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Keevan awoke to darkness, thanks to a tight blindfold wrapped around his head. He lay on his back, spread eagle under thick blankets. His head ached, but from a distance, as if through a shroud. He reached up, but a soft hand stopped his. "Wait," a soft voice said. "You may remove them when I leave."
"Who are you?" Keevan asked. Her voice felt familiar, but distant, someone from his childhood perhaps.
"I’m your parents' best chance at healing a Sight Seeker," the sweet voice answered. Her accent was foreign, but rich, like candy to the ear. There was a feeling of peace about her as well, a deep calmness he'd not felt in ages. The pain in his skull faded further.
"Dara." Keevan remembered. "You're a Rhet, right?"
"After a fashion." Dara admitted, running her fingers through his hair. "My tribe lives beyond the Danica mines to the east. Let's just say my fire works differently than most Tri-Beings'. I tended to you when you were an infant. I helped a few other times as well, when you were growing up, before your parents' understood your elemental limitations."
"What happened to my eyes?" Keevan asked nervously. "Will I go blind? It hurt so much."
"Yes, the repulsor field really taxed your power." Dara admitted. Warmth flowed into Keevan's head, working its way down the muscles in his neck. He felt totally relaxed. These were strange fires indeed, he couldn't help but feel like she was seeing him somehow, his mind, his dreams, his soul.
"My power?" Keevan asked, puzzled. "I don't have power. I can just see elements."
"Your body's immunity to repulsor fields is a Sight Seeker trick. An instinctive one, thankfully. You suffered a severe wound to your brain as an infant, before we found you. The damage blocks the parts of your mind responsible for consciously directing Sight Seeker power. The massive repulsor field forced your body to try and punch through the dam in your mind, so to speak. Risky business."
"How could you possibly know that?" Keevan asked, astonished. "Were you the one going through all the Sight Seeker records at the Repository?"
"No." Dara said, momentarily puzzled. "But my people have a history all their own, separate from Issamere's, and we remember much about the Sight Seekers. But that is a discussion for another time."
Heavy foot falls echoed outside the room. The door creaked open. "Is he well?" The voice was Nariem's.
"I believe so." Dara confirmed. The wooden planks beneath the mattress sighed in relief as she stood from the bed. "Though I wouldn’t recommend putting him through so large a repulsor field again. I don't know that his mind could take it."
"Thank you, again." Nariem insisted. "We owe you so much, over the years."
"You owe me nothing, believe me." Dara insisted, a pain hanging heavy in her voice. "I've helped the boy as much as my position and duty allow, nothing more. You can remove the bandage, after I've gone."
"Why do you insist on him never seeing you?" Nariem asked.
"My answer hasn't changed." Dara replied, shutting the door behind her as she left.
Nariem sighed, then stepped across the room, untying Keevan's blindfold. "How are you feeling, my son?"
"Better." Keevan admitted, rubbing his neck. He blinked a few times, picking Nariem's tired, worn face out of the dim light. Judging by the darkness outside his window, night had already fallen. "Why won't she let me see her?"
"Her tribe is somewhat like Issamere." Nariem explained, looking over Keevan's healing bruises and scraped face. "Many of them think helping the Lone Outlander will only do them harm, though even I don't understand their reasoning. They are a superstitious bunch. They mostly keep to themselves, all but Dara anyway."
"Is there anything to eat?" Keevan asked. His stomach gurgled insistently at the mere thought.
"There's some bread and cheese at the table outside." Nariem said, helping Keevan to his feet. "Come."
Whatever Dara's treatment did, it left Keevan woozy and unbalanced. He felt hungry, exhausted and spent, like leather stretched too tightly over the head of a drum. The going was slow, but they reached the couch without incident. Keevan was half way through his third slice of bread before he realized they stood in the Repulsor room again, bringing the events of the day crashing down on him with renewed vigor.
"Where's mom?" Keevan asked, wincing as he leaned forward on the couch. The repulsor room pulsed around him, leaving the air void of the usual excess elements. He set his elemental vision aside, glancing over at Nariem, who nibbled busily at a glazed danish. Another dozen or so sat on a platter on the table between them.
