Merrin understood—but maintained silence.
That didn't deter her. "You have made them slaves. No, not made. Repurposed, should I say? They are now your slaves."
"They are no one's slave."
She sneered. "I applaud your means. The mines made them slaves through the threat of the body: beatings, pain, the simple things. You, however, made them slaves in their coreness. They would serve you because they would want to. Because of the fear their limited minds would pronounce. They would think disobedience breeds damnation. This is also the tool of the theocracy. I suppose you are a mimetic force, not an original."
Merrin looked away. His eyes rested on the mining form of a woman—young, face still bearing that skin fat. She smiled in the labor. Panting, sweating, yet smiled. Catelyn was correct. He would never admit this to her. No. But she was correct. He said, "Only for a while."
"So does the moss addict say," she countered. "Just for a while. Tomorrow I will stop. It will stop… But it never does."
"I am no addict."
"Not to drugs," she said, "But you are one for your importance. A martyr who loves being the sacrifice. I might yet be wrong about this impression, but I don't have enough fascination in you to wonder alternatives."
That was good, Merrin thought. The less she cares, the lesser she thinks. He said, "About the symbols."
"How quickly you change topics."
"Not change, reaffirming the lost trail."
She looked to him, past him, and said, "I never lost my trail. That is something I never do."
"Good."
She said, "Your familiarity with the symbol is a normal thing. A casual thing that should be embraced, rather dismissed."
Merrin never had the otherwise intention. It was there; nothing could be done. Yet, often he listened to that identity. It said nothing—silent. A null protector. What was it? His mind churned at the question, but the lack of viable or imaginary clues brought the procession to a halt.
"The vested caster is the weakest, as their force is normally not potent enough. They cast the lowest of lowerMind symbols—and require physical touch to cast."
Merrin grew curious. Not once had he touched to cast. It was a movement. A flowing like sea that carried his awareness to the symbol. But now this proved itself an exceptionality. Was this a uniqueness of the El'shadie? He asked, "Why exactly must they physically touch?"
"Direct contact with the symbol reduces the force expenditure for indirect casting. Vested casters normally do not have such an exaggerated amount to achieve it. And I suppose your question is in regards to your capability of it."
Merrin felt little startlement. "Yes. Does this mean I must touch now?"
"Did you feel your force inadequate to do so?"
"No."
"Then no," she said. "But be aware of the amount used. Touching reduces it; not touching expands it."
Merrin understood, but perhaps by some latent arrogance, he believed his reserve mighty enough for it. This emotion, too, he observed from an outer perspective.
She said after a brief silence, "Your casting method must become a thing of great refinement. Sometimes it's better to repeat casting a set of symbols. At the vested rank, your ability remains restricted to the pushing of symbols. One into another. Fire into water: boiled water. Water into fire: steam. Shadows and the like. Repetition creates that muscle memory of which you will become exceptional at. Most vested casters require minutes to complete a casting—this is the most popular knowledge of casters. You have to shorten that time. Faster. More precise. Less force wastage. Casting with the most minimal amount needed."
Merrin found himself awed at his own might. Her words—her patterns. He could already do all that. Except for the refinery. That required greater repetition.
"And more, you need to understand that symbols are that: events. Multiple ones create a different event or effect. Understand this in your casting, and that might be another boon in your path for uniqueness."
Merrin absorbed this knowledge with the provided swiftness of his caster mind. It flowed in, passing through various forms of contemplation. This dissected the words, extracting deeper meaning. This fastened understanding.
"It seems you have a firmer grasp on the nature of your order. Dimness. That would be the first observed symbols. Watch around for it. Grasp it. Understand it. In that manner, when the required time has elapsed, you would begin casting."
That spoke of unnecessary deliberation. Time wastage. What point was it? He could start now. Why not? These were his latent thoughts. Ones he recognized as the products of his past self. The dream. That dream self still lingered somewhere. Deep, buried, but still there.
He looked up, caught the eyes of slaves peering down. Some looked away, startled by his sudden gaze. Who is he? They would ask amongst themselves. Who is he to be treated in such by the caster?
Excubitors too.
Merrin doubted the death of the guardsman had been made public. No, that information echoed a certain weakness in their perceived invisibility. Not many knew him as a caster; hence the knowledge of the death, now that would spark sure defiance—rebellion in its purest form.
He sighed away the notion, knowing its possibility, and looked away to the darker shades of the mines. On it, he saw the greyness and the sparking of its symbol. The dimness, as before, seemed an oily veil. Draping. Flowing down as though in a perpetual state of that. Over the entire mines, these veils rolled in small or larger shapes.
Some flowed over the ground—a point he realized was likely bereft of proper light. Some was of queer veil—lit. He observed this with deep awareness. Analyzed and noted in the proper observation. Fairly, it was an awesome scene. Beautiful. The dark, the distant dots, the flowing mist, the shapes, the eyes, the chains. Too many to know. Too many to grasp.
The beauty of the unseen world. That was a thing enough to seduce one to ever casting. For this continued scene, Merrin believed, some would sacrifice or risk discord for it. Was he such? The answer was of both the positive and negative. An aspect felt the intoxication; another rebelled against it. The unity. The harmony of self. The words.
Curiosity sparked in that moment, and the desire for deeper viewings poured in. What more can I see and cast as a veilCounsel? The House of Noctis is a great clan; surely, more might existed even at the vested rank…
Ah, the seduction. He knew what happened now—but yet, felt weak to its resistance. Stronger might offered better uniqueness. Catelyn warned against such, but her knowledge remained incomplete. He was El'shadie. Unique. So what if?
"Aren't your people not meant to touch that?"
