"Face what you have become," the words rushed over him, through him, strking him in the soul, forcing him to face the wrong he had done in his life.
"No, not again," Tarrin raged within the confines of the dream, raging against the thousands of eyeless shades placed there to torment him. "Not again! I will not fear a dream! You can't harm me, shadow!" he snapped at the face that had become burned into his memory, the pretty young girl with the chalky skin and black pits where her eyes had once been. The dream would not stop, it would not leave him in peace, it was the same thing over and over, night after night, day after day, whenever he went to sleep. Not again! Not again!
"We are yours," she said in that haunting voice, reaching out for him.
He started awake before those killing hands could reach him, gasping for air and sitting straight up, claws out and ready to repel the attack. Then he flopped back down on the leather floor of the tent, laid over sand, breathing heavily. It wouldn't leave him alone! Night after night, day after day, any time he closed his eyes and went to sleep, the dream came to him. It haunted him, infused him even while awake, had begun to consume him. The eyeless face was burned behind his eyes now, haunting him both in dreams and awake, giving him no peace.
He had to get out, to walk around. He left the tent Sarraya had made that evening and walked out into the frigid night air, breath misting before him as the sweat on his body threatened to freeze before it evaporated. The cold air was better than a slap in the face, causing his mind to sharpen from its bleary haze and focus on reality. Fifteen days now. Fifteen days without any real sleep, fifteen days of repetitive torture from the beautiful face with no eyes. He rubbed his face with his large paw, feeling the rough/smooth pad of his palm slide along his cheek, felt the clawtips digging into his scalp just below his ears. Fifteen days without good sleep. He felt so tired, so unfocused, but there was very little he could do. Sleep always ended in the dream. Attempts to meditate, as Allia taught him, ended just as quickly because of the face that stared back at him from the darkness of his mind.
Why? Why now? Why did the dreams have to come now? He needed to seek out this new way to use Sorcery, but the plague of the dream would not allow him to concentrate, would not give him the peace he needed to search himself for the answer. It was always there, always, never giving him peace, never leaving him alone, a constant burning gaze of accusation that made him shudder away from it. It had been making him edgier and edgier since the battle with the little kajat, fraying his nerves, making him even more short tempered. And in his position, being even more testy was not a good thing.
His fear angered him, and that anger festered inside. Why should he fear a dream? It was a shade, a phantom, something with voice and no substance, something that could not do him harm. The Cat did not understand this Human preoccupation, nearly obsession with the image of the girl, and it began to grow impatient, even agitated. The face was unbalancing his Human mind, and that put stress on the delicate balance between his Human and Cat parts, threatened the balance of his very sanity. The Cat took that anger and fed off of it, nurtured it, turned it into an ember bed of seething discontent.
He began growling low in his throat, and it turned into a furious roar. He snapped his paws down to his sides and stared up into the sky, up at all four moons, seeing the ghostly image of the girl reflected back in all of them.
" We are yours, " he chiming voice rang in his ears, taunting him from within the ethereal mists of the dream, burning him with its accusation. " Face what you have become. "
That had come from outside of him.
Whirling, claws out and eyes blazing from within with their greenish radiance, he turned on that voice, fully prepared to destroy it, to get rid of the face haunting him, to be free of the torture.
The face was there, taunting him, but it faded before him and left behind Sarraya, a very frightened Sarraya, who had backed up in the air and was making ready to flee from him. "T-Tarrin? Are you sleepwalking?"
Blinking, coming out of his threatening posture almost immediately, he stood up to his normal height and blew out his breath. It was Sarraya. Had he mistaken her voice for the dream?
He looked away from her. "No, I'm alright," he replied quietly.
"Are you sure? Do you want to talk about it?"
"No," he told her. "I, I can't sit here any more. I have to move."
"It's the middle of the night!"
"Then stay here," he told her in a curt tone. "I can't rest any more. I'm going on."
"Tarrin, you're not being reasonable."
"Like that matters to me," he growled, walking past her hovering form.
He retreived his sword and belt and put them on, then gave her only a single look before turning his back on her and starting to run to the northwest. He meant it. If she didn't want to come, she could stay there and sleep. She could catch up to him later. He wouldn't sit there and endure the dream, the face any more. It was better to move, to engage his mind and give it something else to do.
