“A weapon?” It was Kahya that spoke, her eyes now wide in alarm. “And you would hand it over so willingly? If these markings hold such power as you say, do you not worry to what purpose these sorcerers will put it?”
Abrafo shrugged. “Perhaps they will wield it against their enemies. Or perhaps they will unleash horror upon the lands. It is not my concern or care. So long as I receive payment.”
“Friend Abrafo.” It was Master Dawan now who spoke, his voice gentle. “Certainly, there are greater things in this world than wealth. What these dark men of foul magics would do to this man, what they would do with this power, surely it must weigh upon your heart.”
“Wealth?” The big man laughed. “You mistake us Master Dawan. Wealth is not what the sorcerers have promised us for this prize.” He moved to kneel and look the old man directly in the eye. “We are to be gifted with magics that will make our skin invulnerable to weapons, our blood immune to poisons, bodies able to heal from any wound or affliction. We will be immortal. Whatever may come, we will survive it—and then we can become as rich as we wish.” He came to his feet and released a lengthy breath. “But for now, Master Dawan, there will be some unpleasantness to come, for your eyes and ears have witnessed much—and the brotherhood greatly values its secrecy.”
As the grim meaning of those words sank in Makami felt his stomach go hollow. A look of horror crossed Master Dawan’s face as he reflexively reached for his daughters. Then just as quickly, he returned to his jovial self.
“Come then friend Abrafo,” he urged pleasantly. “There is no need for such talk. Surely, we can arrive at some understanding. My family and I are but simple traders. We spend much of our lives in the desert. Who can we tell such tales to?”
“Ah, Master Dawan,” the big man smiled, wagging a finger playfully. “But you are a lover of tales. And this story may be too great to keep. No, there is no understanding to which we will come.”
The pleasantness on the old man’s face slowly slid away, and Makami felt his stomach tightening. Abrafo sounded like a man who would regret the slitting of a child’s throat, but slit it all the same.
“Please, I beg you. If you must silence any tongues this day, let it be mine.”
Master Dawan’s daughters screamed as one at his words, clutching and pulling at their father as if he had already gone. Even Kahya looked stunned, her face trembling.
Abrafo stared at the old man, seeming to mull over his words before shaking his head.
“No, I cannot grant that wish Master Dawan,” he said finally. “But you offered me food and drink, and for that I am grateful. So, I will promise that at the least, you will not have to watch your daughters die.” He gave an order and one of the other men grabbed the old man, pulling him away from his family who wailed and tore at his clothing. Kahya rose up, as if she intended to fight all three of their captors with her bare hands alone. But Abrafo caught and easily wrestled her to the ground, bringing his jagged sword to the throat of a younger daughter in threat. Master Dawan was brought to the forefront, and placed upon his knees. His eyes were closed and his mouth moved rapidly, speaking words in his native tongue. A prayer, Makami knew. It came like a song that rose and fell in a rolling fashion.
“Yes, old man,” Abrafo said soothingly. “Finish the prayer to your goddess. You will be reunited with your daughters soon enough.”
Makami watched the unfolding scene in horror. The knife at his neck had been pressed so firmly into his skin that it now drew blood. Catching a glance of Kahya he met her eyes to find she was staring directly at him, her gaze stabbing into him and her mouth moving. At first, he thought the woman was praying as well. But no, she was saying something, directly to him, shouting it in fact, above the screams of her sisters and her father’s sorrowful entreaties. Breathe, she was saying. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
Makami listened puzzled as she repeated the words, almost pleadingly. He had heard them before, whispered into his ear during their nightly sessions, as they lay wrapped in each other’s skin. It was how she taught him to slow the markings, to control his skin. He was struck suddenly by his own thoughts, mingling with the words Abrafo had spoken earlier. Control his skin. The markings as a weapon. Whoever wielded it...
He met Kahya’s eyes with sudden understanding, and attempted to do as she asked—breathe.
It took some trying, the chaos about him distracting his thoughts. He had to find a way to concentrate. It came amazingly from Master Dawan. The old man’s prayerful chant flowed into his ears, offering him the bit of peace he needed. The markings shifted upon his chest—only slightly, but enough to give him renewed hope. He did not dwell on the irony that the very curse that had robbed him of so much, might now offer salvation. It is the skin that is magic. That was what Kahya had taught him. Whatever was placed upon it was his to master. Yet, try as he might, the numbness on his skin robbed him of control. It was like trying to move a
