Zvain had risen to his knees, his hands clenched high above him.
And Pavek was only halfway there.
He stretched himself to his limit and beyond. The sole of his left sandal skidded on a loose stone; he lurched and twisted to keep his balance—felt muscles tear deep in his side—but his right foot landed solidly, and he kept going until a blast of hot, dry air exploded in his face.
The last thing he saw before his chin struck the ground was Zvain collapsing in a boneless heap under the whirling force that was Telhami’s staff.
Chapter Sixteen
“I told him!” Zvain shouted, his voice filled with the intense hatred of youth-betrayed. “I told him where you are. He’s seen it in my mind. He’s coming with an army of ten thousand men and giants. It doesn’t matter what you do to me. You’re all going to die. Quraite’s going to die. Everything’s going to die.”
His nose and lips bloodied by Telhami’s staff, the boy backed away from his druid accusers, directly into one of farmers who had formed a tight and solemn ring around the scene. The woman seized him and flung him back into the circle. He stumbled, but pulled himself together to stand, defiant and terrified, some four paces in front of Telhami and Akashia.
Pavek himself stood a bit to one side, not in the farmer’s constraining circle, nor among the outraged druids. Zvain had looked his way more than once with wide, unreadable eyes. He’d met the boy’s stare, figuring he owed him that much.
He still didn’t know how Zvain’s path had crossed Escrissar’s or how he’d been seduced into an alliance with the ultimate Laq-seller. Telhami hadn’t asked. Telhami wasn’t interested in such small details. Quraite had been betrayed, and Akashia had been tormented; that was all that mattered. The laws of Athas, whether in Urik or Quraite, made no exceptions for children. Mercy was a rare gift, and, looking it Akashia’s hard, unforgiving frown, not one Zvain was likely to receive.
Nor one he deserved—
“Take him to my grove,” Telhami pronounced coldly. “The guardian will make him useful again.”
“Stay away!” Zvain held one hand palm-out, then dug beneath his shirt with both hands. When his hands reappeared, a dull gray powder leaked from one small, shaking fist and a dull brown powder from the other. “I’m a—a defiler! I know a spell that will destroy you all if you touch me.”
Telhami was unmoved. “Take him to my grove,” she repeated, nodding toward Yohan.
The dwarf strode forward, his faith in Telhami apparently stronger than his fear of the magic Zvain claimed to command.
Zvain’s eyes widened, his lips trembled, then tightened into a pout as he defiantly mixed the powders together.
Telhami did nothing to stop him.
The boy’s eyes squeezed shut, and he began to recite dark spellcraft syllables from that other, unfamiliar magical tradition that, by everything Pavek understood, drew its energy and power from the life essences of green plants. Those who were called preservers somehow managed to draw small amounts of energy from many plants without damaging any of them seriously. Defilers left only ash.
Quraite was plants. The most conscientious preserver could wreak havoc without depleting its green-life essence. A defiler’s power, even with a small spell, might be unlimited.
And still, Telhami’s calm remained.
But Pavek’s breath stuck in his throat as Zvain lifted his hands, and the hot wind off the salt flats carried the powder away, and—
Nothing happened.
There was no magic.
Zvain’s defiance crumbled; all that remained was the terror. His knees buckled. Yohan caught him as he went down. “He said it would work… He gave me magic and said I was a defiler forever.” Tears began to flow, and brokenhearted sobs. “He said I’d made my choice. That I couldn’t go back.”
Zvain clung to Yohan’s arm, pleading for mercy. He might as well have pleaded with a tree or a stone. Then he twisted himself around until he could see Pavek.
“Pavek? I thought I had no choice… Pavek? I’m sorry Pavek. I’m sorry…”
Pavek turned away.
“Pavek? Help me, Pavek… please?”
But Zvain’s fate wasn’t in his hands, and for that he was grateful; ashamed because he didn’t know right from wrong where the boy was concerned; and that much more grateful that the decision belonged to Telhami, who had no similar hesitations.
“Quraite is guarded land, boy,” Telhami said, not kindly. “Your magic cannot work here. Or anywhere. Escrissar lied to you. He gave you no magic, only delusions.”
“The plants died. They turned to ash and died. I saw them!”