Change in a Dark Heart

Disclaimer: These characters are not mine nor would I want the responsibility that goes with them.

Author's Notes: Honestly I don't know what happened this time. All I wanted was a nice little dialogue between Zakath and Silk. Only I found that neither wanted to play nice. This set in Sorceress of Darshiva, a little bit after Zakath has joined the group, but before he loses his euphoria. It seemed strange to me that Zakath became suddenly wary and everyone became so chummy with him. Then I was going through it again and I was suddenly struck by how wild and downright cruel Zakath's threat was to Garion (that is to separated the gang and put a few on the rack), and well, here this is.

"Hypocrisy, the lie, is the true sister of evil, intolerance, and cruelty." Raisa Gorbachev

"In this world everything changes except good deeds and bad deeds; these follow you as the shadow follows the body."

Flip.

Smack.

Flip.

Smack.

Zakath frowned as Silk tossed the Mallorean coin in the air and caught it, the dazzling sunlight reflecting off the bright silver. By some accidental stroke, or just ill luck, his horse had fallen back during a mental lapse from their spot usual next to Garion, sidling next to the Drasnian's gray mare. It left Zakath without anyway to move upfront without appearing rude to move suddenly away from the sardonic-faced man.

It was not to say Zakath felt uncomfortable around the strange little Drasnian but he didn't exactly feel entirely comfortable around him either. If he were to be honest to himself, as it seemed to happen more and more often as he traveled with this peculiar band of wanderers and warriors, the Drasnian made him quite uneasy. Maybe it was because he seemed so…unimpressed with the Emperor.

Flip.

Smack.

Inwardly he frowned at his inner thoughts, carefully looking through his past memories of the pointy-noised thief. He had heard about him as Prince Kheldar of Drasnia, nephew of King Rhodar, and fairly probable heir to the throne. It came as a surprise, in some ways, when a direct heir of Drasnia had been born. What was more surprising was that there had been no foul play to the young prince-ling that had finally graced the royal pair before King Rhodar had finally passed away. If he recalled, King Rhodar's wife had become regent with very few ripples from the Alorian kings. Such a strange race, even as he got to know them more and more. At the time, it seemed Kheldar had been unwise, or at least impolitic and lazy, to let such an easy way into power and fame pass him by. Of course that was before his men had realized Silk had been dabbling in business, specifically Mallorean businesses. Still, as a possible political ally, even before the heir's birth, Zakath's men had started to make note as the prince's reputation started to become wide spread. A few crumbs of his expertise as a thief, spy, and assassin even reaching Zakath's ears, though most could be brushed off as legends and horror stories. There had been nothing more striking, or more exaggerated, about his history than any usual Alorian noble, except for the brief episode when news had come to him that he traveled with Belgarath and Belgarion. But that had been such a minor detail in the large scheme of things, that he had merely noted it and felt little interest to follow why an average nobleman would be following to mythical demigods. It felt rather odd, looking back on his past thoughts, clouded by coldly calculating anger, guilt, and self-destruction. As he rode longer and longer with Garion, he was beginning to realize how empty those emotions were.

Flip.

Smack.

Then there was gap and a mere trickle of information came to Zakath from the West. Or, more bluntly speaking, another habit he seemed to be picking up and he was unsure if this one was as good even if it was within his own thoughts, there was plenty of information coming over from the West, he had just chosen to ignore it. Up until, of course, Belgarion had come waltzing into his kingdom after leaving Cthol Murgos actually intact and Urgit rallying his troops with a miraculous-grown backbone. It was then that he had started to pay attention to the information that Brador had collected over the years concerning the curious companions that followed Belgarion, the Godslayer.

No, he reversed his thinking, searching through his clouded memory, he had been concerned about the Godslayer and wanted to know if his companions could tell him more about Belgarion. In his convoluted logic, he had thought he would have been able to blackmail, or at least have the upper hand over the Godslayer. Any scrap of information that was considered useful, whether it was the expertise of weaponry or marriage life, Brador found it for him. It concerned him a little thinking on how callously he had viewed Belgarion's companions. Had he been that focused on revenge that he ignored all other information except to further his own twisted desire for revenge?

More possible than he felt comfortable with. He shifted uncomfortably on his horse.

Flip.

Smack.

Thoughts of revenge and suicide pervaded him during day, and dreams of innocent blood that stained his hands haunted his night. He hated Tar Urgas, with a hindsight he had sorely missed before riding with Garion, because he could focus all his hatred and guilt on someone else rather than on himself, and using that hatred to kill hundreds of innocent lives because he denied looking at his own soul. It took a somber youth and an implacable stone that hadn't been moved by his denial or justification to realize who he truly hated, who he tried to hide behind. It was no wonder Silk was not impressed with him, petty and mad tyrant that he had been, his whole life one specific goal. A goal that even he didn't acknowledge until a beautiful child questioned him, as he realized with a chill, and he discovered he truly did want to die.