For almost the entire night he ran, running to keep himself occupied, running because he dreaded what would come when he stopped. He ran beyond hunger and thirst, ran in an almost perfect straight line, even stepping on a deadly imuni and never knowing it, the lethal reptile too stunned that a desert creature had the audacity to tread on it to retaliate before the offending foot was out of its reach. He ran on, running in a kind of mindless daze, running both towards and away from the object that drove his flight.
A beautiful face that had no eyes, whose gaze burned with towering accusation, revealed the dark blight within and forced him to face what he had become.
It was a revelation he could not accept, and so he fled from it. But there was no fleeing from a dream, no escape from that which came from within.
Pushed beyond his endurance, Tarrin tripped on a rock and tumbled to the ground, body exhausted from lack of sleep and the night's efforts. He lay there for a long moment, panting heavily, then he rolled over on his back. He could still see the face before him, but he was too tired to care now, worn out by his hard running. Panting, he lay there and let the cold air cool the sweat on his body, let the sensation of it drown out the pain inside, let physical feeling overwhelm internal emotion.
Didn't they understand that it wasn't his fault? When he killed, it was almost always because he was in a rage, and he had no control over himself then! It was a Were-cat's nature to suffer the rages, Triana herself had told him that! No matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried, he would never overcome that simple truth. It was a part of what defined his existence.
But even that wasn't an excuse. When he destroyed a portion of the gladitorial arena in Dala Yar Arak, that had been a conscious choice. He had deliberately done that, had intentionally destroyed it knowing full well that innocents were going to die. He had killed hundreds in order to simply irritate Shiika, to pin her down and give him time to get to her Palace unhindered. Those deaths were the ones that blighted him, had darkened his soul, had sent him beyond the point of redemption. It had been an act of evil, and it made him no better than the men he hated for the same behavior.
No matter what affected him, no matter how feral he was or how little others mattered, that simple blaring truth could never be forgiven. He hadn't been able to even forgive himself, though he had buried it inside, drowned it in the gravity and importance of his mission. But now, out here in the desert, there was nothing to stop it from returning, to rise up and remind him of his evil, to show him what he was now.
Maybe that was it. Maybe the dreams were his conscious, using the quiet time of the desert to finally voice its objections, to remind him of what had happened.
But it didn't have to paralyze him! He knew what he'd done, and he did feel remorse, but it couldn't matter now. Nothing mattered but the mission! The safety of Janette depended on him, the future of that little girl was now firmly in his paws, and he would let nothing stand in his way, not even himself.
In this instance, the ends justified the means.
That didn't make him feel much better, but it was a truth. It was a powerful truth. The deaths of a few thousand by his paw meant little in the face of the countless hundreds of thousands, maybe even millions, who would die if he failed. But they mattered very little to him, even now, so he had to rationalize his devotion to the mission by seeing it in the terms of one life, one future, a life and future that he very much intended to protect. The rest of the world could sink into the Pit for all cared, it was Janette that mattered to him. After everything that had been done against him, to him, he had no more compassion for the world that had destroyed his future.
He sat up, seeing that the first hints of dawn had begun to appear on the eastern horizon, causing the Skybands at the horizon to take on that pinkish cast they showed just before the sun came up. He couldn't go on with the dreams. They were starting to affect him in very bad ways, even had started making him hallucinate. He simply couldn't face what he had done, could not bear the merciless eyeless gaze that haunted him. There was no hiding from the dream, but there was a way to draw its fangs.
But the price of that may be more than his humanity, maybe even more than his soul. To take the bite out of the dream, he would have to completely reject his humanity, to totally eradicate any feeling of pity or guilt inside. He could do it easily, all it would take would be to find a new balance between him and the Cat, where its survivalist outlook on life would overwhelm his human emotions. That would make him everything he did not want to be, a brutal reactionary being that existed for its own survival, at the cost of anything around it. There would be no mercy in that being, and what was worse, there would be no constraint. It would kill without reservation, without consideration, without hesitation.
He could live with the memory of being a monster, or he could become one.
