The caster brought them here. This was certain. All of them. A punishment, but not death. No, not that. Something else. He had sealed the ones above from prying, so it was not a humiliation, nor a curb to someone's pride. Something else, then. His mind churned, possibilities swiftly passing in flash instants.
It was not an outcome for pride-killing or death. Merrin looked to the side and froze. There, a familiar thing amid the rocks: a silver sphere. Something once seen in the cold home of the caster. "What is that?" The question halted in his throat.
Pain.
The arching thrill flooded his arm—and the alertness of it surged within. The same for the sleepers. They all jerked at the suddenness, some wincing, some screaming. A clear justification for the pain. Their screams, however, were banned as a voice tore into the pit, echoing from above.
"You all have disobeyed the laws of the mines." Merrin knew that voice. The cold indifference of it assured the certainty.
The caster.
He looked up through a brief stinging of lamplight and saw the man through the narrowing of his eyes. The caster, overlooking with a blackness of expression. He spoke. "It has been noted that many mines have lost their elements. Therefore, a means for success has been presented. But first, you all are to mine whatever still exists there. Upon completion, the orbs you see will be exploded, creating further depths to the pit." He paused. "Do not harm the orbs."
His eyes remained for a minute, as though observing for defiance. Soon, however, he sauntered away.
Merrin remained, stunned by the observed events. What was this? This was no punishment, just work. This meant something… He allowed his mind to ponder. A reason for the no retribution meant something. What was it?
A figure among the miners looked to him—recognition flashing in his eyes. "sunBringer!" he shouted, and the word fanned out, drawing further eye-searching from the rest. They soon spotted him and ran in glee. Almost like children, Merrin noted, and felt the internal warmth of passion. His passion. His desire for these people.
He smiled.
And that expression somehow pressed elation into the witnesses. They reached him, panting. The pit was wide enough to require it. Yet, they looked up to him. Strange. He knew himself to be shorter in comparison, but they, by means of lowered legs and hunched backs, gave the divergent impression. They became small in his presence.
Such reverence. Such things I have imprinted into these people. Those words revealed dejection and mirth. What a contradiction. One lowered her head and edged close—fearful, pious. The dream memory must have latched itself into their inner perceptions. Once, they saw him as a savior. Some miracle bestowed upon themselves. But doubt remained. No more. After that. They feared his wrath. They feared his power. They feared him.
What tools they were becoming.
"sunBringer," she said, speaking in that soft, chilling intonation known to the Nights. A Noctis born. Merrin felt his mind dash with imputations and innermost processing. Gathering. Knowing. She was a wall to him. A thing he could read with little exertion.
What had he become?
She knelt, hid her pain with scattered hair, and said, "Take me as I desire to be yours."
A predictable thing. Merrin sighed within and understood the event was unstoppable. This was the way of the world. Might had been shown, naturally; the weak made sure to grasp it by whatever means. This was the fruit she desired.
But…
"You are already mine. All of you," he said, and saw the frenetic responses of expression. All fell to their knees. "I will forever guide you and stay among you. In your gathering, know my presence there." A dogma of the church. "Listen to my words, for they are the truth. Some of you, the devout, have been taken to paradise. They enjoy that solace. Stay with me, and that future is yours."
"SunBringer!" They roared as one—a loud noise that masked the distant ones. The banging became a null thing, just the breathing, the orgasmic emotions, and the fervor. He had prepared them—remade them in his image. What a terrible thing.
He saw then, in fullness, ahead, the giant of a man stood, smiling. Merrin startled and walked past the lowered ones. He moved with such quickness that it echoed his internal state: excitation, glee, happiness. Ron lived. Praise the Origin!
In moments of closure, Merrin discovered himself undersizing. A natural thing when before the might-be Aspirant. He smiled, slouched left. A sure involuntary action, but one born from pain. He, too, was wrapped in stained white. CleanseWitch methods. But the ache still lorded. How terrible it must feel. Back and forth, according to Moeash, he had saved many of his witnesses. Merrin adored him for that.
"Thank you," he said, and saw the deeper smile of the giant. Clothes torn, blood-soaked, yet his arms still lived within the sleeves. What powerful principle must dictate this action of his?