"She'll be along by tonight, I'd imagine," Nariem speculated, licking some stray icing from his thick, scarred fingers. He looked ten years older, frazzled and pale. Keevan's parents must have stood outside the Etrendi District walls for hours, threatening every guard who would listen, but they couldn't pass the gates until the situation with Kors was resolved. "She's fighting to keep you. That's all."
"Keep me?" Keevan asked with a laugh. "Are they going to find me new parents? They think that will solve anything?"
"No, not like that," Nariem corrected, shaking his head. "As I understand it, the Harbor Guild wants you imprisoned or ... worse."
"Understandable, considering what Corvan did to their ranks in a single day," Keevan echoed grumpily. He envied the frustrating calmness the repulsor room gave to Tri-Beings. Regardless of where he sat, his heart still thumped like a pagoda trapped in a small room. "What about the Suadans?"
"Well, their upper members know about you beating the Watcher's defenses," Nariem said, his tone light and free of care. Keevan wondered how different his parents would treat him once he was able to talk to them outside of this infernal repulsor cage. "Plus, everyone knows you sabotaged the southern Suadan Temple with a repulsor stone. Their smithies are still trying to undo the damage. At the moment, I believe the Suada image has three arms and a single leg. Its city-wide reach is also fractured and broken."
"It was that, or let Kors kill us all," Keevan offered meekly.
"Yes," Nariem agreed, glancing out the window. Night fell hours ago, but given the gravity of the topic being discussed, sleep proved impossible. "Which is why your mother is arguing with the Council as we speak. The Suadans, Belenokans, Raejins, all the Guilds and the Malik himself are present, all to determine what to do with you."
A knock echoed at the door. A burly Belenokan guard pushed it open and an elderly Suadan entered, Keevan recognized her as the High Priestess' second in command. Her baggy eyelids and pale features attested to her hours spent alongside Masha, though likely not in his mother's favor, if his father's word on her political views was accurate.
"Varta," Nariem said, pursing his lips in restrained anger. Keevan raised a curious eyebrow. It was interesting to see which emotions the repulsors obliterated and which they allowed. Dislike seemed to carry through just fine. Or his hatred for this woman was so intense repulsor orbs couldn't hold it at bay, another interesting thought.
"Nariem," Varta answered stiffly. She glared at the walls and ceiling, shuddering. "I'll make this quick, I hate repulsor rooms. The High Priestess has decided to establish the boy's Ranking herself."
"What?" Keevan replied, sitting up straight in surprise. "You mean, I can't choose what I want to become?"
"Precisely," Varta said icily. She glared at Keevan the way a disapproving aunt might regard an unwanted step child. "The Suadans have decided you will serve Issamere best as a scribe for the Malik's scholars. You can spend as much time as you want researching Outlanders and you will help hunt the one who recently escaped, Corvan."
"That's not fair," Keevan replied, rising to his feet. "You can't just stick me in a cell of books, give me a quill and have me waste out my days. That's just another kind of prison."
"We can, and we will," Varta spat. Nariem didn't speak, but his face turned a shade of purple Keevan wasn’t familiar with. The burly blacksmith watched Varta like a child considering how best to dissect an insect. His restraint told Keevan volumes though, and a shudder crept along his spine. They couldn't counter the High Priestess' wishes.
"I wouldn't jump to conclusions just yet," Madol growled, pushing past one of the surprised guards as he barged into the room. He wore a sling around one arm and white bandages peaked out from under his tunic, coat and sleeves. He grit his teeth with each step, as if daggers jabbed him from every direction. Water lay spilt on the floor outside and Keevan suddenly felt very guilty, Madol was abandoning the water he used to manage pain, just to talk to him.
"It’s the will of the goddess!" Varta countered, though Keevan noticed her take an involuntary step back upon Madol's arrival. Her bells chimed softly with the motion. The Persuader looked wounded, tired and very dangerous.
"Try the will of the Malik," Madol snapped back. "Your 'goddess' can't even maintain a water image without help, thanks to the damaged Danica crystal at her core. You should not have left so soon. Were you hoping to make the boy agree to be a scribe and get it in writing, before we finished discussing the matter?" He smiled and said, "Tsk, tsk, Varta. You'll have to do better."
Now it was Varta's turn to take on a purple shade in her face. "What was their decision?" she grunted through gritted teeth.