Neither option seemed very attractive, and it left him feeling helpless. That feeling made him angry, and that anger quickly built into an aimless fury. It wasn't fair! Why did this have to happen to him! He'd been trying to change, trying to reclaim some of his humanity, lose some of his feral harshness. Why did the dreams have to upset that? They were forcing him to abandon his goal of being more like Triana, forcing him to become the one thing that he could not bear to become!
It wasn't fair! When was he going to finally get a break? After everything he'd done, he deserved a chance!
He accepted what he was, but he hated it. He faced the possibility that he would be worse, and it frightened him… but wouldn't he just accept that too? After all, in that state, he wouldn't care what he did. But there would always be the human in him, trapped in the control of the Cat, screaming to the end of his days that what he was doing was wrong. It would never go away, it would become the new face staring back at him, though it would have no fangs.
Maybe he wasn't as well adjusted as he thought. He accepted his condition now. In many ways, he preferred it. He was Were now, and it seemed inconceivable to be anything else. But the Human in him still could not accept it, could not live with it. It did not want to be Were. It wanted its place back, to be the only voice inside him, unrestricted by the animal instincts that influenced his behavior. He'd hated being feral for a long time, but there seemed to be nothing he could do about it. A feral Were-cat was forever feral. Just like being turned, there was no changing that. It was a conditioned reaction to stimulus. It was instinct, and there was no going against instinct.
There was no going back. Once one was turned, the transformation was complete, and there was no going back. If something stripped his Were nature from him, it would kill him. He accepted it because he had no choice. He lived with it because he had no other way to live, and no matter how bad it was, his own nature would not permit him to give up.
After so long, the Human in him had finally begun to stir. He realized that, sitting there and looking at the horizon. It had finally found the strength inside to challenge his Cat instincts for dominion of his mind. That had to be it. His attempts to curtail his feral nature had strengthened it, and only now had it begun to strike back at the instincts. It explained the dreams, it explained a great deal.
But it faced an almost insurmountable challenge. And so, it seemed, did he.
He sat there while the sun rose, watching it through hooded eyes, knees drawn up and chin resting on arms set across knees, tail wrapped around his ankles. He watched the progression of darkness to light with little awareness of it, as night succumbed to day in varying degrees, consumed by his own internal conflict. Even the flittering buzz of Sarraya's wings did not make him look away from the rising sun, nor did her landing on his shoulder make him move.
"It helps to talk about it, Tarrin," she said gently, putting a hand on his cheek. A very tiny hand.
"I've been having a dream," he replied woodenly. "It's the same dream over and over. In the dream, all the people I've killed come back and haunt me. One in particular stands out, and I see her face behind my eyes all the time. It won't let me sleep."
"That's your conscious talking to you, Tarrin," she said compassionately. "Just be patient, and the dream will fade."
"I can't take it anymore, Sarraya!" he said in pleading voice, charged with emotion. "I see that face, and it reminds me of what I've done, what I've become! And it's right! I am a murderer!"
"Life is never easy, Tarrin," she told him in a gentle voice. "Part of life is living with the past. Another part is living for the future. You've been placed in a very difficult position. It makes you do things you don't want to do, but you have to do them because things would be worse for everyone if you don't. I don't really blame you for the things you've done, because if you hadn't, we wouldn't be here now. You have to understand that. The dream will fade, but it has to run its course."
"I just can't face it anymore," he said wearily, tears welling up in his piercing eyes. "I can deal with what's outside, but this never gives me peace."
She reached up and put her hand on his temple. "That's because you're tired," she told him, and he felt her well up with Druidic magic. He could feel it in her hand, feel it through her touch, feel it flow into him. "Lay back, Tarrin, lay back and let yourself rest. I'll keep the dream away from you. I'll make sure you sleep."
He sniffled, and found himself obeying her, laying back on the hard rocky ground. He felt that hand on his temple the entire time, until he was fully reposed on the rocky ground. "I'm just tired of it, Sarraya," he said in a small voice. "I don't want to face it anymore. I don't want it anymore. I want them to leave me alone."
"I'll make sure they leave you alone," she told him in a motherly tone, cooing to him. "Just close your eyes and go to sleep, Tarrin. I'll be here to watch over you."
