He grimaced at hot stone. A self-made hole turned out blaring in furious heat. Regardless, he pushed through, fitted his leg into a bump, and climbed on. There was a certain goodness in what he did. Climbing. Back in the ashMountains, when the storm was fervent in its ways, men, older ones, would climb the peaks. It was a game of sorts, of who would reach the summit?
None ever did. The storm always won. Merrin, in many ways, also lost to it. But not for the reason of the attempt. No, he was not allowed due to his youngness. But his brother, leim, he was allowed. He, too, failed to the storm.
Merrin remembered now the rage and insult he hurled at that event. "I would never have lost like that!" he recalled saying.
How much he hated those memories. The Ananmesis of those realities left him feeling for a mind cleanse. To remember was a curse. A sin he could not wash or redeem, regardless of apologies.
But…Merrin grabbed the rim of the chasm, rising out. I have to do what I can. The Protect as I failed before. I don't matter. Others do.
Hold it, but never revel in it.
He rolled out of the gorge, panting. His back was pressed against the earth. The heat remained, but somehow, it was distant.
I think I understand now how the slaves can sleep despite the heat. He thought. It grows on the skin
There was a moment of silence here. Just him, the high vastness of the mines roof, the many stone fangs pointing from above, and as always, the ever-present banging of iron against stone.
Familiarity.
He enjoyed the curious familiarity, and in it, his mind expanded into a collection of numerous patterns. Ideas and notions flooded in through various paths. Points that he could not reach or understand. This was knowledge; he knew that, at least. Details injected by his many uses of the casting.
Howbeit many of such knowledge had worthless uses. Some were words repeated. Rock. Rock Rock. Others, a structure of varied sentences. The rock breathes, it moves, it lives. He had heard that during an attempt at casting in Ron's presence.
The meaning, however, eluded him. Just like many of the words, it confounded him. Merrin sighed, forcing a calmness through the scattered mind. He glanced to the side—to a pile of scattered rock; slabs like high stone rotted all around.
Who was that man? Jeseries. Merrin thought with lingering terror. He was a terrifying experience. A being able to sense casting, but seemed incapable of it. Merrin knew dread in that. Other casters existed, but the knowledge that he did something none could see or comprehend gave a sense of uniqueness. He enjoyed that. But now…That delusion was gone.
Someone saw him.
Merrin trembled and closed his eyes. I hope he never sees me again.
A voice sounded. "That's him!" A measure of frightened correctness echoed from it. "I saw him jump from into the chasm. I thought he wanted to kill himself. I'm sorry, that's all I know. On origin, that's all I know."
Merrin remained, pondering the relevance of the words. Did it have something to do with him? Or did someone else jump into a chasm? There lingered all the possibility that the words had no relation to him.
"That's good." Another said, "That's the one. Get him!"
Alert took hold, and in quick flow of motion, Merrin leaped to his feet. Ashman agility responded. In that state, his legs parted, arms opened. The dance had begun.
Figures—men ran towards him. Strangers. Each with a furious fervor in their gaze. They carried stone, pickaxes—the limited weapons of the mines. Dangerous enough in the needed means. There and then, Merrin realized the intention soaked in their actions.
They were to attack him.
The first pounced, a man, middle-life, eyes wide with half fear and excitation. He enjoyed and feared what he did. This one carried stone, a pointy rock Merrin sensed was unnatural in its creation. He swung down, a motion unbalanced in power. It took only a side step, fist curled, aimed to the face. He dropped, eyes fading from the alertness consciousness provided.
Merrin moved back. A fortunate action less his face became open. The attacker now glanced at the one so quickly dispatched. Realization flickered in his eyes. He knew now that Merrin was not as thought. Still, pride forced him. He tightened the grip on the axe and swung.
Vigilance granted by the trained mindset of the dance gave Merrin a way to the perceiving of their expressions. Their eyes gave him knowledge. Their movement, screams, curses. All this gave information.