"The Council has decided on a number of uses for the boy. Ones the Malik's already agreed to." Madol said, pulling out a small bundle of parchments from the pocket of his cloak. Keevan's belly did a strange gurgling role as his anxiety mounted. His future rested on the words those flimsy pages carried.
"What have they decided?" Keevan asked. His hands trembled with fatigue and fear. Where would the Malik put him? Would they try to make him a cook? A servant? Would they give him some useless position where they could keep watch, no better than a prison of duty?
"Well, mind you, this is your choice," Madol added, a hint of caution to his voice. "But try to keep your mind open to the full repercussions of your decision. That was Masha's advice for you. She and the rest of the Council are awaiting your decision. She couldn't come along with me, as other Council heads thought she'd put undue pressure on you. Go on, boy, read them."
Keevan leaned over and tentatively picked up the first one. "Artisan Derelisk agrees to hire the boy for work in designing and testing security vaults for Etrendi families and royal interests." Keevan read aloud, his eyes widening at the end of the page. "And they'll offer me a dozen gold pieces a week for my trouble."
"What's the next one?" Nariem asked, sliding over until he sat alongside Keevan, peering over his son's shoulder.
"The Builder's Guild," Keevan read aloud, puzzled at first. "They want my help... reading Danica veins buried in the city's stonework so they can tell which need adjusting. They'll offer... more gold than the Artisans. By Suada... is this really happening?"
"What else?" Nariem pried, eyes dancing from one wondrous page to the next.
"The Scholar's Guild wants my help analyzing ancient relics." Keevan read, skimming through the pile. "The military want my help in tactics, to work on their techniques in countering another army's elemental field. I guess Arnadi's forgiven me for this whole mess."
"Not Calistra," Varta added with a vengeful hiss. "She'll be lucky to leave the Arnadi Mansion ever again."
"Perhaps I can help her." Keevan thought aloud.
Nariem chuckled. "Best help yourself first, my son. This is an important decision. It will tell the city the role you wish to take. It will also set the tone for what kind of man you want to become. Think through your ordeal. Which of these offers will best strengthen you?"
Keevan sat back on the couch, gauging his offers. Most put him in a management position, ordering other Tri-Beings how best to use their powers. Wasn't that the main lesson to take from the day's events? Without other Tri-Beings, even rebels like Kors and Calistra, he could do nothing. He would remain powerless in a direct confrontation. He picked up the Artisan's page, holding it high, when Nariem spoke suddenly.
"Will Keevan be able to take his news to the Council, himself?" the heavily muscled blacksmith asked.
Madol's lips twisted into a soft frown. "No. I’m to take his response to them myself."
"So, all these people," Keevan echoed, a hallow sensation settling inside. "They're only after my gifts, which they will pay me for, but they won't hear me out in person?"
"Only Citizens of Issamere can address the Council." Varta spat, hands on her hips as she glared down at Keevan. "The idea of accepting an Outlander into our great city... it's too much for any decent Issamerean to stand."
"Money." Keevan echoed, spreading the pages out over the table. "The illusion of power. Until I'm no longer useful. Then I'll be kicked aside."
Nariem placed a comforting hand on his son's shoulder. "Things can always change for the better Keevan. Think of this as a single step on the road that is your life. There will be many more to take."
"I'd like them to be my steps." Keevan grumbled, balling his fists in frustration. "This whole mess started because I couldn't fend for myself, when Kors kidnapped me. The people still reject me or use me, nothing more. You know what I mean, right Madol? You're a Haldran, but you must deal with Etrendi bigots all the time."
Madol chewed his bottom lip, considering Keevan with a thoughtful expression. "You have a point," he offered evenly. "I had to sacrifice much to become a Persuader, but now I'm considered an equal among the Etrendi. Mostly."
"Only as long as our Malik remains in power." Varta countered, acid on her tongue. "Then your fate will lie in the hands of the next Malik. Perhaps he won't be so favorable, to you or the boy. One can only hope."
"These are generous offers." Keevan said, pushing them towards Madol's end of the table. "But they're all just another way of keeping me under control. There's no room for me to grow, or protect myself, aside from what money can buy. Lot of good a bag of gold did for me at the Arnadi Mansion. No. These offers can't teach me the skills I need to survive."
Madol's thick eyebrows popped up in surprise. "Are you asking what I think you're asking?"