He closed his eyes, and he felt something strange cover over his mind, like a heavy wool blanket that muffled his thoughts. The blanket was drawn over the eyeless face, concealing it from him, and that immediately made his body relax. It was gone, hidden away, and his mind seized on that cessation of the endless guilt and torture, let him drift into a dreamless, contented slumber.
Sighing, Sarraya leaned against his shoulder, continuing to use her Druidic magic to subdue his mind, to give him the opportunity to rest without his memories coming back to haunt him. She could feel it through her magic, feel the towering mountain of self-loathing and regret that had built up inside. So much pain. There was so much pain inside him. How had he hidden it for so long?
It saddened her, but it also gave her hope. For too long, she had feared that he had become what she saw in him, but this told her that he had not. He had teetered on the edge of that dark pit, had indeed fallen in for a while, but he had not surrendered to it. He was trying to claw his way out of it.
He was strong. He could make it. All she had to do was offer him a helping hand. And that she could do.
She had helped unbalanced Were-kin before. It was one of the reasons Triana had sent with him. She knew what to do to help him recover his humanity. And she would be there for him whenever he needed her.
She leaned against his shoulder, looking up into his face with tenderness. Strange that a Faerie would become so attached to a Were-cat, but she couldn't deny it. They had their moments of contention, but under it all was the genuine affection they had for one another. He was so complicated, like an child seeing through the eyes of an adult, trapped between two worlds and unsure which was the one where he belonged. It made him testy, unpredictable, and not a little violent, but the gentleness he used when dealing with friends and loved ones showed her the truth beneath that facade of ruthless strength. His outward personality was nothing but a front, a shield to protect the young child inside him from the harsh brutatlity of the world. But it couldn't protect him anymore, and his defenses were starting to crumble.
But, truth was truth. She loved him like a brother. And because of that, she'd do everything in her power to help him. She would help him find the truth inside him, help him discover who he really was.
She would be there for him.
The rest had done him good, but had done little to calm his mind.
He ran over an area of stony hard desert, running on solid bedrock that had been stripped of all soil, a table of rock. The rocky spires which dotted the desert were thick here, almost like a great forest of stone trees, spread out just enough so that it left wide expanses of relatively flat rock between them. Piles of sand and dust had built up at the leeward sides of the bases of some of the pillars, but there was little more loose soil or sand to be found. It was midafternoon, and the searing heat of the day had begun to wane with the lowering of the sun, but it was still blisteringly hot.
But he barely noticed it anymore. Fifteen days in the desert had given his body the time it needed to adapt to the brutal conditions, to build up a tolerance for the tremendous day heat and the biting night cold. He knew that it was his Were regeneration that did that, that had changed his body to deal with a new environment, but he didn't think that much about it. The sun had bleached his hair to nearly white, and the sun had darkened his skin so much that he looked like a Selani. He looked like a true child of the desert, though it was still an unfamiliar and dangerous environment to him. Sarraya too had seemed to adapt to the heat, but he had the feeling that her Druidic magic was working there somewhere to make her more comfortable. She never seemed to sweat or complain about the heat.
He felt… awkward. Sarraya knew now, knew his secrets, and that made him feel strangely vulnerable. She was a friend, but she saw him at his worst, had seen every aspect of his worst, and he wasn't sure how to take that. His Were pride was stung; he had admitted weakness to an inferior. Part of him wanted to prove to her that he was still strong, that he was still dominant. Part of him wanted to prove it to himself. The Human in him was glad that Sarraya was with him, for she gave him someone to talk to, someone to confide in, someone to hear his troubles with a sympathetic ear and provide comfort and reassurance. She had allowed him to sleep, to rest without the terrifying nightmare to disturb him, and he couldn't thank her enough for that. She was a companion out in this blasted wasteland, a safeguard against isolation. He was both glad and unsettled that she was with him, but that was only natural for someone who often had two minds about everything.
