Merrin stood abruptly and saw his fear repelled by the fierceness written over the Witnesses.
What?
"Catch him before he escapes!" Moeash roared, and in an instant of chaotic harmony, the witnesses surged from their seats and dashed out through the door. Merrin, in that moment, felt a foreboding occurrence. Something utterly dreadful if control were not established. He took to his feet and ran towards them.
Not now! He did not yet want to reveal himself to the mines. Not now. Not now. He lowered through the cave door, ran through the dimly lighted hall, and saw then the witnesses in their haste had descended into the lower mines. And now, he heard voices—sounds laced with confident violence. They shouted from below—moved, cursed all in defence of his person.
Acute senses as an Ashman became a curse in those moments as he heard in pure clarity the defiance by which they moved. The mines called him heretic; they refused.
Merrin dashed on, feeling terrible annoyance at the strange means of the cave's sudden length. It felt further…or was he moving slowly? Wasn't he faster than most?
"You know nothing!" A witness had shouted, "He is the savior. If he says he can, then he can!"
"Heresy!" A slave man interjected, "What? Would you say he is god now?!"
"Mist you!"
"Mist you!"
Sound finding dulled as the larger mine echoed with interrupting sounds, but he knew then, violence was coming. Like a sure storm brewing in the heavens, it was coming.
Merrin saw the round, crude outdoors of the caves and disregarded the ladder issued from it. There was no time. Inward, he wrestled with self-preservation and found strength in its sacrifice. In that moment, reaching the lip of the hall, he saw the vast expanse of the mine's enormity. And he jumped.
Wind whistled past his ears, and the darkness, far dotted with blue froststones, dim lamps, and burning fires, blurred from his vision. It was a mixture of colors—blue, white, and red. None that mattered now.
Merrin felt the slowness of time and attributed it to the heightened state of self-awareness. He looked down and saw the vast crowd of men, ambivalent in their actions. Some shouted. Some fisted. Some abstained. But one thing grew certain, chaos was soon to take hold.
And how soon he saw that. Moeash, driven by some reaction, took out a blade from his coat.
No!
Time raced forward, and the man-boy surged, swinging the blade in a fit of mad fury. Blood spewed. A hand fell. Screams followed.
Merrin dropped from the sky, landing in the rough center of the chaos vortex. Faces startled. Amazement. Fear. Confusion. But he had no time to ponder on that. Merrin shifted his awareness and saw the man, sprawled on the floor, hand cut clean from the shoulders. He screamed and wailed, and above him stood Moeash, stunned by the fallout.
This was a normal thing—men commonly froze to unexpected outcomes.
But Merrin was not a man. Not now, at least. His mouth parted, and a voice like thunder roared out. "Enough!"
What a terrifying sound that was—that in the moments of its release, silence dawned over the chaos, and even the distant hammering dulled in silence. Abrupt serenity. They watched now, bemused by the mighty tone by which he spoke.
And Merrin knew it as an unconscious trick. He felt what he did. Symbols. Wind on sound. But he did not use the vision to grasp it. He just knew now his words flowed through the wind, announcing loudly to all sides.
That drained force.
"Enough of this foolishness!"
"sunBringer!" A woman, pale-faced, urged close to him. "This ones call you a liar. They don't know what we know. We don't speak because you forbade it, but their words…Those things cannot be allowed."
More godhead. Merrin sighed inwardly, "Do not presume to allow things on my behalf."
She recoiled in shock. "sunBringer?"
Merrin looked to the man, wincing at the ground—blood steaming, skin sizzling. He found the hand beside him, near bereft of its moisture. Paling. It would burn soon. Now outside the protection of the froststone, it was just another flesh—one the world's heat would quickly consume.
This is an opportunity…Merrin leaned in and picked up the arm. With it, he moved to the slave, who shuffled back in obvious fear.
"Get away from me!" He shouted, "Blasphemer! Heretic! Fallen."