"Until I can fend for myself, I'm at the mercy of those around me, be they rebel, loyal to the Malik or Outlander." Keevan decided, his stomach sickening with every syllable. What if the Persuader said no? There were no other options to draw on, he realized. This was what he wanted, he could only speak the words and hope against hope for admittance.
"Keevan?" Nariem asked, his grip on his son's shoulder tightening. "This is as dangerous a path as you can take. If it's at all possible." He glanced up at Madol, uncertain but hopeful.
"You do realize, Keevan, I can't promise you anything." Madol insisted, resting his hands on the hilts of his weapons. "You could fail in the first season and be right back where you started. It will not be a soft life of easy gold that these other Guilds are offering. If anything, I will have to be harder on you than the rest of the applicants. An accident could befall you during training. You could lose a limb, or your life."
"Would you give me the chance to try?" Keevan persisted, standing up straight. This felt like a decision meant for one to make on his feet. Particularly when asking one of the Malik's own Persuaders. "Will you, please?"
Varta's expression turned more sour with each passing word, as if she'd eaten something foul. Nariem on the other hand, looked more hopeful with each of Madol’s words. The Persuader crossed his arms, wincing at the pressure on his burns and said, "How would you like to study under me as my apprentice?"
Nariem actually yelled for joy, punching his fist up into the air. Varta sputtered wordlessly, before storming out of the room to the echoes of bells chirping against stone. Keevan sat there stunned while Madol watched with a pleased, sly expression.
"I can be a Persuader?" Keevan echoed. He stared at his hands nervously, second thoughts racing through his mind. "I don't wield elements."
"You're immune to repulsor fields," Madol offered, pointing at the ceiling above them. "That alone is something unique and dare I say, useful. As to your limitations, we might be able to work with that."
"What do you mean?" Keevan asked.
Madol walked over to the couch, sitting beside Keevan. He took off his boot and rolled his pant leg up, wincing with the motion as he bent at the torso. His legs were perhaps the only place on his body not burned. "Take a close look at my leg. A very close look."
Curious, Keevan drew on his elemental vision. Madol's leg glowed white, an extension of the Tri-Being soul, just like any other Child of the Sky. But, there, along the calf, Keevan noticed something faint. Running his finger along Madol's calf, Keevan murmured in surprise. "So, that's how a Haldran can work among Etrendi."
"Yes," Madol echoed, rolling down his pant leg. "I have Danica veins implanted under my skin. Now, I'm not suggesting we do the same with you, but I'm sure if we put our heads together, we can find a way to help you protect yourself and perform your duties."
"You're serious about this?" Nariem asked, leaning forwards intently. "I'd be happy to show you a few ideas I've drawn up at the forge. I didn't want Bahjal and Keevan trying them out on their own, but with a Persuader in charge... That's another matter."
"Of course," Madol said, pausing as he regarded Keevan cautiously. "What do you say, boy? Would you be interested in a life fighting crime and tracking down traitors?"
Keevan glanced at his father and chuckled. For now, Nariem looked rather excited at the idea. He wondered if those feelings would persist once they left the repulsor room. Especially once they faced Masha. Still, the lack of elements didn't impede Keevan's judgment and that was more important.
He looked at Madol, then at his bruised hands, considering the events of the previous day. The people wouldn't consider him powerless anymore. Working as the Malik's right hand would protect him from the Tribunal's retributions, particularly the Harbor Guild. Not to mention, he'd learn to protect himself. The prospect felt exciting, challenging and somehow... right.
"When do we start?" Keevan asked with a grin.
"When Bahjal's done recovering from her wounds," Madol answered with a chuckle. "I've a feeling that woman will want a hand in your training. At least, I'd hate to be the one to try and stop her from participating. You make quite a pair, you too. I believe Issamere will be better for it. Persuader Stratagar, your training will commence on the morrow."
*****
"How is he?" Zerik demanded, supporting himself with both hands upon his gnarled cane. At least the runner arrived earlier than expected. A lucky stroke, since he'd just realized his old legs lacked the strength to make it down to the Suadan chambers of his little fortress.
Sparks crackled under the Raejinian's feet as the messenger ground to a halt. The flickering light cut the walls and floor into jagged shadows as the electricity sapped into the tunnel floor. The boy's black hair and intelligent, green eyes complemented his yellow and black Raejinian garb, a striped tunic hanging over his loose-fitting trousers.
