“Yes,” Rezkin said as he dropped his pants and set to unstrapping additional weapons.
Malcius huffed and scowled at his female companions who showed no shame in watching the show. He turned back to Rezkin. “What if they try to kill you?”
Rezkin ran his hands through his loose, inky locks to show that he had no hidden weapons. “They likely will. I must survive.”
“But they are fully armed!” said Malcius.
Rezkin grinned and flexed his biceps. “So am I,” he said with a wink for the secrelé.
The woman’s laughter was cut short as he strode effortlessly through the explosive mage ward. When the vimara slid like illuminated water over his skin, for the briefest moment, strange, archaic black, blue, and red lines and runes could be seen scrawled across nearly every inch of his flesh below the neck. In that moment, he truly looked the demonic lord many a rumor claimed him to be. The marks were gone in a flash, and onlookers would have been left to wonder if they had been there at all, had the others not also witnessed them.
Rezkin stopped less than a pace from the secrelé and caught her in his icy gaze. “Shall we go?”
“That?” she said, nodding to the stone that hung from the lace around his neck.
Although he was no longer in the citadel, he was anxious about parting with the stone. He would need it upon his return, and he did not want to lose the one object he knew could help keep his mind sharp.
“It is only a stone,” he said. “A token from home. I prefer to carry it with me as a reminder of those who await my return.”
She glanced at the stone and nodded solemnly. “It could easily be used as a weapon, but I will permit it. As you said to your friend, it is a gesture of good faith.” She motioned for him to walk ahead. The other Adana’Ro surrounded him as they departed, and Rezkin’s companions were left alone.
Malcius rounded on Farson. “What was that?” he said, motioning to his arms.
Farson said, “I have never seen them before. I assume they are the marks Connovan mentioned.”
“So it is true, then?” Malcius said. “About him dying?”
Farson shrugged. “It seems the presence of the marks is true. As to their cause, we cannot say for certain.”
Mage Threll said, “What is this about him dying, and what does it have to do with those marks?”
Ignoring the question, Malcius said, “So we are going to let him walk away with those people? What if they kill him? What if he does not return?”
“They enticed him here for a reason,” said Farson. “I doubt they want him dead. Even if that is their purpose, he will not make it easy. They know this. They will have to decide if the survival of their sect is more important than killing him.”
Malcius shook his head and huffed. “Why I am asking you? You are probably hoping they kill him. It is no secret that you have wanted him dead since you arrived.”
Shezar said, “Your tongue has become loose, Lord Malcius. You speak to a striker with the same disrespect Knight Yserria showed you.”
Malcius did not back down. He met Shezar’s stare. “A striker receives respect because he dedicates himself to the service of the kingdom. I have accepted Rezkin as my king. This man has not. He serves no one. Until he does, he is no striker.”
Farson straightened to his full height, his strength of presence making it appear as if he towered over Malcius, even though he was only a few inches taller. “I serve the Kingdom of Ashai. Right now, how best to do that is in question.” He poked Malcius in the chest. “You accepted Rez as your king without knowing him. It is not supposed to be the duty of a striker to determine who is the rightful king. I am heartened to think there is an alternative to Caydean, but I am not certain the world can survive Rez. You should be concerned as well.”
“Sometimes you must choose a side and hope for the best,” Malcius said. He stalked away and practically ran into Yserria. “Did you get a good show?” he snapped.
Yserria’s concern became a smirk. “I have never seen that much of a man before, but the others tell me he is a perfect specimen.” She tilted her head and said, “Tell me, Lord Malcius, how do you compare?”
Malcius’s face heated in anger. “You were never so forward with Palis. You will never know what it means to be a true lady.”
Her smile fell, and she scowled at him. “Palis was a gentleman who respected me, and you will never know what it is to have a true woman.” She spun on her heel and rejoined the other women who were seated on the talus slope.
Unable to leave the bubble in which they were trapped, Malcius plopped down on a boulder between Wesson and Brandt.
“She is infuriating!” he said.
Wesson shifted uncomfortably as he glanced at Yserria, who scowled in their direction while she and Reaylin conversed too quietly for them to hear.
“You antagonize her,” said Brandt.
Malcius continued muttering. “I will never understand what my brother saw in her.”
Wesson kicked a cobble and scratched runes in the dirt with his boot.
“Why any noble would marry a commoner …”
“I hope to,” said Wesson as he tucked a curl that had grown too long behind his ear.
“What? To marry a commoner? Why?” Malcius said, aghast.
“Not just any commoner. There is someone specific,” Wesson said.
“I did not know you had a woman,” said Brandt
Glancing back at the dirt, Wesson said, “Well, I do not have a woman. Not really. I mean, I have not seen her since we were children. She was always special to me. Even then we assumed we would marry. But … she is probably already wed, now. Her father—he was not a patient man.”
“You do not know?” said Malcius.
Wesson shook his head. “No, I used to write letters to her often. I never received a single reply. I—well, I did not leave home under the best of circumstances. She probably hates me. I have apologized so many times in my letters.”
“You have not been home since you were a child?” Malcius said, truly surprised.
Wesson shook his head. “No, my master did not feel it was safe to let me leave until I was thoroughly trained to control my powers. There were … other … issues, as well. It was best I stayed away. I was hoping that, after I finished my apprenticeship, I could earn enough money to return my house to good standing and show her that I am not the person she thinks I am.”
Malcius looked at him in horror. “What exactly did you do?”
Wesson pulled his gaze from the ground. “I am a battle mage, Lord Malcius. Consider uncontrolled destructive power in the hands of a child.”
Malcius was quiet for a while, although he glanced at Wesson warily several times. Finally, Brandt said, “I thought most mages came into their power close to adulthood.”
With a nod, Wesson said, “That is true for most.”
“Was it because you are so powerful?” said Malcius.
“Usually, the amount of power has no bearing on when the talent will present itself. My master did wonder, however, if mine was just too much to contain.”
The sun set early beyond the canyon wall, and Rezkin had nothing to protect him from the chill. He focused on warming his muscles as he jogged across the rocks at a steady pace. Although the sharp edges did not often break through his thick calluses, one would occasionally bite at the softer tissue between his toes. He kept on as if unperturbed. It was hardly the worst pain he had suffered. Once they left the flatter terrain by the river, he was forced to navigate, in the waning light, up the talus slope and between cacti, thistles, and sagebrush.
At the base of the cliff, he paused and looked back to the secrelé for guidance. She motioned up the wall of rock.
“You do not intend to guide the ascent?” he said.
“If you are the Riel’gesh, perhaps you can fly.”
“If I am not?”