The King's Might: A Legend of Averdan

Part Three, Chapter One

PART THREE

REKHANI

*****

ONE

In Which Jalith Is Purged of his Demons

Jalith woke in a pleasant room with bare whitewashed walls and the faint scent of honeysuckle wafting over him from an open window. When the curtains blew apart he could see nothing outside but clouds and the verdant tops of trees.

"Hmm," he said. It was a pleasant place.

"You've been here for about three days," said an altogether too familiar voice beside him. "Sometimes shouting, sometimes weeping, sometimes singing in a tongue none of these simple fools recognize. It's probably good you woke when you did--they were about to give up on you and call for the King."

The magician, wearing a fur-trimmed coat the same color as his eyes, sat in the plain wooden chair by his bed. He propped his chin on his hand and cast a speculative eye on Jalith. His face seemed longer now--paler, sharper. It tugged at the barest borders of memory. The man's breath misted faintly, though the air did not seem to be cold.

"It was a shame you chose not to walk through the door," the magician said. " It would have become a portal for you, would have recognized your right to it. Much time and effort would have been saved. For you will come to me, my boy. You will."

Jalith shut his eyes, hoping that, when they were again open, the irritating presence would be gone. When they were, it was not.

"A shame about Machertani. She was not perhaps as evil as her end deserved. Her people were dying--our people were dying. The Frost is almost permanent now. She was desperate to save her lands--would you not have done the same? The lives of your enemy for the lives of your citizens. "

Jalith turned his head to the wall. The man was baiting him, trying to draw him out. He would not be baited.

"Poor boy," the magician said at last. "It is hard for you."

"No," Jalith ground out, unable to take it any longer, "not nearly as hard as your death will be, when I find you."

"Tsk, tsk." The magician touched his brow--the touch was as light and cool as winter frost. "At least you now recognize that you want to find me."

"I think you killed my family."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. The truth is never so black and white."

"You lie."

But the magician only smiled. "Truth to those who seek it," he said dismissively. "Lies to those who seek lies. You will learn the difference in your own time, Silverhand."

Summoning what little strength his sleep-addled body possessed, Jalith raised himself upon the pillows with one elbow. "Leave now."

"Or?" The magician's smile was nasty. "My dear prince. I'm not really here."

"I didn't think you were." He fumbled in the pocket of his cloak, folded on the foot of the bed. "But with this thing, I get the funniest feeling it doesn't matter."

The magician watched him brandish the comb with cold and unfrightened eyes. "It's saved you many times in the past, hasn't it?" He said. "But not against me. And it has branded you, as certainly as your poor false father has. Look at your hands, my prince."

He looked down.

On his right hand were the familiar silver whorls of his Appointment, ancient words of power and protection in Mendelefa, the oldest tongue of the Souchlad.