"Master Zerik," the boy reported, his eyes unfocusing as he quoted the message from memory.
"Two of our Suadans pulled Kors from the Harbor. He's...lost his left hand, my Lord. His right is greatly injured. They're not sure it can be saved. He's also suffering from a sharp fever but they're certain he's out of the Death God's reach, for now."
Zerik sighed, looking down the roughly cut tunnel past the runner. Damaged hands meant weaker commands of fire, which wasn't Kors' specialty anyway. However, amputations were unpredictable, it may hinder Kors' other elemental commands. What use would their benefactor find for an elementally disarmed Exile?
"How are his spirits?" Zerik asked further, tapping his chin. After such severe trauma, there was no telling where Kors' emotional center lay.
"The fever still addles his mind," the runner echoed. His sandals still smoked from the heat of the boy's passage. Even the thick leather couldn't restrain the boy's power. Given another ten years of training, he'd be a force worth keeping. A pity the war would rise so much sooner than that. "But he mutters constantly about the Sight Seeker. Something about the mistake of ignoring him and returning to make an example of him next time."
His boyish features and lanky build reminded Zerik of the first day he met Kors, training among the Suadans. Even then, the man was stubborn and strong willed. Kors didn't have this boy's memory though. All runners were taught this skill, for paraphrasing one's message could often lead to miss-understandings.
In his business, miss-communication could cost him Issamere. It was also impossible for robbers or the Malik's precious Persuaders to intercept an unwritten message, at least without torturing the runner and abandoning all secrecy of who-watched-who. These days, the kingdom ran on secrets. Zerik's benefactor seemed to know them all. Zerik's rebellion grew by leaps and bounds once he accepted the stranger's gold and orders.
"Tell them to save all they can, arm and mind if possible." Zerik ordered, pointing back down the tunnel. "I always reward loyalty. Kors finally removed the Watcher from our path and weakened the Towers considerably. Save him. Whatever the cost."
"As you wish, my Lord." The runner echoed, vanishing back down the tunnel in burst of lighting. The boy crested the side of the tunnel as it turned, pushing off into the air. For a brief, electric moment, he could see the pure ecstasy in the boy's eyes. He cared little for political agendas, nor who ruled, as long as he got to do something 'secret' and relish his powers.
Zerik felt a rush of jealousy, and a sudden chill. His years of glory and power, both elemental and otherwise, were behind him. Each day, his bones ached a little worse and his breath failed him a bit earlier upon exertion. His days were numbered, though only Raejin, the Death God, knew the exact count.
Trying to shake off the dark thoughts, Zerik retreated back down the hall. Two tall Belenokans stood guard, heavy spears held at the ready. Their close-cut hairs were edged with gray, but their strength and reflexes were still just as sharp as the day they first shed blood. They nodded respectfully as he past, ignorantly blissful of the added jealousy that seeing their youthful strength cast upon Zerik's heart. They no doubt felt the cold accompanying him though. They probably thought his sorrow was for Kors' state.
Zerik closed the door behind him as he entered his private quarters, glad to turn his grey hair and wrinkled face from the view of his subordinates. These were not the lavish holdings he expected when he took the Stranger's gold. Zerik's bed, chair and desk were sturdy but worn, edged with unavoidable mold from the moisture in the underground confines.
Lighting a candle, he uttered a sigh of relief. The cave's constant cold drove most Tri-Being's mad, given enough time. It was the consistency, not the intensity that did it. Living creatures were never met to experience the same emotion for...ever. The warmth of the nearby flame lifted Zerik's spirits, reminding him of the Malik's offenses over the years as his anger kindled and flickered in his chest. They were so close to results, Malik Morgra's hold on Issamere hung like a ripe pear, the slightest breath of wind could knock it loose.
Sitting down at the table, Zerik whistled a jolly lyric as he gathered his quill and parchment. Finally, after years of exile, he had good news for his mysterious benefactor. The issues of this Corvan Outlander and Calistra's maiming were secondary, for this missive, he focused on the key points he knew the Stranger longed to hear.
