, we do not want that.” His gaze traveled over her, and she shifted uncomfortably. He said, “Are you rested?”

She smiled. “I think I slept too much, but I do feel the better for it.”

He nodded. “Shall we walk, then? Perhaps the garden will be a welcomed respite after so many weeks at sea.”

“That sounds pleasant,” she said.

They spoke of his struggles and the decisions he had made while she was away, and she told him the story of their voyage as they strolled along their usual routes through the gardens. The plants had grown much in her absence. Tieran had even cultivated his own plot that had all the herbs Frisha’s mother had grown at home. She asked if he would not mind sitting there for a while as she enjoyed the familiar scents.

“There is something I need to tell you,” said Tieran, “and you are not going to like it.”

She laid a hand on his where it rested on the bench. “Please, I cannot take any more bad news right now. Can it wait?”

“I think you will be angry with me for not telling you sooner.”

“Is there anything I can do about it?”

He swallowed hard as he met her gaze. “No, there may be nothing to be done about it.”

She glanced at the garden. “Then Rezkin will fix it.”

Tieran looked away. He said, “I wish I could fix it. I feel so inadequate at times.”

“It’s not your fault, Tieran. Rezkin was trained for this. It is his life’s purpose.” She met his gaze and said, “You have a different purpose.”

He laughed. “I wish I knew what that was.”

“And I, mine,” said Frisha. “Perhaps that is why he has such clarity. He knows exactly what he is supposed to be doing.”

“I think he has no idea what he is doing. He just makes it up as he goes.”

Her brow furrowed. “Considering who he is, that is even more frightening.”

They sat in silence for a while. Questions hung in the air like a thick blanket—all the subjects they had not yet broached. Finally, she said, “I called off the betrothal.”

He appeared uncomfortable but not surprised. He said, “I suppose having your betrothed marry another woman would give one pause.”

She shook her head. “No, before that. Sometimes I wonder if he would have accepted her deal if I had not. Still, I would not change my decision. He is not the man I thought him to be. I think I have accepted who he is, for his sake and that of the kingdom, but he is not the man I wish to marry.”

“You would be empress,” said Tieran.

“But I would not be loved.”

Tieran looked surprised. “You think he does not love you?”

“He said as much.”

He was silent for a while as he appeared to struggle with something. He said, “I think he does, but he is not aware of it. I think he does not know what love is because he has never been given any. At least, not before he met us.”

“I have considered that many times,” she said. “While we were gone, I learned things about him—things I cannot forget.”

“More than what Connovan revealed?”

She nodded. “I have tried to connect it with what I thought I knew of him, and I cannot. I think he is truly different people—or no one, as Connovan said. I realized that I only love a part of him, and I do not think it is the biggest part. Who he truly is, in every aspect—I do not love that man.”

She looked up to find Tieran staring at her. He pulled a kerchief from his pocket then reached over and gently wiped the paint from her lips.

He said, “You do not need it.” He took a deep breath and met her gaze. “I did not notice at first. I was so wrapped up in myself—in the usual customs—that I could not see the natural beauty before me. I have struggled for some time now. I am dedicated to my cousin, and I will remain loyal to him, always; but, he does not deserve you. He showed me that you are driven and brave, that you are honest and trustworthy; but, I see something he does not. You are passionate and deeply romantic. You offer your heart to people and plead with them to do the same.

“Rezkin opened my eyes to who I was and who I should be, but you opened my heart. I was distraught when you disappeared. I even thought to take a ship and go after you, but everyone assured me that you were safe with Rezkin. The truth is, you have never been safe with him. Your heart is open and bleeding, and he does not see. I am no longer the man I was when we first met. I hope that you can learn to see me as the man I am struggling to become.”

Frisha was struck speechless. She wondered if she were truly still asleep in her room. Perhaps she had not yet left the ship. The herbal scents were real, though. She reached up to touch his face. He was real. He lifted his hand to grasp hers and then pressed a kiss to her fingertips. Then, he moved closer, and she did not move away. She asked herself why she was not moving, then realized she wanted to be close to him.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “You were so upset when I told you I was having doubts about Rezkin. You were pushing me to stay with him.”