He ran on over the heated rock, on pads that had toughened to deal with the harsh things on which they tread, with Sarraya's buzzing wings telling him that she was close. Fifteen days. Alot had happened in those fifteen days. He'd met a Selani. Twice. He'd seen the mighty kajats, had gotten into two fights with them. He'd seen the killing lizards, the umuni, but he'd yet to see some of the other wildlife that Allia had described. He hadn't seen any inu yet, but he figured that was a good thing. The way Allia talked, the inu were the worst of them. Inu literally meant quick death in Selani. He wasn't sure if that was a testament to their speed, or how effective they were at bringing down a victim. Either way, the Selani were very hard to impress, so if they gave a monster that kind of name, there was absolutely no doubt that it was a name well earned. He hadn't seen the massive armadillo-like kusuks, fifty-span long beasts that looked like gigantic rolly-polly bugs that were often found under rocks. He had yet to see a single chisu, moderately sized reptiles that ate whatever plants that they could find, and served as the main meal item for kajats and inu. Allia said that the Selani didn't herd them because they had very nasty dispositions, and their flesh did not taste very good to Selani. It had to be a reptillian version of mutton, an animal that humans herded for wool and food, but few actually enjoyed eating. Nor had he seen the draka, insectoid creatures that looked like giant ants. From what Allia had said, draka were very docile and gentle, and were often herded by Selani. Not because they were good to eat, but because they could live well with the herd animals the Selani did eat, and they were very alert. Draka were exceptionally gifted with sharp senses, and they warned the Selani when something dangerous to the herds was nearby. In exchange for their service as sentries, they were kept fed and sheltered. It was a mutually beneficial relationship. The draka kept the Selani from losing their goats and sukk, the huge, flightless birds that served as the basic staple of the Selani diet, to roaming predators.
But he was in the corner of the desert. From what Allia described, most of it didn't look like this. Most of it was barren soil dotted here and there with tough desert plants, just enough graze to support their animals. This was a very barren part of the desert, all sand and rock, and there was nothing here to support any great amounts of wildlife. He'd encountered two kajats, but he hadn't seen anything on which they could prey, so they had to be wandering, hunting for new territory. Not all of the Desert of Swirling Sands was quite as desolate as this corner of it.
Tarrin pulled up. The western horizon, which was now off to his left since he'd been travelling northwest as per Var's advice, was starting to darken. He knew what that meant. "Sarraya," he called as he pulled up, "there's a sandstorm coming in."
"I see it," she replied. "This place is pretty bare. We'll have to dig in."
"Not much to dig into," he grunted, looking down at the bare stone beneath his feet. "And it'll let the sand drain into whatever we make."
"Then let's raise the stone," she replied. "You think you can do that?"
"Sorcery?"
She nodded. "I can't do that with Druidic magic."
"It would be easy," he said after a moment of contemplation. Basic Earth weaves. Simple. "I wouldn't even need High Sorcery for it."
"Then I'll choke down on you pretty hard," she commented, flying up to him. "This is as good a place as any."
"No doubt there," he agreed. The nearest rock spire, wall, or irregularity in the bare stone was a few longspans away, and they didn't have that kind of time. "Instead of raising a stone shelter, why don't I just use a Ward?"
"Because I'd rather have a shelter," she said. "If your Ward fails, we'll be exposed. The rock will still be there."
"You have a point," he acceded.
It was a pretty simple process. He felt Sarraya's Druidic magic fall over him like a blanket, and he reached through that restrictive presence to the Weave. It responded to him sluggishly, and he drew in the sweet power of it as quickly as the Faerie's barrier would permit. When he had enough, he began weaving flows of pure Earth, sending them down into the ground as he released them, then he raised his paws in a gesture. The stone in front of him began to swell, expand, then it suddenly began to rise from the rock table like a folded cloth pushed up by a pet beneath it. Streaming the magic through him, letting it flow through him as it continued its work, he systematically raised up the stone to form a triangular wedge, very low to the rocky floor of the desert, and gently sloped on both sides so that the wind wouldn't eddy around the top and cause sand to build up on the leeward side. It was just high enough to let him stand fully erect at the center without hitting his head. The rock continued to move, to flow, changing its color as its substance shifted to his directions, and throughout there was a low grinding sound, as if the stone did not flow as smoothly as it looked to move. He sealed up both sides of the triangular structure, then opened one side into a narrow entrance. After that was done, he formed a crude door of stone, drawing the stone right from the earth, and attached it to the structure with simple eyes and hooks. He remembered to make a slot on the back and on the walls flanking it to hold a bar, then formed a stone bar so the door could be secured against the wind. The last little detail was a series of tiny holes in the top of the door, just enough for air to get in, but not enough for sand.
