"I only have about five minutes to commit a crime."
Ivory recoils, steps back. No way! Her heart pounds. Not him! "What do you mean by that?"
"To kidnap a princess."
Ivory pulls out the oredite knife on her ankle, points at him. "What in the world are you talking about?" A chill surges through her body. She feels the world is now a dream.
"What?" He steps back. "I think killing me might take much longer than five minutes."
Does that mean he has reinforcements? She breathes heavily. "What are you doing, Kabel?"
"Ah." His eyes widen. "I think that's the first time you actually called my name. Odd you're doing it whilst holding a knife, but who knows. Anyway, I really think we should be going now."
"Huh?" Ivory is stunned.
"What?" He cocks his head.
"You called this a kidnapping."
"Yes, because that's what they will call it when they discover you are no longer here."
"So I'm being kidnapped?" She is confused.
"You could call it that, but I think it's more of a mind-clearing stroll."
Ivory snaps. "What in damnation are you talking about?"
"Halo!" He says, "That's a bad word. But I really think we should be going." A white orb floats down before him.
Eiya?
He listened, said, "Nail of Valor is returning."
"What are you doing?" Ivory tries mentation, returns nothing.
He studies her, his mouth then makes an 0 shape. "Oh no. I am not kidnapping you, princess, just taking you out for a stroll. To see your people. You know, those ones that you are to lead someday. I think you should meet them. Breathe in the misty air, feel the rain. At least before the full brute of your incarceration begins."
So he knows about that? She lowers the blade, says, "You know this is a crime. Treason."
"Exactly what I said."
"You will be killed."
"I hope you find it in your heart to spare me."
Why is he doing this? Ivory looks to him, those eyes of his. Something genuine looks back, and it scares her. She hides it. "It's your funeral."
"Yes." He nods. "Just a lowly aspirant trying to get a princess to smile so she does not grow up to become a tyrant. Maybe once I die, a story about it might be written."
"Kabel the fool."
"Nice title." He says, "But seriously, I have only three minutes to commit that crime or I die for no reason."
Ivory returns the blade into the sheath on her ankle, walks before him, says, "Tell me this path I think you have found."
"So I lead?"
"Not in a thousand years."
------------
Ron towers beside him. Behind are the witnesses, slaves, and then Davos. And they walk a tight tunnel, stone-walled, high-ceilinged. Shadows drag back, painting over the walls, swaying in their motions.
Merrin thinks this similar to a pilgrimage. A lark in his immediate awareness. But it matters not. Not now. Not to his people. His care rests solely on the remaining witnesses. Them and Moeash….
A thought echoes from that.
Where are you? He softens, breathes, and observes the backs of the torch holders. Young men—slaves, clothed in rags, most half burnt, with edges blackened, holes in them. He is like them, but they think not. The torches dance beside them, and Merrin is concerned.
What if they get caught in its blaze?
He prays not, heaves, and touches the froststone fitted on his clothes. This bothers him more. How long before it requires will? How long before all of them require will?
Problems. Too many. Ever-growing despite the created solutions. I need a distraction. He thinks, chooses to expand the auricle, picking up the distant and behind sounds. Listening to their words. That was the needed diversion.
Very few spoke; those who did, non-witnesses. It seemed the latter sought to enjoy the somber air; the former cared little.
"Who do you think he is?" One of the slaves stationed behind.
"How would I know?" Another answers. "They call him sunBringer. I don't know that either."
"Maybe it's like some prophecy?"
"Like the churches?"
"Yeah, that." He says, "Maybe he's part of some clan."
"Come on. Look at him. Does he look like brightCrown? He has no white hair."
"But some ash."
"Ash ain't white."
Merrin imagines them nodding.
"But my grandma says Velira prophecies different. They say the savior or new god will come like a beggar or ragman or something."
"What's Velira?"
"Some fermen mistsence. I don't know."
Merrin perks…Now he is attentive.
"I never seen any type of Fermen."
"Neither." One said, "Maybe they don't even exist."
"I think they live in the free cities."
"You think or know."
He is silenced.
