Wow! Thanks for the reviews everybody- and Rose Maiden, Alanna is not a slut. She just acts like one. j/k. Anyway, this is where Kally really starts to lose it. Thanks for the reviews again, I was sure I'd just get flames. I'm not quite sure where exactly Roger died, anyway- was it among the newer graves, or among the old? Bah.
Oh, and some people asked why Alanna and Thayet let Jon get away with being such a bastard. Well, I don't know, alright! This entire fic is based on the fact that they didn't do anything. I don't know what color Kally's Gift is, either, so I'll say it's blue.
Disclaimer, yada yada
Chapter 4: Roger Returns (Again)
Kalasin walked down to the very bottom of the Palace, down the winding steps below the earth. Here were the graves of the entire royal line- and the grave of Roger.
It was near the very back, the place where he had died, among the graves of the long dead kings and queens of Tortall. There was a charred spot more than a metre around, with strange swirling patterns in the rock. Right in the center of the patterns, there was an old and cracked sword with a crystal sheen plunged into the solid rock.
Smiling, Kalasin strode towards it and placed both hands on the hilt. She was going to do something she'd never done before, something very difficult.
Everyone knew Kalasin was a strong, natural Healer, but few knew just how strong. This was one thing she wasn't sure she could do, but was fairly confident of. Kalasin could Heal even a death wound- and, she thought, with the right materials- she could even Heal one already dead, to bring him back to life. Usually it would not be possible, but with the sword that had killed Roger, a sword that was made my melding a sword of the Old Ones and a sword of his own creation- it was only a question of power.
Kalasin pushed her magic into the sword, and it pulsed with pale blue light, throbbing in time to her heartbeat. Then, after she was almost completely drained, she shoved it out again- but this time away from herself and out of the sword.
A shadowy outline began to form, solidifying into a ghostlike shape and then into a man. He glowed with orange light, and had a sadistic grin on his face. He was handsome, preserved at the age of thirty or so, dressed in fine clothes, seemingly brand new. He stepped toward the princess, hand outstretched as if in greeting.
His name was Duke Roger of Conté.
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