Like cloth cut by a thousand blades, the glyphs unraveled into threads of light, a tinge of blue present in their structure. They drifted like water, fluent in their motion. And this drift found its way over the ground, over the surface which steamed with illusory mist.
They settled, turning into a layer of extra skin. The awareness faded, and Ron dropped to the ground—asleep, yet unburned by the earth's flames. Merrin joyed at this, then looked back at the froststone.
It shone weaker; its light a pale imitation of what it once was—less cold, and the myriad symbols around it had reduced in their count. He had casted them to the ground, moved them.
It was as Ron had said….Did this make him a vested caster? He wondered but for a moment.
Then the strength waned as great weakness washed over him. He groaned at this, clenched tightly. As before, the grayness grew thin, vague, and blurry in its construction. The symbols retreated into them, the illusory mist fading away—even the voices; knowledge of the symbols grew hushed as time passed.
Merrin tried to wait it out, reaching for the last drops of strength he did not understand. It served him as in the moments the grayness vanished from him, figures, draped in dark, oily robes, stood at the room's mouth; tall, slender, with heads little more than swirling mass of darkness.
The ardents….
They watched him.
Merrin was to speak when they said in illusory tones, "Call for us!"
The grayness warded, and now the dark gloom of the cave returned. Lamp burned lonesome, alongside the blue shine of weaker froststones.
In a room, alone with a dormant Ron, Merrin stared out into the distance and contemplated.
It is to be understood that this was not the moment that birthed the one known to preserve. It is merely a moment like many others before and after it.—Recorded from the teachings of the last sun Witness.
How long has it been now? Merrin wondered, gazing at Ron's silent body; even asleep, his body wore an elegant strength to it. Was he really not an aspirant? Merrin thought passively, though a bit hesitant about the acceptance.
Doesn't matter. He stood, eyes suddenly twisting down with the twirling world. What! Merrin yelped, hands slamming against the scorching earth. It burned. He recoiled, teeth clenched.
The weakness remained, moving through him like a weighty boulder; he groaned to stand. But he had to, he had to move, and so he did. Merrin took a moment, permanently on his feet, mind settling amidst the weakness. It took longer than he expected, but soon, the strength he had yet to understand flowed strong through him.
The feeling of strength brought a realization: If he wanted, he could cast again.
Not now. He reined, giving a final glance at the sleeping giant. Then, silently, aware not to disturb, he folded the foamy cloth and dropped it by Ron. It belonged to the man; hence, it was necessary that it be returned to him.
That's that.
What now? Merrin stepped out of the cave, moving through the narrow hall of crude stone, rough edges, and dead, dried corpses. There, the white lamps rayed over him, distilling his thoughts of all diversions. And this allowed him clearness of self…He liked the feeling; so perfect was it that he found it suitable for a dance of self.
All that remained was the steam….Maybe I can cast one? he thought, spotting the oval rocky mouth of the hall. He moved calmly, before stopping at its lip, eye scanning over the vastness of the mines.
The ardents are like symbols? He lowered his gaze at a decrepit shack at a distance between two chasms. Only through a lone stone bridge could one get to it. Who lived there? Merrin wondered.
Then retrieved himself inwards. The ardents said I should call them? How? How do I call for them?The gray world banished me, did it not? So, how can I summon them? More even, what does summoning them mean?
Ron said the real world is just the physical forms of symbols—certain symbols at least, as sleep, tiredness, weakness, these things are also symbols, but they don't have physical forms—just experiences. To be felt, not seen.
Maybe that makes them stronger?
In that manner, do the ardents have physical forms? The bird, that one had a physical form; an odium boy. Was that its physical form or some form it took to speak to me?
If the former, then do ardents have such forms—like people, or was the bird special? It did say call my ardents…Does that mean it is not the same? Something different….
El'shadie.
Merrin grimaced, realization of his ignorance pressing over him. It would take time. If he didn't learn, he would someday lose to it. He consoled, next moved his senses to the darkest ends of the mines, places that lamps burned so weakly that one could not make anything out. To anyone, it seemed a veil of darkness, a wall of the never perceived—yet he had supposedly ran there.
The distance alone was aplenty, and they say he raced to the end? How? Did he cast? But hadn't he awakened after the heavens' judgment?
Strange.
Merrin pushed the thoughts; such things were merely occupants of space—and even knowing them brought no significance to what he needed. To what he desired. And that was to save the slaves…
I've casted, but I doubt that is enough to make them do what I want. They would only listen to exceptionality.
As he knew, the clan's people spoke and reigned in ranks; awarded to them by the church on the belief that the next god that would bring light was to be born through them. Casters functioned the same way, it seemed. Vested, blessed, all these were ranks. Acolyte likely was the lowest, which the sister affirmed he was.
Then at least.
Or maybe he was still. Anyhow, he could not be sure unless confirmed by a caster.
But how does one go about gaining exceptionalism in six days? He pondered, shifting his thoughts to several cohorts of men moving into a chasm; their axes rusty, their chains dangling from their waists.
Practicing seemed the natural thing to do, but I can't just be doing so blindly. What I need is some method to follow, some teacher, if anything….But, mists, what are the chances of a caster willing to teach me casting in these mines?
There's the mines' caster, but I doubt that he would want to. If the sister's words held true, then maybe he does not even know about my existence. Telling him would be in opposition to what the sister said.
The thing I accepted.
Didn't she say you shouldn't be casting either?
Merrin scowled, understanding from the beginning he had not obeyed the words of the sister. How come? Since when was he so rebellious to the hands of the almighty? Was it the proclamation of him being this el'shadie?
He winced. Ah, the pride…
Moments passed as he quelled his heart, then returned his mind to what bothered him.
Even if I'm to find myself a caster, why would anyone teach a slave? There was no gain, no reason. In the end, it was him and only him. Best I do it myself.
Well, I could get the ardents to do so…They seemed like casters; symbols maybe, but sentient symbols wasn't something Ron had mentioned. So, despite them being like symbols, the truth remained that they had been with other El'shadies. That alone should have some importance in itself.
So what I need is a way to call the Ardents. They had asked to be summoned, but how was I supposed even to do that? He thought to see the world as a caster, hoping that would reveal information that he had not gained. But caution reined him.
No! He needed a secure space for it. Last time was a mistake, such carelessness wasn't good for him or anyone. He could be caught. Merrin drew his mind through several thoughts, collecting a number of ideas on what to do.
He had yet learned to manage the rate at which he lost strength—force. And in such a place, losing strength could lead to perilous eventualities; What if some leader saw to end him in such a weakened state?
Hence, he concluded, he needed the ardents, and he would do so in the safest place.
Far away, yet not so for Merrin's eyes, a figure stumbled out from a shack, sight wide, body trembling. His face wore one of lost and pain—so clearly could he see it as though he was not meters away from the man.
The witnesses also need money.
Merrin climbed down the ladder.
His eyes passed the various sprawls of miners moving about, some gathered menacingly in cohorts, claiming power over an area. Usually they marked it with high stones—ones enough to build a wall, now many used bodies; men and women looking as intimidating as they could manage.
He bothered little for them, instead kept his thoughts sharp for the solitary he wanted and the quest for marks. There were many things to do, from finding a spot untouched by presence and assurance that it would remain that way, to the thing he hoped to achieve in a shack.