Once he had the shelter formed, he used another form of Earth weaving to harden the stone to the wind, make it very hard to wear down, giving it strength to stand against the wind and the scouring sand it would carry within.
Blowing out his breath, he let go of the Weave and surveyed his handiwork. Then he marvelled at how it felt to use Sorcery safely, to be able to use the gifts granted him through birth without fear of them destroying him. How much others took it for granted! It wasn't until he let go of the Weave that the sweetness of it touched him, reminded him of what it once felt like to be a Sorcerer, to command the power and not fear it as he did now. What would have been commonplace, child's play, for Dolanna, Dar, or Keritanima was something for which he had to prepare, plan, get cooperation from Sarraya to accomplish.
How wonderful it would be to be able to use his magic the way they did.
But such warm thoughts were doused when the eyeless face seemed to settle into the back of his mind, reminding him that there was no escape from it, reminding him of the darkness he had perpetrated, the darkness that had blackened his soul. It effectively sucked away the joy, the satisfaction he'd felt at creating the stone shelter. He sighed morosely and looked to the western horizon, guaging the speed and direction of the storm. It was bloody fast, and it was coming right at him. As all storms seemed to do. At the most, they had about ten minutes before it hit. It wasn't a very large one. They'd be stuck in the shelter for at least a day, but no more than three, if he estimated the sandstorm correctly.
A couple of days of forced isolation. He hoped Sarraya could take it. He hoped he could. The eyeless face made him restless, and a day or more of being stuck in the shelter, with nothing more than Sarraya or the walls to look at, would not do him very much good.
He was right to worry. After retreating into the shelter, just as the wind wall struck, he immediately felt enclosed, restricted, isolated. Sarraya sat down in the back corner of the dark, triangular structure, where he could not possibly hit her by accident, where she yawned. "I don't think this is going to be very fun. Want to play some chess?"
"We'd better do something," he replied. "I'm already starting to get anxious."
But games only went so far. After playing chess, stones, cards, even little stupid games of words and gestures, Tarrin grew bored. Sarraya laid down to take a nap after conjuring herself some dinner, leaving Tarrin to sit and ponder and stew over what had happened in the last few days. He had nearly killed himself with Sorcery- again -but this time he'd learned a new trick. That trick of using High Sorcery on himself had worked, and had worked well. He couldn't see any reason why it wouldn't work again, and that made him relieved. At least now he didn't fear getting Consumed as he had before. With Sarraya to help, he could cut himself off from the Weave before it got out of his control. If things came down to him using his full power to survive, at least that option was again available to him.
Perhaps the Goddess did send him out here to learn. He had certainly learned that little trick. He had learned things about himself he preferred not to know, and the eyeless face made sure he couldn't forget. The desert was boundless, and it was empty. It left him with little more than Sarraya's companionship, and though that was enough, it was still little enough to feel that he was out here more or less alone. Tarrin didn't depend on Sarraya like he had Allia or Dolanna. He loved the little pain, but she wasn't Keritanima or Jesmind or Triana. She had a place in his heart, but she wasn't the closest of his friends. She would help him, but he still couldn't feel as if he could open up to her as he could with Allia, to speak everything in his heart and seek wisdom and support. She just wasn't like that in his mind. Even now, after admitting how badly the dream scared him, he couldn't bring himself to admit it to her again. Part of it was pride, part of it was uncertainty. Sarraya was a friend, but she wasn't family, not like Allia. He didn't feel comfortable saying things like that to anyone not family, like Allia, Keritanima, Triana, or even Jesmind.
Jesmind. Still it was Jesmind. Why couldn't he get her out of his mind? He hadn't seen her in so long, she'd probably forgotten about him by now. She was a memory, and a rather dim one at that, but there was still something inside him that yearned for her, the way plants yearned for the sun. In her was a woman that understood him, didn't judge him, was one of his kind. She was a bad-tempered witch, but all female Were-cats were like that to varying degrees. It was a racial trait. She had been the first woman he'd been intimate with, and he guessed that a part of him just couldn't forget that. That she had been the first to hear his deepest secrets, to become privy to his most private thoughts. She had shared a part of him, and though they had been enemies, he hadn't really been able to bring himself to do her any true harm, outside that one ugly incident when he thought she was threatening his parents. A part of him loved her, that was true, but a part also couldn't forgive her for abandoning him, hated her for her actions. She had left him alone and exposed, and when she left, he became easy prey for Jula's scheming. If she'd been there, she would have stopped Jula before any of that nasty business under the Cathedral happened, and he wouldn't have become feral.
