Hiding in the hole in the trunk of a
tree, I spent weeks in intense agony as my wounds healed. Maggots writhed in
the flesh of my head and I had to remove them one by one with a sharpened twig.
I had what seemed like a lifetime to contemplate the evil that had been done to
me—and to imagine my revenge. When I was well enough to venture out, I wrapped
moss over my wounds and fashioned a turban with the cloth of my sash. I found a
man wearing a Scythian style boiled wool hat I thought would be perfect. It had
flaps over the ears to conceal my shame. I would have killed him and taken it,
but I still felt weak. Instead, I gave him three coppers and he turned over the
hat, which smelled deeply of the foulness of his head. I gagged, but one
adjusts to such things.
I once again entered the forest and began
to practice my spells and curses with a diligence I had never had before. I
would perfect my craft. Now I had not only the inborn talent, but also the
greatest motivation a man can have—revenge. Day and night the vision of Rustem
insane with fear filled my mind. Again and again I imagined the tortures I
would inflict upon him. He would rue the day he went up against the Sorcerer
Gaumata. Even now I feel the urge to rub my hands together and feel the heat of
my hatred.
No comments:
Post a Comment