Catelyn fallen

Serenity in the mind. He smiled. This new calmness, a desired design. He breathed, peering in. The process demanded a tunneling of instinctive, calculated force. How much? What yield would be optimal? He sensed the rising: the roaring power. The sea of domination. It flowed from his fingers, wiffs of queer light—an oddity against the greyworld. There, his force emerged white, a tranquil current. Here, it was violent, chaotic, demanding dominion.

Was this an effect of the grayworld, or an El'shadie's uniqueness? He wondered, glancing left. Saw a pool of darkness over the wall. Shadow, a veil. He understood it as a symbol of dimness—or something closer. It whispered, tones low, unclear. Merrin, with adequate force, could learn more, yet caution, and the immediate need, restrained him. Now was not for casting. Testing limits, potentialities, that was the desired outcome.

Odd, he noted, how the darkness resembled an oily veil. He could don it. What then? Symbolically, he would be enshrouded. In reality, would that mean hiddenness?

Curiosity beckoned. He forced incuriosity within, settled back, breathing. The force still soared—the grayness, an active thing through which he perceived the unseen world.

Power.

Power of the Unseen.

Power of the Caster.

Merrin returned to the scheme, following the precedent notions. He tested several things. How long before the waning, the half-state? How dangerous were the whispers? What more could he do?

Minutes. He reckoned it so. A deep heave breathed out, and he cracked his neck. Good. Other ideas existed. Indeed. But Merrin felt too tired for that exhausting track of contemplation. Odd, he missed the mining.

He looked to Ron; the giant remained, staring into the distance. Where? Ron spoke abruptly: "Seems law removed. People look now."

Merrin trailed his gaze to the mouth of the pit. On its rims, eyes upon them. Hollow, disgusted, annoyed, angry. Slaves. Some spat, some whispered half-truths. The Caster had, undeniably, retrieved his sanction. All eyes had beheld them.

Dangerous things.

A yelp—a soft contrato—spewed in a peculiar amity. Who? A woman fell into the mines. Jerking. Instinct took over. Merrin dashed, kicked against the earth. The sky met him in sudden vicinage, and he gawked at the great strength flowing through his physicality. Such might, offered simply by the spoken words. He seized her, smelled her perfumed scent, and fluttering flaxen hair. She pressed her face into his chest. Afraid. One had to be. He offered his calmness, nudging his chin on her head. It seemed to work.

Soon, he touched ground—slight pain present in joints and heels. Evidently, the strength offered little for stability. It was enough, though. Not many enjoyed such might.

He offered her down, saw the panting on her trembling shoulders. She covered her lips—a thing he observed as the need to shield one's shame. Strange. What shame existed in being saved?

She turned to him, lit by the far-off lamp. Wall-perched. A half-radiance divided her face into partial hues. One of darkness. One of light wash and golden hair. A dual thing. Her eyes, however, were bizarrely shown in that piercing quality. Blue, clear. And in the darkness, it seemed to hold its own light.

An oddness.

She blinked, scanned him. He knew this through her slight shiftings. Then said, "You are stronger?" A question.

Merrin nodded.

"You said the words, when—"

Ah, the question. Merrin found himself in half-thought about the answers. Lying was an alternative. He dismissed it. He smiled, an expression he hoped she perceived through the gloom. "In a strange space. I spoke the words there."

She wore understanding. How? The possibility of the grayworld's knowledge was unlikely. Yet, there it was: understanding. Was there something else similar to it? The fallen had one; perhaps the supposed uniqueness wasn't that at all.

She turned from him, observing the vaster pits; the mining witnesses who looked back with reverence. Not to her, of course, but to the perceived miracle he had wrought. More than fifteen feet had been crossed in that jump of his.

SunBringer. SunBringer. SunBringer! They would echo internally.

What creatures of repetition he had made of them.

She returned her gaze, said, "How do you feel?"

The question. A simple thing in simple inspection. But when fitted into the turmoil within, it posed a more chaotic answer. How to explain himself to her? The state of divided awareness. One pondered. One watched. One responded. And then there was the hidden identity formed by the words. The new self, a barrier against the greater entropy of symbols.

How did one explain that?

He chose simplicity. "I'm okay."

"What can you do?"

"The shadows are friendly."

She mocked with her eyes. "A SunBringer who friends the shadows."

Indeed, the contradiction was laughable.

She said, "I see your witnesses have increased."

