It was an unnerving quietude. Too sudden. Even he was chilled by the effectiveness of this power. It was not some control of one's will; no, his Force within them yielded no advantage to himself. In truth, as he could sense, the Force melded with theirs, becoming in truth their force. Not his. All that happened was the calming effect of its release. The same thing the bird was fond of doing when in its human form.
Except... his was wider, more abrupt. Oh, what seduction this power would become. He closed his eyes, taking in a whiff of the warming air. He felt it—into the barrier field of the Froststone, the breeze chilled in moments, flowing into his nostrils as homely breath.
It was good. He told himself. Really good. And saw just then the bewilderment screened across the faces of the Excubitors. Heads turned in puzzlement, blades unsheathed but with no reason to strike flesh. What oddity it must seem to them. To anticipate a slaughter of men, but instead to be met by the most docile of creatures.
That change could break even the most greatest of impressions.
Merrin sank into the background—no casting, just that natural means of the Ashman. Effective and recollective. It reminded him of who he was—beyond the bravado, beyond the pain caused to others, beyond the sin stained across his soul.
He was undoubtedly Ashman.
That voice returned after an awkward cough. Tyrion. "NOW YOU WILL BE DIRECTED TO YOUR CAMP. STAY CLOSE. OBEY THE RULES. OBEY THE CURFEW, AND OF COURSE SURVIVE FOR THE GLORY OF NOCTIS..." He paused, deliberating. "AND YES, MAY THE SAVIOR STAND WITH YOU."
"Halo!" The crowd resounded, a sense of wonder present in their tones. As was to be expected. In the end, these creatures were those of heightened awareness, thus able to detect the most minute of influences within their minds.
Notably, a normal human would grasp nothing of this act—but not them. Never them.
Some were already sharing glances, frowning. The effects of the soulForce were inherently temporary, its efficacy dependent on the length of its exposure. He could, hypothetically, sustain a continuous placid state within them. However, outside the consumption of the needed Force, there was very little risk.
He paused.
What exactly happens when I run out of soulForce?
I die? His fingers trembled. A drop of sweat sliding down his knuckle.
It trembled the heart.
Then came the distraction.
A man bumped into him, unapologetic. Rude… Yet, more issues required his attention.
In the case of the mindForce, the cognitive prowess perpetually slows until the mind entered a brain-dead state. Not true death but the lack of any discerning awareness whatsoever. What about the soul then?
According to the bird, the soul was the power of life. The means that sustains one's continuous existence. That, I suppose, means its total depletion equates to simple death.
He shivered.
It was one thing gambling with the lack of awareness as a consequence of the mindForce, but death? He lingered in that thought, envisioning the ideation as a burning coal buried within his fingers. Flaming.
It's like a double-edged knife... Using it meant almost sure death.
Yet, other than that, he recalled the battle beneath the mines. Against the Elusive bastard and its powers. There, only one force remained for usage—Ivory of Valor had once again taken from him.
There should be a way to stop her from taking Force anytime she wants it.
Nonetheless, there he was, without the awareness of anything, powered only by that innate intuition. That, and the force of the soul. It heeded. Except, as Merrin soon realized, the soul could not cast as the mind did.
As he had grasped, the mind sought for the total domination of all things—a tide of perpetual waters that hungered to drown the world before it. A true manifestation of the word 'Force'. The soul, however, was colder, gentler. And it could not, regardless of the means, cast the wind.
That, Merrin guessed, was shared with other symbols. Perhaps, unlike the mind that could seemingly bend any symbol with just enough of it, the soul could not control as much.
It seemed almost shared. As though the mind held some measure of domination over certain symbols.
Did it?
Ultimately, there was no means of discovering this. There was, of course, Ivory of Valor. She, considering the amount of Force 'stolen' from him, owed a great deal of information. That was their contract, as the bird had said.
Any bargain made within the cognitive realm, by extension, the grayworld and the dreamspaces were enforceable by the Symbols.
Annoying.
But that was the way of things.
