The blackness flashed, and then he felt himself tumbling down through the endless void, felt it as something inside him pulled himself away from the voices before they destroyed him. The blackness flashed, and then there was an explosion of light before his eyes-
– -and he was clawing himself up to his feet, shrieking at the top of his lungs for them to stop, cold sweat drenching him in a sudden wave that made him feel cold. Panting heavily, his eyes seemed blurry, uncertain, and then they focused on the sun-baked expanses of the Desert of Swirling Sands, adjusting once again to the light of the sun. A moment of panic washed over him, but he realized he was back in the desert, he was back and safe, and there were no more voices. The voices were gone, leaving him with a pounding headache.
He flopped down onto his back onto the stone, panting heavily and trying to sort through the myriad of voices, trying to remember what he heard before they tried to drown him in their pain. What horror! Not just the words, but the emotions of those who had placed those voices in the Weave shivered through him, and an abject terror of an entire world seemingly going mad was the main core that unified them in his mind. They had all been terrified, shocked. It began to come back to him. Was that what had really happened? Had an attack of some kind at one Tower caused a Conduit to tear, which destroyed the Tower at the other end of that Conduit? And had the loss of so many Sorcerers, thousands of them, caused the Weave to weaken under its burden, and then finally tear in what most people knew as the Breaking?
He put his paw over his face as he got his breathing back under control. He heard Sarraya's buzzing wings a second before she called out to him in concern and fear. "Tarrin, what happened?" she asked quickly, coming up close to his head. "Your ears are bleeding!" she gasped.
He could feel it now. The warmth flowing into his hair, oozing out of his ears. It had been more real than just a hallucination. It had been real.
He sat up, causing her to have to move out of his way, finally feeling the wild emotions and terror flow out of him. Those were not his emotions. They were shades, memories of a past horror so powerful that they had been branded into the magic of the Weave for all time. They were ghosts from the past, and they couldn't harm him now.
"Sarraya," he said a bit wildly. "I could hear them!"
"Hear what?"
"Voices from the past," he told her. "Voices from the Breaking. They're still in the Weave, Sarraya, echoing inside it for a thousand years, echoing until the end of time. So many!"
"Well, let's not dwell on that right now," she said, and he felt her touch her Druidic magic. She put her hands on one of his ears, and felt her magic urge the bleeding to cease. Somehow, some way, the wounds didn't immediately heal. "Did you make any progress?"
"I… I think so," he replied. "I didn't find my power, but I did come into contact with the Weave, somehow. I can't explain it."
"I don't think I'd understand if you did," she said seriously. "What did the voices say?" she asked curiously.
"The Breaking happened because something terrible happened, so terrible that it made a Conduit break. Some kind of an attack on a Tower. It destroyed the Tower, and the broken Conduit destroyed the Tower at the other end. So many Sorcerers died that it weakened the Weave, weakened it to the point where it couldn't support the magical demands placed on it, so it ripped. Sarraya, the Sorcerers didn't cause the Breaking. Whoever attacked that Tower did," he said seriously.
"How could that happen? Why would the Weave tear if too many Sorcerers died?"
"Sorcerers are the Weave," he told her. "Without Sorcerers, there would be no Weave. The Goddess grants the power, but it's the Sorcerers that draw it out from the Heart. The more Sorcerers there are, the more power gets drawn, and the more magic there is that comes into the world. The more magical demands on the Weave, the more Sorcerers have to be alive to sustain it."
Sarraya gave him a very long, very penetrating look. "Tarrin, what you just said, you can never repeat it," she said in a voice so serious, so grim, that it took him aback. "Do you understand me?"
"Sarraya-"
" Do you understand me?" she said fiercely.
"I-alright," he said, uncertain in the face of such vociferousness from the usually capricious Faerie. "Why?"
"Because you just said the one thing that shouldn't be known," she said in a hiss. "If people knew what you just said, the entire world would be in danger."
"You knew?"
"Of course I knew!" she said in a heated voice.
"Then why did you ask?"
"To see if you knew," she said in a muted tone. "If certain people knew what you just said, and given how few of you there are right now, do you see why it's so very important for that not to be common knowledge?"
He looked into her eyes, and understood immediately. Sorcerers were rare. In all but a very few kingdoms, they were reviled as the bringers of the Breaking. They had to travel with Knights for their own protection from ignorant mobs of peasants who believed that Sorcerers were really witches. If someone knew that the Weave depended on Sorcerers, they could conceivably kill off so many that the current Weave would collapse into another Breaking.
