Like rain, rock shatters against the net of force and wind, hardened to the extremities. They scream within the nest, calling out to him. Father. Lord. Saviour. Light. sunBringer. As many names as the Almighty has in his aspects. Do they know the Godhead they now imbue in him?
Merrin waves, and tempest howls, an upward tide of flow, shattering rock, raining stone. It breaks the above, light beaming down from the overhead, something crashing down—a lamp. It fell, breaking over stone, glass erupting in shards.
That was the source of the ceiling lights…
Odd.
And the above revealed itself with the calming winds. A dark spire. A round, dark spiral hole. A large pole, extending outwards from the ceiling. A crack dots its corner, dust flowing in. Soot and rock. He imagines the world from above: A round chamber with a spire poking out from the roof. That spire, that chamber is buried within the large pits.
Their way out.
Merrin calls out. "Men, chains." He points at the crack. "Upwards."
They surge, metal clicking aloud in the once sombre chamber. Harmonious, like a tide of blackness, moving.
It is done.
And the familiarity warned within.
The mind and the soul are the common means of casting available to humans. The mind is the force of domination, while the soul is the other. Despite the contradictions, isn't it odd what in the end makes up a human soul?—Recovered journal believed to stem from the third age.
Merrin stands on rock. A slab of stone that slanted atop the metal spire. They climb now, from the hole below, spewing out, tying chains around the metal.
The world around is walls. A crude, rounded pit. He walked to the edge of the floor, looked, darkness beneath. Nothing. In all likelihood, the structure had been unearthed during the fall. Now it stands as something of a cliff within the endless pits. Fortune provided the spire. Even from here, he perceived the height of the pit.
A single person screaming from the spire would bring about attention. That was their play. He breathes, smiles, and turns back—men, women watching with expectant eyes. What happens now, they would wonder. What plan does God have for them?
"This is our ladder." He points at the pole. Many of the witnesses still resided beneath, within the chamber. It proved an impossibility for 100 people to stand atop one ceiling.
He wouldn't let them fall after all this.
A chill ran down his spine….the bizarre familiarity.
"You will climb one by one. Each a brother to the one before them." He says, noting Yeimen moving frenetically, marshaling the witnesses. Indeed, he had become something of a priest to them. What a turnabout. From slaver to priest….Like a moss addict fantasy.
But it was not. This was fear…perhaps the delusion had perverted the outlook, but that was it. But soon. Merrin thought. Soon, they will be free. No reason then to fear the forgotten one.
Just a few more days, fist clenched, men shuddering at it. Merrin quickly smiles. "Go now. Onwards!"
They scream, some humming throat tunes—a charge surging might within them. Onwards then, they went, climbing the long spire, chains trailing down, clicking against the metal rod. Each had the chain tied around their waist, pooling over the floor, held strong by men, Ron amongst them.
They chant as one, some lowlander fervour-filled tune, he dismisses it from his immediate awareness, delving into the internal self. Something plagued mentation.
The strange familiarity. What was it?
I know I've never been here, so why? He observes Catelyn, conversing with some female witnesses. What they say, he wonders. Some of them are draped in their var hood, a name in old tongue supposedly provided by Catelyn when clamoured by the women to reveal.
They sought a name for their garments. She gave it.
Like the others, these shrouded their forms down to the knees, face hidden behind a threaded veil. More of a slitted shirt than a thin linen. Nonetheless, it served a purpose.
This, he knew, was an attempt at the necessary creation of individualism. Women in their veiled var hoods and men in their unobscured ones. A slight but wanted difference.
It seems a joke.
They accept total control from a stranger but desire worthless, still uniformed individuality? He shrugged away the rage, touched the brittle surface of the metal. Colder than expected. Still warm, but in a milder way.
Breath opens his lungs, dry, thirsty, hungry. All of them were. Some are thinner than the expected states of a slave. Despite the former being known for its starvation. It is odd to watch men like this—so small he feared the wind strong enough to uproot them.
Maybe it could?
The conception flowed through his awareness, ending with a note that deserved no circumlocutions. That was good. More soon, moved up, vanishing into the higher darkness. Like an inkly veil of nothing. That would be the perceived way by others. To him, the men reached higher above, reaching, holding strong, shouting commands. Movement as one. Almost like the ashmen.
One nearly stumbles, another grabs his chain.
Almost like the ashmen.
His gaze lowers then—staring at nothing. There was the chill of fear, heart pounding strongly in the ribs. He attempts distraction, consciousness like a string returning to the hard, almost tasteful fear. A glimpse steals his attention. A man stands on the rim of the ceiling, overlooking the black depths.
A short man, spindly, arms crossed forward. Moeash. Merrin approached, contemplating the accurate words to voice his glee. Safety for the man-child, happiness for the witnesses. These things deserved words.
"Moeash?"
