“This is the overgress,” the fyer said.
As they entered, soldiers quietly slipped into the spaces between the columns. The fyer invited their party to dismount, but Rezkin remained in his saddle, a signal to his companions to do the same. People dressed in colorful court finery began to trickle into the plaza to take up seats on the steps. They muttered and pointed, and some laughed, but it was anxious laughter. As they waited, the assembly grew more uncomfortable with the mounted warriors in black who were obviously uninterested in socializing. Pride had been trained to keep his nickering and snorts to a minimum when commanded to do so, but the other horses were becoming restless.
Eventually, a trio of brown-robed men descended the steps. The soldiers between the columns spread apart, and seven more brown-robed men stepped into the spaces between them. Rezkin could feel the buzz of mage power, and it grew to a roar before the lead purifier came to a halt a few paces from him.
“Afflicted,” the man hissed, and he lifted his hand to point a crooked finger at Wesson.
A wave of angry shouts and fear-filled shrieks passed through the crowd, and the soldiers raised their bows in answer.
“Surrender him to us!” the purifier said.
“No, but you are welcome to try to take him. You will not survive the encounter.”
“He cannot unleash his foul scourge in this sacred place. The runes—”
Wesson produced a ball of swirling fire over his open palm.
“Are ineffectual,” Dark Tidings said.
“Seize him,” the purifier shrieked.
The purifiers raised their arms, and Wesson’s fireball fizzled in a thin puff. Wesson was overwhelmed with alarm as the power of ten mages wrapped around him. He felt imprisoned, trapped. His outward calm was in complete contrast to the internal battle he was waging against the confines of power. He knew Rezkin could probably feel the purifiers’ attack, but if so, he gave no indication. After the initial panic began to subside, Wesson realized the restraints felt wobbly and frayed. Part of him was still wondering how he was able to fight them at all. He had seen the numerous runes carved into the columns, roof, and floor, and he should not have been able to light a candle, much less create a fireball. Even now, he could feel his strength mounting, and he knew that if he kept pressing, he could overcome the assault. Whether he could do it in time to save himself was another matter.
“I invoke the rule of the Interkingdom Accords,” said Dark Tidings. “The mage cannot be touched. As you have seen, he is not as limited as you hoped.”
“The Interkingdom Accords apply only to monarchs and diplomats,” the purifier replied. “You are neither.”
“Stand down, Mage,” Dark Tidings said, eliciting a deep scowl from the purifier, and a flurry of angry grumbles from the crowd. “That is not your decision to make.” He nodded toward another man descending the steps.
The purifiers turned and bowed toward the new arrival. King Privoth paused at the base of the steps, and Dark Tidings finally dismounted. His warriors followed in unison, maintaining positions beside their mounts. It was a display they had practiced to proficiency.
“You are audacious,” said Privoth, “to come here to my kingdom, to demand an audience with the king, to bring with you but a handful of warriors, and to deliver unto us this scourge-infested demonkind. If you think to intimidate me, as you did Ionius, you will be disappointed.”
Privoth was a young king of merely thirty years. His brown hair was cropped short in the Gendishen military style, as was his short, pointy beard. He wore the uniform of a soldier but with a ruby encrusted gold crown atop his head and five embellished gold chains stretching across his chest. He carried himself with the assurance of a general, but unlike most of the monarchs about the Souelian, Privoth had earned an officer’s rank before taking the throne.
Dark Tidings said, “I do not come to press or beg”—he grasped the black mask and pulled it from his face—“but to bargain.” He met Privoth’s hard stare and was pleased to see the dutifully concealed surprise in the king’s dark eyes. Unlike his warriors, Rezkin had not painted his face. The strikers and the baron had said they saw in him a resemblance to the Ashaiian royal family, and he wanted Privoth to see it, too.
“Your Majesty,” the lead purifier said, “the afflicted …”
“Yes,” Privoth said, diverting his attention, “read him.”
Rezkin felt a rise in the buzz of mage power directed at Wesson. The purifier’s face contorted in anger—an anger that gradually morphed from righteous indignation to fear.
“He is strong. No, too strong. He wields inconceivable destructive power. Your Majesty, we cannot hold him. He will break free. I implore you to seek safety. We must kill him now before his power is released.”
King Privoth was unmoved. He stood, stoic, as he examined the black-clad warriors who remained as still and unperturbed as their leader.
The purifier stepped closer to his king and hissed too low for any but Rezkin to hear. “Your Majesty, we cannot wait. Why do you delay?”
“I wait for him,” said Privoth with a nod toward Rezkin.
The purifier stared at his king. “Have they used their demon-gotten power to corrupt your mind?”
Privoth sounded as if he were schooling a child as he spoke. “Look at them. They do not appear concerned. Why are they not concerned?” He turned hard eyes on his zealous servant. “Read him.”
The purifier looked doubtfully at Rezkin but did as his king bade him. The tingle of power slipped over Rezkin, and he could feel it trying to grasp something within, but nothing answered. The purifier shook violently and stepped back.
“He is … cold. It is a deep, bitter cold, and disturbing, but he is not one of them.”
“What does it mean?” Privoth said.
The purifier lifted his nose and said, “I am sure it is nothing. He has probably spent too much time in the presence of the scourge afflicted.”
Privoth appeared unsatisfied with the answer. He raised his voice and said, “Bring the old woman.”
A runner dashed away beyond the colonnade. Rezkin spent the next few minutes studying the spectators and guards while Privoth studied him and his companions. He nodded in appreciation of Minder Finwy’s presence, and then the man’s gaze lingered on Yserria, which was not surprising. Women were not permitted the same freedoms in Gendishen as they were in Ashai. Aside from that, even Rezkin had noticed that the woman looked particularly stunning in her present attire. Her pale, freckled skin glowed beneath the black cloak and tabard, her green eyes were like fire blazing through the darkness of the black paint, and a few stray red curls danced around her face in the shadow of her hood. With her determined gaze and the array of exposed weapons, she was a beautiful but deadly viper. Rezkin thought her well suited to play the role of enchantress.
His attention flicked to the top of the stairs. An old woman in a worn frock made of layers of colorful fabric was shuffling down the steps with the aid of the young runner. Long, silver hair, streaked white with a few remaining black strands, was tied back in a tail that hung past her waist. Her skin was pale, wrinkled, and marked with many years of age spots. When she reached the base of the steps, she paused and looked up at their party. Her aged grey eyes flashed with intrigue when her gaze landed upon Wesson.
“Greetings, young one. It has been many years,” the old woman said. “You are underdressed.”
Rezkin glanced back at his mage. Wesson appeared startled and uncertain if he should speak. “You are acquainted?” Rezkin asked.
“Yes,” Wesson replied. He turned to the old woman and performed a shallow bow. “Greetings, Master Reader Kessa. It is an honor to be in your company.”
Rezkin looked back at the old woman. Her eyes flashed with mirth as she said, “King Privoth is wise to treat you all well.”