by Kel Kade
Rezkin grinned in return. “The first act of defense is to put a name to that which you fear. Without a name, I am only fear itself.”
Her almond eyes became crescents again, and she said, “Do you think we fear you?”
He said, “I think it is your wish.”
“Why would we wish for that?”
“Because you hope. You hope for the Riel’gesh.”
She glanced at the others, who stood in tense anticipation. Another of the Adana’Ro, a woman with amber-colored eyes who buzzed with the talent, approached.
“I have completed the study. They must drop the ward if they are to leave or strike outside of it,” she said.
The secrelé looked back to Rezkin and spoke in Ashaiian. “You will come alone.” Again, she grinned beneath her mask. “And, you will bare yourself.”
Rezkin said, “I do not believe that is customary.”
Her eyes glinted with silent laughter, and she replied, “We do not trust you.”
He glanced back to the strikers.
Shezar said, “It is not worth the risk. With the mages, we can defeat these and leave this place. Once they have lost so many, they will reconsider their methods of negotiation.”
When prompted, Farson shrugged. “You are the weapon. If you should need any others, you can take theirs. You will be at a disadvantage without the armor, though.” He met the secrelé’s gaze as he continued speaking to Rezkin. “If you die, it will not be the first time. They should worry about what you will do when you return.”
The two women glanced at each other and then watched as Rezkin began to disrobe.
“Wait,” Malcius exclaimed. “You are not seriously going in the nude.”
Rezkin removed his armor and then his shirt. He then began unstrapping all the previously hidden sheathes and harnesses, tossing his knives, stars, needles, and other sharp objects into a pile on the ground. “They have something we need, and this is what I must to do get it.”
Malcius watched as the pile of armaments grew. “I had no idea you carried so many weapons. Actually, I did not know it was possible.”
“I do not always carry this many.”
Malcius muttered, “A lot of good it does you if you just throw them away because they tell you to.”
“That is precisely the good of it,” he said as he pulled off his boots. “They know that, although we are surrounded, we are not incapable of defending ourselves. I voluntarily disarm and disrobe as a gesture of good faith.”
“Good faith to a sect of assassins,” Malcius muttered.
“Yes,” Rezkin said as he dropped his pants and set to unstrapping additional weapons.
Malcius huffed and scowled at his female companions who showed no shame in watching the show. He turned back to Rezkin. “What if they try to kill you?”
Rezkin ran his hands through his loose, inky locks to show that he had no hidden weapons. “They likely will. I must survive.”
“But they are fully armed!” said Malcius.
Rezkin grinned and flexed his biceps. “So am I,” he said with a wink for the secrelé.
The woman’s laughter was cut short as he strode effortlessly through the explosive mage ward. When the vimara slid like illuminated water over his skin, for the briefest moment, strange, archaic black, blue, and red lines and runes could be seen scrawled across nearly every inch of his flesh below the neck. In that moment, he truly looked the demonic lord many a rumor claimed him to be. The marks were gone in a flash, and onlookers would have been left to wonder if they had been there at all, had the others not also witnessed them.
Rezkin stopped less than a pace from the secrelé and caught her in his icy gaze. “Shall we go?”
“That?” she said, nodding to the stone that hung from the lace around his neck.
Although he was no longer in the citadel, he was anxious about parting with the stone. He would need it upon his return, and he did not want to lose the one object he knew could help keep his mind sharp.
“It is only a stone,” he said. “A token from home. I prefer to carry it with me as a reminder of those who await my return.”
She glanced at the stone and nodded solemnly. “It could easily be used as a weapon, but I will permit it. As you said to your friend, it is a gesture of good faith.” She motioned for him to walk ahead. The other Adana’Ro surrounded him as they departed, and Rezkin’s companions were left alone.
Malcius rounded on Farson. “What was that?” he said, motioning to his arms.
Farson said, “I have never seen them before. I assume they are the marks Connovan mentioned.”
“So it is true, then?” Malcius said. “About him dying?”
Farson shrugged. “It seems the presence of the marks is true. As to their cause, we cannot say for certain.”
Mage Threll said, “What is this about him dying, and what does it have to do with those marks?”
Ignoring the question, Malcius said, “So we are going to let him walk away with those people? What if they kill him? What if he does not return?”
“They enticed him here for a reason,” said Farson. “I doubt they want him dead. Even if that is their purpose, he will not make it easy. They know this. They will have to decide if the survival of their sect is more important than killing him.”
Malcius shook his head and huffed. “Why I am asking you? You are probably hoping they kill him. It is no secret that you have wanted him dead since you arrived.”
Shezar said, “Your tongue has become loose, Lord Malcius. You speak to a striker with the same disrespect Knight Yserria showed you.”
Malcius did not back down. He met Shezar’s stare. “A striker receives respect because he dedicates himself to the service of the kingdom. I have accepted Rezkin as my king. This man has not. He serves no one. Until he does, he is no striker.”
