Merrin passed by a select cohort, a woman amidst them. She seemed frightened…seemed. It was a falsehood in itself. The woman in truth was a pawn, used to lure men with a sense of protection to the Maws of the cohort.
In violence, they would claim the victim was the one to harm the woman. Strange how much it worked, and even stranger that it once worked on him.
Second day in the mines, he had found himself ensnared in the trap, his collected rations of food taken after a beating. He had wanted to save her, which consequently ended in pain….
I don't need to seek out people to save anymore. Merrin thought gleefully. I have my witnesses.
Still, looking at her did leave a pang of wanting. A need to free her from them.
One at a time. He told himself. His eyes shifted through the mines, searching for the shack. It wasn't long now, and soon he found it.
A small blackened building. Made of black stone and dotted scarcely with froststones, the structure stood barely a few feet high. And its roof was strangely a layer of dark brown straw. Similar to the beds used in the ash mountains.
He stared a moment at them, then walked on. His brief journey saw various men scattered about, sitting solemn, pained, and dazed. They lost likely.
What are the chances that I would win? Merrin thought, the building drawing close with each step. Maybe none, but I'm a caster, I can see the symbols. And the witnesses need money. They need food. They need to survive.
Six days to go before the official caster arrives, I can't have them die before I can save them. His eyes passed by various slaves, most lying on the ground, uncaring of the floor's heat.
…All of them. Save all of them.
He reached for the battered door, pushing it open.
Then came the dim gloom, accompanied by the scent of men and women….and something else. Something strange. Something that made his mind float, as though tired from casting.
A sense of apprehension came over him as he staggered back, unsure of the nature of what he had walked into.
A body shoved past him, pushing him forward—deeper into the shack. He struggled to stand, hand pressing atop something flat, wooden. A man's scent warmed over his nose—a scent like rotten filth.
Merrin raised his head, eyes locking on a man seated across the wooden board. A rough-faced man with a scar across his eye. His teeth, now that was the source of the scent, they were black, likely from years of eating nothing but the paste.
A fleeting thought of the chance that his teeth would be the same if he remained just a slave washed through him. Merrin jerked away, eyes striking on the man, him and the two others seated side by side.
Merrin was to apologize. "What is this?" the man said, eyes lowering at the table; there, a small crack had formed on the wooden board. "Do you know I have to pay for this?" he snapped, "This costs me 30 marks!"
Merrin shuddered at the price and voice.
"By ten hands!" the man clenched his fist, "Mists! You pay for this, and pay it now!"
You have no money!
"I have no money…" Merrin said, bending a bit. "I'm sorry."
There was a pause—not just the man, but everything else. The mingled voices from the shack, the people, the laughter, all of it ceased. And it is at that moment that Merrin saw the trueness of the room.
Not vast enough, yes, yet big enough that many chairs and tables dotted around, and all of them surrounded another. A big board, longer and taller than the rest. On it was a lone chair covered in a white sheet.
The shack, despite the outer form, had its share of froststones. They gleamed on the walls alongside some lamps. Fewer than he expected, regardless, it was as though the shack desired the gloom for its taste. And worse, every one of them, the men and women, all of them stared at him.
Eyes amused.
"Ah!"
"You hear me!" the man shouted, "You pay me right now!"
Merrin trembled. "Let's play for it!" he blurted—a stupid thing he soon realized with a frightened mind. He knew nothing of the games played beneath the ash mountains. He'd heard of them, but that was the limit of it.
The man paused a moment, then curled a smile—same for the two beside him. "I've been waiting for a game. Good Good. Okay, but you don't have money, so what about this: I win, you become my slave."
We are all slaves. Merrin frowned at the words. "How?" he asked.
"Don't bother," he said, picking something from his clothes. The thing, a strange thing, was pulled out and placed on the table.
"A deal amongst men, by the oaths. Yeah, that." He added.
Weird as it was, Merrin deliberated on the use. It was a wheel, bigger than a wrist and smaller than a leg. Meant to be worn around the neck, but he still found that strange. Stranger even than most of the things done in this place.
Is this meant to make sure I become his slave? Merrin pondered, then looked into the man's gaze.
To be sure, then. He freed his curiosity, and the world turned gray.
Voices, whispers, some loud, some quiet, rolled into him. He quelled them, yet his eye froze at the forms. Strange shapes and distant things blurred into the greyness, but he refused their attention, instead moved his gaze to the uncanny ring. He flinched at the sight of it.
Chains coiled around and through the ring. Regardless of the table, they passed within it, flowing around like a curl of mist, snaking each other. Unnerving. Then the knowledge came.
Servility!
Merrin winced, and the grayness faded.
This was made by a caster!
The young man grasped the chains and bound the darkness. He gave it a form and called it his first home. His castle. And this made him a Saint. —Collected from the Velira prophecies of the fermen
Apprehension took him. "This!" he nearly said, "What's that?"
The man rasped gleefully. "By hands, call it an assurance. Symbolic, yes. If you are to be mine, a sign of it must show—yes?"
Symbolic? This has a symbol in it…Merrin gazed at the black ring. If it were any other thing, a chain, a rope, then he could dismiss the symbol he saw. However, it was not. What this was was a ring. Unrelated to the notion of slavery, prison, or bondage, hence had no reason to bear such a symbol.
Servility!
That only led to the conclusion of its creation being at the hands of a caster….Froststones exist. Created and maintained by casters, so this too may be the same….A ring with the symbol of servility.
Still, where did he get it? Merrin raised his gaze to the man. "I accept," he said—knowing it was something perceivable as stupidity. Howbeit, it was something needed if he were to know how the ring came to the mines.
If he were fortunate, it could be a hidden caster….
The man smiled insidiously, his harsh fist pressing hard over the table. "Get us black sun!" his voice waved out, heralding many bursts of laughter and cheers. Glee, for some reason, had come to the shack.
Merrin watched them; the men laughed, eyes of pity, mockery, and amusement smudged over their yet hollow faces. They seemed like corpses sneering at him.
What in the origin is black sun? He mopped his forehead, cleansing the sweat. However, that helped little as many soon laced much over them.
Just then.
A tune rang and absorbed the cheers of the room. It was a melodious measure, one that brought a delightful warmth deep within him. The tune—the music, it wound the room—breath going silent for a moment.
"Music for the game. 2 Marks or your prettiest ladies." A figure stepped out from the gloom of a vaguely frost-shined corner. A man, hair dark, face narrow with an edge of squareness. He wore a noctis dark coat. Neat—odd. His trousers were evened smoothly, strange how that was possible. Albeit Merrin once heard heat could level certain clothes.
Was this the same?
Slowly, the man stepped closer, passing by the cluster of flatboards and startled men…women too. He carried on his person a familiar thing; a pointed circle item with a spear protruding from it. The thing—the oud had strings from the spear to the pointy circle.
Brown was the color…and Merrin was awed at it.
The Shamans had used it, the chiefShaman played it, and there—he had danced to it…He missed it. Merrin suddenly felt a wave of grief, heart sinking into the mind's darkness.
How long since I've danced? It seemed a sin, now he thought of it. Wasn't it veniality that he hadn't truly even considered the steam for so long? The dance too.
The man; eyes a shade of light blue, obviously meant he was not a member of Noctis, neither was he valor. Of course, Merrin had the awareness of more great clans; 8 in total, but other than Valor, Noctis, and Odium, he knew none other.