Haladras

Twenty-three

                     

"You needn't be afraid," said a voice that lacked any hint of malice. It almost sounded kind. No one else was in the room. Could it have come from Morvath? "I have no desire to harm you," it went on.

The cloaked form of Morvath drew a step closer to Skylar, moving with that same eerie stillness. He paused.

"Calm yourself," he said, soothingly. "I am a friend."

Then he slowly drew back the hood from over his face, and Skylar nearly gasped. How hideous and grotesque a creature Skylar imagined Morvath would be: scarcely human in appearance; with shriveled, gnarled skin, the color of spoiled milk; eyes that burned red with hatred; teeth pointed like fangs; and a nose like an eagle's beak—long and sharp.

No. This was an ordinary-looking man, as frightening to behold as an infant.

Could this be Morvath? Skylar wondered. Perhaps he was some other chief minister to the king. His heart took courage at the prospect. That hope, however, almost instantly died. Who else could it be? Who else could have produced that coldness in his bones? Who else commanded such power and could make a great lord like Denovyn uneasy? There was no doubt. This man was Morvath.

He appeared to be the same age as Lasseter or Krom, with noticeable sprigs of gray mixed with clay-colored hair around the ears. The skin of his face, marred by few wrinkles, was as pale as a corpse's. It blended well with his thin, colorless lips.

Morvath smiled. Not a mirthless smile filled with hatred, but one that—for an instant—drew Skylar in.

"I've been searching a long time for you," said Morvath, as a father might say to a long-lost son. "You've gone to great lengths to evade me. You're a long way from Haladras, Prince Korbyn."

Skylar contemplated playing dumb, acting as if he didn't know who Morvath was talking about. Somehow he knew that it would be useless. Morvath would know he was lying.

"You must forgive my appearance," continued the chief minister. "I'm cursed with poor skin—hypersensitivity to light. For our interview, however, I can bear the exposure.

"You've been told much about me, I'm sure," he went on, clasping his hands behind his back and turning casually toward a painting of Denovyn hanging on the wall. "The king's nefarious advisor? A wicked puppet-master, perhaps? Plotter in the death of Athylian, your father? I've heard them all, Korbyn."

Turning abruptly, he fixed Skylar squarely in the eyes.

"Do I look like such a villain to you?"

The question was so frank and earnest, Skylar was taken aback. He considered it a moment, then answered hesitantly, but truthfully, "No...no you don't."

Morvath smiled faintly and nodded, as if to say thank you.

"I understand your confusion, Korbyn. Those men who have been guarding you from me are, doubtless, honorable men. But even honorable men may be deceived. Knowing who to trust is not always as simple as it seems. A man may get an idea and convince himself of its veracity. He feels in his heart that it is right. And he'll let the entire universe be destroyed if it means defending that one belief."

Morvath took another step closer to Skylar, holding out his hands like a man who has said all that needs to be said.

"You see for yourself that I am not what they accuse me of being. I am not your enemy. I wish only to help you."

He took another step closer. Skylar's emotions raced.

"I can take you away from this nightmare. No more running. No more hiding. No more fear of some imaginary foe. Return with me to Ahlderon. King Tarus shall adopt you. You shall live in the manner fitting to your noble birth. All the comforts the Castle Ahlderon can offer shall be yours."