He held his hand to her face as he stroked her cheek. “I was angry but not with you. I loved you even then, but I am loyal to Rezkin. I was wracked with guilt for wanting you, but I feared what would happen if you left him.”

“What would that be?”

“This,” he said as he leaned in and pressed his lips to hers.

Her belly fluttered, and her skin flushed with heat as a thrill surged through her from deep within. She wanted him. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her breasts to his chest and kissed him with the passion she had kept bottled up for so long. They stayed like that, locked in each other’s arms for an eternity wrapped in a few short minutes. Tieran eventually pulled her arms from his neck and backed away. She made to follow, but he pressed his fingers to her lips, stalling her, then trailed them along her jaw to rest his palm on her neck. She knew he could feel her wildly beating pulse, but she felt no shame in it. They were both breathing heavily.

He said, “We must stop, or I will dare go too far. I do not want that for you.”

Frisha’s heart sank, and it must have shown on her face.

He shook his head. “Do not get me wrong. I want to, but I want this to be right between us. I wish to court you properly in hopes that, someday, you might do me the honor of becoming my wife.”

Frisha struggled to find words, and then a terrible thought struck her. She said, “Rezkin.”

Tieran’s face scrunched in pain. “That is not what I had hoped to hear.”

“No! I mean, what if he does not approve?” She shook her head vigorously. “I have seen him angry. I do not want that directed at you.”

Tieran exhaled in a rush. “I have considered that more than is good for my sanity. In truth, I am petrified, for I may not survive the encounter. You are worth it, though. I would face an army of elven wraiths to keep you at my side.”

 

 

Wesson was relieved when the procession stopped to water the horses around midmorning. His rear was sore from riding for so many days after spending the majority of the past couple of months on a ship. Besides that, it seemed the entirety of Gendishen was devoid of shade, and although the autumn breeze was cool, the sun was still scorching. He wiped his forehead and looked up at Rezkin. “I have no idea where to begin.”

Rezkin handed him a leather pouch, which Wesson discovered contained pottery shards. Rezkin said, “These are the remains of the vessel that housed the demon in Ferélle. It is covered in runes. I thought it might shed some light on the subject.”

“You were carrying these around with you?”

“I did not want to risk losing them, so I kept them in my pack.”

“I see.” Wesson picked up one of the pieces, rolling it over to examine the runes. He said, “I think … I think I have seen something like this before, a long time ago. I once found a vessel with similar markings. It was empty but whole. I did not know what to make of it at the time. I could be wrong, though. I was young. Maybe it was just an unusual design.”

“What can you tell us about this one?” said Farson.

Wesson scratched his head and tugged at an errant curl. “There was one other place I have seen similar markings.” He glanced at Farson. “You have seen them, too.” Farson and Wesson both looked at Rezkin.

“What?” said Rezkin.

“It was the first time we were in Ferélle, when we met the Adana’Ro. Just as you walked through the ward that Mage Threll and I constructed, we caught a glimpse of markings nearly covering your body. It was rather obvious at the time due to your state of undress.”

“It is true,” said Farson.

“They were these markings?” Rezkin said in alarm. Although he had heard people call him one often enough, he did not want to be associated with demons.

Wesson shook his head. “I cannot say for sure. It was only a brief flash. I think they were not exactly the same but perhaps written in the same language.”

Rezkin said, “Connovan told us the markings on my skin were made by the Sen to document the events of death and resurrection, or retrieval, as they called it; but, according to the histories, the Sen were forbidden from performing demon magic. The Sen are said to derive their power from Nihko, Goddess of Death and the Afterlife. It is Nihko’s power than binds our souls to our human vessels. Demons are the product of Nihko and Rheina, and they reside in the realm of H’khajnak. In order for them to enter this realm, they must be bound to a vessel. Perhaps these runes bind them to the clay pot in the same way that the shielreyah are bound to Caellurum.”