Farson straightened to his full height, his strength of presence making it appear as if he towered over Malcius, even though he was only a few inches taller. “I serve the Kingdom of Ashai. Right now, how best to do that is in question.” He poked Malcius in the chest. “You accepted Rez as your king without knowing him. It is not supposed to be the duty of a striker to determine who is the rightful king. I am heartened to think there is an alternative to Caydean, but I am not certain the world can survive Rez. You should be concerned as well.”
“Sometimes you must choose a side and hope for the best,” Malcius said. He stalked away and practically ran into Yserria. “Did you get a good show?” he snapped.
Yserria’s concern became a smirk. “I have never seen that much of a man before, but the others tell me he is a perfect specimen.” She tilted her head and said, “Tell me, Lord Malcius, how do you compare?”
Malcius’s face heated in anger. “You were never so forward with Palis. You will never know what it means to be a true lady.”
Her smile fell, and she scowled at him. “Palis was a gentleman who respected me, and you will never know what it is to have a true woman.” She spun on her heel and rejoined the other women who were seated on the talus slope.
Unable to leave the bubble in which they were trapped, Malcius plopped down on a boulder between Wesson and Brandt.
“She is infuriating!” he said.
Wesson shifted uncomfortably as he glanced at Yserria, who scowled in their direction while she and Reaylin conversed too quietly for them to hear.
“You antagonize her,” said Brandt.
Malcius continued muttering. “I will never understand what my brother saw in her.”
Wesson kicked a cobble and scratched runes in the dirt with his boot.
“Why any noble would marry a commoner …”
“I hope to,” said Wesson as he tucked a curl that had grown too long behind his ear.
“What? To marry a commoner? Why?” Malcius said, aghast.
“Not just any commoner. There is someone specific,” Wesson said.
“I did not know you had a woman,” said Brandt
Glancing back at the dirt, Wesson said, “Well, I do not have a woman. Not really. I mean, I have not seen her since we were children. She was always special to me. Even then we assumed we would marry. But … she is probably already wed, now. Her father—he was not a patient man.”
“You do not know?” said Malcius.
Wesson shook his head. “No, I used to write letters to her often. I never received a single reply. I—well, I did not leave home under the best of circumstances. She probably hates me. I have apologized so many times in my letters.”
“You have not been home since you were a child?” Malcius said, truly surprised.
Wesson shook his head. “No, my master did not feel it was safe to let me leave until I was thoroughly trained to control my powers. There were … other … issues, as well. It was best I stayed away. I was hoping that, after I finished my apprenticeship, I could earn enough money to return my house to good standing and show her that I am not the person she thinks I am.”
Malcius looked at him in horror. “What exactly did you do?”
Wesson pulled his gaze from the ground. “I am a battle mage, Lord Malcius. Consider uncontrolled destructive power in the hands of a child.”
Malcius was quiet for a while, although he glanced at Wesson warily several times. Finally, Brandt said, “I thought most mages came into their power close to adulthood.”
With a nod, Wesson said, “That is true for most.”
“Was it because you are so powerful?” said Malcius.
“Usually, the amount of power has no bearing on when the talent will present itself. My master did wonder, however, if mine was just too much to contain.”
The sun set early beyond the canyon wall, and Rezkin had nothing to protect him from the chill. He focused on warming his muscles as he jogged across the rocks at a steady pace. Although the sharp edges did not often break through his thick calluses, one would occasionally bite at the softer tissue between his toes. He kept on as if unperturbed. It was hardly the worst pain he had suffered. Once they left the flatter terrain by the river, he was forced to navigate, in the waning light, up the talus slope and between cacti, thistles, and sagebrush.
At the base of the cliff, he paused and looked back to the secrelé for guidance. She motioned up the wall of rock.
“You do not intend to guide the ascent?” he said.
“If you are the Riel’gesh, perhaps you can fly.”
“If I am not?”
“Then we have no need of you.”
The Adana’Ro had employed an ancient and effective method of security to prevent unwanted guests from reaching their cliff-side home. Foot and handholds had been carved into the face. There were many paths, but only one led to the sanctorium. If one took the wrong path, it was nearly impossible to backtrack. Once started, the only way to finish alive was to reach the top. Those who were poor in luck or memory met with the ground much more quickly than how they had left it. Rezkin managed to find the first foothold, but if he started with the wrong foot, his climb would be doomed from the start. With a fifty-fifty chance, he began with the left. Since the cliff was now in total darkness, he was glad for the fact that he had no boots and could feel for the cracks and divots.
The Adana’Ro had not followed him up the cliff, and as far as he could tell, only one or two now remained at the base. Once he was too high to turn back, several ropes had been lowered out of his reach, and the black-clad warriors had climbed the wall quickly.
The night climb would have been impossible under normal circumstances, but Rezkin intended to cheat. He felt around for the next handhold, but he could not find it, if it were there at all. Running his hand over the surface, he found a small crack. As he clung to the wall, he focused intently. The image of the potential ward popped into his mind, and with its function defined by his will, the imaginary construct solidified inside the tiny crevice. With a second thought, the potential ward expanded in a pulse. With a pop, fragments of rock rained down the cliff face. Rezkin dug his fingers into the newly made handhold and pulled himself higher.
