“Then we have no need of you.”
The Adana’Ro had employed an ancient and effective method of security to prevent unwanted guests from reaching their cliff-side home. Foot and handholds had been carved into the face. There were many paths, but only one led to the sanctorium. If one took the wrong path, it was nearly impossible to backtrack. Once started, the only way to finish alive was to reach the top. Those who were poor in luck or memory met with the ground much more quickly than how they had left it. Rezkin managed to find the first foothold, but if he started with the wrong foot, his climb would be doomed from the start. With a fifty-fifty chance, he began with the left. Since the cliff was now in total darkness, he was glad for the fact that he had no boots and could feel for the cracks and divots.
The Adana’Ro had not followed him up the cliff, and as far as he could tell, only one or two now remained at the base. Once he was too high to turn back, several ropes had been lowered out of his reach, and the black-clad warriors had climbed the wall quickly.
The night climb would have been impossible under normal circumstances, but Rezkin intended to cheat. He felt around for the next handhold, but he could not find it, if it were there at all. Running his hand over the surface, he found a small crack. As he clung to the wall, he focused intently. The image of the potential ward popped into his mind, and with its function defined by his will, the imaginary construct solidified inside the tiny crevice. With a second thought, the potential ward expanded in a pulse. With a pop, fragments of rock rained down the cliff face. Rezkin dug his fingers into the newly made handhold and pulled himself higher.
He continued in this manner to the top, knowing it would be easy for the assassins to force him from the wall. From that height, a fall would guarantee death. He wondered if he could produce a potential ward large enough to cushion his fall or deflect an attack. Having never created one larger than his thumb, he had no idea if it was possible. Of course, now he wondered about the truth of his potential wards. Had he been misinformed as to the nature of what he was producing? Farson would not be able to answer the question since he was neither aware of Rezkin’s potential wards nor a mage. Rezkin hesitated to discuss it with Wesson since he did not know what the future held. It was always a good idea to have a secret weapon, especially one that could not be found when searched.
When he was within thirty feet of the top, the warriors began tossing pebbles and cobbles down on him. None were large enough to knock him free of the cliff, but they were a sufficient distraction. After being pelted for several minutes to no effect, a bucket of water was dumped over him. The reason for this became apparent as the wind abruptly began swirling around him. The tingle of power in the air confirmed that a mage was involved. The cold night air whipped over his wet skin and prickled his flesh. It was not the first time he had endured such petty trials, and by the laughter he heard above, he knew their efforts were intended as taunts.
As soon as his fingers curled over the ledge, someone attempted to stomp them. He grabbed the woman’s ankle and yanked her over the side. She smacked into the cliff face, her hands scrambling for purchase as she dangled upside down. A rope was tossed over the side, and Rezkin held her just long enough for her to grab hold. Then, he pulled himself onto the platform.
A young man, clad in black, leapt from the ground where he had knelt to check on the woman. He raised his fists and hissed, “That was foolish!”
“Yes, it probably was. I should have let her fall.” Rezkin held up a knife. “I can still remedy the situation.”
The man rocked back in surprise as Rezkin flicked the dagger toward the rope, missing it by a hair as the point dug into the dirt to the side. He said, “She may want that back when she reaches the top.”
After rubbing the loose sediment from his hands, arms, and chest he stalked forward, unperturbed by the stares and remarks over his nudity. The entrance to the sanctorium was narrow and appeared to be a natural opening to a cave. Once inside, though, it became obvious that the structure had been in use for many generations. The walls had been carved to depict what was presumably the history of the sect, and additional rooms had been opened or widened along the sides. He had no idea how large the sanctorium truly was, but the grand hall was impressive. It was a dry cave, and the places not modified by human hands were characterized by smooth, swirling eddies of colorful banded rock shaped by the natural elements over time. Torches and mage lamps hung from the walls and ceiling, and sections of the floor bearing furnished seating areas were covered in thick carpets. Walkways and overhead balconies indicated at least three levels, and most of these were occupied by spectators covered in black with the occasional splash of red.
A woman in red sat on a golden throne at the head of the hall. The back of the throne bore two crossed bronze-gold short swords of the Jahartan style. Rezkin wondered if the weapons were functional or purely aesthetic. Behind the throne was a statue three times the size of a normal man. It was a representation of Meros, the ancient Verrilian god of joy, standing tall, his head held high, a broad smile gracing his strong jaw, his hands fisted at the waist. On either side of the throne were two women dressed in blue, each with weapons drawn. The entire scene was vaguely reminiscent of the descriptions of the Soka, the great warrior women of the Jahartan Empire.
The secrelé placed her fists together in front of her and bowed over them toward the seated woman. “Great Mother, we have brought to you the one called the Raven.”
“And my children?” the woman said.
The secrelé glanced behind to where they had entered then turned back. “All are well, Great Mother.”
The secrelé and the rest of Rezkin’s escort then moved to the sides of the chamber so that he was left standing alone in the center before the dais. The great mother studied him with golden eyes rimmed in green. She pulled the covering from her face, allowing it to hang beneath her chin. She was an older woman, perhaps in her sixties, and her skin was darker than the typical Ferélli.
“Why have you come here?” she said.
“You know why.”
With slender fingers, she gracefully motioned to a woman standing at one side holding a slate with a parchment and quill. “For the record, please.”
“I seek the Sword of Eyre,” he said.
She nodded. “For what use do you desire it?”
Rezkin glanced at the scribe as she scribbled on her parchment. He replied, “I have no use for it. It is King Privoth who desires the sword.”
“Yet it is you who have come seeking it,” she mused. She perused his form and then said, “You make yourself vulnerable on his behalf.”
Rezkin shook his head with a grin. “Perhaps it is natural for people who cover themselves so completely to mistakenly think me vulnerable because I wear no clothes.”
“At the least, it is a distraction,” she said.
He squared his feet, planted his fists on his hips, and stood in a parody of the statue of Meros that towered over the throne.
“Are you distracted, Great Mother? Perhaps you are the one made vulnerable by my nudity.”
The woman laughed and said, “You may be right.”
She unwound the red scarf from her head. It fluttered on a delicate breeze between them before she released it into his hands. The tingle in the air died with the wind, and he wrapped the scarf about his hips.
She smiled and said, “A minor improvement, but I am satisfied that you bear no weapons.”