“I saw your ward,” Wesson said.
The young man frowned and glanced at his companion, who now appeared to be sulking. “Yes, some Purifiers have sacrificed a small piece of themselves in service to the Maker. It is a foul taint, to learn the art of demons, but they do so to protect the rest of us. They, too, become afflicted, and each of them will be burned before it fully infects them. It is a foul practice. I would never sully my soul in such a way.”
Wesson turned to the older man. The man would not meet his gaze. “It was you, then? You learned the spell for the ward?”
His voice was gruff as he said, “Yes, I made the deal with the demon inside me.”
“Now that you have felt it, you must know that is not true. The sensation—it is not one of evil.”
The man scowled. “I know nothing of the sort.”
Wesson looked at the younger man. “You could perform the spell, as well, if you learned.”
The younger man lifted his chin defiantly. “No, I cannot. My power is blessed of the Maker. I will not let the demons in.”
“How many have you helped to kill?”
The young man’s eyes shimmered with pride. “I have participated in twelve purifications. We cleansed the afflicted and their families. All of those communities are now safe from the putridity of the scourge.”
Wesson felt anger and sorrow welling within him in equal amounts. “The talented are not born evil. Learning spells does not make us evil. How we choose to use the talent is what makes us heroes or monsters. You choose to use yours to hunt down and kill innocent people. You cannot blame your actions on demons. You are humans, humans choosing to do evil.”
His senses overwhelmed, Wesson turned away. Rezkin stepped forward and started to speak, but the mage whipped around and shouted, “Have you ever even seen the power in use? I mean, more than your meager ward? Have you seen someone use it to create a beautiful statue, construct a building, draw water from the earth, or to make a plant grow? How about healing? Have you ever watched someone returned from the edge of death?”
“All tricks of the demons to entice you into giving over your soul,” said the younger man. He glanced at his partner and said, “Even the enticement of protecting your brethren.”
The old man pursed his lips then spat with ferocity. “It is true, but it was a sacrifice I was willing to make to continue the Maker’s work and to protect others who do so. I hate myself a little more each time I feel the filth spread through my body, but I would do it again.”
Wesson’s face heated, and he spun on his heal. “They are a lost cause.”
“What do you wish to do with them?” said Rezkin.
Startled, Wesson said, “What? You are asking me?”
Rezkin tilted his head. “You are my mage. They are your responsibility.”
“I am your mage? You mean I am the—”
“Of course.”
Wesson glanced at the two interested purifiers. “May we speak elsewhere?”
Rezkin nodded to Farson to replace the shackles, and he waved Wesson through the door.
Once they were outside, Wesson hissed, “I am only a journeyman. I cannot be the king’s mage.”
“According to whom?” Rezkin said.
“The king’s mage should be an archmage. I am not even a full mage, much less a master mage, and I will probably never reach the level of power and skill required to be an archmage.”
“I am the king, and I decide who is the king’s mage. It is you.” Rezkin tilted his head and said, “Unless you are tendering your resignation?”
“What? No, but I have not even sworn fealty to you.”
“I do not require it. If you are not resigning, then you are the king’s mage. What do you wish to do with the prisoners?”
Tears welled in Wesson’s eyes. “I am not cut out for this kind of position.”
Rezkin’s cool blue gaze seemed to glow in the moonlight. “You are exactly the kind of person the king’s mage should be.”
Wesson blinked away the moisture. He choked down the tightness in his throat and said, “They have confessed to their crimes. They have hunted, tortured, and murdered, but we are not in Ashai or Cael. In Gendishen, these are not crimes.”
“So long as they are committed against the talented,” said Rezkin. “Should their actions perpetuate just because it is accepted in their culture?”
“Of course not, but you are trying to create a kingdom that depends on being in Privoth’s good graces. If we start making trouble, at best, he will call us murderers. At worst, he will consider it an act of war.”
“Actually, the second scenario would be better,” Rezkin mused.
“How is declaring war better?”
“Because that would mean he recognizes us as an independent kingdom.” Wesson scowled at him, and he said, “As far as making trouble, we have already done that. We killed fifty soldiers, including several officers who are probably members of noble houses and will suddenly become valued once they hear the men are dead and that we killed them. It would be easy to cover this up. We could kill the survivors and mercenaries and then travel cross-country to avoid encountering anyone on the roads who might make the connection. Or, we could kill everyone we encounter, but I think that would be counterproductive.”
The light of the moon and the few torches still scattered around the yard was enough to expose Wesson’s horrified expression.
“Be calm, Journeyman. I have no intention of doing those things. I know you and the others would be uncomfortable with such actions.”
“Uncomfortable is an understatement,” Wesson said, “and I have concerns that it seems to be the only thing holding you back.”
Rezkin shrugged. “What do you want to do with them?”
Chapter 3
“What is wrong with him?” Malcius asked.
Rezkin glanced at the mage who had been sulking in the corner all night. His mood had not improved, and he looked haggard in the morning light. His present drab countenance mirrored the functional and austere Gendishen style of the room.
“His emotions have won the battle for his mind. Eventually, rationality will triumph. For now, he has a job to do, and so do you.”
Malcius looked at Wesson doubtfully. “Do you really think this is the best solution?”
“We can do it this way, or we can kill them all. Letting them go is not an option.”
“Alright, but I am still not convinced. It is disconcerting,” Malcius said with a shiver. “I think I might prefer death.”
“I may agree with you,” Rezkin said. Actually, the thought disturbed him deeply. These were outworlders, though, and they lived by different rules. He said, “Do you believe we should give them a choice?”
Malcius was silent for a moment and then said, “No. They will probably choose death on principle alone. It would be better to do it and hope they appreciate our mercy later.”
“Very well,” Rezkin said before stepping into the adjacent room where Orin and one of his men were finishing their preparations. They had collected additional healing supplies, food, and perhaps a few valuables during their short stay. “It is time for you to leave.”
Orin’s head came up. “You’re not joinin’ us?”
Rezkin glanced at Farson who was covering the fact that he was spying on the mercenaries by grumbling as he appeared to be mending the “broken” straps on his armor.
Rezkin said, “I’ll catch up. We have unfinished business here.”
Orin’s expression darkened. “Ah, the soldiers. What, uh, exactly do you intend to do with them?”
Rezkin flicked the pommel of the sword at his hip. “You let me worry ’bout that. Can’t have no witnesses, so unless you wanna join them, you’d best be gettin’ along. The boss and the rest of the men’ll go with you, except for Wess.”
“You sure the boy can handle that sorta thing?” Orin said. “He seems a bit weak in the stomach. I heard him mutterin’ all night over in the corner.”
“He’ll survive.”