Right now, however, he truly did not want to die. In fact, he smiled a little, he was completely different from that man who slaughtered millions. Totally and absolutely changed. No longer was he obsessed with Murgos and death, but life and friends.

"Do you have a problem?"

Zakath jerked at the question. Silk looked at him narrowly, still flipping the coin in the air.

An uncountable twitch of annoyance went through Zakath aimed at the little coin. Which was illogical since it wasn't the coin's fault for flipping in the air, and practically gloating that it was free and he wasn't. But he was free, freer than he had been for a long time. It was an exhilarating feeling, actually, not to have people bend and prostrate around you, though he couldn't deny the attraction of all that attention, and not have to deal with all the petty problems that go with running such a large kingdom. Yes, perhaps, it was the coin that should be jealous of him. Not the other way around.

Or perhaps he was just irritated because he had been interrupted from his depressing musings. Never a good sign to compare himself to a coin, not even in this group.

"-Zakath, Polgara."

He pulled his thoughts away, realizing he had missed everything the little thief had said. Trying to be regal, which was spoiled by Silk's amused expression, Zakath said, "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"I said, that if you were having a problem, that you should go to Polgara instead of glowering at me."

"I wasn't-," he clamped his lips down.

Silk raised his eyebrows, "Weren't glowering or weren't glowering at me?"

Zakath did not answer, finding no words to say. Not comfortable ones at least. He tried to resist squirming under probing eyes.

Flip.

Smack.

For a moment he thought Silk would let it go. Let it slide as one more peculiar quirk, an after-affect of his euphoria, his sudden happiness in life in general.

Flip.

Smack.

He underestimated Silk's tenacity.

Flip.

Smack.

Still flipping the damned coin, Silk said, "When I first heard about you, I thought you might have turned out to be decent person. For an Angarak I mean."

Zakath twitched, repressed a snide comment about certain Drasnians and their opinions, and kept a neutral expression on his face. He could hear Silk out. For now anyway.

"And then when you started butchering Murgos I was slightly disappointed. Of course, then I found out about your entanglement with the fairer sex, and it became more understandable."

"I wouldn't have thought you cared," he said icily, "except in this past year, Alorns and Angaraks haven't exactly cared about what happens to each other."

Silk grinned. An insufferable smile. He recognized it on bureaucrats that thought they had gotten the best of him. Which had amused him, because he had them killed after they had explained their plans to them. There was some grim satisfaction in hearing their screams echo through the halls. He couldn't exactly do that here though. And he really shouldn't either. Really. He was past killing people for pleasure, it was part of his old self. A self that no longer existed.

"I don't have any particular fondness for Murgos, but your passion was more than a little extreme. I mean its one thing to wipe out whole garrisons, but to put the entire town to sword was overkill."

"Can you blame me?"

"Blame you? Never. Blame is a wasteful energy anyway, much better to get even."

Zakath narrowed his eyes but couldn't find any trace of threat in the narrow face. Didn't mean it wasn't there though, and he had a feeling there was an insult somewhere in it as well. He fumed silently, but kept, what he hoped to be, bland expression on his face.

Flip.

Smack.

He watched it fly though the air, landing on Silk's outstretched palm, before being flipped over and landing yet again. The noise of the metal hitting the skin seemed unnaturally loud to him. Though maybe that was because it had been such a long time since he had been around such noise. The palaces he kept were quiet, his audience at least demure in conversation, and the longest time that he worked was during the night, hours men and women walked around only rarely. Here, wandering and walking, there was always noise. From the wild animals to conversations, to the steady rustle that the horses made. Yet for the disruptive noise, the coin hitting the skin seemed unnaturally loud.

Flip.

Smack.

"You have to understand Zakath, I wouldn't have cared anything about you, anyone who kills Murgos can't be all bad, until you kidnapped Polgara, along with Durnik and Ce'Nedra and Errand. For Zedar of all people. Torak maybe I could comprehend, but for a disloyal, gutless worm? Foolish of you, to suddenly ally with religion."

"I didn't have much of a choice in the matter," he argued.

Silk raised his eyebrows in a show of disbelief, but went on, "But you didn't harm them, so I could let it slide and you sent a very nice letter to Garion, so it could be forgiven. Besides, I had other things to keep me busy rather than try to bring vengeance against the messenger. But you kept butchering Murgos, even after your hated enemy was dead, by the millions, without any signs of stopping. Not even the Alorian influence would have caused you to stumble, not at your height of victories when Cthol Murgos was at your feet, groveling. Then we found ourselves in your hands. Hands that were, marginally, tied up by politics and fear of Garion, and, of course, recuperating from being poisoned. Hands, though, stained with blood of men and women and children, and ones that I had yet to see feel anything close to remorse."

Zakath felt a slight twinge of irritation. He was not that man. Didn't Silk know that? It was foolish anyway to stay in the past. He was happy in the present, and did not need any remainders of what had happens. After all, he had changed. Hadn't he?

"Do get to the point."