Or would he? So many had tried a hand at killing him, who was to say how it would have affected him? His ferality was a reaction to that, just as much as it was a rejection of humans and their society. Kravon's group had been the most adamant about it, but Sheba the Pirate had tried, the Wikuni had tried, the Zakkites had tried, and Shiika had tried, and who knows who else had plans, but hadn't had the opportunity to carry them out. He was the most sought-after being in the world right now, and outside the Wikuni and Shiika, the rest were still out to get him. That would easily be enough to turn him feral.
There was no real easy answer to that question. So much had happened over the last year, too much. It was all a jumble. The black moods after leaving Suld, the fight with Sheba and the first outward signs of his feral nature. The battle with the Zakkites, the wounding from the silver crossbow quarrel. Learning from Triana, accepting her as his bond-mother, as much a part of his intimate family as his birth parents. Just about everything that happened in Dala Yar Arak, from Jula to the battle to recover the book from Shiika. And now he was out here in this barren wasteland, following nothing more than blind faith, seeking to cross the vast, dangerous desert and finding himself to be more of an enemy than the desert and all its dangers. He was stronger now, both in body and magic, but that power carried a double-edge that cut him as much as it cut his enemies. His powers were growing stronger and stronger… he could feel it. He could still feel it. His connection to the Weave was changing, growing, evolving, expanding, opening the sense of it to him at all times. He knew that the power of the Weavespinners was out there, and if he could calm the eyeless face within his mind and find peace inside himself, he could find a way to touch that mysterious power.
A power not seen in the world for a thousand years.
But did he want that power? He was already insanely powerful. A single Weave from him could destroy entire ships, lay waste to large tracts of land, cause even Demons to fear him. He could even change the weather. But what did that power bring him? It brought him more and more danger. It brought him newer and more powerful ways to unleash his primal rage, to slaughter the innocent on scales inconceivable to the average killer. It brought its own danger, for it was a power he could not control with his rational mind. It brought him protection from his enemies-who would be foolish enough not to fear his power?-but that protection came at a cost he didn't think he was capable of paying. He had gained power, but he lost his humanity in the exchange.
Too great a price to pay.
He flopped down on his back, hearing the wind howl outside, smelling the dust and the rock and the faint traces of sand drifting in through the airholes, felt the warmth still gathered inside the bare rock beneath him, feeling the Weave surround him, felt the pulse of the magic within the strands like the beating of the heart of the Goddess. And if he had it all to do over again, what would he change? Such a simple question, but with no clear answer. Every act of dark intent he had done had ended up having a benefit he couldn't deny. Every sacrifice he had made had brought to him a greater gain. He had given away some of his humanity, and had received the power to do what the Goddess commanded him to do. He had killed many, but had the Book… and that was the most important thing in the world right now. He had become Were… but if he had not, then he probably wouldn't have Allia and Keritanima and Jesmind and Triana in his life, probably wouldn't have anyone in his life. Mainly because he'd be dead. Jegojah would have destroyed him the first time they met if hadn't been Were, if his own power hadn't burned him to ash.
He had sacrificed his life in order to keep living. He had sacrificed his soul to surrender it to a goddess. He had sacrificed his humanity in order to save the very people he no longer cared about.
It was no easy question, with no easy answer. Every act he had done that he wished he could take back had had an effect that he didn't want to give up. Without his Were nature, he'd be dead. Without his power, his friends may very well be dead as well. Without his feral savagry, he would not have the Book of Ages.
And all it cost him was his peace of mind.
