“Tales I have in great number,” Abrafo said finally. He settled back lazily on one elbow; the cup held before him while a wistful expression stole his face. “Here is one you may find of interest—it is about a thief and a sorcerer.”
Makami stopped the cup that he was lifting to his own lips, his ears perking to life. Staring at Abrafo the big man did not seem to be looking in his direction, but his words had set Makami’s heart fluttering.
“There was once a thief,” the big man said, “who lived in a city to the far west, in one of the great kingdoms, between oceans of water and oceans of sand. He was a good thief, whose fame was celebrated on the streets of the city for his daring thefts. One night he decided to increase his fame. He would steal a prized jewel from one of the richest men in the city. What the thief didn’t know was that this man was a sorcerer, and not a man of simple magics or one who you go to for healing. No, this man practiced dark magics, forbidden in the kingdom. He belonged to a secret brotherhood, and they had become quite wealthy dabbling in their terrible practice.”
Makami’s heart beat so fast now that he thought it might jump from his chest. And for the first time, in some eleven days, the markings on his chest began to move. Since his first lesson with Kahya he had been able to control them, keeping them still while he slept and, in the days, while he worked. But his breathing had become sharp and chaotic listening to the big man’s tale, and what control he had slipped away. This tale was becoming too frightening, too real.
“That very night,” Abrafo went on, “the sorcerer was working one of his greatest magics—markings etched with blood and ink upon stone. Unknown to him however, a thief had entered his home. The two stumbled upon each other, quite in surprise—the thief thinking that the darkened home was empty, not expecting to find anyone within. Any other day, the sorcerer would have killed an intruder outright. But the magic he dealt in was powerful, and required all his concentration. In that moment of distraction, the sorcerer was seized by the very forces he sought to control and pitched forward—dead.”
“And what of the thief?” Master Dawan asked, his eyes alive with intrigue.
“Well that is where the story gets interesting,” Abrafo said with a wink. “The sorcerer died, but his magic did not. You see the thief himself could wield magic—a deep and old magic that rested within his skin. And magic, good or ill, is attracted to magic—it seeks it out, is drawn to it. The dark magics of the sorcerer came alive at sensing him. They left the stone they had been etched upon, latching onto this thief, burying into him, marking his skin.”
Makami glared openly. So, this man knew his story, knew it in detail that no one else could, and now gave answers that he himself could only have guessed upon. He still remembered that terrible night, standing with the dead sorcerer at his feet, watching as the strange markings etched onto the ground had slithered across stone, seeping into his skin, crawling up his body and embedding into his chest. The pain had been so great, he had almost passed out. Only fear had kept him awake long enough, to flee into the night and back home....
“But the unlucky thief didn’t know what had happened to him,” Abrafo continued. “You see the sorcerer had been creating doors with those markings, symbols that opened pathways to other worlds where unknown things dwell—demons and dark spirits. The unsuspecting thief returned home; this wicked magic buried into his skin. And there he fell into a deep sleep. But the magic worked upon him yet stirred. That very night as he slept, the markings upon his chest opened a door, releasing a monstrous demon that killed his wife, who herself was with child. When he awakened the room, he slept in was covered in her blood. Some say the thief went mad that night, and fled the city, forever running from the monster he had become.”
Makami released a sob, the tears he had tried to hold back choking him. Images of sweet Kesse flashed through his mind, and the events of that terrible night. The man knew much, more than Makami ever did—but not everything. He had not awakened to find Kesse dead; he had awakened to see it happen. He had watched as the terrible thing with endless arms, bristling with black hair, had emerged from his chest. He had watched it grab onto Kesse, and seen her wide terrified eyes as the monster ripped her to pieces. And he had been too weak to stop any of it. He had indeed gone a bit mad that night. But if these men still sought him, knowing all they did, they were madder than he.
“What do you want?” he asked, his voice matching the resignation on his face.
The big man Abrafo slowly finished draining his cup before turning to Makami, a slow smile spreading across his face. “So, the thief finally speaks.”
Makami did not reply. Casting eyes to the two other men, he could see they now stared at him openly. No, it had not been his imagination after all. Leopards these men were—and eager to hunt. Turning back to their leader he released a weary sigh.
“Whatever you want, whatever you think you’ll get from me—there will only be death in the end. You have come all this way, for nothing. Go now, please.”
Abrafo only returned a wider smile. Master Dawan frowned deeply, looking from Makami to their new guests in puzzlement, trying to fit the pieces together in his