Wesson nodded. “That would make sense. Perhaps this is where I went wrong with the stone men. I crafted the power into a spell that I attached to their persons, but spells are sometimes fickle when attached to living beings because we are in a constant state of change. These runes would not change, so they would hold the spells better.”

“How would you do that?” said Farson.

“Well, as is said to have happened with Rezkin, they could be tattooed on, or branded, or scarred. One could be temporarily drawn in ink, chalk, or stain.”

“What about blood or feces?” said Rezkin.

Wesson looked at him sharply. “Yes, but that would also invoke blood magic. Contrary to popular belief, blood magic is not always restricted to the use of blood. It could be any part of a living creature: blood, hair, feces, saliva …”

“The drauglics’ ukwa was covered in feces. I did not think it strange at the time since that is supposed to be typical of their kind.”

“The feces could also have been covering more permanent marks,” said Farson. “Did Healer Aelis or Boulis have any marks?”

“I do not know if anyone checked,” said Rezkin. “I doubt anyone thought to look.”

Wesson said, “It would be helpful if I had some runes to study—besides these, I mean.”

“If we kill another demon host, then you shall have some,” said Rezkin.

Wesson shuffled his feet and cleared his throat. “I was thinking about, perhaps, someone more—alive—and more available.” He stared at Rezkin hopefully.

“You mean me?”

Wesson shrugged.

Farson glanced over to the rest of the cavalcade and said, “It is time to go. People are getting either too comfortable or restless.” He nodded toward one group that appeared to be having a particularly heated exchange. “I believe the Leréshis and Gendishen are about to wage war.”

 

For the rest of the trip to the capital, they did not discuss the demon issue, although they alerted their close companions to maintain vigilance and report anything strange. As they rode into the city accompanied by the unit from Fort Ulep, Wesson pulled up beside Rezkin. He said, “I think it is the purifiers.”

Rezkin glanced at him. “Why do you say that?”

“I feel much negativity from them. Every time I look at them, I become furious.”

“That is to be expected, regardless. They commit genocide against your kind.”

“Perhaps we could check them for runes.”

“I doubt they would allow that.”

“You could encourage them.”

Rezkin raised a brow at him, and Wesson felt a tiny bit bad for suggesting it. No, he decided, he did not feel bad about it at all. He said, “Perhaps if we tell them we are looking for demons, they will consent.”

“They will more likely just point to you.”

Wesson glanced back at the four purifiers riding toward the rear of the procession. He mumbled, “Perhaps we should kill them anyway.” He turned back to find skepticism in Rezkin’s gaze but no judgment. Wesson said, “They have been trying to attach their leashes to me the entire trip.” Glancing back, again, he said, “Look, now there are two more.”

Rezkin said, “You knew that would happen when you insisted on coming.”

“If I were not so strong, I would be dead already—burned at the stake like all the other innocent mages. How can these people not be demons?”

“It is easy to blame the horrors and injustices of hate on demons, much harder to credit our fellow human beings. We do not like seeing such terrible defects in ourselves. The irony is that demons do not act out of hate or contempt. They are begotten of chaos, and it is that which they seek to spread in the same way that we often seek order. It is simply their nature.”

“So, you are saying humans are worse than demons.”

“Only in their motives,” said Rezkin. “The results are the same, except that demons wield power most humans cannot defend against.”

“You know a lot about demons.”

Rezkin nodded. “I have been learning much about the old gods, about how we fit into their design. The Ahn’an, the Ahn’tep, and the Daem’Ahn have a fascinating history, and it has been insightful.”

“I have heard none of this from the priests of the Maker,” said Wesson.

Rezkin said, “Since Minder Finwy has insisted on following me everywhere, you are in luck. Perhaps we should discuss the matter with him on the return trip.”

Wesson glanced back at the minder who was riding a little too close to the purifiers for his taste. Then, he glanced at Yserria and Malcius as he turned back around. The two always rode side-by-side, but he had not seen them speak in days—at least, no more than the occasional snide remark. Yserria had been simmering ever since the bond mark appeared on the side of her face. She had asked Wesson to examine it at least a hundred times; and, every time, he obliged. Still, he knew of no way to break it short of death.