"How did you know that, Sarraya?" he asked in surprise.
"I'm a Druid, Tarrin," she said in a hiss. "And I've been along a long time. I know alot more than you think I know." She flitted back a little, and composure returned to her. "Are you feeling alright? Ready to move?"
"I think so," he told her. "I'm just a little overwhelmed, that's all."
"Let me go down there and assure Denai and Var you're alright. That should give you enough time to recover yourself. When you're ready, come down, alright? There's no rush, Tarrin. Come down when you feel ready."
"Alright. I'll be down in a little bit," he told her.
The Faerie flitted down, leaving Tarrin to his thoughts, and to recover from the harrowing experience. What had happened? It was as if his consciousness had merged into the Weave itself. But how was that possible? To do something like that, he had to be in contact with the Weave, but at no time did he feel such a connection. He could still sense the Weave, sense its every minute detail for over a longspan in every direction, but at no time did he take in any power, or even feel the sensation of touching the Weave.
It still didn't explain what had happened. Somehow he had communed with the Weave itself, and the Weave had granted him knowledge of events from a thousand years ago. He had communed with it without directly touching it, from as near as he could tell. He wasn't sure which was more perplexing, that he somehow gained contact with the Weave without actively connecting to it, or that it had imparted upon him lost knowledge without even his asking for it. He had just thought about the Breaking, and all those voices seemed to bubble up out of the Weave, as if to give him insight into an ancient, misunderstood disaster. Of its own volition. The Weave had sensed his thoughts, and responded to it without his direction. And it did all of that without him touching it.
Maybe… maybe he couldn't touch the Weave because he was already connected to it.
The thought just drifted by in his mind, and he locked onto it with ferocity. He analyzed it, considered it, turned it over in his mind, seeking the truth of it. He could sense the Weave, sense it in ways far beyond mere senses. He could feel its power, and it was a sense of it very similar to what he had felt beforehand, when he used to touch the Weave and draw in its power. That had to be a symbol that he was actively connected to the Weave. Its power pooled around him, and the strands pulled towards him as he moved across the desert, moved through the Weave. It explained why he was failing to find his power.
He was trying to touch the Weave, when he was already in contact with it.
Of course! How stupid could he be! The power wasn't responding to him because he wasn't trying to get in touch with that power! He'd been trying to touch the Weave so he could try! But he was already touching the Weave! The contact was very light, very gentle, because the power of the Weave wasn't flowing into him, but it was a connection nonetheless.
Stupid, stupid, stupid! He was trying to use his power the way he was trained to do it, when the Goddess herself told him that his power was different. He had to try something new, something he'd never tried before, in order to find his magic again. He was pretty sure that he could use High Sorcery the same way he did before, but first he had to learn the new way to bring the power of the Weave to him, a way that didn't include wasting days and days trying to do something he had already accomplished.
Quite deliberately, Tarrin leaned down and smacked his head against the ground.
He felt so stupid!
There was a chiming, cascading bellpeal of laughter from the Weave itself. Don't beat yourself, kitten, the voice of the Goddess reached him. Sometimes it takes a while for you to comprehend what you already know. It happens to everyone now and again, even gods.
"So I'm right?" he asked quickly, hoping she would answer before she thought about whether she was allowed to tell him that or not.
Yes, kitten, you're right. You've been trying to do what you've already done. Now you just have to figure out how to make the power respond to you.
He felt… triumphant. Like he had solved one of the great mysteries of life. But he knew that he had really just opened his eyes to a truth that he could have discovered if he'd spent five minutes thinking about it. "Mother, what happened to me?" he asked. He knew she would understand what he was asking.
Nothing, she replied. You were simply discovering for yourself one of those things that separate you from all other Sorcerers. Your connection to the Weave runs so deeply that it defies a Sorcerer's normal concepts. The Weave is much more than just a storeroom of magical energy, my kitten. I think you're starting to see that now.
He couldn't deny that. The Weave was so much more complex than he ever imagined. Even looking at it casually, the complicated relationships between flows and strands, strands and Conduits, and the residual magical energy the produced within themselves made that abundantly clear, and they were things he could spend his entire life studying and still not fully comprehend the total workings of it. His little experience with the voices told him that there was more within the Weave than simple magical power. There were other things, like memories of past events, and there were bound to be even more mysterious aspects of the Weave that would reveal themselves to him as he came into his power.
"Mother, what were the dreams?"
