it.
A moment later, the spell faded and the man was revealed. His face was wrapped in some type of fabric that seemed to have been reinforced by steel mesh, and most of his leathers had been similarly enshrouded. The only other noticeable detail was the blue gemstone that sat in a ring upon his finger. Cyric unwrapped the fabric from the man’s face with his free hand.
“Marek,” Cyric said in a whisper “After all these years.”
Cyric stared into the older man’s eyes and Marek began to laugh a hearty, good natured roar. “Always the ill-tempered student, Cyric. Even to your mentor.”
Cyric tightened his grip, and Marek looked to the ceiling. “Young fool,” he said hoarsely. “If my intent had been to take your life, your last breath would have been drawn days ago. I merely wished to prove to myself that you still possessed the skills I taught you, that you were yet worthy of my attention.” Marek grimaced. “An old man’s folly, if you will. You might well have killed me in my foolishness.”
“Why should I believe you, the master of lies?”
Marek let out a dispassionate wheeze. “Believe what you like. The Thieves’ Guild wishes you back where you belong, back with your own kind.”
Cyric attempted to hide his reaction, but he could not quell the smile that crossed his lips and betrayed him to Marek.
“You have had these thoughts as well,” Marek said, pleased. “I have observed you, good Cyric. The life you lead isn’t worthy of a dog.”
“It’s a life,” Cyric said.
“Not for one with your gift. You were shown the way, and you elevated it to undreamed-of heights.”
Cyric’s smile broadened. “Once the lies begin it is as a dam bursting, is that it? I was a fair thief. My absence was noticed by few. This is only a point of pride for you. In fact, I would wager the Guild knows nothing of this visit.”
Marek grimaced. “How long can this charade last?”
“That depends,” Cyric said, and pressed the blade tightly against his former mentor’s throat.
Marek looked down at the knife. “Will you kill me, then?”
“What?” Cyric grinned. “And waste the sharp edge of my blade on such as you? Nay, I believe Arabel will have use for your talents. I may even reap a decent commission in the process.”
“I’ll expose you!”
“I’ll be gone,” Cyric said. “And no one will believe you, nor care to find me even if they do. Our kind is rarely in demand once our secrets are out.”
“Others will come,” Marek said. “Sell me into slavery and others will come.”
“Then you would prefer I kill you?”
“Yes.”
“All the more reason not to,” Cyric said and rose up and away from Marek, the game at an end.
“I taught you too well,” Marek said, then stood to face his former student. “The Guild would take you back, Cyric. Even though you didn’t even try to take my ring.” Marek winked. “Stole it from a sorcerer, along with a cache of items I don’t pretend to understand.”
There was a knock at the door. “Yes?” Cyric shouted, taking his eyes from Marek for only a heartbeat. Cyric heard the sound of glass crunching. When he looked back, Marek was nowhere to be seen. Cyric rushed to the window and caught sight of Marek on the street below. The older man seemed to dare Cyric to follow him.
The knock at the door was repeated.
“A summons from Kelemvor and Adon to meet at the Pride of Arabel Inn at your earliest convenience.”
“And your name?”
“Tensyl Durmond, of Iardon’s Hirelings.”
“Hold for but a moment, good Tensyl, and I will have a gold piece for you.”
“Join us,” Marek called from the street. “Else your petty little life among the hard-working will be shattered in a fortnight. I’m not above exposing you to get what I want, Cyric. Remember this.”
“I’ll remember,” Cyric said softly, then turned his back and went to the door. “I always remember.”
Cyric opened the door to the boy, ignoring the gaping
A moment later, the spell faded and the man was revealed. His face was wrapped in some type of fabric that seemed to have been reinforced by steel mesh, and most of his leathers had been similarly enshrouded. The only other noticeable detail was the blue gemstone that sat in a ring upon his finger. Cyric unwrapped the fabric from the man’s face with his free hand.
“Marek,” Cyric said in a whisper “After all these years.”
Cyric stared into the older man’s eyes and Marek began to laugh a hearty, good natured roar. “Always the ill-tempered student, Cyric. Even to your mentor.”
Cyric tightened his grip, and Marek looked to the ceiling. “Young fool,” he said hoarsely. “If my intent had been to take your life, your last breath would have been drawn days ago. I merely wished to prove to myself that you still possessed the skills I taught you, that you were yet worthy of my attention.” Marek grimaced. “An old man’s folly, if you will. You might well have killed me in my foolishness.”
“Why should I believe you, the master of lies?”
Marek let out a dispassionate wheeze. “Believe what you like. The Thieves’ Guild wishes you back where you belong, back with your own kind.”
Cyric attempted to hide his reaction, but he could not quell the smile that crossed his lips and betrayed him to Marek.
“You have had these thoughts as well,” Marek said, pleased. “I have observed you, good Cyric. The life you lead isn’t worthy of a dog.”
“It’s a life,” Cyric said.
“Not for one with your gift. You were shown the way, and you elevated it to undreamed-of heights.”
Cyric’s smile broadened. “Once the lies begin it is as a dam bursting, is that it? I was a fair thief. My absence was noticed by few. This is only a point of pride for you. In fact, I would wager the Guild knows nothing of this visit.”
Marek grimaced. “How long can this charade last?”
“That depends,” Cyric said, and pressed the blade tightly against his former mentor’s throat.
Marek looked down at the knife. “Will you kill me, then?”
“What?” Cyric grinned. “And waste the sharp edge of my blade on such as you? Nay, I believe Arabel will have use for your talents. I may even reap a decent commission in the process.”
“I’ll expose you!”
“I’ll be gone,” Cyric said. “And no one will believe you, nor care to find me even if they do. Our kind is rarely in demand once our secrets are out.”
“Others will come,” Marek said. “Sell me into slavery and others will come.”
“Then you would prefer I kill you?”
“Yes.”
“All the more reason not to,” Cyric said and rose up and away from Marek, the game at an end.
“I taught you too well,” Marek said, then stood to face his former student. “The Guild would take you back, Cyric. Even though you didn’t even try to take my ring.” Marek winked. “Stole it from a sorcerer, along with a cache of items I don’t pretend to understand.”
There was a knock at the door. “Yes?” Cyric shouted, taking his eyes from Marek for only a heartbeat. Cyric heard the sound of glass crunching. When he looked back, Marek was nowhere to be seen. Cyric rushed to the window and caught sight of Marek on the street below. The older man seemed to dare Cyric to follow him.
The knock at the door was repeated.
“A summons from Kelemvor and Adon to meet at the Pride of Arabel Inn at your earliest convenience.”
“And your name?”
“Tensyl Durmond, of Iardon’s Hirelings.”
“Hold for but a moment, good Tensyl, and I will have a gold piece for you.”
“Join us,” Marek called from the street. “Else your petty little life among the hard-working will be shattered in a fortnight. I’m not above exposing you to get what I want, Cyric. Remember this.”
“I’ll remember,” Cyric said softly, then turned his back and went to the door. “I always remember.”
Cyric opened the door to the boy, ignoring the gaping
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