Realms of Magic - Brian Thomsen King [26]
I scanned the smoky interior. In one corner sat a man, pale and nervous, fidgeting with-but not drinking from- a dented flagon. It could be no other. Zeth. He was older than I had guessed. His thin face was sharply lined though not unhandsome, and gray flecked his dark hair. Drab clothes hung loosely upon his lean frame. At once I knew he was no mage. I wended my way through the tavern and sat opposite him. He glanced up, his expression one of surprise. Yet it seemed a strange smugness shone in his dark eyes.
"I didn't think you'd come," he said in a hoarse voice.
"Yet, here I am," I countered smoothly.
He fumbled with the flagon. "Would you like a drink?"
"No," I replied.
Silence settled between us. The first move was up to him. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I can feel it radiating from you, you know." A hunger filled his voice. "Magic, I mean. It's… it must be… intoxicating."
With these words, I knew him. Without doubt, Zeth was one of those few who are utterly dead to the touch of magic-what some mages cruelly called geldings. Their kind was rare, but had been known for centuries. Occasionally, masters encountered students who, no matter their intelligence or effort, could not learn even the simplest of spells. For reason unknown, they could neither sense nor channel the forces of magic. Most geldings gave up their arcane studies and turned to other pursuits, leading normal lives. Yet I had heard tales of geldings who had been driven mad by their ill-fated desire to wield magic.
"I'm sorry," I said, speaking the first words that came to my mind.
Anger flared in his eyes. "Save your apologies, Morhion Gen'dahar," he hissed. He clenched his hand into a trembling fist. "I want your power, not your pity."
I gazed at him unflinchingly. "I cannot give it to you, Zeth."
He slowly unclenched his hand. His thin shoulders slumped. "No, I suppose you can't," he whispered. He stared despondently at the table. "I had hoped that maybe you would know a way to help me. I should have known better."
This must be torture for him, I realized. He must be drawn to mages even as he loathed and resented them. It was a cruel illness, but one of which I could not cure him, one which I would only inflame with my presence. "I believe I will go now, Zeth," I said quietly.
He nodded jerkily, still staring at the table, then looked up as I started to rise. "Please," he choked. "Let me at least shake your hand before you go-so that I can say I have indeed met the great wizard Morhion Gen'dahar."
I hesitated. It seemed wrong to aid his delusions in any way. Yet such was the haunted look in his dark eyes that I could not resist. "Very well," I replied finally.
He stood and held out his hand-his left, rather than his right. This was odd, but I thought little of it. I reached my left hand toward him.
"May Mystra guide you-" I started to speak. The words faltered on my lips.
An intricate symbol was tattooed on the back of his left hand. The glyph filled me with a sudden inexplicable dread. I tried to snatch my hand back, but it was too late. Zeth's fingers closed around mine. Agony raced up my arm like white fire. I arched my spine, throwing my head back as a scream ripped itself from my lungs. There was a brilliant flash, and the reek of lightning filled the air. At last, Zeth released my hand. I reeled backward, stumbling weakly against a wall. I stared at him in pain-clouded confusion. Strangely, he was laughing.
"You cannot give it to me," he said mockingly, "but I can take it from you." He held up his left hand. On the palm was a puckered scar, as if from a hot brand. It was a symbol I knew well: the Rune of Magic. His laughter rose to a maddening