Yet another aspect of what you are, she replied. Since you've already taken them seriously, then I can tell you that they were serious. I am the Weave, my kitten, and you are one of my children. All gods have the right to pass on to their followers certain information in the form of dreams, omens, and warnings. Those dreams were warnings, warnings I wasn't permitted to give to you directly.
"Why not?"
Because it would have violated the rules under which we operate, she told him.
"It, it seems strange that you would communicate with me that way when we talk all the time."
She laughed delightedly. Don't forget our basic relationship, kitten. I am the god, and you are the follower. That we happen to talk from time to time doesn't change that. I'm still going to communcate with you in the boring old mystical standard ways that other gods communicate with their followers. I have to keep my mysterious means, if only for appearances' sake, don't I? I'd probably disappoint you if I didn't act godly in at least a few ways. You'd think you had a boring goddess.
That struck Tarrin as funny in some way, so funny he actually laughed. "You don't have to impress me, Mother. I'm impressed enough. And you're never boring."
I'm happy to hear that, she replied lightly. He had the sense that she was beaming at him, for some reason.
"I don't understand two of the dreams, Mother."
I can't explain them to you, she warned. I can only confirm what I know you already know. You just have to work them out for yourself. In time, I'm sure you'll understand their meaning.
He more or less expected that. But it disturbed him. One of the dreams was about Keritanima in moral pain, and the other was about Faalken. A dead Faalken, holding a flaming sword. And Jegojah was standing behind him. That one really upset him, because he had never forgotten that it was his fault that Faalken died. If he hadn't lost control, flew into a rage, he could have protected Faalken, he could have saved him. Faalken's death was his fault, his blood was on his paws. If the dreams were a warning, then it meant that Jegojah was coming again, coming for him, and that Faalken had something to do with his return.
Jegojah was coming, when Tarrin couldn't use Sorcery.
The timing of that went beyond mere coincidence. The ki'zadun must have known that Tarrin was unable to use his magic, somehow. How was beyond him, since it happened out here in the desert, where no outsiders would dare go, but the how wasn't as important as the response. But what they didn't know was that Tarrin could use Druidic magic. He already knew exactly what he needed to do to level the playing field between himself and the Doomwalker, to turn it into a fair fight, a fight of nothing but swords, skill, sweat, and raw will.
The mere thought of Jegojah made his blood boil. Jegojah had killed Faalken, and though it had been Tarrin's fault it happened, the Doomwalker had been the one to deal the killing blow. Now it was coming again, coming for him… and he wanted it. He wanted the chance to rip the Doomwalker's head off. He was different now, larger, stronger, faster, more seasoned. He would be more than a match for the undead warrior, even without his Sorcery. This time, he had the chance to pay back Jegojah in blood for everything it had done, pay it back without fear that someone else was going to get hurt in the battle. There would be no constraints.
This time, it would be settled, one way or the other. Jegojah was not going to come after him again afterward. This time, the Doomwalker would pay for killing Faalken, for attacking his family, for trying to kill Jenna. Jegojah would be facing a much more dangerous Were-cat this time, a Were-cat that was absolutely determined to finish the nightmarish creature off for good. A Were-cat that no longer feared the Doomwalker's power.
Two would enter that last battle, but only one was going to leave.
The Goddess had withdrawn from him in his moment of fury, probably leaving him to sort things out for himself. He didn't mind that much. He stood up and stared at the sun in the east, feeling the heat of it against his face, feeling the heat welling up inside of him. The thought of finding his power again paled in comparison of the need to avenge himself against the Doomwalker. Magic could wait. This, this was personal. Tarrin had been fearing and fighting Jegojah for over a year now, and that was just about enough. It was time to finish it.
There was blood to be paid between them, and Tarrin was going to collect on that debt. Collect on it in a way that would make Allia proud of him.
Turning, Tarrin started down off the spire. He had alot to think about, alot to do, and it was best for him to sort it out as he ran. That way he wasn't wasting any effort, maximizing his time, as Allia had taught him to do.
Back on the top of the spire, in the uneven stone that made up the top of the sheared rock, rested two seared footprints, burned into the stone. They were very large, very long footprints, human-like feet that were unnaturally long and wide, almost like a cross between a human foot and an animal's paw. Gouges at the tips of the toes showed that the owner of those feet had claws, and the imprints were blackened and smoking. Three figures and an extremely small fourth could be seen racing off towards the northwest just beyond the lip of the broken spire, figures distorted a bit by smoke and heat as they passed behind the wavering heat rising up from the two seared footprints burned into the continuity of the stone, leaving behind blackened scars.
Omens of what was to come.
To: Title EoF