He used it. And at the moment the man struck with the axe, Merrin moved back, slid his wrists to the side of his neck, and with a single chopping movement, he dropped. Foundered.
One now remained—a frightened little man staring with wide eyes. "I didn't want to join them!" he shouted. "They promised marks. Many marks. They said you did wrong."
"What did I do?" Merrin forced the battle-ready self back into the pool of collective being. It took a breath in and out. Sweat trickled down his face, coasting past the nose, lips, and down his chin. He remained rotted, panting with Ashman breathing.
Though the words spoken lingered in delayed excogitation.
The frightened man said, "I don't know. They say you forced sleep on one leader. I don't know his name. You attacked him. Now he sleeps. He does not wake up." He paused, deliberation pressed on his face. "They say you bring the selunn plague."
"Selunn?"
"Ah," the man startled, "I mean sleeper plague. You put people to sleep. Many are dying because of it. Are you the cause?"
Merrin froze. Now, stretched over the man was another face. A change in expression. No longer was it fear; there was another. Fearful reverence. What?
"Are you the cause of these things?" The man edged closer, and Merrin saw in him the face he saw in the witnesses. The face of a thing wanting safety through surrender. How terrible the mine was that it brought this out in people.
"Go find yourself another savior!" A soft-spoken voice sounded. Merrin turned and saw a woman leaned over a screwed building. She wore a half queer black dress, flower embroidered—her hair ending in brown curls, with a light smile lining the face.
Virgin Harlot? Merrin recalled not the name but sensed a calling out that, an offense to her person. "What are you—"
"I'm telling you!" Again, she dismissed his presence, eyes locked on the startled man. "Go find another shelter for your nonsense. Leave."
"The Harlot mounts words now?" the man said,
Catelyn responded in mellowed tones. Merrin now recalled the name. "Harlot, eh? I see. Maybe one leader might be willing to wash your mouth with hot sand."
The man quivered. "Good, Good. Harlot." He left.
Merrin stood, silent, eyes shifting to the bodies left around. They lived, of course, but the heat…Oh, the heat.
Catelyn looked at him. "You're a caster, aren't you?"
Merrin froze. Memories, procession, thought. His mind was in a swirl of turbulent things, none provided absolution. How had she known? Who did he tell? Who did she tell?
"What…What are you talking about?"
"I suppose an agreement or revelation of one's secrets does make things difficult to understand." She smiled, "You don't need to answer. I know you are a caster."
"How?"
"I suppose you are a newborn. Recently snapped. But your force is strong, at least in the manner of using symbols without knowing them, yet being left uncorrupted by them."
Merrin started. Words, words. These words slammed into his mind like a wave. He was naked here—defenseless. Someone else has seen him. I need to see her. "You know a lot about casting; are you one?"
She stepped closer, raised her fingers to her lips. Red lips. "If I were one, would I be here?"
"I am here."
"That, I don't know. Though I guess it's the same as the many types. Either fear or martyrdom."
"I am not a martyr." Merrin warred against Ashman's instincts. Here, he was seen. She was like a beast, a convincing creature that sought to ensnare him. To trap him. Always, there was but a single way to deal with such.
Kill her….I refuse.
"Be what you must be. Do what you must do." Catelyn said, "I want only one thing. When you do get out. I assume you, as a caster, are known to the relevant. Once you leave, take me with you."
"What makes you think I can do that?" Merrin asked, "Casters are in the numbers, why would they do anything I ask?"
"They would if you show exceptionalism."
Ah
Merrin realized the intelligence this woman contained. She was called a harlot, a gross underestimation of her wits. She was mind filled. It took him a casters-enhanced cogitation to grasp the needed, and yet, she did it in a moment.
"How exactly can that happen?"
"Power. Skill in the means of casting. I know many things," she said, "Many things that can help you. Methods of casting, knowledge of the symbols. A great deal many things. With time, a month or so, you will be able to show uniqueness enough for it."
Silence.
"What?" Catelyn asked,
"I have 6 days."