"Yes."

"So does that make your shield and spear complete?"

Merrin held a silence, said, "I think for a moment, I should test the exceptionalism."

She frowned. "You are a false person, aren't you?" She said, "You bounce around opportunities as though they would remain there forever. I proposed this, you chose your spear and shield, and now you abandon it after the words."

Merrin understood her annoyance. But the words. The words changed something. "I see the possibility now for that. The shadows are friendly. I can cast them, grow stronger in them. Become a thing of great might. That should force their hand."

"What about the multitude of casters? Their talents, too. Didn't that deter you?"

"The words changed everything."

She looked at him, now as an alien thing. A stranger. Perhaps he was.

She sighed—a non-rare expression. "We don't have much time. Morgan would soon be coming."

"Morgan?"

"Yes," Catelyn said. "Morgan is the caster who holds authority, and the same who would confirm you. She is the one you must show uniqueness to."

"She is the true mine caster?" Merrin had the suspicion.

Catelyn nodded. Curtly, of course. "She kept the other one in her place while she hunted around Nightfell. Supposedly, that is her fun."

Merrin grew curious. "And how did you know of it?"

Silence.

Merrin understood but decided on something. A logic that grew from his collection of ever-thoughts. He said, "You learned that from the caster, right?"

She frowned. An easy thing to read.

"I suppose he took you afterwards. Probed you as you probed him. He learned, and so did you."

She said, "As you do, I too do not like to be seen. Quit observing or I might grow an interest in you. And believe me, all your secrets will be laid bare, Ashman."

Merrin smiled. This was the desired outcome. She saw herself as the sole mind—the smarter one between them. This he needed to break. To maintain equality, both of them had to know each other's exceptionality. He knew hers, now she knew his.

That was good.

She said after a time, which he observed was required for calmness. "The caster threw me here to share in your punishment."

"Does he know about the words?"

She offered a look Merrin interpreted as, Do you think I'm some fool?

"My apologies," he said. "Then he threw you here because he was done with you."

"He threw me here because I refused to bed him."

Now that startled the created impression Merrin had of her. Refused? Wasn't she the Virgin Harlot? Why would she refuse? Surely, having the backing of the caster, be it a representative or not, was of great fortune. Why then?

This caused the bubbling of his faculties—his mind driving itself into a churning state of recollections and considerations. It felt like water slowly boiled. All impurities, in this case, false thoughts, were purged. He gasped. From various words—clues provided by the mines—Merrin grasped the reason.

"I understand the Virgin Harlot now."

She shrugged.

Virgin in trueness, and harlot in actions.

Catelyn said, "The power you have now is the same you have always had. Just, I suppose, it's now filtered. Casting some things would be harder. Light, for example. Casting the light symbols would show repulsion and resistance to it."

"A downgrade, then."

"One to keep you alive, and far away from discord."

"Insanity?"

"Yes."

Merrin nodded.

Catelyn said, "Now, you must grow a muscle memory familiarity to the veilCounsel symbols. I do not know the total sum of the symbols allowed at the vested rank, as you now are. But dimness, that one is allowed."

"I noticed," Merrin said simply.

She looked to him. Straight. Eye on eye. "You indulge too much. Perhaps a taste of discord would curb that curiosity of yours."

"It's part of the ashman."

"It should not be part of the caster."

How many more things must I become? Merrin found this a solemn state. Well hidden, of course. He said, "One day, yes, one day."

She edged closer. "Know this, regardless of what you feel or decide, I will leave these mines."

"As you should," he replied, noting a slight frown. She knew now. Her pierciness, rage, expression—all that no longer brought turmoil within him. Looking at her, he perceived the truth beyond the veil of her expressions.

This startled her.

"Ah, sorry." Merrin added, "Have a seat. Then you will teach me."

The castles were like a pyramid of darkness. Sleek, with few bruises of brittle form. Rain slid over its face, pooling in small ponds underneath. Scattered. Lightning brought flash illuminations over its wholeness, casting eerie shadows. From afar, one would fear this as the nation of the dead—Observed analysis of the Valor castles.

Merrin observed her true calmness, seated there. Catelyn, as he now knew, could very much act a BrightCrown. Odd, how DarkCrowns outside the motions were not different from the bright. She remained, scanning the pits from her highstone. She wore interest—a slight flicker in her eyes, said,

"How happy they are to work."