Then a glitter of anger . . . and a whine. “Rap? We could both be adepts.”
Power was not easily relinquished, obviously. Jalon was a dreamer, the least ambitious or assertive of men, but he resented his loss. Even Jalon craved power.
“No.” So did Rap. “First,” he said, “Sagorn insists that sharing usually doesn’t reduce a word to half. So you have lost only a small part of your power. Second, you’ve just had a very bad shock, and those always make things look blacker . . .”
He tried to be convincing and was disgusted when he succeeded. Jalon began to smile, slowly, shyly, letting confidence be talked back into him. Eventually, and just as the two of them reached the edge of the trees, Rap persuaded him to sing a little. He ran off a couple more verses of “The Maidens of Ilrane,” the song he had interrupted to draw attention to the petrified dragon. Gods! That could have been no more than half an hour ago at most, back when the world was a simple, easy sort of place.
It was fine singing, if not quite the old Jalon, and these verses were the most disgusting yet, but Rap bellowed out laughter that sounded to him as unlikely as a three-legged racehorse. Relief bloomed in the minstrel’s face like a reprieve from imminent death.
“All right?” he whispered.
Rap wiped tears from his eyes. “I’m no musician, friend, but you can still sing better than any other four guys I know. I honestly can’t tell any difference.”
God of Liars! There could be good in lies, though, just as in everything else. Jalon was smiling again.
Rap had wanted power so he might help Inos. He had not wanted it to be like this.
The edge of the open clearing was a sand dune. Behind that, thick forest offered immediate cool shade like a divine blessing. More blessed still, the mossy trunks cuddled tight around the edges of a dark and shining pool. Rap dropped his gown, walked out of his sandals, and waded in. Jalon was close behind. They sank gratefully into warm bliss, reclining on a squishily soft matting of leaves and mud. For some minutes they just lay.
Then Jalon tried again. “Rap? You . . . you wouldn’t . . . you won’t share?”
If Andor had asked, the plea would have been more skilled and refusal much easier. What had Jalon ever done to deserve his portion of Rap’s vengeance?
Plenty! When he’d met an innocent boy who didn’t even know what a word of power was or that he even knew one, Jalon had not explained, and he had certainly not mentioned the dangers. He’d merely muttered a cryptic and useless warning about Darad. Jalon had lost any claim on Rap’s friendship at their first meeting, so Rap was now entitled to . . .
Power was very easy to justify to one’s conscience.
“No. My aim is to help Inos. For that I’m going to need all the power I can muster.” He would not share the word his mother had told him. “But I make you the same promise I made Andor: You help me first, and then I’ll help you. Maybe then, when Inos is safely on her throne . . . Maybe then I’ll even tell you my own word. If it’s necessary to lift your curse, I will.” Promises were easy.
Jalon nodded solemnly and offered a hand on it. And there was no guile on his face, damn him!
The water was marvelously soothing on sun-battered, travelworn bodies, and the dim peace of the forest was balm for nerves that still rang with memories of dragons. Rap could hear dragons, if he strained, but they were very distant, a faint mumbling and squabbling, no threat to anyone. They sounded rather like sleepy chickens, in fact.
Gathmor lurched in over the sand ridge, walking with a pronounced stoop. He dropped the robe he was carrying and waded into the pool.
“Id like to talk to Sagorn, please,” Rap said.
The water was up to Jalon’s chin and when he shook his head, he spread circles of ripples.
“Why not?”
“He’s dying—or at least very sick. He really did have some sort of seizure. And he told you the word!” Jalon shuddered. “That hurt! Gods, that hurt him! And then . . . Well, it’s amazing he had the strength to call Andor. ” He screwed up his face at the memories of approaching death.
So Rap had killed Sagorn! Even if he was not in any true sense dead, none of the gang would ever dare call him again. Revenge was a very sour fruit.
And what of his soul? Sagorn had not seemed especially evil, although the Gods would know more of him than Rap ever could.
Sagorn had tried to steal Rap’s word of power. That was an evil to cancel out a lot of good. But the man was not truly dead! How could his soul go before the Gods for weighing if he wasn’t dead? Would it remain forever in some sort of limbo, holding unreleased forever the spark of residue, the balance that should go to join the Evil or the Good? The undead dark?
God of Fools!
Gathmor had been sitting hunched up. Now he lay back gingerly, wincing as if something hurt. He glanced suspiciously at the other two, alert for traces of amusement.
“Rap!” Jalon said. “You used power against a dragon!”
“I know. I’m trying not to think about it.” The warlock of the south might be on Rap’s trail right now. “Let me talk to Darad, please.” That would be magic, but Oothiana had said the transformations were too brief to be located.
Jalon blinked, seemed about to argue, then nodded. The giant jotunn appeared in his place with a stupendous splash, sending waves surging across the pool. Gathmor, taken by surprise, tried to sit up and obviously regretted the hasty move.
Darad looked hard at Rap, then opened his mouth in a huge crocodile grin, displaying his fangs. Rap was tensed, prepared to jump up and treat him as he had treated Gathmor, but there was no need. The fighter’s face was hideously battered and disfigured with tattoos, yet as easy to read as a child’s, and it was filled now with great amusement.
Chuckling hoarsely, Darad offered a hand larger than Rap’s foot. ”Thanks, faun! You sure fixed them!”
Rap clasped hands, saw the inevitable squeeze coming, and calmly bettered it. Darad looked comically astonished at the resistance, then alarmed, and finally howled very satisfactorily, raising flocks of birds from the trees. Rap released him, suddenly ashamed. He was no better than they were, these crude, sadistic jotnar! No, he was worse because he was cheating, not using honest muscle.
Unabashed, gently massaging his damaged hand with the other one, the ogre resumed his grin. “That primpy, prissy Sagorn! You made him look pretty stupid!”
“Liked that, did you?”
“Loved it!” The wolf teeth flashed again. “Been waiting a hundred years for him to get what’s coming to him! He was a snotty, smartass kid, and he only got worse. But you watch that Andor! Don’t trust him!”
“I won’t.” Rap studied the dim-witted warrior for a moment. ”How about you? Will you take the same deal?”
Darad nodded vigorously. “You bet! You can count on me, sir! You’ll get this spell off of us if anyone can—and it won’t take you a hundred years, neither! I’m your man, Master Rap!”
He meant it! Even as a mundane, Rap would never have been deceived by Darad. His new occult sense of truth detected no reservations, and now he could readily see that Darad was a born follower who preferred having a superior around to tell him who to kill or maim. Once he gave his word he would be more loyal than Andor or Thinal, and infinitely more reliable than Jalon, within the narrow bounds of his abilities. Amazing!
But Rap had not yet said he would accept this new henchman, and his hesitation had provoked a very worried expression on the jotunn’s grotesque features. He could have no real conscience, but he apparently had some sense of justice. “Sir?” he muttered. “I guess I did a job on your face back on the boat there. Got a bit carried away, see? If you want a few free ones to make us even . . . well, I’d understand.”
So Darad would humbly stand still while Rap systematically battered his eyes? The image was enough to make the new adept explode in his first genuine laughter for days, and the resulting perplexity on Darad’s face only increased his mirth.
“I think we’re about quits,” Rap said, catching his breath. ”You sold me to the goblins. I set my dog on you. Little Chicken began the eye work, but I gave the orders. Princess Kadolan burned your back, so we’ll count that in, too, right?” Then, as Darad nodded and leered his agreement, Rap had a vision of himself walking up to Inos’s aunt and blacking her eyes to settle her account, and that absurdity convulsed him in more howls of mirth, while the two jotnar sharing the pool with him exchanged puzzled glances.