"Pycelle and Tyrion," Merrin repeated the names, committing them deeper into memory. A rather meaningless action, no doubt, considering one of the acquired traits of the caster was the simple inability to forget anything. A gift in some moments, and a curse in others.
Now was the latter—he remembered it all. The words exchanged between him and the Black Eyes: Stannis, Shae, Gregor, and even Sibel of the Highstorm Inn. All of it came refreshed as though he still stood within that vast room, watching the dictation of his life.
A mutual existence, Stannis had called it. He was not to reveal anything about them, and in exchange, they were to keep the appearance of the sunBringer a secret. For how long, though? Merrin was cautious with the unspecified time frame. Much like how the Gresendent Sister had done down in the mines—what if these people had some similar agenda?
Surely, this Tyrion, Lord of the Waves, would set them free in exchange for him….
Possibly…
Merrin dug fingers into his hair, sleeking some strands backward. It didn't take, though, as the dryness sprang them back like hard lines of straw. Annoying, really, but the hair was barely the reason for the frustration. This was:
According to Stannis, there were things called deadEyes within the camps—exclusive to Tyrion and his eunuch, Pycelle. These creatures could, in simple terms, outthink a caster and were even considered prescient to most.
Now, with such things out there, likely among the searchers, there was a high likelihood that a profile could be created from some piece of data. Using that, with him outside, anyone could link the created profile to the sudden Ashman so far from the Ashmountains in Nightfell.
Truthfully, to Merrin, these words sounded like mistsense without any logical pattern, yet in the end, the basis of a caster's mentation was the creation of information from the pool of illogical parts. That much had been experienced by himself….
And what was their solution?
To wait and rob!
Merrin found this as a quip of the highest proportions, one he could almost laugh about, but couldn't. In his eyes, there was only the unstoppable outcome of this relation: either the death of his people or the death of these ones. And despite all they had done, or what they were, death was never a thing to be wished upon another. That much was a thing written within the Doctrine of the Almighty.
He sighed, walking solemnly through the long, dark corridor. Black was the color of its walls, glossy with a hint of metallic sheen, and while the width was barely three meters, the height, like the room, stretched higher than perception can achieve—normal perception, at least. Nonetheless, the greed within the size of these things was peculiar.
He could only bob his head, noting just then the hall's threshold that spilled into a colossal space: the Library. Calm, Merrin stepped in.
Awe was the first reaction, that and the slow raising of the head. All and everything within the room was like a mountain. Shelves of black elastic wood towered up, each lined with hard-backed books. Countless. Like paths, each shelf was walled by another, leaving but a simple line road into it.
Brighter than the other rooms at the very least, the walls were black, lamps embedded in the bases, much like in the mines. But here, there were more. Floating about the space were flowing orbs—bigger than the size of a man's head, each sphering out a ring of glorious whiteness. They, too, numbered in the countless, bringing illumination to every corner of the room.
Spectacular.
Merrin wandered in, eyes scanning the books stuffed in the shelves—elegantly, yes, but still packed with many. And looking at the variations across the wall, a certain understanding of Stannis's knowledge came to him. Supposedly, this room was owned and collected by the leader of the Black Eyes.
From loremasters, Scholae, and the masters of the Whitetower. All words that Merrin had little idea of. Not that it had stopped Shae and her odd tendency for yapping. There was no stopping her—strange, given the whole need for secrecy within their organization.
Picking up a book, he scanned through the written name: Analysis on Eastorian Culture.
"About lowlanders, no doubt." And he had very little interest in learning that. No. His choice in asking for this place was simple. One was the small but potential likelihood of learning something of the El'shadie; the other was perhaps some data on the so-called Ashmen of the desert: the Fermen
After all, with no control over his presence in this place, which was true. He could only take advantage of what it offered. One such was a library. Just good enough for the passage of time.
Taking a breath that soon escaped his lungs, Merrin dipped the book back into the shelf, padding the rest for true symmetry in arrangement.
