Privoth said, “What is this? What do you know?”
She looked at Wesson with a pleased smile. “I am certain your purifiers have already told you what you need to know.”
“I will be the judge of that. You were invited here to teach and to serve me. Do as I say and answer the question.”
Kessa pursed her lips and frowned at the young king. “King Privoth, you do not understand how an invitation is supposed to work.” She glanced from Wesson to Rezkin. “With an invitation, the recipient has the option to refuse.”
“Answer the question, old woman,” Privoth said.
Kessa pointed at Wesson. “I know that no one can force that one to do anything he does not wish to do. You would be wise not to press him.” Her grey gaze turned to Rezkin. “I know that if this one has managed to garner the loyalty of the mage, then he is most dangerous.”
Privoth growled in frustration. “Do you know him as well?”
“No, I do not, but the likeness is enough, do you not agree? In which case, you should be very concerned.”
“Read him,” Privoth demanded.
Kessa gazed, unfocused, at Rezkin for a long time. She became unnaturally still, and her lips began to turn blue. Her focus returned, and she shivered violently. “Co-o-o-ld,” she said through chattering teeth, and a puff of frosty air escaped her lips. She pulled her shawl tighter around her and studied Rezkin’s face anew.
Privoth prompted, “What does it mean?”
“He is not a mage,” Kessa said. “I can say this with certainty.”
“Then what is he?”
The old woman shrugged. “A man?” At Privoth’s dissatisfied look, she said, “He is probably under the influence of a spell, one that I cannot see.” She nodded toward Wesson, “He may be capable of such a thing.”
Privoth looked pointedly at the woman and said, “If he is not afflicted, then he cannot be of the Ashaiian royal line.”
Kessa looked at Rezkin skeptically. “That I do not believe.”
The purifier stepped forward with a gleeful grin. “Your Majesty, perhaps he has been cured. What if the power of the fiery Hells has been ripped from him, leaving behind a frozen, purified vessel?”
Rezkin did not like the idea that a piece of his innate being had been stolen. He said to the purifier, “You bear the talent, same as the mage. It is the source of your power.”
“We bear the curse of demon power so that we may identify and bind those afflicted with the scourge. It cannot be used any other way. The Maker deemed it so and blessed us with these runes”—he waved a finger around the adorned structure—“to assist in our crusade.”
Rezkin glanced at the runes. “These were created by mages like you and him. How you choose to use your power is your prerogative, but we both know you are capable of much more.”
Kessa grinned and King Privoth glanced at the fuming purifier. He lifted his hand to forestall the imminent, vicious tirade. To Rezkin, he said, “You are clever. I recognize your attempt to divide us, and it will not work.”
“I seek only to expose the truth of your hypocrisy,” Rezkin said.
“Like my fathers before me, it is my prerogative to use whatever resources are available to maintain the balance of this kingdom.”
“By balance, you mean the existing power structure.”
“Indeed, for it is by the blessing of the Maker that my family has ruled this kingdom for twelve generations. You said you came here to bargain. You call yourself the King of Cael, True King of Ashai. By your looks alone, I might be inclined to believe the latter has some substance. Cael, however, belongs to me.”
“Ionius said the same.”
“Channería has only ever claimed that worthless rock to vex us. Now, it seems, they have given it to you—but with a few stipulations.” Privoth chuckled. “I hear he gave to you his daughter. You must have been very convincing in your methods. In the matter of Cael, though, I believe Ionius said that I must recognize your claim. It is interesting that he should do so. Our people have never agreed on anything regarding Cael, and now we should consent to give it to you. What incentive do I have?”
“I have more resources than either you or Ionius realize.”
“Oh?” Privoth smirked. “I heard you went to Ionius practically begging for favor.”
Rezkin grinned devilishly. “Men hear what they wish, men of power especially.”
Privoth’s expression soured. “I can only assume your candidness is designed to convince me of my own desire to give to you my land.”
“On the contrary, I have no need of your gift. As I said, I came to bargain.”
“Very well, what is it you have that I should want?”
“You and your predecessors have been seeking an alliance with the tribes of the Eastern Mountains for more than a hundred years. A trade relay would be of great value, particularly one bearing a strong force in the mountains that could assist with that nasty drauglic problem.”
Once again, Privoth hid his surprise well. “That would be a valuable deal, indeed—one that I do not believe you are capable of delivering.”
“For Cael, it will be so,” Rezkin said.
“Why do you want it?” Privoth snapped.
Rezkin smiled. “We are refugees. It is our home. What would one not do for one’s home?”
Privoth scoffed. He glanced at the assembly, pausing on the rows of councilors and military officers and then on his four daughters who were present out of the eight. When he turned back, Rezkin could see that he had not been swayed.
“What you offer is a worthy price, but I do not accept. There is something else of greater value, and I will accept nothing in its stead.”
Rezkin had anticipated a counter offer but not complete rejection. As such, he was left in wonder as to what Privoth would demand. He did not like entering negotiations lacking such knowledge. Regardless, he gave the king a knowing look and said, “What is your price?”
“The Sword of Eyre.”
Rezkin waited, but nothing more was forthcoming. It was not at all what he had expected. He schooled his features to appear unfazed; but, truly, he was at a loss.
“You desire the Sword of Eyre? The sword that is said to rest beside your very own throne?”
King Privoth frowned but glanced back at the councilors. He balled his fist and looked back to Rezkin. “The sword beside the throne is a fraud—a blight on my house. The real Sword of Eyre was stolen on the day of my father’s death. I will have that sword returned, even if I must bargain with you to get it!”
“You would trade Cael for a single sword?”
“It is not just any sword,” Privoth shouted. “It is the Sword of Eyre!”
Where previously stood a sensible military commander, now brooded a fanatic. The man’s behavior was in contradiction to all the reports Rezkin had received.
He cautiously said, “I understand the sword has mythical significance—”
“It is not a myth!” Privoth said. “The sword is bound in prophecy. As such, this kingdom is bound to it as well. The prophecy is as old as the kingdom.”
“Gendishen is eleven hundred years old. The Sword of Eyre was forged only two hundred years ago,” Rezkin said.
“Of course, the sword did not exist when the prophecy was spoken,” Privoth said, as if it were obvious. “And still the sword exists, and every king since its creation has ruled with it at his side, knowing that he could be the king of prophecy—every king but me!”
“But the prophecy states that the sword will burst aflame,” Rezkin said, “and the kings of Gendishen do not bear the talent.”