"Still, if nothing else, you were diplomatic and never touched us inappropriately, or crossed any line that could even be thought as offensive. Or at least you didn't, until we came to Mal Zeth and paraded us in front of your people, your court, and your soldiers, keeping us in a gilded prison. Free to do as we wanted, but never to leave."

"It wasn't meant to be a prison," he grated out.

"I would think Garion would beg to differ," Silk voice was very mild.

Garion.

Garion and he had talked often during the last couple of weeks before the plague had broken out. Both of them had started to lose their tempers by the end, starting to threaten each other all too seriously. Ones, in his heart, he knew he would carry out. Ones, he was just as sure, Garion would hesitate before doing.

His eyes flickered to the young king, riding near the front, deep in conversation with Belgarath. The sun gleamed off his sandy-colored hair, growing long in the wilderness, slouched in his saddle, head drooped a little. His face when it briefly turned to his direction, was somber, with the occasional care-worn look that only now Zakath was beginning to notice and, just beginning, to feel remorseful about. For he knew he had helped in part to make some of those signs of weariness.

He bought his eyes away to the less emotion-stirring ground. It had never been said aloud, but toward the end it had certainly been implied that Garion and his friends were under his control, to do what he wished, when he wished. He had felt nothing but satisfaction out of that knowledge. What an utter ass he had been, an ignorant ass.

Flip.

Smack.

"But we escaped," Zakath had a feeling Silk's dark eyes had missed nothing, either the emotions on his face or the thoughts behind them, but his voice remained mild as he spoke, "and things got rather excited that I could, for awhile, forget your importance. Of course that was rather foolish of me when you had us captured for the second time. Captured this time without any hints of diplomacy and outright proclamations that we going to Mal Zeth with little consequences to our personal desires or needs. In fact you had proclaimed to Garion if he didn't comply, it would be his friends that would suffer the consequences."

Flip.

Smack.

The Drasnian's eyes were very cold, dark-lidded and sharp, and his voice had dropped to a whisper. A whisper that Zakath could easily hear from where he rode. He found himself unable to tear his eyes away from the piercing gaze.

"I was angry," He found himself making excuses when he knew there were none.

"And so was Garion, but he never threatened to torture and kill you. Now did he?"

Well, there had been him swinging the sword around, making sure Rak Hagga would never quite be the same again, and the large implication that Garion and his family could do quite a bit of damage just as easily. But Garion had never, even with anger boiling over in his eyes, an almost wolfish snarl in his voice, and visible blue flickers of light around him, looked like he would torture Zakath. Kill, perhaps, maul, probably, slice into several pieces most definitely, but not the slippery, incendiary tactics of destroying a man's soul and spirit. Tactics Zakath would have done, without a second chance, on one of Garion's companions, his friends, if he thought he could gain another piece of control of him.

He closed his mouth.

"At that point, Zakath, I could have killed you. If you had carried out those threats, I would have, without any qualms, Prophecy be damned. It is one thing to butcher innocent people over a grudge, to kidnap others for a twisted religion, even to withhold a man that is more than your equal from his quest to find his lost son on sheer selfishness, but to threaten to hurt him; to threaten to take away his friends and family and to have a threat hung over him that one false move and his dearest will pay for it in unimaginable ways of anguish, is unforgivable however unlikely that could have happened. Understand, Zakath, Emperor of Boundless Mallorea, self-proclaimed king and god, I do not especially like you, and I do not trust you. Until I think otherwise, I suggest you keep that in mind."

Flip.

The coin disappeared into the folds of his cloak. Silk straightened up. He spoke briskly, "Now, if you have any pain, talk to Polgara. I know she'll help. Whether it would be worth it or not, is up to your judgment."

Zakath watched him move forward. An uncomfortable feeling weighted around his heart. Had he been that ruthless? Yes. Yes, oh definitely yes. Guilt, he now recognized wracked him. But not for the lost dead ones, that one he recognized easily enough for he had felt it's weight for a very long time, but for the pain he had nearly caused, against people who were far more better than him.

"Is there anyway you can trust me again?" he asked to himself, more than the retreating, slightly bent back.

"Be kind, Zakath," Silk said without looking back, "Be kind and don't ever forget. I think you've changed, but you need to remember that you can always go back."

He twisted to face him and Zakath stared deeply into his dark eyes, ones that seemed almost as dark his own. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Durnik, steely-faced next to Toth, both probably had heard every word of the conversation. There was no judgement there, merely patience, waiting to see what Zakath would finally do with his life. He looked away, suddenly aware that he knew, despite all the information gathered and events his spies had witnessed, nothing about these people.

Something fell over him. He caught it automatically. A silver Mallorean coin. He looked at the graven image of himself. A self he had forgotten in his sudden feeling of freedom. He must never forget again. Never forget how ruthless and cruel he had been, how he had far to go in order to make amends for his ruthlessness. Rubbing the coin, he sighed. Sightlessly, he saw once again the pleading face in front of him, begging for mercy. Only if he looked close enough it would be sandy colored instead of black.

Flip.

Smack.