The grayness receded—natural awareness restoring. He turned to Catelyn, raising a brow.
She pointed, "Aren't those spheres something that shouldn't be hammered on?"
Merrin coursed her finger and saw then, a man, short, body like that of a young child. Moeash. He hammered his axe on something on the stony ground. Round, sleek, silver.
"What!" he startled. "Moeash, what are you doing?" The words came as a bellow—one that brought collective awareness to that event. All watched now, bemused.
Merrin took to his feet, crossing the pits in quick bursts. What was he doing? What was Moeash thinking?
He pounded the sphere again, and Merrin in that moment heard a rumbling surge through the earth. What? "Moeash, stop!" He saw tears—dripping from the man-child. He wept. Agony, a painted thing on his expression.
He gritted. Again, pounded. The rumbling aggravated, and Merrin sensed a forboding outcome. His mind stirred the scene. He knew then of the reason. Moeash sought revenge. That was the sole acceptable reason. The mines had taken from him. This was his justice.
"No Moeash!" he shouted. "The witnesses are still here!"
The axe came down, and a bright flash boomed through the pits. Violent trembling. The wall shattered into a fury of falling rocks, and the ground caved in. Fragmented into shards of falling stone, plummeting deeper into the dark depths.
This was a moment—a moment stretched to its extreme by the fast procession of internally viewed reality. He saw the rim and edges of the pit. From it, more fell into the chaos. Screaming, shouting. Death assuring.
Merrin sealed his mind, and expanded his force to its limits. Protect. Protect. He would save them! He would help them! He, too, was falling, yes, into the dark unknown depths. Beside—a distance away, Catelyn wore terror like a face. She screamed, clawed at nothing. Eyes darting for some safety. There was none—just them and the deep.
Who knew such depths existed?
Merrin felt the waning of force, but knew it insubstantial. He needed to save them all? How, how, how? His heart paced in rapid beats—echoing loudly from within. What was the path ahead? He heard screams—loud, pain-filled ones. His head snapped to the side, watching the downcome of his people. They wailed in fear—stone raining like death around them. He had to. To save them, he had to do something. But what?
His mind, for strange reasons, went back to the fear felt preexistent. This was the dread in the shed. That place where his freedom was almost surely taken from him. What did he feel? What did he do? He saw then, a blurring into memory the scene. His hands shifting the disks. The game. The wry-faced leader. The ring now bonded to him. What did he do?
The taste of the air came back as excessively fetid. The unbathed men and women. Their derisive faces—their laughter at his denseness in the game. The leader and his men. The sweet playing of the oud. All that. A collection of sensations stitched back into his awareness…
What did he do?
There was fear in that memory. The moment, he knew, or the fear of the knowledge, had pushed him to something. He learned from it. What was it? Retrospection brought Catelyn's words to better clarity.
The symbols were events!
What did he do?
Merrin saw again, the shed. The laughter—the leader, fist clenched. The fear of it all. That terror—he felt it now. But not for himself, but for the people. His people. They would die from this fall. What could he do?
He stood again in the memory—the world of recollection, of hazy swirl and motions. The coming leader. His fist. The laughter. The fear… Merrin opened his eyes… The wind!
"Do something! Mist this! Do something!" Catelyn's voice.
Reality came back into his awareness. Eyes wide, breath warming in moments. He scanned, saw the trepidation in Catelyn and knew it real. The wind was the path to safety.
So.
He surged that awesome power that came from the intuition within. It roared as it always did—ready. Willing to bend all to its whims. And from it, the grayness flooded the world. And he saw their fear… In hues of colors. In shapes of twisted forms. He saw their dread and recognized it.
The wind!
He tunneled force—deeper, stronger. In the gray world, it spewed out as queer light. Like water, flowing, surging. His perception deepened in accordance with the force. More whispers, violent echoes. Bizarre shapes. He saw now the world as seen before the words. Familiar, yet discomforting. But for the witnesses, more would be done.
The wind! The wind! The wind!
He replayed the words as though the recursion brought closeness to it. Maybe. Perhaps. Who knew. But what else could be done? Time was racing. Safety needed to be assured.
The wind! The wind! The wind—Merrin froze. He saw now, a layer of transparent form stretched wide. Like cloth. Within, a myriad of white threads flowed, moving. Such beauty in them. Such simplicity. Then, the knowledge.
The wind!
Merrin reined the excitation, reached for the spread, and gripped it. Like cloth, it wrinkled—but felt none like. Force surged out. All of it. In full domination, the complete reserve of power bore down on the wind. And it shuddered.
Obedience in a moment.
Merrin strained, and like the weave he saw, it arose. Shatter and protect them! Force roared out, and the symbol-like fabric shredded into patches. Wrapping. Around the falling, the men, the women, the air shards swathed around them. Shielding. The wind as their protector!
That was it. That was their safety!
Merrin felt the thrill of glee and closed his eyes. Now I protect myself!
That was the thing to do.
He surged the grayness once more. A thing that came with the slowness of thought. Weakness pressed in. But… Merrin breathed using the training of the Ashman, steadying the heart. That worked. Now!
His own safety!
Something smashed into his head, and in quickness before procession, the darkness swallowed his perception. Blackness in thought and reality.
There are great clans and each one, upon itself, are owed allegiance by lesser vassal clans. They maintain the realm and swear protection and loyalty to the great clan. This is the normal state of things… None is above it. That is, except for the free cities—a collective analysis of Eastorian culture.
End of Part One.
Old tongue words and meanings: Ta'renheal: A casted rod used to bind one's will and oath to another. The wielder controls the bonded.
Rav'zul: The demons and devils known to exist in the world of the dead. Damnation.