Despite the perceived belief that the Great Clans are the greatest in wealth and power, they are not, in truth, the greatest in either regard. Consider the Gold Bank of Bolt and their Arch, Popurie, and the near-infinite wealth acquired from the Moss of Wheatshire; they are in complete utterness the richest in comparison. "Gold is the strongest metal"—Eastorian culture.
A figure rose from a pool of lightless blackness. A creature, a towering beast of hulking muscles and glinting claws. Dark-furred. What a creature it was. Standing there in a field of stone pillars, it seemed far more ancient than the oldest of these rocks. Yet it stood one-handed, the other, the left, dripping spills of dark scarlet.
A harmed monster.
It roared. "MORRIGAN! IS THIS WHAT IT IS, TO SIN? TO LOSE?" It clawed at the wall, crude lines tearing through its brown solidity. "OH, I HATE. SPEAK TO ME, MY MAKER. TELL ME WHY THIS HAS HAPPENED? WHY DOES THAT BOY BEAR THE SCENT OF YOUR FATHER? SPEAK NOW!"
Collected and transcribed by the chronicler.
Merrin walked through the white halls of the white city. No beast in hand. No proof of the hunt. Damnable. Auwale would refuse his request… But… it must be done, regardless. For the passing moments, he allowed the mind-filtering clarity the light provided. The calmness of it all. He accepted it, heaved a breath, and attempted the gained method for disremembering. He chose to forget. Enavro was gone—for now. Even then, he chose to forget that moment, the weakness, the repetition that once again fitted itself into his reality.
"Mist it all!"
So he drowned in the sensations, the light seemingly flowing into his flesh and bones, quelling the rising desires. Serenity. Somehow, the need to move proved taxing to complete. To sleep, to rest—that was the new desire. A false desire, yes, but real in that way that he could experience it. Somehow, that caused the brief churning of the faculties.
Question: What in surety can be used to define this thing called emotions? Mere reactions within the mind, no doubt, yet humans had the way of giving higher meanings—perceived beliefs towards that simple mental compulsion. Some call it love, hate, fear—simple reactions in the end.
He paused: What drives me now?
Fear for Enavro, hatred for the Aelmiren or Auwale. He thought. No, not hatred for Auwale. Annoyance, perhaps. But what about the WhiteMother? I aim to lay siege to her land. And why?
Because of Auwale? Or was it because of the seal?
Merrin chuckled. He knew then the absurdity that was Caster mentation. No one would understand it—to attempt a definition would be akin to describing the nature of the infinite. Impossible. It could only be felt. Lived. Endured. And in that moment, he grasped the inevitable, ever-shifting stance of the caster's mind. One might love today, only to have the spewed logic belittle it as merely the consequence of stimuli.
One can so very easily lose oneself!
"But I must not forget. Not once. Not today. I am Merrin Ashman, and I do this for them. For her!"
He arrived.
The door to the chamber parted; a large stone structure, akin to those in the mines. An awful memory. He recalled then the Gresendent sister turning away from him, the Excubitor treating him as a mere thing. A rag. He is dead now. Might be, who knows. Those glass-helmed warriors had a thing of sameness about them. Who knew who.
But it was the Sisters that stuck in his awareness, the almost repulsion that piloted their refusal. Would Auwale do the same now? He was like a God to him. The Almighty was such—powerful, not truly good or bad, just powerful. Auwale was similar. Would he then sense the corruption? The sin that lords eternal in his life?
Will he refuse if I beg? Would he refuse if I forced him? Would he refuse if I threatened to unmake his entire city? One question and that is achieved. One question: "Who are you?" And the entire city spirals into chaos.
I would prefer not to… But ah, the thing I must do now.
The door parted in its entirety, light drifting out like the slow movings of water. "Deliberate," he thought. Auwale owns the force of this place. It is his, and it listens to him alone. soulForce. Ah. He felt a brief surge of fear. How big was this man's soul?
Then, he went, allowing the vastness of the chamber to do its workings in him. Presently, he looked amazed through the expanse. So large it was—high pillars like mountains holding up the white, silverish ceilings. The roof was something of a dome. This he grafted to the seen architecture of the undermines. Similar. Same origins?
Was the Shaedoran also those things called Orvalen? Questions within questions.