'Stranger,
I bring news of Issamere. The Watcher is fallen. Kors ensured that not only are the catacombs free of their sentinel, but even the Great Crystal has lost its potency, damaged in the fighting. The Malik can no longer summon moisture to accompany his supporters in the city, nor cast it away to discourage dissent. Honestly, I thought you slightly mad to pit the Outlander boy against the Watcher, but now my faith in you is unshaken. What more would you have us do?
You should know that Kors is in our care, though the battle against the Watcher cost him a hand. He's also wounded the other and fights a strong fever. He speaks only of dealing with the Sight Seeker, though it may be only the sickness talking. Then again, perhaps purpose-fever is all that's left to him. The results of such injuries can be ... unpredictable.
With regards to the Sight Seeker, the Council seems to have accepted him, at arm's length, so to speak. I understand he chose to serve as apprentice to Madol the Persuader, an odd choice for the sire of a Haldran family. I'd have expected him to choose wealth and comfort with one of the guilds. The greedy and corrupt see a means to profit, and that alone will secure his safety, for now. What are your orders?
Zerik.'
With a nervous gulp and a shudder, Zerik opened the top right drawer and pulled out a velvet cloth, tied around the top with twine so as to leave the contents fully covered. The former Malik gingerly untied the knots and let the velvet fall freely, being careful to never touch the contents.
Two stone glistened before him. The first and smallest of the two, was a smooth black sphere that seemed to drink in any light that touched it. The second stone, a white diamond the size of his fist, brilliantly reflected the nearby candlelight. Only a fool though, or perhaps an uneducated Rhetan, would sell such relics as these as simple jewelry.
Zerik picked up the small black stone between his thumb and forefinger and held it aloft. Goosebumps danced up his arms as he felt his anger fading away. The hungry stone fed greedily on his focus and fears, until he sat there pleasantly bored, admiring the great black shadows cast across his room by the single candle. A thin breeze from an airshaft above sent the flame dancing around, its black minions following suit from their positions along his walls and roof.
After a minute, he forgot why holding this stone was so all fired important. Still, it was an oddity, one that might be worth something. So, he returned it to its rightful place on the velvet. The moment he let go of it, his shuddered from the cold, and the eerie sensation of regaining his anger, drive and fears in a single rush of emotion.
This sender stone was of the weaker variety. Whoever held its twin, received a vague emotional impression from Zerik, carried through his body's elements. The larger one, the brilliant diamond sitting next to it, was a receiver stone. It functioned as the sender stone's opposite, in both function and strength. He picked it up, grit his teeth and waited. The effects of both stones weren't limited by distance, the Stranger could be sitting on the other side of the world and respond as promptly as if he were sitting in the next room.
Zerik's benefactor usually didn't take long to respond to a sending, wherever he was. This time was no different. Zerik felt his benefactor's will stretch into his arm, chest and soul like a sudden tidal wave of force. His vision darkened, as the Stranger took over his senses. His hearing faded as well. Soon, he could only feel cold, pain and nausea. His skin crawled with the eerie knowledge that someone else sat inside his mind, reading his letter, picking up the quill with Zerik's hands and writing a response.
This time, thankfully, the Stranger didn't take long. Zerik sighed in relief as warmth flooded his body. Even the light of the distant candle felt like a blessing compared to the dark of 'receiving' the Stranger's instructions. The cold called out to his mind, threatening to drown him with the memories of his exile from Issamere and the wrath of the Tribunal when he opposed their choice in Malik Morgra.
With effort, Zerik forced himself to picture the look on the Malik's face when he heard the Watcher no longer shielded his catacombs from attack. That thought helped warm his old bones considerably. Rubbing his hands together, he coaxed them into a dull red of heat. He looked down at the page before him and blinked in surprise.
Noble Zerik,
Tend to Kors as best you can. Tell him his chance for revenge is near, if he can mend enough to fight. That motivation should guarantee his recovery, if he has a shred of water left within him to command.
As to the Sight Seeker, I doubt he'll last long under Madol's tutelage. The life of a Persuader is a painful one, in many ways that Keevan doesn't yet understand. But he will. Poor boy.
For now, watch him. Look for his weaknesses, enemies and strengths. I'd rather secure his cooperation through another hostage, but if necessary, we may have to kill him. When we make our move against the Malik, we must be prepared for anything.
Watch and wait, my friend.
Their end is near.
Stranger.'
###
