Tieran held up his hands. “My apologies, Aunt Lecillia. I meant no disrespect. I already recognize Rezkin as my king, so you will get no argument from me.”
Lecillia was somewhat appeased, and she turned back to Rezkin. “I am so sorry. I was told you were stillborn. I never knew. I cannot believe Bordran did this to me. I did not believe Connovan when he told me. I had to see you for myself. I almost died when you stepped off that ship. Part of me wished you had been a bastard. It would have been easier to accept that Bordran had strayed than that he stole my baby boy straight from my womb and told me he was dead!” She looked back at Rezkin and said, “No, I am sorry, my love. I did not mean it. I am glad that you are alive and that I will have the chance to know you, even if I missed your childhood.”
Rezkin did not reply but instead looked back to Connovan. “You said Bordran refused to send his son to be trained as the Rez.”
“His own oaths would have forced him to uphold the charter; but, in the end, it was Caydean that decided it for him.” He squeezed Lecillia’s shoulders again and said, “Caydean was merely seven when you were born, but his cruelty was evident even then. He had already killed three puppies, beaten one of the servant’s children nearly to death, and tried to kill his own brother twice. He claimed they were all accidents, but Bordran knew. He hoped he and others could teach Caydean—that, somehow, he would grow out of it. After Caydean nearly drowned Thresson without remorse, Bordran knew he had to prepare for the worst.
“Bordran later told me that the night you were born was the worst of his life, as were all the days after. I was ordered to kill the healer who had helped birth you, and the queen was told that you were dead. Bordran spent a few hours with you, and then you disappeared. I think he did not trust me with the babe. Of course, I knew where you had been taken, but I was ordered to stay away unless he requested an update.”
Rezkin looked to Wesson. “Perform the test.”
Lecillia’s face fell.
Frisha said, “Rezkin, can’t you see she’s hurting. Don’t be so cold. She is your mother.”
“So he says.”
Tieran said, “Rezkin, this is Aunt Lecillia. I have known her my entire life.”
“But you do not know that she is my mother. She does not know. She knows only what he has told her.”
“Why would the queen lie about your legitimacy? Why would he?” said Tieran.
Rezkin looked to Wesson. “The test.”
Chapter 6
Wesson hurried to collect a vessel for the blood and then paused upon approaching the queen mother. Lecillia gave hers willingly, with tears in her eyes. Then, he took a sample from Rezkin. Although Rezkin always seemed alert, he appeared particularly aware at that moment, as though he were surrounded by drauglics ready to rip him to shreds. The spell finished with a resonant pop, and Wesson announced that Lecillia was definitely Rezkin’s mother.
Rezkin turned to Connovan. “Very well, I accept that Queen Lecillia is my mother, but there are several holes in your story. For one, you claim that I am a scrivener, and even though I am a direct descendant of the royal line, I am not a mage.”
Rezkin felt the tingle of mage energy emanate from Connovan and prepared for an attack. The man smiled and said, “You will have to try much harder to influence me, although I believe Striker Farson is now convinced.”
“What are you talking about?” said Rezkin.
“I am a reflector. It is a power that has served me well in my duties. I am able to reflect spells cast at me and direct them onto others of my choosing.” He looked up thoughtfully. “I suppose refractor might be more accurate, but that does not have the same ring. Your spell just struck Striker Farson.”
Rezkin shook his head. “It is not my spell.”
Wesson said, “I could never sense the talent in him, so I decided a spell must have been cast onto him that allows him to influence others.”
Rezkin said, “I do not realize I am using it most of the time.”
“I also have never sensed the talent in you,” replied Connovan. “The truth is, I do not know what you are. Your masters seemed to have an idea, but they would not share their knowledge with me. What I do know is that, aside from healing, we have never been able to make any spell stick to you. Any power that comes from you is your own.”
Rezkin pondered the Rez’s words. He did not know how much of the information he could trust, but so long as the man was being candid, he would collect as much information as he could. “And the masters? Who were they?”
“That, I also do not know, not specifically anyway. I think you know what they were, though.”
“Goka?” suggested Rezkin.
Connovan tilted his head. “More importantly, they were SenGoka.”
“Why does that sound familiar?” said Tieran.
Malcius’s eyes widened. “Necromancers,” he shouted. He looked to Rezkin. “You told us of them—the necromancers of the Jahartan Empire. You were trained by necromancers?”
Connovan said, “Elite warrior necromancers, to be precise. It was a good thing, too. No one could live through his training.” He perused their horrified faces. “What? You did not think you actually survived all of that.”
Rezkin turned his accusatory gaze on Farson. “You killed me?”
Farson would not meet his glower at first but finally acquiesced. “I did not know. There were times when we were certain you were dead. Peider was known to be a healer, though—and Jaiardun, to some extent. They assured us every time that you were alive and could be saved. We strikers argued often over it. We thought they must have been the most magnificent healers that ever lived.” With a glare toward Connovan, he said, “Sen did not cross our minds. I did not believe they existed.” He looked back to Rezkin. “A person simply cannot engage in battle for two days straight without a break, without sustenance. I do not know how you managed to last that long, but when you finally fell, you were surely dead.”
Rezkin glanced between the two of them. “How many times have I died?”
Both men shrugged.
“I have no reason to believe either of you,” he said.
Connovan shook his head. “The proof is in your skin.”
Rezkin glanced at his hand and then frowned at the man. “What are you saying?”
“You know about the Sen?” said Connovan. “You know they make marks on the skin, tattoos—a record of how each death occurs, the length of time spent in death, and the identity of the Sen who retrieves your soul. You have such marks.”
“Uh, no, he doesn’t,” said Frisha. “He doesn’t have a mark on him.” Everyone turned to her, and she froze as her cheeks turned pink. She buried her gaze in the far wall as Malcius glared at her and then Rezkin.
Rezkin looked back to Connovan. “I do not have any marks.”
Farson said, “I have never seen any marks either.”
Connovan tilted his head. “I believe the masters taught you to hide them. When you were too young to receive intense combat training, they started with your mind. Much time was spent on making others see what you want them to see. You had less control when you were young, and I was occasionally able to reflect your influence to see the marks.”
Yserria said, “Wait, you are saying he died as a child?”
Connovan ignored the interruption. “For you, the habit is dictated by the Rules. Rule 3—reveal nothing, Rule 10—do not leave evidence, and Rule 237—bear no identifying marks.” He glanced at Kai and Shezar. “The strikers break that one with their tattoos. They must have them removed before going on assignment. You learned to hide yours. I do not know how, but I believe it has become so engrained in your mental process that you no longer think of it.”
Rezkin knew instinctively that what Connovan said was true. The longer he thought of it, the more he could feel the marks, as if they were crawling under his skin, marks he had not recognized were there. Then, he wondered if they were truly there at all. Perhaps Connovan was an illusionist or had another talent that made Rezkin question himself. He chose to change the subject.