He sighed, and heard suddenly a collective gasp shared amongst the crowd. They had stopped, and he, still drowned in that mass of tall bodies, could make little out of the surroundings. Thus, with no means for the needed observation, he crouched, his chest slapping into the wet, warmed earth. The heat bit into his flesh.
But through their shifting legs, he saw.
And he froze—breath caught, stomach hollowing.
It was a face—upside down, pinned on a cruciform, bound by robes that coiled around her body. A woman. Taut of flesh, fair-skinned, now marred by countless gashes, cuts that leaked with pus and swarming worms. Her breasts, he noted, were gone. Sliced off over the chest, leaving nothing but a red patch of dead flesh.
She was dead. Naked and dead.
"Who did this?" He mouthed, hands cupped around his lips. "Who would do something like this?"
"That's Chula!" A voice replied, warm, a sweet contralto with just a hint of crispness. Feminine.
Merrin swiveled his head, regarding the girl looming above him. Her face was white, screened by a distant lamppost. Familiar. The girl, he realized, had dark, shortened hair, oddly tied into a bun. Her body swathed in a black cloak.
He knew her.
Bad.
He turned away.
She was the girl he saved in the Black Seas.
Does she recognize me? He prayed to the Almighty against that eventuality. For her sake.
"Won't you say anything?"
Merrin gritted. Just go away. A foot crunched into his legs—he yelped, his arm flinging back against the sudden pain flashing into his awareness. Laughable, really. He chuckled whilst slinging his arm across the air. That did little as another stepped into his legs.
He imagined a grating sound—bones breaking, flesh splitting. Horrible. Horrible. Except, well, he knew in truth a normal man had no means of truly cracking his bones. Without a weapon, that is.
But the pain... well, that could not be helped.
The girl laughed, her arm resting proudly on her waist. An odd trait to have, considering a few minutes ago, she was just about ready to meet and sail the Seas of Damnation. The tenacity of humans?
He smiled.
His palm collided with his face.
A flare of pain spreading through his cheeks. It helped. Aided in reminding him of the consequences of the relationship. The El'shadie lives too long, but not them. Hence, for them, away was the only answer.
He sighed, stood, dusting off the clinging wet mud over his visage. It didn't help with all the warmth it had within. Eastos was odd in that way; one would wonder how exactly the ground could still be wet when the heat was enough to burn skin off bones.
Ah, the mysteries of the Symbols were enough to drive the deepest madness into the sanest minds. He smiled at that personal quip, looked to the woman, and said, "Savior be with you." He whirled—I need to get away.
A hand grasped his, halting motion.
What?
He spun and found, palm wrapped around his, was that woman, a knowing smile present on her face.
"Where do you think you're going?"
"Leaving." Merrin attempted to quell the chaotic self. Why was she stopping him? What does she want? Mist this!
"You called yourself sunBringer, right?"
"I did no such thing."
"Does that mean you have some relation to Baldwin Sevraz?"
"I don't know who that is."
"You'd better not." She chuckled. "I doubt the Church will take lightly to some nobody knowing a piece of history unknown to even some of their brightCrowns."
Merrin panicked... he could sense a flow of events here... This woman…This puzzling woman was trouble.
"Now to the important thing." She pulled him close. "Why do you have this mark on you?" She turned open his palm. There, painted in the center, was a round single dot.
Mist! He had forgotten about that.
"I don't... I don't know what that is."
"Sure?" Her eyes narrowed. "Nobody said these words to you: 'Zahar Alven'?"
"Zahar Nureth!" Mists!
She smiled. "We should talk."
"Ah." Merrin wrenched out his arm, sighed. "I do not know who you are, or what you think you know...But you know nothing. This word, whatever it is or means, is nothing. It means nothing to me. And you never heard it or anything from my lips."
"Except I did." She tilted. "You had somehow saved a Raven of the House of Black, such you are owed payment. Normally, men with such luck would sail the black seas or travel through the great desert, past cintry to get to the Free cities. There, in bolt, they would seek out the House of Black. For treasure. For fame. For power. What about you then?"
"What?"
She beamed. "What do you plan on asking a Raven?"