A/N: Been a while since I wrote anything about Mozenrath. I thought I should at least have something posted for Christmas. :) This one's from a rather unique perspective earlier on in Antiphony.


Tenacity

The boy was a tenacious thing.

He watched casually from his vantage point in the Citadel, in the late evening when there were no immediate matters demanding his attention. It was now his routine to observe the child for one hour each week, to see how he was faring in his rather unlucky circumstances. The priest of light had chosen a terrible spot to send him, but he supposed that most men were prone to mistakes when they were near death. At least he assumed it had been a mistake. It irked him somewhat that the exact reason was beyond his reach now, forever trapped in the throat of a corpse.

In any case, once Sider had returned empty-handed and received the due punishment for his carelessness, Destane had wasted no time in searching for the boy himself. He began with the cities closest to where the two men had fought. The priest's concealment spell had lasted longer than expected, and Destane could not sense the boy anywhere for days. Once it had finally worn off, however, it had been easy to pinpoint the boy's unique magic signature, pure and vibrant as a child's should be, but much stronger than that of most grown men. Prince Morathai had not yet learned how to hide his presence from his own kind, a poor oversight on the priests' part. The fact that they had skipped over such an important lesson for their prince could only be blamed on their overconfidence in their kingdom's defenses. Peace led to stagnation and invited a stirring of the waters. Destane had been glad to meet the challenge.

He hadn't been so sure the boy was ready to meet any sort of challenge, however, given the sheltered life of luxury he had known since birth. Morathai was in the eastern city of Sharath, a squalid sprawl of unchecked vice and lawlessness. When Destane had found him, he had been begging at the doorway of a merchant's house. It had been an amusing sight. A few days on the streets had already turned the prince into a street rat. But then, as the door shut in the boy's face and he went on with a determined frown to the next house, Destane had grown curious as to what exactly he was begging for.

The next door opened and a servant looked down at the child with suspicion. Morathai held his head high and met the man's gaze without fear or shame. With succinct eloquence he told of the attack on Helinth and pleaded for help to return there, to rescue survivors and fight back against the monster that had invaded his city.

Destane laughed long and hard, but not too long, because the boy had gotten his full attention and he didn't want to miss another word. The servant hesitated, perhaps out of pity, went inside under the pretense of consulting his master, and soon came back with an answer. The door closed and the homeless prince stepped back, shoulders slumping as he looked down the street once more.

Helinth, the City of Light, has been attacked…

The sorcerer Destane has invaded Helinth and stolen the holy magic in the sanctuary…

He's a monster and might come here next…

Please listen, I need to go back…

And so it went. Destane merely smiled at the boy's descriptions of the "vile sorcerer" who had destroyed his kingdom and stolen his god's power. The boy was wasting his breath. Everyone in this city knew full well who Destane was. Morathai did not yet realize the futility of his pleas, that men cowered at the mere mention of his name. Did he expect the citizenry to rise up in arms and go to war on behalf of a kingdom they had never seen and was now little more than dust? Or perhaps on behalf of the pitiable little prince pleading in self-importance at their doorsteps? The boy would soon learn the truth of his status in the world. His title and birth meant nothing. Week by week, Destane observed the slow cutting away of hope in the prince's demeanor.

Morathai eventually gave up his foolish supplications, realizing that no one would help him. Superstitious as easterners tended to be, the people of Sharath were more inclined to be afraid of the boy as an omen on their city. The more compassionate ones offered him food before shutting their doors, but none offered him a place to stay. His pleas changed accordingly, and lies bled into his storytelling. He was lost and had to find his way back home, and needed money for the travel fare. His sister was starving and sick, and needed food.

Weeks became months, and lies and thievery became second nature to the child. Twice Destane saw him on the verge of losing a limb to an angry merchant's sword, and nearly had to step in to save his precious specimen. But both times Morathai managed to escape without a scratch, allowing Destane to bide his time before revealing himself. The prince grew wiser to the ways of the world, learning how to pass unseen among the carts during their busiest hours, where it was safe for a boy to sleep at night, and how to use his magic as an aid when convenient. He was resourceful and stubborn, determined to survive despite having little to live for. Destane had to admire his spirit, but after careful thought, he decided to wait until a full year was up before attempting to retrieve him. While he was impressed with the boy's progress thus far, there was still much he had to learn on his own, and a certain hard edge of desperation that could only be honed through bare survival. Ideally, Destane would make himself known at a moment when Morathai's life was truly in danger, or when he came to a point of utter despair.

In a few more months, Destane would have what he wanted: an extremely talented servant wiser and more hardened than his young years, yet still pliable as all children were. The son of one of the more formidable enemies he had faced, taken under his wing as an apprentice, perhaps even as an heir. The more he considered it, the more appealing the idea became – to raise the child as his own, and mold a prince of the light into the image of the most powerful necromancer the world had ever seen.

The boy would need a new name as well, if he truly were to take on a new identity under Destane's tutelage. He would prefer to erase all of the prince's ties to the god of his dead city. "Keeper of His power" would simply not do.

A removal of a word, and a new name flowed forth quite easily in his mind.

"Mozenrath," he mused. "Yes. Mozenrath."