The Necromancer and The Count

Chapter One

Three weeks. Merilin closed his eyes and settled back into his mediation. Three weeks in the dark, dank dungeon with only the occasional cup of water or hunk of hard bread ends for nourishment, but Merilin would persevere. He had endured worse in his mage training. Legs crossed in the lotus position, hands resting on his knees, Merilin breathed in and out, in rhythm with his heart.

“Hey, Princess, a guest for you!” The guard, an annoying, but harmless man, unlocked the heavy, iron-bound, wooden door and entered. Standing at attention, he held the door open for Merilin’s unexpected visitor.

Slowly opening his eyes, Merilin watched as a clocked figure walked in. Fully aware of the guard’s presence, Merilin quietly said, “What does one of the High Court wish to speak with an imprisoned, magic-chained mage about?”

A long-fingered hand gloved in fine, white linen pulled back the cloak’s hood, revealing an aristocratically handsome face and wavy, golden hair. Merilin observed his visitor. An aquiline nose below winged brows. A wide, sensuous mouth. Eyes, at odds with the light coloring, a dark, cobalt color. Underneath the luxurious cloak of heavy wool dyed a forest green, Merilin could see that his guest was simply, though still richly, attired.

Merilin knew his own clothes were not a pretty sight. His plain, gray, mage robes had not been washed for a long time, and though his long, unbound, black hair was untangled, the whole was as greasy as any fried dish. Having never been a great pursuer of outdoor activities, Merilin had never much of a tan in the first place. His skin was not healthily tanned like the silent noble in front of him, but now chalk-white from his long confinement. His malnutrition had not improved his originally slim build either.

The noble waved a gloved hand in dismissal. Obediently, the guard bowed and exited the cell, closing, but not locking, the door behind him.

From his seat on the straw-strewn floor of the cell, Merilin scrutinized the man. He was tall, six feet at least, and unexpectedly healthy. Most the nobles, even the young ones, that Merilin saw before his confinement were all deploringly plump: chubby at best, obese at worst.

“So, you are the famed Mage of the Shadows. You do not appear to have the power to raise the dead, yet the Queen has ordered your imprisonment for an indeterminate period of time.” The lord’s voice was like liquid gold: warm, flowing, and hypnotic in an eerie way. Ministrel trained, thought Merilin.

“Appearances may be deceiving, lord.” Merilin kept his reply vague. He still did not know who this man was, or his purpose for coming.

The blonde studied him, blue eyes revealing none of his thoughts. Finally, he appeared to come to a decision, and knelt in front of Merilin. He bowed his head, “Master Mage, I have come to beg a favor of you.”

Merilin arched a brow, “You come to ask something of me and do not give me the courtesy of your name?”

“Forgive me.” The noble stood and swept Merilin a flawless, full, Court bow. “My name is Levisis Kalacor, fifteenth Count of Jordonia. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Merilin gave the Count a wry smile, “I doubt you are truly pleased to be acquainted with a necromancer.”

The Count straightened and stared at Merilin, “Except that you are not a necromancer.”

Merilin tensed, “And what exactly bought you to that particular conclusion, milord?”

The other man smiled a predator’s smile, “All necromancers have gray skin and eyes. They also have their power signature tattooed on their left arms. The tattoo starts at the palm. They also tend to be loud, rather insane people who would never be found mediating. Which was what you were doing.”

Merilin sighed, “Stereotypes, all.”

The Count was unrelenting, “Not the tattoo. And the tattoo cannot be masked by anything. Not by magic, not by cosmetics, not by scars.”

Merilin remained calm. “Very well. If I am not a necromancer, how might I help you? And why?”

The Count leaned against the wall, still facing Merilin. “You are still a mage of the highest caliber. You practice the elements rather than the death magic. I have need for someone who can control and manipulate immense amounts of water.”

“Why?”

“My land, Jordonia, is flooding. I swear I will not employ your skills for ill-will.”

Still, Merilin noticed a flaw in the Count’s plan. “Be as that may, how do you propose I get to Jordonia? If you have forgotten, the queen has given me my sentence.”

The Count smirked. “Ah, but I have spoken to the queen already on this predicament. She has allowed for your release as long as you wear a seal at all times.”

Merilin felt a twinge of hope, but his honor made him give the Count a warning, “If you wish for me to cast any spells, I will have to allowed to take off the seal at some point.”

“Forgive me my coarse language, but do you take me for an imbecile? I have enough mage talent to unlock and replace seals.”

Merilin inclined his head in apology, feeling his hair slid uncomfortably against his cheek. “I have one request.”

“What is it,” the Count asked curiously. Riches, revenge, knowledge?

“A bath and clean clothes before anything else, if I may?”

Any words of advice would be appreciated... Just, no flames for this fragile ego, please...

Thanks.