Outside that, the chamber was mostly empty, save for a few Brightones standing on both sides of the hall. A silver carpet stretched upwards towards a high-backed seat, a stone throne perched atop a four-staged step.
Royalty. That was the admitted air here.
This, he also accepted, walking on the silver carpet, observing the myriad eyes watching. Brightones, some bearing a mixture of scorn, fear, and hatred. So realistic. So false. Merely, in the end, a collection of predetermined stimuli and reactions.
This, for some reason, Merrin took as the internal state of the Great Rider. And of course, the Mighty Shaedoran sat atop the throne, clad in his silver armor—white hair swaying, caught in the invisible air. There was no sign of that beast—the four-legged thing.
Good!
Merrin abhorred the strange creature.
And then there was silence, a suffocating quietude that registered as a tactic within his awareness. They wish to rattle me. To make my question. To make me prone to mistakes. I have learned.
So he maintained the serenity they desired, allowing the self-awareness to sink into the sea of ponderings. Questions and Answers. Perhaps some miracle might rise from its depths. That was the hope—the desired outcome. But he knew... oh, he knew, hope seldom occurred miracles.
Make your own! Those were the words of reality.
I must—
Auwale spoke, his voice booming in that cold baritone of his. "You returned without your proof?" He tilted his head. "Have you failed? And that companion of yours, the stone one. Has she died?"
So many questions. "I have only one mouth; I cannot answer them all. Ask one by one."
This stirred the watching Brightones. "HOW DARE YOU?" "WHO ARE YOU TO SPEAK TO THE LORD LIKE THAT?" "HE MUST PAY WITH HIS LIFE!"
The triteness of their words seemed painful. Such banality in erudite-looking people. He felt like screaming, said instead, "The Great Rider would understand me."
Again, a moment of silence. Auwale chuckled next, said, "You play an intriguing game. Perhaps what you have is the lip gift, not the hunter's."
"Both can exist, can it not?"
Auwale said nothing to that. "But it remains the same, you come now before me, undoubtedly asking something. I suppose that girl of yours has been taken."
Mist Caster mentation. Merrin cursed, recognizing the almost prescient quality of Auwale's words.
No point hiding it. "She was taken by the Aelmiren."
"Then I think that woman would finally have her wish." He leaned back. "One must be granted the gift of motherhood."
She took Enavro for motherhood? Merrin injected that data into the churning sea, said, "She has hundreds of other children." Tell me more, Auwale.
The Shaedoran played with a white serv. "Consider children who cannot speak. Who cannot think? Who cannot offer the surprise?"
"Like what you have?" "Mist!" That was a mistake. Merrin saw then the suddenness that washed through the hall. Eerily silent, mentation halting in an abrupt pause. Now, He stood at the precipice of danger. Anything could happen. These Brightones could go rabid. Ah, that and Auwle shatters him with that spear of his. For now, however, they stare at him. Wordless, just observing. Then there was a harmonious laughter.
"Is he talking about us?" one said. "Just because he's a caster, he thinks we can't think?" "What an Idiot!"
Merrin noted this. I see. So that's how he deals with such things. Notably, the Brightones had dismissed the triggering words. Obvious who caused this outcome: Auwale protects his creation.
And now he scowls. "Mind yourself… Your scent is familiar, but don't take that as leverage."
"Then give me what I want?"
"Law of reciprocity," Auwale responded, white hair swaying in the air. "You failed to achieve what was asked of you, proving yourself thus a liar. I do not deal in falsehood. I deal in fire. In battle. In glorious combat. But never in lies. What you are is a false hunter."
"I hunted your champion well enough." The need for boldness, the consequence be damned.
"That you did." Auwale chuckled. "And you couldn't handle a beast."
An Elusive creature… Words he sensed would have the cowardly effect. Not now. They must see the strength, not the weakness. Never the weakness. "What I ask is for the location of their city."
"Which conveniently holds the seal." Auwale frowns. "Ah, play your games expertly, not obviously. I suppose human casters are, in truth, a different breed."
"You would not give me something so simple?" Merrin felt warm. "Something so easy for you to achieve?"
"The Reciprocity!"
"Mist that!" Merrin roared. "What total mistsense."
"It stays the same!"
"I see…" Merrin said, "Then, tell me, Auwale…"
"Yes."
"Define yourself!"