Malcius looked at Wesson aghast. “Why would anyone do that?”
Wesson shrugged. “For power. Some even think they can use it for good. My master told me a story about a healer who wanted to cure his wife of some terrible ailment. He did not have enough talent on his own, so he made a pact with a demon. It did not end well for either of them. They think they can control it; but, in all the stories, the demon ultimately overcomes the person’s will. I am not sure if the ritual we interrupted in the forest was a form of forced possession or some other kind of demonic control. We do not have enough information. Truthfully, I never completely believed the stories. I thought demons were myths. Surely, if they were real and so powerful, they would have consumed the world ages ago.”
“All the more reason we should have stayed in Cael,” Malcius grumbled. He sighed with exasperation as he stumbled over another loose rock. “I do not understand why we could not bring at least one earth mage. It would have made our passage far easier.”
Rezkin said, “I told you the talent is not tolerated in Gendishen. All forms of magery are outlawed.”
Wesson added, “The talent is referred to as the scourge, and those afflicted with the scourge are put to death. A special division of the king’s forces called the Purifiers are dedicated solely to the investigation and elimination of the afflicted.”
“But you are here. You could do something about this,” Malcius said as a stone shifted beneath his foot.
“We do not wish to attract the attention of the Purifiers,” replied Rezkin.
Wesson said, “It is unclear how the Purifiers identify the afflicted, since only those with talent can sense it in others. Still, if anyone witnessed my actions, they would certainly report us.”
Brandt, who had arrived on Malcius’s heals, said, “It makes no sense to me. Most people would kill to have the talent. Why would an entire kingdom spurn the gift?”
“People often fear what they do not understand, and they tend to hate what they fear,” Rezkin said. “No ruler of Gendishen has possessed the talent. The king rules with strength of arms alone. A mage class would threaten the ruling family’s power.”
“So they just kill anyone they think is a mage?” Brandt said. His irritation was compounded as he snagged his pant leg on the razor edge of a boulder.
Rezkin navigated around a steep slope of talus, leading Pride to stabler ground. He said, “The surrounding kingdoms are glad to accept talented refugees, which has always been a major point of contention between Gendishen and its neighbors, Channería and Lon Lerésh. To keep the peace, the other kingdoms begrudgingly agreed not to assist in an escape, but they will provide sanctuary if someone makes it across the border.”
“Why is Mage Wesson here, then?” Brandt asked. “He will be killed if caught.”
Rezkin paused to dig a rock from Pride’s hoof as he answered. “According to the Interkingdom Accords, rulers and dignitaries from foreign kingdoms are exempt from the anti-scourge laws for the duration of a sanctioned visit. I doubt King Privoth will extend us the courtesy without first recognizing me as an independent monarch. Therefore, we could not bring any mages. Journeyman Wesson, however, insisted on attending despite the dangers. He knows his strength and also speaks fluent Gendishen.”
“I am willing to hazard the risks,” Wesson growled in a heated tone unlike his usual easy-going demeanor. “What they are doing is wrong. People should not be persecuted for being born different from others. The Gendishen believe the talent is a choice—that wielders have made pacts with demons or the like.”
“But it is a blessing of the Maker,” Malcius exclaimed. “Mages can do great things!”
“And terrible things, too,” Sergeant Millins muttered as Malcius stumbled into him.
“Come now, Sergeant, how can you say that?” Malcius said, shrugging off the soldier’s assistance.
“The sergeant is right,” Wesson said. “I know more than most that the power can be both a blessing and a curse—not in the bearing of it, but in the use. For one with my affinity, it is easy to destroy and infinitely harder to create.”
“I think you will find that is true in all things,” Rezkin said, “not just with the talent.”
Rezkin wondered if Wesson’s true reason for attending was to keep an eye on him. Rezkin had been better about keeping his emotional—and often paranoid—episodes under control, but the strikers still treated him warily. He had overheard Kai asking if Farson had noticed a difference in Rezkin’s behavior, and his former trainer had laughed. Farson had said that if they were observing a strangeness in Rezkin, it was because he wanted it to be so. Farson’s assertion had been a relief, since Rezkin would not want his potential enemy to perceive the weakness.
After finally reaching the road, the travelers took a short respite and then walked for another hour. Gendishen was a large kingdom. Far to the east were forests and to the north, mountains, but it was otherwise dominated by flat plains. Even the smallest bump in the landscape was a notable topographic feature. As such, most of the residents were farmers, ranchers, and plantation owners. The countryside seemed to go on endlessly, and everything in sight was tall grasses, clumps of bushes, or short, scraggly trees, feasted upon by herds of grazing animals. Occasional disturbances in the grass, usually caused by a fox or wild cat, would incite a frenzy in the grassland birds, which took to the air in a noisy flurry. The buzz and snap of insects was only overshadowed by the hollow drone of the breeze wafting through the sea of wispy green and gold stalks.
Eventually, Rezkin came to a halt. “We shall stop here,” he said.
“Why so early?” Malcius said. “We have at least a few hours before sundown. We should push ahead and get to civilization sooner.”
Rezkin nodded up the road and then to the meadows surrounding them. “This is unknown, possibly hostile territory, and we travel light. Are you capable of hunting in the dark?”
Malcius said nothing but furrowed his brow in frustration as he followed his pack to the ground.
Brandt turned from surveying the landscape and said, “I am not questioning your decision, Rez, but I am wondering why you chose this spot. It looks identical to everything else around here.”
“True,” said Rezkin, “there is little to distinguish it.” He pointed to a spot a short distance away and said, “Those grasses are slightly greener than the rest. Do you hear that bird song? It is bouncy and quickens at the end. It is a sedge wren. They are often found in wet areas.”
“You think we will find fresh water here?” said Brandt.
Rezkin shrugged as he untied his pack. “Possibly. It is no guarantee.”
“Did you teach him that?” Malcius said, as he stared at Farson.
Farson paused in the searching of his pack and glanced between Malcius and Rezkin. People generally avoided bringing up their past connection since it was obvious their relationship was less than conciliatory. Malcius seemed to be in a foul mood, though. Farson finished fishing in his pack and set to stringing his bow before answering.
“No, that was probably Beritt. He was good with birds—most animals, really—and he was an excellent tracker.”
“So where is Beritt now?” Malcius asked.
“Dead.” Farson turned and disappeared into the tall grass, and Malcius looked to Rezkin for answers.
Ignoring the unspoken question, Rezkin said, “I go to scout the area.” Then he, too, vanished.
Malcius was not satisfied. He looked to Kai, who was brushing down the disgruntled stallion. “What happened to Beritt?”
“How should I know?” said Kai without pause. “It is none of my business.”
“You are a striker. Is it not your business to know what happened to your brother?”
“As far as I am concerned, Beritt died twelve years ago on a mission. Such was the official position of King Bordran. Beyond that, it is neither my business nor yours.”