Their procession was led to the palace, rather than the council’s overgress. Wesson’s hackles rose as they approached. Two lines of purifiers, at least twenty of them, were stationed along the path. He knew they were all there for him. As soon as they were within range, he felt their tendrils of power testing him. It was not a full-on assault, but he knew that if any of them succeeded in attaching a binding spell, they would swarm him.

Rezkin glanced at him and said, “You have my approval if you wish to make an example of some of them.”

Wesson fancied the thought but said, “That might start a war.”

“Privoth knows there is more at stake here than a single mage. Then again, the purifiers are emotionally charged zealots, so you could be correct.”

When they reached the steps to the palace, the entire procession dismounted. Wesson, Farson, Malcius, Yserria, and Brandt all wore the hoods, tabards, and black face paint as they had the first time they visited. Rezkin and his entourage were escorted through the palace doors. They did not have far to travel. They entered the throne room along with Minder Finwy, who said he was there to bear witness on behalf of the Temple, two of Yserria’s guards, and two Ferélli. The rest remained in the receiving hall or in the palace yard with the horses and supplies. Rezkin became suspicious when he noticed that none of the courtiers were in attendance. The council members were seated on benches along the walls. Armored guards stood between the benches, and two dozen purifiers filed into the room behind them.

Privoth sat on his throne, a drab monstrosity, roughly carved from stone and nearly reaching the ceiling. The leader of the purifiers, who had been so embittered by Wesson on their last visit, stood to the king’s right. Rezkin walked the path between massive stone pillars that were topped with huge bowls of flaming oil.

He stopped at the foot of the dais. “Greetings, King Privoth. I have returned to conclude our business.”

Privoth gripped the arms of his throne and looked at him with a scorching gaze. “Did you bring it?”

Rezkin held out his hand, and Farson stepped forward. The striker removed the silky wrap and handed the sword to Rezkin. Holding it high for everyone to see, he said, “I have brought the Sword of Eyre, thereby fulfilling my end of the bargain.”

Privoth stood from his seat and descended the steps. He took the sword from Rezkin and examined it as if expecting to discover a fake. He grinned and announced, “This is the Sword of Eyre.” The councilors clapped as Privoth walked back to the foot of the stairs. Privoth then turned and said, “Kill them.”

Every armed person in the room abruptly drew their weapons. Rezkin said, “We had a deal, Privoth—the sword for Cael.”

“You think I would give you a piece of my land—King of Lon Lerésh? You think I would share my land after you ally yourself with those, those women? And, King of Ferélle! You think to walk into my throne room and steal away my crown for your empire as you did Moldovan’s?”

“I never desired Moldovan’s crown, nor that of Lon Lerésh, nor yours. I only require Cael,” said Rezkin, “and, as we agreed, I will use it to take back Ashai.”

Privoth shook with anger as he said, “You have plenty of land for your precious refugees, yet you still seek to take mine!”

“It matters not how much land I possess. We had an agreement. You will fulfill your part of the bargain.”

Privoth’s smile was ruthless. “No, I shall watch you die.”

As Privoth’s guards moved in, the councilors began to shout at Privoth to make his men stand down. The councilors appeared genuinely confused, but Rezkin thought they likely desired only to escape from the room before blood was shed. Some tried to leave, but the exits were blocked and barred, so they huddled near the benches and in the corners of the room. The guards advanced on Rezkin’s people, who had formed a perimeter defense with Minder Finwy and Wesson at the center, the latter engaged in a battle of wills with the purifiers. The others had orders to defend Wesson if he could not defend himself. Ptelana drew her bow and was the first to attack. She released several arrows, taking down two purifiers and a guard before the swordsmen reached them. She repositioned herself in the center of the circle with the minder and Wesson and continued firing arrows into the fray.

As they had practiced, Rezkin’s unit ebbed and flowed, expanding and contracting the ring as one side or the other was pushed back. The doors at the front of the throne room shook, and then the pounding ceased as more swordplay could be heard on the other side. As the enemy fell, fresh troops swarmed into the room through the side doors. It appeared to Rezkin that Privoth had prepared his entire army for battle. It was only a matter of time before his people were overwhelmed.

