“If I kill them, I will lose the respect, and possibly the loyalty, of my people.”
“You are at war. They will have to learn that there are difficult choices to be made.”
“We are not at war with Gendishen,” Rezkin said.
“We could take the horses we need and run off the rest. It will take them some time to report and without the use of a mage relay, they may be unable to get word ahead of us.”
Rezkin shook his head. “That may not be true. The purifiers are mages.”
“You are certain?” Farson said with genuine surprise, “Mages are killing their own?”
“I am surprised the strikers were not aware of it,” Rezkin said.
“We have never been able to infiltrate the purifiers, and I am not sure Privoth even knows how they do what they do. It makes sense, though. Only one with the talent can sense them, and they would sense someone with the talent who is not of their order.”
Rezkin’s intense gaze was dark in the flickering shadows of the torch light. “Only those with talent?”
Farson looked away, but, for once, he did not avoid the question. “I have no answer for that. I know not how you do it. Your masters said you are not a mage, and all the talented strikers confirmed it. Somehow Peider and Jaiardun trained you to fend off mage attacks and walk through wards, and I never knew what to believe. I truly thought you had the answer, but I am no longer certain.”
Rezkin could appreciate the sentiment. The only thing he could be certain about with Farson was that he could never trust the man, and his former trainer would be disappointed in him if he did. He put those thoughts aside and said, “We need to consult with Wesson, but we will have to separate the purifiers from the others. I still do not want his abilities exposed to Orin and his men. Place the purifiers in their own shackles. They are enchanted with runes to prevent mages from using their powers.”
“So what do we do with the others?”
Everyone waited in silence during their exchange. Rezkin could feel his friends’ eyes on him. He needed more time to come up with a plan that could protect his friends and preserve their honor. “Move them to the courtyard for now.”
The purifiers were placed under guard in the outbuilding that had once housed the ranch hands. It was safest to keep everyone together in case the drauglics returned. The scent of the carnage in the yard would surely attract their attention if they were near. For this task, though, they had to maintain secrecy.
Wesson stepped through the doorway into the small front room of the lodging. A table was pushed up against the far wall, and each of the purifiers sat on the floor tied to a table leg. Dressed as he was, Wesson was not the most convincing mercenary, but no one would have guessed he was a powerful mage. The purifiers barely gave him a glance. Wesson noticed a small furry animal dart into the building behind him. It strutted into the corner and then sprawled lazily on the ground, blinking large yellow eyes and flicking its tail.
Wesson glanced at Rezkin. “Is that your—”
“Get on with it,” Rezkin said.
Wesson glanced at the cat one more time and then slowly approached the purifiers. They did not react until he was within six feet of them. At that point, both of their heads came up, each bearing an expression of contempt.
“Afflicted,” growled the eldest.
Wesson spoke in Gendishen so the purifiers would not know they were Ashaiian—just in case Rezkin decided to let them live. For once, Wesson thought he would not mind if Rezkin chose death. “They are still bound by the shackles?”
“Shackles and mage rope,” Rezkin replied.
“Interesting. What kind of mages are you?” Wesson asked.
“We are not mages,” the eldest said. “We purge the scourge from this realm, back to H’khajnak where it belongs.”
“How do you know I am a mage?” Wesson asked.
“We can see and feel your filth. It spreads from your core to infest every inch of your being. By now it has surely suffused your mind. Let us rid you of its taint so that it does not consume your soul as well.”
Wesson squatted in front of them. “How do you propose to do that?”
The purifier stared at Wesson intently, appearing as though truly concerned. “We take what is pure for preservation. We would rescue your soul from its afflicted vessel.”
“I see. In other words, you would kill me.”
“It is the only way. Any death will do, but purification by fire will surely cleanse the deepest desecration.”
“You want me to volunteer to be burned at the stake?”
“Many of the afflicted understand the terrible curse they bear. They choose to sacrifice their plagued corporeal vessels and preserve their family names. A true self-sacrifice is the only way to ensure the curse is not carried on in the blood.”
“If they do not?” Wesson asked.
“They are burned anyway, and their families with them, along with anyone else believed to be aiding them.” The man turned his attention toward Rezkin and said, “Anyone who turns in an afflicted may be granted a stay of execution in exchange for a penance.”
“You should not bother with him,” Wesson said. “He has extreme methods of negotiating. I do not think you would like them.” The purifiers looked at Rezkin uncertainly, and Wesson changed the subject. “What do you see when you look at me?”
The one who had been speaking snapped his mouth shut and looked away. The younger one stared at the elder, silently urging him to answer. He glanced anxiously at Rezkin and then looked back to Wesson. “We cannot see the scourge while wearing the shackles.”
“If we remove the shackles, you can actually see it?” Wesson said.
The younger nodded vigorously. “Yes, I can tell you what it looks like. If you could see it, you would understand how it infests the body. It is everywhere. It seeps out and stretches to touch others. Those of us blessed by the Maker to be able to see it can feel it as well. I can feel it in you now, but it is muted.”
Wesson said, “They are readers. The purifiers are readers.” He looked to Farson who stood beside the table behind the purifiers. “Would you please unshackle him?”
“Are you sure? He could use his powers to attack or escape.”
“I can handle him,” Wesson said.
Farson did as asked while Wesson stepped across the room and removed the stone amulet, surreptitiously handing it to Rezkin outside the purifiers’ view. The older purifier watched Wesson intently, his expression becoming furious once the amulet was removed. Wesson returned to stand before the prisoners. The younger purifier was still tied to the table, but the shackles were removed.
“What do you see?” he asked.
The young man glanced at his companion, who was still scowling. “He should be told,” he said. “He must be given the opportunity to make the right choice. If he knows, perhaps he will choose the right path.” The tingle of vimara filled the space, and the young man stared into Wesson. “I see the normal colors. Strands, some of them thick, others thin. But, there is so much of the other. The darkness overwhelms. I have never seen so much darkness.”
Wesson frowned. “You can see the vimara, but you do not know how to interpret it.”
The young man frowned. “There is nothing to interpret. It is all evil. You are beyond redemption.”
“When you look at each other, do you not see the power?”
“Ours is special,” the young purifier said. “The Maker has twisted it for his own use. We are blessed with the ability to identify the accursed bearers of the scourge.”
“So you claim to serve the Maker with your power, but everyone else must be evil? Why are you so different? You can perform spells, same as anyone else.”
“No! We cannot, we do not.”