I am worse than all of those. Merrin gripped his shoulder and wrestled him down. Then, he moved the hand near the sliced shoulder, pressing it in. Blood rolled down—more pain for the man. Terrible agonizing pain.
How can I heal this? Merrin knew the possibilities were an exaggeration of his capabilities. As the bird had said, human symbols were more complex.
He looked to the ground and felt the rising of a notion.
"I give you strength in exchange for what you have lost!" Merrin said, heaved a breath, and surged the strength of force. The tide of power railed up, and the world washed into a grayness. Shapes took form, distant murmurs—lights—servs or not, it didn't matter. All that mattered was now.
Merrin pried into the symbols of the land—the stone. The instinctive awareness flowed in, and suddenly, the man screamed. His hands, like water rolling down a surface, was turning to stone. A shade of brown and red—the color of the earth burned floor. He screamed—a reaction to a phantom pain? Or some trueness invoked by the casting.
He didn't know.
Yet, Merrin knew what he had to do—heal this man in the best ways he could achieve. Perhaps, a stronger caster, more knowing, could bring true salhtiferous means, but he…he was limited. This was best.
And so he did. He poured in his force—seeing it in form of a radiant whiteness spilling out. To others, they saw nothing. He realized this in the unconscious experimentation of his previous casting. He did it many times. And outside the watery eyes, they saw little of the depth of what he did. It was a weird act—to touch and to do. The same for the caster who turned the wall to water. He touched and did, but the trueness of that event was hidden from all except him.
What about me? A small awareness within asked. It was no stranger that the means he casted or the absurdity of its effects differed somewhat from normal. A guess, perhaps, but a likely one. He had never heard of casters burning with white radiance—but he did.
Strange things.
Merrin stood up and saw the man panting, his hand a solidity of brown and red. Stone. He stared, terrified at the bizarre act—held his stone hand with the one of flesh. He looked around manically, then locked onto Merrin.
"What did you do to me?" There was terror in his voice.
"I gave you your hand."
"This is not my hand. Origin save me, this is not my hand, this is stone. You have cursed me, haven't you? I called you a heretic, and you cursed me!"
Merrin wore pity—a genuine expression. "I did not do any such thing. Why would I?" He thought now the right moment. "Why would I bother to curse you when I can do worse?"
He turned to the crowd around him. How massive they were. And how ignorant they were of their own strength. They could overwhelm him—a simple thing that would not take a moment. But they feared…What can he do? What is he? What is a sunBringer?
Questions, Questions.
Merrin said, "Do not harm!" he glanced at Moeash and saw, via that trembling of hands, that the man-boy knew himself as the receiver. "You call me heretic, fallen, blasphemer. How sure are you of these things?" he said to the rest.
Bravery took one. "Since you came, people have been falling asleep."
"Sleep is no ill."
"They don't wake!" He roared, "They are plagued. The selunn!"
And they think it's my doing… "And you blame me for this?"
"Who else? If you are not a heretic, then you are cursed. The Almighty above must despise you!"
He must truly despise me. And how much more he will for what I'm about to do. "I do not do any such things, and to blame me for it is true blasphemy."
"You see?" Another roared, "He is claiming godhood."
"I CLAIM NOTHING!" Merrin snapped and felt the latent flow of force. "You accuse me of many things. Call me a heretic—a fallen. You do not have that right. You bark at the wrong wall, hoping for some result. How is this my doing?"
The force battered against his cogitation. It came as an emotion—a self-hatred for the things—the ideas he placed in their minds. Their words held truth, he was a heretic. To claim godhead was a thing left for the 8 clans, as dictated by the church. Not for him.
Worse, he did this for a puny reason of preservation. He made these ones his shields and spears—to use against the clan. To force an acceptance of his terms. What terrible consequence that would have.
"I did not cause the plague. But I am aware of it. I am aware of its source and I am aware of its cure."