Done with that, he marshaled then the weaves of the wind, curling them around his body. The sound was first, the howling as his clothes fluttered in the spinning gust. Next was the gradual hovering off the ground. In a way, this was an exercise in control. Too much wind and the books flew off their shelves. For that, he sensed, would cause his death at the hands of Stannis.
And what a strange man he was… Merrin pondered, lifting meters off the floor, snaking through the air, observing intently for the presence of the desired book. He would likely find it here… within this absurd size of a room. A place that was strangely not owned by a brightCrown.
Revealed by Shae, Stannis was not, and had never been one. Even now, often Merrin would wonder why the Gresendent Sister had remarked that darkCrowns could rarely become casters. That much was false; after all, in here, within the Nightfell camps, not a single caster was a brightCrown and barely any had the strands of white across their hair.
Perhaps the whiteness was a trait shared solely by the brightCrowns… the Orvalen were similar to them in that manner.
"This one," Merrin said, still amidst the air, picking up a book from a shelf's top. "The Fermen of the Great Desert!" With that, he hovered down, placing the book on one of the black desks within the room. In comparison, the table was rather modest.
But the function was all the same. Taking a seat, the book was patted and read.
From it, Merrin grasped some relevancy. For one, the so-called soot-fields were not in truth covered in ash. What they were was sand. White sand, the Fermen, however, did have a habit of smearing soot across their skin and their homes. Similar to the Ashmen. But that was right about the end of their similarities.
Merrin frowned.
The Fermen were also assassins—at least this was the role they played within Eastos. Killers paid for by anyone. Goodness had no factor in their actions; nothing did. They did share a belief in the god who was to come. The promised Sun. The name, however, differed from that of the Church—they called theirs: Velira!
A recollection came from the words. Merrin had heard it many times, from the undermines and the mines; many had repeated such phrases. Rather odd that so many forms existed for the description of a singular thing… he chuckled.
And many people have called me those words…
Kael'Theuron, Velira, sunBringer.
What a joke.
What a gag I've made of my life.
Furthermore, sometime in the past—twenty years at least—a woman had been married off from the Fermen, who are known to have far darker skin than the common people of Eastos. This woman was taken to the Driftpoint Island to become wife to the Lord of Driftpoint… and more…. She had a son.
"Tyrion Driftpoint… the next Lord of the Waves and Master of Driftpoint," Merrin muttered. "But if he's a brightCrown, what's the point of taking the food given to the nightsailers…. Aren't brightCrowns supposed to be rich?"
Odd indeed.
Abrupt,
Something blinked by his side, startling!
What was it?
Taking a glance to the side, right there, floating right above the desk was an orb. Smaller than the others this one was, pulsing with a blinking whiteness—not a constant like the rest, but a flash of brilliance. What was it? Mentation spun but provided no answers to the given question.
Maybe it's like the rest, only damaged…
That would be problematic.
Merrin tapped on it—it was cold. "What are yo—"
"INFORMATION RECEIVED ABOUT THE RECENT CONFLICT IN CINTRY!"
"Ha?" Merrin froze, eyes locked on the talking orb. How was that even possible?
"DURING THE CORONATION OF THE HIGHBORN OF VALOR, THE PRINCESS IVORY OF VALOR AS HEIR TO THE SEAL SEAT, THE GRAND HALL WAS ATTACKED BY FERMEN ASSASSINS, LEADING TO THE DEATH OF THE LAST LORD OF WANE AND MASTER OF STONEBASTION!"
That perked his awareness.
"CURRENTLY, THERE HAS BEEN NO CONFIRMED LIST OF THE DEAD; HOWEVER, THE EVENT HAS CAUSED SOME DEFIANCE WITHIN THE VASSAL LORDS OF VALOR. NONE OF THEM, DESPITE THE CORONATION, HAVE SWORN FEALTY TO THE HIGHHEIR!"
Fermen assassins attacked her? Merrin knew Ivory was likely high within the ladder of the brightCrown society, but she was to be Highness to Valor?
Mist!