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minds. When Nidil addressed one of them, they all heard, with brain and with
soul. Tyrus could not look squarely upon that churning shape in
the ice smoke. From the corner of his eye, he studied the god, pondering what
might convince Nidil to heed his arguments.
"He& he w my son, O Great One," Vraduir admitted reluctantly. "
Was my son. I showed him pity. I let him live, thinking he would learn to know
his folly, that I was his better. But he raised sorcerous weapons against me.
Me who taught him! Now he is my mortal enemy!"
Tyrus would have laughed hi bitterness. Pity? Was that why Vraduir had not
killed him and Erejzan outright? Not pity. Pride. They were the spirit of
Qamat, his son and he who would be next clan chieftain of the island people.
Vraduir had assumed they would cease fighting him, come to adore him and honor
his blasphemy. And this he called pity, that he had cursed them and spared
their lives to earn their frightened worship!
"Yet he is your son," Nidil said. "And you have sworn to take each other's
lives. Interesting." If Nidil was interested in this terrible conflict, it was
in a way no human could understand. A thread of amusement ran through his
words. "So often is man's seed his joy and his sorrow. You should have joy
that your son learned so well, my servant Vraduir. Here is a most impressive
sorkra. He bested you many times in his quest and has broken your doors, your
every barrier. Is this not so?"
"Trickery, Lord of Death. I wanted him to come here," Vraduir said quickly. He
glanced at Tyrus. Was there a suggestion of regret in his eyes?
Tyrus did not could not believe that. His memories were scars that would
never quite heal. Vraduir had looked at him this way once before, a moment ere
he cast the dark spell which bound his son in the prison rock, chaining Tyrus'
sorcery while Vraduir continued his experiments with
Bogotana's powers.
Regret, a flickering remnant of the man Vraduir had been. Regret drowned in
envy of Tyrus' youth and strength and ability.
"Trickery, my servant Vraduir?" Again there was that thread of chilling
amusement. Nidil was laughing at these puny mortals and their games of life
and death. "These others are not sorkra. Why are they here?"
Vraduir glared with undisguised contempt at Erej-zan. "That one in the doorway
is a former subject of mine, Lord of Death. He dared rebel against my rule."
"Against your heartless tyranny!" Tyrus hotly defended his friend.
"Against rituals that enchanted brutes and made them demons."
"He was my subject, my beastkeeper! He had no right to speak so rashly to the
traech sorkra of Qamat!" Vraduir shrilled. "He is a beast himself, as
I have made him, with Bogotana's favor. The form suits his animal temper."
Vraduir peered at Ilissa, who was still tending Erejzan's hurts and paying
Vraduir no attention. Nor did Erejzan seem to hear him.
Uneasy, Vraduir turned away, focussing on,Jathelle. "And she& "
"I am LaRenya of Couredh," Jathelle announced, taking the words from his
mouth. "This evil wizard invaded my realm, using your skeleton warriors to
steal my sister and wound and slay many of my people. I have come to see him
punished, Lord of Death. That is my right!"
"She does not like you, my servant Vraduir." A sepulchral chuckle sent jagged
waves through Tyrus' mind.
"She is no longer in her realm," Vraduir said, cleverly shifting the attack
from himself to Jathelle. "She is in your realm now, Lord of Death.
You alone may choose or have rights here
."
"So I will. And that dark man there?"
"Him?" Vraduir's gaze skipped over Rof. "An insolent braggart, of no
importance, Lord Nidil& "
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"Bogotana shrivel you, accursed wizard. I am Rof of the bandits." Rof had
apparently made up his mind to die with bravado, if he must. Arms akimbo and
feet firmly planted, a bloody weapon in each hand, Rof shouted, "You know me
well, sorcerer. It was you who sent the Death
God's minions to hire me away from LaRenya and your son, hire me with treasure
made of dust and rock. No fair bargain, that. And then you tried to slay me."
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