Royce spotted him the moment they returned, his long slender frame leaning silently against the side of the wellhead, resting in shadow where he nearly faded into the background. The man’s hair hung loose to his shoulders, dark with a few threads of gray. He had high cheekbones and deep brooding eyes. His long enveloping robe shimmered with the last rays of sunlight. He sat motionless. This was a man comfortable with waiting and well versed in patience.
He did not look old, but Royce knew better. He had not changed much in the two years since Royce, Hadrian, a young prince Alric, and a monk named Myron, aided his escape from Gutaria Prison. The color of his robe was different, yet still not quite discernible. This time Royce guessed it shimmered somewhere between a turquoise and a dark green, as always the sleeves hung down, hiding the absence of his hands. He also bore a beard, but that of course, was new.
They watched each other, staring across the green. Royce walked forward, crossing the distance between them in silence. Two ghosts meeting at a crossroad.
“It’s been a while—Esra is it? Or should I call you Mister Haddon?”
The man tilted his head, lifting his eyes. “I am delighted to see you as well, Royce.”
“How do you know my name?”
“I’m a wizard, or did you miss that from our last meeting?”
Royce paused and smiled. “You know you’re right, I might have, perhaps you should write it down for me lest I forget again.”
Esrahaddon raised an eyebrow. “That’s a bit harsh.”
“How do you know who I am?”
“Well, I did see The Crown Conspiracy while in Colnora. I found the sets pathetic and the orchestration horrible, but the story was good. I particularly loved the daring escape from the tower, and the little monk was hilarious—by far my favorite character. I was also pleased there was no wizard in the tale. I wonder who I should thank for that oversight, certainly not you.”
“They also didn’t use our real names. So again, how do you know it?”
“How would you find out your name, if you were me?”
“I’d ask people that would know. So who did you ask?”
“Would you tell me?”
Royce frowned. “Do you ever answer a question with an answer?”
“Sorry, it’s a habit, I was a teacher most of my free life.”
“Your speech has changed,” Royce observed.
“Thank you for noticing. I worked very hard. I sat in many taverns over the last six months and listened. I have a talent for languages; I speak several. I don’t know all the colloquial terms yet, but the general grammar wasn’t hard to adjust to. It is the same language after all, the dialect you speak is merely—less sophisticated than what I was used to. It’s like talking with a crude accent.”
“So you found out who we were by asking around and watching bad plays and you picked up the language by listening to drunks. Now tell me, why are you here, and why do you want us here?”
Esrahaddon stood up and slowly walked around the well. He looked at the ground where the last light of the sun spilled through the leaves of a poplar tree.
“I could tell you that I am hiding here and that would sound plausible. I could also say that I heard about the plight of this village and came here to help, because that’s what wizards do. Of course, we both know you won’t believe those answers. So let’s save time. Why don’t you tell me why I am here? Then you can try and judge by my reaction if you are correct or not, since that’s what you’re planning to do anyway.”
“Were all wizards as irritating as you are?”
“Much worse, I’m afraid. I was one of the youngest and nicest.”
A young man, Royce thought his name was Tad, trotted over with a bucket. “It’s getting late,” he said with a harried look filling his bucket with water. A few yards away Royce spotted a woman struggling to pull a stubborn goat into a house as a small boy pushed the animal from behind.
“Tad!” a man shouted, and the boy at the well turned abruptly.
“Coming!”
He smiled and nodded at each of them, grabbed his bucket of water and ran back the way he came, spilling half the contents in the process.
They were alone again.
“I think you’re here because you need something from Avempartha,” Royce told the wizard. “And I don’t think it is a sword of demon-slaying either. You’re using this poor girl and her tormented father to lure me and Hadrian here to turn a knob you obviously can’t manage.”
Esrahaddon sighed. “That’s disappointing. I thought you were smarter than that, and these constant references to my disability are dull. I am not using anyone.”
“So you are saying there really is a weapon in that tower?”
“That is exactly what I am saying.”
Royce studied him for a moment and scowled.
“Can’t tell if I am lying or not, can you?” Esrahaddon smiled smugly.
“I don’t think you’re lying, but I don’t think you’re telling the truth either.”
The wizard’s eyebrows rose. “Now that’s better. There might be hope for you yet.”
“Maybe there is a weapon in that tower. Maybe it can help kill this—whatever it is they have here, but maybe you also conjured the beast in the first place as an excuse to drag us here.”
“Logical,” Esrahaddon said, nodding. “Morbidly manipulative, but I can see the reasoning. Only if you recall, the attacks on this village started while I was still imprisoned.”
Royce scowled again. “So, why are you here?”
Esrahaddon smiled. “Something you need to understand my boy is that wizards are not fonts of information. You should at least know this much—the farmer Theron and his daughter would be dead today if I hadn’t arrived and sent her to fetch you.”
“Alright. Your purpose here is none of my business, I can accept that. But why am I here? You can tell me that much, can’t you? Why go to the bother of finding out our names and locating us in Colnora—which was really impressive by the way—when you could have gotten any thief to pick your lock and open the tower for you?”
“Because not just anyone will do. You are the only one I know who can open Avempartha.”
“Are you saying I am the only thief you know?”
“It helps if you actually listen to what I say. You are the only one I know who can open Avempartha.”
Royce glared at him.