Read Online Seeker (The Source Chronicles Book 1) by MJ Blehart - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: MJ Blehart
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upon your deathbed, and still do not speak? Do I seem such a monster to you?”
He made no move, only continued to look towards the King blankly.
Varlock-Sharron did not even flinch. “Very well. I had hoped you may finally be willing to speak to me. I decided to let you simply be hanged. At first, we were going to have you tortured publicly, then beheaded. But I think this simple execution will get the point across. Your kind do not belong in this Kingdom.”
The Sorcerer said nothing, keeping his expression unchanged. It took a great deal of will to not demand answers from this man, or to plead for his life.
“Do you know why we are having you killed? You broke our most ardent law, a law known throughout this part of the world. I could not let you go free, even if I wanted to. I have to make an example of you. You are the first Sorcerer to openly walk these lands in over twenty years. I cannot ignore that.”
The King turned away from the sorcerer, and started pacing. “Yes, you were tortured. Yes, my methods are rather harsh. I do not deny that. I am a strong King, and, I believe, a good King. We have peace. We have stability. Other than a few bandits and outlaws, these lands are safe. Safer than any of my predecessors made them,” he spun back to face the condemned man. “Had you come to my lands, and kept your power to yourself, or even come before me, perhaps things would have gone differently. I am making no apology for what I do. I wanted you to know, from me, why you must die.”
The Sorcerer was taken aback. This man was King. He need not justify his actions. Why did it matter? He struggled inwardly, yet kept his face a complete blank.
The King seemed to be looking right into him, but turned abruptly away. Before leaving, he turned back. “Paper and quill are being brought to you, so you may leave messages for loved ones. They will be sealed, and delivered. I will see to that. I am no tyrant, Sorcerer. I hope your last meal was satisfactory. Your time is short. Use it well.”
Varlock-Sharron departed, and a moment later a guard brought forth the promised writing implements. Setting them down on the end of the bunk, he took his leave and closed the door.
The Sorcerer finally allowed his emotion to come out, a look of consternation crossing his face. It was strange that the King, so cruel in his torture, so cold in his letter of the law, saw fit to come to him. He sensed something more, something nagging at the back of his brain, but could not put his finger on it.
There were no letters to leave. He was alone. No one would mourn him. It was of no consequence. Not even the destiny he believed to have led him here could save him now.
His time on this world had been short. For all he had learned, for all he had seen, it was not enough. He concentrated, trying to let the little power he could hold suffuse him with calm and strength, so he could die with dignity.
He did not want to die.
******
“M’lady, that piece is handcrafted, one-of-a-kind,” he said in a soft, melodic voice. “Like the others on that rack, ‘tis three silver chaplets.”
“Thank you, my lord,” she said with genuine appreciation.
Lyrra-Sharron was with Andim and Kallan, examining a cotton scarf. They stood just behind her, acting as guards. She wore a blonde wig now, the hair pulled back tightly, covered by a head-scarf. Her face had been lightened with make-up by the merchant’s wife. She wore an unadorned but fine riding dress, and a short coat. She appeared as a minor noble, with a pair of guards, probably father and son.
The others were scattered about the marketplace, moving around the crowd, blending in.
As per usual, there were carts and wagons bearing samples of the complete wares of the local merchants ringing the central market square. There was nothing manufactured or grown that could not be purchased in
He made no move, only continued to look towards the King blankly.
Varlock-Sharron did not even flinch. “Very well. I had hoped you may finally be willing to speak to me. I decided to let you simply be hanged. At first, we were going to have you tortured publicly, then beheaded. But I think this simple execution will get the point across. Your kind do not belong in this Kingdom.”
The Sorcerer said nothing, keeping his expression unchanged. It took a great deal of will to not demand answers from this man, or to plead for his life.
“Do you know why we are having you killed? You broke our most ardent law, a law known throughout this part of the world. I could not let you go free, even if I wanted to. I have to make an example of you. You are the first Sorcerer to openly walk these lands in over twenty years. I cannot ignore that.”
The King turned away from the sorcerer, and started pacing. “Yes, you were tortured. Yes, my methods are rather harsh. I do not deny that. I am a strong King, and, I believe, a good King. We have peace. We have stability. Other than a few bandits and outlaws, these lands are safe. Safer than any of my predecessors made them,” he spun back to face the condemned man. “Had you come to my lands, and kept your power to yourself, or even come before me, perhaps things would have gone differently. I am making no apology for what I do. I wanted you to know, from me, why you must die.”
The Sorcerer was taken aback. This man was King. He need not justify his actions. Why did it matter? He struggled inwardly, yet kept his face a complete blank.
The King seemed to be looking right into him, but turned abruptly away. Before leaving, he turned back. “Paper and quill are being brought to you, so you may leave messages for loved ones. They will be sealed, and delivered. I will see to that. I am no tyrant, Sorcerer. I hope your last meal was satisfactory. Your time is short. Use it well.”
Varlock-Sharron departed, and a moment later a guard brought forth the promised writing implements. Setting them down on the end of the bunk, he took his leave and closed the door.
The Sorcerer finally allowed his emotion to come out, a look of consternation crossing his face. It was strange that the King, so cruel in his torture, so cold in his letter of the law, saw fit to come to him. He sensed something more, something nagging at the back of his brain, but could not put his finger on it.
There were no letters to leave. He was alone. No one would mourn him. It was of no consequence. Not even the destiny he believed to have led him here could save him now.
His time on this world had been short. For all he had learned, for all he had seen, it was not enough. He concentrated, trying to let the little power he could hold suffuse him with calm and strength, so he could die with dignity.
He did not want to die.
******
“M’lady, that piece is handcrafted, one-of-a-kind,” he said in a soft, melodic voice. “Like the others on that rack, ‘tis three silver chaplets.”
“Thank you, my lord,” she said with genuine appreciation.
Lyrra-Sharron was with Andim and Kallan, examining a cotton scarf. They stood just behind her, acting as guards. She wore a blonde wig now, the hair pulled back tightly, covered by a head-scarf. Her face had been lightened with make-up by the merchant’s wife. She wore an unadorned but fine riding dress, and a short coat. She appeared as a minor noble, with a pair of guards, probably father and son.
The others were scattered about the marketplace, moving around the crowd, blending in.
As per usual, there were carts and wagons bearing samples of the complete wares of the local merchants ringing the central market square. There was nothing manufactured or grown that could not be purchased in
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