He continued in this manner to the top, knowing it would be easy for the assassins to force him from the wall. From that height, a fall would guarantee death. He wondered if he could produce a potential ward large enough to cushion his fall or deflect an attack. Having never created one larger than his thumb, he had no idea if it was possible. Of course, now he wondered about the truth of his potential wards. Had he been misinformed as to the nature of what he was producing? Farson would not be able to answer the question since he was neither aware of Rezkin’s potential wards nor a mage. Rezkin hesitated to discuss it with Wesson since he did not know what the future held. It was always a good idea to have a secret weapon, especially one that could not be found when searched.
When he was within thirty feet of the top, the warriors began tossing pebbles and cobbles down on him. None were large enough to knock him free of the cliff, but they were a sufficient distraction. After being pelted for several minutes to no effect, a bucket of water was dumped over him. The reason for this became apparent as the wind abruptly began swirling around him. The tingle of power in the air confirmed that a mage was involved. The cold night air whipped over his wet skin and prickled his flesh. It was not the first time he had endured such petty trials, and by the laughter he heard above, he knew their efforts were intended as taunts.
As soon as his fingers curled over the ledge, someone attempted to stomp them. He grabbed the woman’s ankle and yanked her over the side. She smacked into the cliff face, her hands scrambling for purchase as she dangled upside down. A rope was tossed over the side, and Rezkin held her just long enough for her to grab hold. Then, he pulled himself onto the platform.
A young man, clad in black, leapt from the ground where he had knelt to check on the woman. He raised his fists and hissed, “That was foolish!”
“Yes, it probably was. I should have let her fall.” Rezkin held up a knife. “I can still remedy the situation.”
The man rocked back in surprise as Rezkin flicked the dagger toward the rope, missing it by a hair as the point dug into the dirt to the side. He said, “She may want that back when she reaches the top.”
After rubbing the loose sediment from his hands, arms, and chest he stalked forward, unperturbed by the stares and remarks over his nudity. The entrance to the sanctorium was narrow and appeared to be a natural opening to a cave. Once inside, though, it became obvious that the structure had been in use for many generations. The walls had been carved to depict what was presumably the history of the sect, and additional rooms had been opened or widened along the sides. He had no idea how large the sanctorium truly was, but the grand hall was impressive. It was a dry cave, and the places not modified by human hands were characterized by smooth, swirling eddies of colorful banded rock shaped by the natural elements over time. Torches and mage lamps hung from the walls and ceiling, and sections of the floor bearing furnished seating areas were covered in thick carpets. Walkways and overhead balconies indicated at least three levels, and most of these were occupied by spectators covered in black with the occasional splash of red.
A woman in red sat on a golden throne at the head of the hall. The back of the throne bore two crossed bronze-gold short swords of the Jahartan style. Rezkin wondered if the weapons were functional or purely aesthetic. Behind the throne was a statue three times the size of a normal man. It was a representation of Meros, the ancient Verrilian god of joy, standing tall, his head held high, a broad smile gracing his strong jaw, his hands fisted at the waist. On either side of the throne were two women dressed in blue, each with weapons drawn. The entire scene was vaguely reminiscent of the descriptions of the Soka, the great warrior women of the Jahartan Empire.
The secrelé placed her fists together in front of her and bowed over them toward the seated woman. “Great Mother, we have brought to you the one called the Raven.”
“And my children?” the woman said.
The secrel
é glanced behind to where they had entered then turned back. “All are well, Great Mother.”
The secrelé and the rest of Rezkin’s escort then moved to the sides of the chamber so that he was left standing alone in the center before the dais. The great mother studied him with golden eyes rimmed in green. She pulled the covering from her face, allowing it to hang beneath her chin. She was an older woman, perhaps in her sixties, and her skin was darker than the typical Ferélli.
“Why have you come here?” she said.
“You know why.”
With slender fingers, she gracefully motioned to a woman standing at one side holding a slate with a parchment and quill. “For the record, please.”
“I seek the Sword of Eyre,” he said.
She nodded. “For what use do you desire it?”
Rezkin glanced at the scribe as she scribbled on her parchment. He replied, “I have no use for it. It is King Privoth who desires the sword.”
“Yet it is you who have come seeking it,” she mused. She perused his form and then said, “You make yourself vulnerable on his behalf.”
Rezkin shook his head with a grin. “Perhaps it is natural for people who cover themselves so completely to mistakenly think me vulnerable because I wear no clothes.”
“At the least, it is a distraction,” she said.
He squared his feet, planted his fists on his hips, and stood in a parody of the statue of Meros that towered over the throne.
“Are you distracted, Great Mother? Perhaps you are the one made vulnerable by my nudity.”
The woman laughed and said, “You may be right.”
She unwound the red scarf from her head. It fluttered on a delicate breeze between them before she released it into his hands. The tingle in the air died with the wind, and he wrapped the scarf about his hips.
She smiled and said, “A minor improvement, but I am satisfied that you bear no weapons.”
Rezkin cocked his head. “I am the weapon. Anything else is merely a tool, and I count at least thirty-seven I could reach before your people posed a reliable threat.”