Rezkin shouted to his people to close the circle as he rushed forward to meet Privoth. He was merciless as he cut a swath through the guards. Many of them ran rather than confront him. Privoth tossed his precious Sword of Eyre to the ground and drew his own two-handed longsword. He met Rezkin’s charge with fire in his eyes. Their blades clashed, green lightning crackling within the black blade. Privoth was on the defensive as Rezkin pushed forward, forcing the king up the steps. Once at the top, Privoth dodged Rezkin’s strikes by ducking behind the throne. Each time Rezkin struck at him, the king dashed behind the stone monolith and then returned with a strike or thrust of his own. Meanwhile, guardsmen continued to attack Rezkin from behind. He sliced one man across the throat and then stabbed another through the gap in his brigandine. After making a pass at Privoth, he gutted another guard, then began backing down the steps. With Privoth playing mouse behind the throne, he had the chance to implement his backup plan.

“You run, you coward!” called Privoth. “Your people already begin to fall!”

Rezkin would not be baited into turning his back to check on his comrades. He had already seen that two of the Ferélli guards and one of the Leréshi had been struck down. Yserria held her side as blood dribbled over her fingers, and it looked as if Malcius had been struck in the head. Farson bled from a few minor cuts, and Wesson and Minder Finwy had blood splattered over their faces, source unknown.

After fending off the few soldiers near him brave enough to attack, Rezkin sheathed the black blade and bent to retrieve the Sword of Eyre. One soldier thought to take advantage of Rezkin’s position and lost his legs. As he straightened, Rezkin summoned his focus. He had learned at an early age to protect himself from mage attacks using his focus shield and had even extended it to another person within close proximity; but, he had never attempted to shield someone from across a room. He formed the shield in his mind, a mental exercise that had not been required since forming one had become second nature. Then, he pulled the shield from the potential, as he had been taught, and cast it toward Wesson.

“Gah,” Wesson shouted as the shield struck him.

Rezkin did not have time to see the shield’s effect, if any, but he assumed it had been of some benefit when an explosion suddenly rocked the rear of the throne room. He held the sword out to his side and hummed to the sounds of wails and shouts and crashing stones. He hummed the tune of the wind, the sound of the swirling light.

Call should you need the power, power of life, earth, wind, and fire. In thoughts and senses, a focused sign. Bilior’s words echoed in his mind. He focused. He imagined his standard—the raven gripping a green lightning bolt. But, he knew, somehow, that was not right. His focus shifted, and he saw the rainbow of colors, his colors, shattered and pieced together in a mosaic.

Then, he felt the tug. Something had listened. Something was responding. He searched his mind for the source of the tug, and he saw them. Tiny flames danced all around his mind. He held his hand in the air, reaching toward the bowl of flame on the nearest pillar and pulled with his will.

A drop of fire spilled over the side of the pillar, then another. Throughout the throne room, fire began to drip from the torches and sconces. Little candle-flames, perhaps hundreds of them, skipped across the floor toward him. They slithered up his legs, so that he appeared to be on fire, and then danced down his arm toward the sword. The little flame elementals gathered along the blade and dug into spaces in the metal that Rezkin could not see but knew to be there through his connection with the fae creatures.

With the sword aflame, Rezkin stalked toward the dais. Privoth backed away in a feverish panic. When Rezkin reached the top of the steps, he realized the sounds and commotion had ceased behind him. He raised the sword over his head and thrust it into the seat of the throne. It sank a third of the way into the stone, and the flames enveloped the entire sword as he backed away. Rezkin turned to survey the room, all the while keeping track of Privoth. Everyone was in stasis, staring either at him or the sword—except for his small unit in the center that breathed heavily as they stood ready to defend themselves.