Merrin retrieves his awareness. Nothing important would be said anymore. Though their words spark curiosity. I wonder what a Fermen is like? He looks to Ron, the giant of a man. Does he know? The wonder remains, but another takes precedence.
"Ron?"
The man looks down. "Ah. What?"
"What did they do to you?"
There is a twitch in his brows—a tremble in his shoulders. What did they do to you?
Then he smiles. "That is past now." He says, "We leave the mines. And I forget. Everyone forget. That is good. Things change. Things must change. The past gone, future waits. Mom say I am big so I look further into future. That I do now."
Merrin nods. Do not pry into such things. He vows to remind himself, but there is hatred steaming within. Anger at the leader. Repulsion for the mines. And more so for himself. His sin was weakness.
Catelyn's voice sounds. "We are here!"
And they spill into a moderate-sized chamber. Oval, but enough to hold the full entourage. Enough and more. He first studies the walls, finds them old, rusted. Dark Brown and red. Though the exact age remained elusive.
Catelyn stands before something, surrounded by the torchbearers, like guards. Near menacing. Tall too. Some towering at two meters, obscuring. So he cuts through them. They notice this and parts. Caelyn turns to him and he sees what she backs.
A round door—metal, bulky. No inscriptions, just the faint dull redness of internal heat. Beside it, fitted on the wall, is a square stone slab. Lines crisscross within it, and round dots are scattered. Writings too. "What?"
"The map."
Merrin looks at it again and realizes nothing. He knows nothing of it and draws no relevance from its depictions. "Where are we going?"
She smiles. "That path where the ri—sweat water flows connects to several…streets."
"Streets?"
"Yes." She adds, "There is a chamber with a long spear. Meters long."
"Spear?"
"Something of a spire." She says.
"So long enough to reach the pit."
"Or at least, enough that screaming brings aid." Catelyn meets his eyes downward and she waits for a response.
He has none—not at the moment, at least. So he observes the slab—the writings at the edges of it. They are old, most fissured away, but he sees something. "This is old tongue, isn't it?"
Catelyn stays silent a moment, then, "Yes."
"And that's how you know where which is which?"
"Am I to blame for my intelligence?"
Merrin waves at her, leans away from the slab. "I have no such intention. Just wondering. But…" He says, "Where are we going now?"
She does what he guessed. The ovate door—she points at it. "We need to open it." Catelyn regards him. "Break it with casting."
If only
"I think we should take the long way." Merrin says, "The end is the same."
She frowns. "What are you not saying?"
No awareness. Merrin is piqued. "Hush your words."
This follows with a scanning of the chamber. After she looks at him. "What is wrong?" Her words are milder now.
Yet, Merrin deliberates speaking. Of course, there was a reason for the refusal. The same one that prompted the original desire to take the familiar paths. He couldn't. He watches his marred palm; dark lines, bloodied cuts through them. Some healed, some fresh.
Countless weaknesses.
That limits him.
Better I show her. He opens his hand, she studies, and the wind spins into a sphere. It blows against his clothes, fluttering. Pain comes. Then it explodes, sending a wave across the chamber. Weak violence. All is perked, and they watch, startled.
Catelyn specifically is bewildered. "What is going on?"
Merrin holds his jaw, clenched tightly. Manages. "It hurts. It hurts everywhere."
"The strain?"
He nods. But knows his words half a lie. Never had casting pained him. There was the weakness of force emptiness, the mud head. But not this. This one is a consequence of his days, fears, and actions. From the fact, the windshield did not protect him from the fall into the undermines, or the many more falls. He was a bludgeoned thing.
But she had no use for that information. So he allows her the sweetness of half knowing. Catelyn waits a moment, stares at the door, clicks tongue, and calls out. "Ron!"
A moment and the giant moves through the cast. He towers over them—even the torchbearers. Maddening. Merrin is like a child before him. It is frightening. Though his smile does well to calm the heart.
Catelyn says before him. "We need you to open that."
"Wait, what?" The words escape Merrin. "What are you talking about?"
The door was dark red. A great flame is in the metal. Skin burning.