Her brow was furrowed, her lips pursed.
“You’re worried, Valera,” Marcus said. “I haven’t seen you like this in years.”
“Of course, I’m worried. We have a problem, but we shouldn’t discuss it here.”
Marcus sat in one of the chairs facing Valera across her desk and leaned back against it. It was almost as comfortable as his favorite chair in the suite upstairs.
“All right. This is private. What has you so worried?”
“Two days ago, a wizard killed 53 slavers across the southwestern warrens in a massive Interation effect.”
“Yes, Valera, I know.”
“You know? What happened? Did you have to kill him?”
Marcus chuckled. “No. He’s unconscious in the sick rooms of the Temple right now. It was his first invocation. How did you learn of this?”
“The town guard consulted the Magister of Interation, who consulted me. Marcus, the slavers are screaming for justice; they’re making noises about going to the King!”
Marcus scoffed. “Let them. If that feckless wonder wearing the crown so much as looks in the direction of the College, I’ll reduce the entire palace compound to molten rock.”
Valera blanched. “Marcus, you can’t do that!”
“Why not? I built it.”
“Yes, I know…but nobody else does. Besides, who would rule Tel?”
“The Constitution has provisions for that. The Conclave of Great Houses would appoint a regent, assuming Bellos didn’t wake up and decide to name an Archmagister.”
Valera closed her eyes and took deep breaths for several moments, finally saying, “Marcus, I have to tell the Magister of Interation what I know. That boy killed 53 people.”
“That boy, Valera, is of my House. You will do no such thing. He is too valuable to be executed, especially for what should be considered a public service.”
“Marcus-”
Marcus stood. “No, Valera. The old man is meddling again, which means the others won’t be far behind. He told me I’m to train the boy as only I can.”
“I can’t believe you’re going to train a murderer in the Art, Marcus!”
“It’s only murder when there’s prior intent. Besides, Valera, you know who I am, which means you have a better idea than most about what I’ve done or ordered to be done. That boy certainly isn’t the first killer to be trained in the Art, and I daresay he won’t be the last.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“I usually am. I trust I don’t need to discuss the consequences of interfering.”
Valera sighed, saying, “I can’t say I like being threatened, Marcus…even by implication…but I’m not about to interfere. You’re quite correct; I do know better than most what you’re capable of.”
Without a further word, Marcus turned and left the office.
Valera sat in her office in silence, still shaken by the exchange with Marcus. It was the first time he had ever threatened her. But that wasn’t all that was on her mind. She opened the top, right-hand drawer of her desk and withdrew a piece of parchment. It bore only one statement, and that statement was all Valera had been able to remember of her first vision in more than twenty years. Oh, yes…she knew the boy who killed 53 slavers with one Word was a son of Marcus’s House; she knew it the instant she learned what had happened.
The death of slavers shall herald the return of Kirloth to this world, and the Apprentices shall be drawn unto him.
Marcus strode through the halls of the sick rooms at the Temple of Valthon, an often-overlooked area, except by those who needed it. Like the rest of the structure and the city as well, the sick rooms were made of marble-shaded stone. Unlike the rest of the temple, the sick rooms carried an ambiance of illness and fear.
Marcus entered the room that was his destination and could not restrain a smile. The slave girl sat at Gavin’s bedside, holding his right hand in both of hers.
“Hello,” Marcus said, and she started, dropping Gavin’s hand in the process. “I would speak with you…outside.”
Kiri found Marcus in the hallway, leaning against the wall opposite Gavin’s door, when she emerged. She kept her head bowed and moved like a woman intent on avoiding the attention of others.
“Close the door,” Marcus said. “Should he awaken, I would not have him hear this.”
Kiri felt the color drain from her face as she closed the door. She wanted more than anything to cast off the brand and be herself again, but the mannerisms of the past two years were too familiar. She kept her head bowed as she turned to Marcus.
“Look at me. I do not speak to the top of people’s heads.”
“But I am a slave,” she said.
Marcus snorted. “You’re no more a slave than I am, especially here.”
“B-but the brand-”
“It means nothing to me…Princess.”
She lifted her head in a jerk, meeting Marcus’s eyes at last. “You know?”
A smirk curled one side of Marcus’s lips, and he allowed himself a mirthless chuckle, before saying, “Child, I have lived far longer than you would believe. While there are a great many things I do not know, there is very little I cannot learn.”
Now, she worked her lower lip between her teeth. She didn’t bow her head, but she did look away. “Will you tell him, when he wakes?”
“I haven’t decided,” Marcus replied, “but that is not why I called you out here. I will have the name of the one who claims you.”
She took a deep breath and answered. “Baron Kalinor.”
Marcus’s eyes narrowed a bit, and she thought she saw a hint of a sneer cross his expression. “Very well.”
She watched Marcus turn to leave and couldn’t keep from asking, “Why did you want to know?”
“You may eventually find out,” Marcus said over his shoulder as he walked away.
The Kalinor Estate was a massive edifice of hewn stone and wood, surrounded by a manor wall of mortar and hewn stone. The estate held several huts or shacks that served to house the various professions any estate would need, such as a blacksmith and baker. Unlike the walls created by Kirloth and the Apprentices around the estates of the Dukes and Duchesses, Kalinor’s manor wall had guard towers on either side of the gate and at each of the four corners.
The guards in the towers closest the gate cried out in surprise and shock when an arch-shaped sapphire gateway rose out of the earth, allowing a tall man in black robes entrance to the grounds. They fired their crossbows as warning shots, and the man lowered his eyes to regard the quarrels sticking out of the earth at his feet before turning to face them.
“I have come to speak with Kalinor,” he said. “You may call me ‘Marcus.’ I have no wish to fight, but neither do I mind killing every one of you if you force the issue.”
The men in the guard towers put down their crossbows as the estate’s steward arrived with three guards trailing him. Marcus turned to face the steward and nodded. The steward was a man a bit past middle age, though his hazel eyes still possessed the sparkle of cunning and intelligence. The guards behind him were bewildered.
“You’ve caused a bit of stir inside the house,” the steward said.
Marcus shrugged. “I usually do. I’ve come to speak with your ‘master.’”