Rezkin looked back to Privoth and pointed to the flaming sword. “There is your prophecy, set in the stone of your own throne. If you want it, you must claim it.” He looked to the councilors and then the soldiers. “Cael is mine.” He turned his hard gaze back to the councilors. “A deal with Gendishen is a deal broken. Your kingdom is without honor and cannot be trusted.” He then descended the dais, gathered his people, and stalked out of the throne room.

 

Wesson stared at the evidence of his presence. All of the purifiers were dead, most having been crushed by fallen pieces of the ceiling and outer wall. He had not meant to kill them. He could not even be sure that he was responsible. Something had struck him, something strange that had blasted past his shields. In an instant, the purifiers’ attacks against him had been nullified. It was as if he had been splashed with cool water after spending the day sweltering in the desert. It was then that his power had gotten away from him. All the spells he had been preparing, all the attacks he had tried to cast and failed, escaped at once in a messy ball of power that had rocked the palace, blasting a hole through one corner and causing the ceiling and part of the wall to cave in on top of the purifiers.

He was not terribly upset about killing them, which did upset him. In a way, they too had been victims. Most of them had probably been stolen as children and trained to believe that the very power that made them special had turned them evil. Wesson was so busy stewing in his thoughts that he did not notice the man in the open passage outside the throne room. Something pricked his senses, and he turned to see Reader Kessa hurrying down a side corridor. She screamed, and he glanced in the direction of her wide-eyed gaze just in time to see a black, vaporous serpent shooting toward him. Mage Kessa threw herself in front of him, taking the brunt of the attack. A gut-wrenching shriek tore from her throat as her skin blackened and bubbled. Tiny tendrils of smoke lashed at Wesson’s sleeves, burning through them with ease.

Wesson looked to the source of the attack. At the other end of the open corridor was the leader of the purifiers. His appearance had somehow changed. He looked angrier, darker, and more foreboding. His gaze was consumed in blackness, and his twisted lips sneered with hateful glee as he lobbed another attack. Wesson thrust a simple shield toward the mass of black vines twisting through the air toward him. Some of the vines were destroyed, but others persisted. He quickly constructed a net of the whip-like tendrils he had learned from Xa but added his own touch using nocent power and fire. The net streamed forward, the black strands lined in flame. When the destructive spell collided with the demonic power, it produced a burst of nauseating energy. Wesson doubled over trying not to retch, while others around him were unsuccessful. When he glanced up, he was surprised to see that his net had not been consumed in the impact, but instead swept down the corridor to envelop the purifier. It burned a hashed pattern into his skin, shredding his clothes and tearing flesh from bone.

The possessed man did not stop, though. He raised a fist dripping with bloody flesh and pointed to Wesson. A half-dozen soldiers rushed forth from a vaporous cloud behind the purifier, fully armed and ready to attack. Their eyes were black voids, an effect not unlike that of Rezkin’s mask. Wesson thrust a stream of fire at the men, but their charred bodies continued. Suddenly, Yserria, Farson, and Malcius jumped into the fray, slicing and chopping at the soldiers, who did not succumb to their injuries until collapsing from loss of blood.

The purifier remained standing, preparing his next attack, and Wesson was worried the others might be struck. He formed a small orb in the air in front of him. The orb grew larger as he fed power into it. A bit of earth, a little water, a dash of fire, and a whole load of nocent—the orb appeared as a bubble of ink larger than his head. He mentally sucked in his power and then released it, blasting the orb forward. Too late, he realized that Rezkin had prepared his own attack. As Rezkin’s black blade swept around to take the purifier’s head, it collided with the orb. It looked as if the blade had sliced through water, somehow dragging the inky blackness with it. The green lightning within the black blade bled out and crackled within Wesson’s spell. As the blade cut through the purifier’s body, the lightning snapped through the air with a black cloud forming around both the purifier and Rezkin. When the cloud dissipated, the purifier had been vaporized, and Rezkin’s entire body was crackling with green lightning.

Wesson’s king and emperor raised his icy gaze toward him from the other end of the corridor, and it was as if he could see into Wesson’s very soul.

Wesson blurted, “Ah … sorry?”

Rezkin shook his head and walked away.