He said, "Ma'rim, this is okay. I… I thank you," he ended with a slow bow. That was enough. And Merrin saw the swarming of yellow servs around him—like the witnesses. All shared as one in the deepest delight. He turned and saw the man-child, standing, not bowed, just standing.
Merrin obscured his felicity with a phlegmatic expression and sauntered. He reached him and said, "You're awake." It was not a question.
Moeash lowered his eyes. "I am awake," he said, scanning through the lowered ones. "Not everyone is here?"
Merrin chilled. "They have ascended to solace."
Moeash turned to him—a certain brief doubt flashing through. "Ascended to solace?"
"Yes."
"So they died."
Silence.
Moeash lurched away, and Merrin knew the man was plagued by great sadness—a thing seen by the floating dark and blue servs. I wonder if he hates me, he thought. This was my fault. The dead, he must have known some of them, just as Ron had. But… Merrin looked at his hands… I know I shouldn't… But Moeash, please don't hate me.
This was a plea to the Almighty. A hopeful one. A want that brought about a deep breath, one left unhindered to the Witnesses. Once in a while, they were allowed to see. Even the Almighty rested after the song and dance of creation.
He whirled to the witnesses and said to them, "Mine as the law has been given, but don't touch that." He pointed at the sphere. This, he saw in their eyes, sparked some defiance. Knitted brows, clenched jaws. They hated the caster now, the mines, everything. They would, if ordered, bring war and death to them.
What dangerous consequence would that have?
Moeash, please don't hate me. The prayer recalled, and Merrin trembled at its failure.
In the beginning was the one who made the beginning. And he sang—the song of Salmira.
Merrin was refused mining. The witnesses, even the non-ones, had confessed rejection of the work. They would do it, they said, not him. Not the savior. He could only watch now, perched on highstone, staring as the witnesses banged metal against stone. Panting. Sweating. The heat here showed enough intensity that one questioned the service of the froststone. But they did, just not strong enough to quell the severity.
In fellowship was Ron, seated on a lower highstone, body straightened. Noble things. Beside him—an empty spot. Moeash had been invited to the needed rest, but refusal became the response. This was a foreseen outcome. The deaths, those bothered him greatly. How he wished to resolve that pain. But the how eluded any involved mentation.
Merrin desired to offer solace, but Moeash would not take it. Alone. This was what he wanted… I must wait for him.
In the meantime, he delved into the greater collection of incomplete thoughts. Time was the gift now; he best use it well.
The Caster's Motive
First, he brought strength to the question of the caster's motive. In that gathering, two potentialities were spat out. One: the man lacked the needed authority to dispatch them. This factor was increased with the Sister's words for a sacred caster. One, he believed, was stronger than the mine's. Using the known ranking methods of the clan, the possibilities that the presence of this sacred caster lessened the strength of the mine caster echoed with great assurance.
The other was a metanoia. Chances remained that the caster spared them for little reason but a change of heart. This, however, held little weight when subjected to the means Clan casters treated others. Valor was proof of that.
Two possibilities—one sureness. Merrin looked up, scanned the lamps scattered on the walls. Light, dim. For some reason, the tenebrosity was calming. Thought churning. Good.
The veilCounsel's Path
He dumped the prior mentation and took another. A different one—a more interesting one. What could he do now as a caster? The most important. Revealed by the words, he knew now that exceptionalism was a reachable construct. If, by means of luck, he reached a certain strength, the chances for freedom elevated. That, of course, required Catelyn, but…
I wonder if she survived. He wanted her to survive. Distraction. Merrin saw a woman resting on a highstone. How tired she seemed—a thing he saw through her trembling shoulders and drenched tight clothes. Form outlined. Yet, there was a smile. Servs of delight confirmed this. To endure pain with reverence… What have I done to these people?
He returned to the innermost procession. What could he do as a veilCounsel?
The world drowned in the phrenic grayness. And he saw the gradual opaqueness of the symbols. Shapes, glyphs. Dots of distant light, and of course, the whispers. Now, however, it was a milder thing. Focused. Clearer. Like distant flows of words. Before, the knowledge came from all things; now it was the similar things: the shadows, the darkness, the waning.