He turns—it is another. A different face fitted in a familiar body. Black eyes, spiky dark hair, and rags, wrapped around the frail, sunken skin. The stranger smiled, opening his palm—it called for a certain invitation.
Take my hand, would you?
Merrin offered a smile as godly as manageable, said, "Who are you?"
The fellow grabbed the arm, cubbing it within his. "Zahar Aiven."
"What?"
"Say it," said the gent. "Say the words."
What? Merrin held the smile. "Why?"
He cocked his head. "A debt is owed. My life has been saved, and now I owe you a wish. A favor for it. A life for a favor. This is the way of it."
Merrin leaned closer, covering the cradled hands. "You don't owe me anything. This I did for you."
He smiled. "Does not matter." He said, "A life has been saved. The house awaits your wish. Now I tell you this. When you're ready to speak the words, find a raven. Or come to the Free City of Bolt, there find any man and show him your mark. They will take you to us. There you must speak the words….Say it with me. Zahar Aiven."
"Zahar Aiven?"
"Yes…A debt is owed, and it must be paid."
A spark burned in recollection. "That was you." Merrin said, "You're the witness that I met with the leader."
His smile stretched. "Zahar Aiven."
"Wait." A raucous sound pierces from the sky—a collective laughter and screams. It became words. "We have found them! We are saved. Come! Come."
Merrin channeled strength not to chortle. They were saved. The horror was over. Now was the other pain—a small comparison to the dread below the mines. Ah, that was damnation. He managed a hard exhale, roared with the wind. "MOVE!"
And as one, they charged the spire, climbing, like beasts surged with unnatural might. Ron went with them, toting Catelyn behind. She wore a look of discomfiture, almost like a thing that sought to bury its face in sand.
He imagined her doing so.
Then, the glee vanished into distress. He turned. No one. The man was gone, vanished with the moving winds. With the tiding wave of bodies, erupting from the floor, up the spire. For a moment, he feared the fall of the metal. The weight almost assured it.
No, don't think about that. They are escaping. A piece of the future liberation. Let me enjoy today…So he smiled, turned, ready to dash up the metal. To his people. To familiarity.
A sharp pain punctured the gut, frozen, eyes wide. Down, he looked, a small dark knife buried in his stomach, red dripping. A thin hand grasped the hilt. Mentation stokes familiarity. He knows that hand. "Moeash?" Slowly peering forward, there stood the man-child, glowering.
"They don't need anymore." He said, "You are done using them for your own gains."
"What?"
No thought, just the pressure. An invasive presence in a place it shouldn't be. Then came the heat—fast, crawling fire blooming outward from the wound in hard waves. He gasped, breath exiled. Now was real pain—moments stretched into sliced pieces of memory—each recollection stitched with a blazing agony.
"Why?"
Moeash said nothing, glaring, a satisfied smile curling wide.
He thought to scream there, maybe someone would hear…but. Nerves flared suddenly like struck flint, flinching away from themselves. Cold creeping in, just beneath the fire pain. A paradox of some order.
Ice spreading under fire.
His fingers curled inward, Moeash retrieving the traitorous blade—more pain. Hands moving as though to wrench the hurt free from the body. Naive. There was nothing to hold. Just ache, blood…realization.
He was dying.
He stumbled, the world wavering, sound dulling into distant, submerged whispers. Men called to him, fear-filled as though their words would latch him forward. Yet, he was falling, the world, sliding down. There was no strength, just awareness. Him watching moeash.
Why did he do that?
Was it a mistake?
The familiarity remained.
Wind wailed in his ears; he thought of it as a weeping child. Maybe the symbols of the wind cried now, but not Moeash. Never moeash…No, he once cried for me, I think…Yes. He once did. Not that long ago, I think.
Attention returned to reality, everything slowed, paced. Oddly, he saw the world again. A reviewed scene. He knew this moment, saw it before. When? It came to him then: A dream? I dreamt of this?
Moeash gasped, rock chipping off the ceiling, him lumbering, falling off the roof. Death assured…NO! Thought vanished, only instincts. A moment, and Merrin reared his arms, screaming, channeling whatever power lingered in this dying husk of his. "FLY!"
And white light surged out from him, blinding, brilliant. The world trembled, an invisible quake through the very air. Greyness fading into reality. Within it, something snapped through the greyworld, striking into Moeash. Outwards. He was shot out like a hurled rock, ascending the pits in a blaze of radiant whiteness. Glory enjoyed for a moment.
Beautiful.
Yet, there was Merrin…falling. As radiant as the other. He was not ascending. He was plunging. Down down. Eyes blurring, cogitation sticking against thoughts like some conscious glue. Hoarding it. Remember this moment, it seemed like. Then, there was no movement. But he knew, somehow he knew…Moeash was saved.
That was good.
Then came the darkness.
Zahar Aiven—A debt is owed. Zahar Nureth—a debt is paid…Sayings of the House of Black.
End of Part 2