Thursday, May 3, 2012

The Tower 60

Sareanne skids to a stop and I almost crash into her. Our eyes meet and Antheus’ narrow.
“You have been more trouble to me than you are worth,” Antheus says to me. “I’m regretting the decision to call you here in the first place.”
“You should have thought of that before,” Sareanne replies snidely.
Antheus smiles wickedly. “I suppose you are right, but it is a problem I can resolve right now.”
He lifted his staff and waved it in my direction mumbling something under his breath. Nothing happens. I look around to see if Sareanne had built the circle of protection, but no stones have appeared around me. I back at Antheus trying to understand what was happening and then the sound of laughter startles me.
It is a pretty little musical sound emanating from Sareanne. I look at her face and realize just how beautiful she is when she truly smiles.
“Your power no longer works here, Antheus. We are protected, even without my circle,” Sareanne laughs.
Antheus’ face twists into a mask of anger.
“You’ve lost, Antheus,” I say carefully. “Just give up and go back to Betlath.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mutters darkly.
I look at his face and for half a second I see something that startles me. I lean forward trying to catch it again, but his fa├žade remains solid. What I had seen, though, sears through my brain. I try to wrap my mind around it. It was just the faintest glimpse of an old, wrinkled, sickly, looking man.
His blue eyes bored into my daring me to speak out loud. There was something there that piqued my interest, something that picked at the back of my mind just like the idea about the clock. I struggled with the glimpse I had seen until I could find the words to describe my thought.
“You’re related to them, aren’t you?” I said quietly.
A flash of fear whipped across his face and his eyes widened ever so slightly. That was what confirmed my suspicions. The blue eyes and expression of fear was so close to the same expression I had seen on Sareanne’s face. He was definitely a relative of some sort.
“Who are you?” I ask begging for an answer.
“It does not matter who I am,” he replies angrily, but his anger is short lived.
“Related?” Sareanne says wonderingly.
She peers into his face searching for something and finds it. She gasps.
Before she can speak I blurt out the realization I gain, “You’re older than you appear, and ill.”
            Fear widens his eyes once again and his face pales.

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