Such a little thing when help up to the millions of lives that depended on him carrying out his mission. Of course, he didn't care about them. He rationalized it, as always, in simple terms using someone whom he did care about, Janette. This was all about her. She was the representation of the entire world, and saving her world meant saving it for everyone else. She was still about the only oasis of calmness in his life, and thinking about her made the eyeless face shrink back into the dark tunnels of his mind. Hers was a selfless, vibrant, genuine love, and she had been his savior. She had literally saved him from insanity, and he would do anything for her. She was as much a mother to him as Triana or Elke Kael, or even the Goddess, only she was the mother of the Cat within, where Triana and Elke were mothers of body and heart, and the Goddess was mother to his soul.
If rationalizing things in simple terms was what he needed to motivate himself, then he just had to pit his Little Mother against the dark images that haunted him. Let the eyeless face gaze into the loving heart of that wonderful little girl, and then he'd see if that haunting face could stare at him with the same venom afterward.
His actions made him a monster, but what he held in his heart was pure, beyond the monster's reach. And what was held in his heart more than anything else was the love of family, of friends. The love of the Goddess, the love and respect for Elke Kael and Triana, the pure love for Allia, the deep love and affection he held for his other siblings, Keritanima and Jenna. And of course, the shining, boundless love he held for Janette, his Little Mother. That love couldn't be tainted by the darkness of his deeds, and it would always be with him. Such powerful love could never be extinguished.
He was tired. He clung to that final though, the thought of the love of family, of letting the spirits that tortured him stare into the face of Janette, as he closed his eyes and allowed the howling of the wind to lull him to sleep.
A sleep that was not plagued by the repeating nightmare.
The sandstorm blew itself out by dawn the next day.
The air was charged. He could feel it around him, a kind of electric charge that hung in it, around him, giving the cold air more energy than felt normal. It tingled his skin as he exited the little shelter he'd raised with his power, thousands of little pinpricks of energy that made him shiver. He couldn't tell where it was coming from, but he could feel that the Weave was… disturbed.
There wasn't another way to put it. The Weave was as it always was, but there seemed to be something different in it now. Something deep, something he'd never felt before. The Weave felt normal, but beneath that he felt a kind of tension, a tautness in the strands around him that shouldn't have been there. The pulse-beating of the energy within the strands was higher pitched, louder, more pronounced, and it seemed strange, unusual… strained.
There was still a thin pall of dust in the air from the sandstorm. Maybe that was it. It concealed a part of the sky, forced him to breathe with the scarf over his face to keep the choking dust out of his lungs. Dust sometimes carried static, and its movements could even generate little static zaps. Maybe that was what he was feeling. Maybe it was disrupting his sense of the Weave in some way. After all, these senses were new to him, and he had no idea how they could be affected by external forces.
He shook himself a bit to adjust to the cold, wishing that he'd Conjured up something that he could have eaten hot, or cooked. Another breakfast of water and fruit did not sit well with him. He was a carnivore… but the problem was that there was nothing to hunt out in this rocky waste. He could Conjure animals himself, but he had to agree with Sarraya in that matter. It did seem a bit, cruel, to Conjure an animal to its death. Almost dishonorable to the animal. Druidic magic respected the balance of nature and of life, and it just felt like a violation to do such a thing. His belly and his Cat instincts disagreed, but he hadn't reached the point where he'd cross that line just yet. He could tolerate another day of fruit, berries, nuts, and water. After all, this place couldn't be a rocky table all the way to Arkis. It had to end somewhere, and he might get lucky.
It had been a strange night. He didn't remember falling asleep, but he did remember the fact that he wasn't startled awake by the nightmare. For the first time in many days, he'd slept through the night without Sarraya's help, slept without the dream or the face of the dead girl to haunt him. That face was back, just behind his eyes, taking up its place within him, but the two consecutive nights of peaceful sleep had done much to renew his strength. He felt ready to deal with its accusing, empty gaze today. He felt ready for just about anything. It was almost like the charge in the air was bleeding into him, energizing him in some strange way. He felt almost optomistic, and was in a better mood than he'd been in for months.
Sarraya flitted out of the shelter and gave him a calm look, but said nothing at first. She pulled up a gossamer little bit of cloth over her face, coughed, then snorted loudly. "Can't this place go one ride without choking me?"
She seemed to be back to normal. Maybe she'd blown off what had happened earlier. That, or she was acting normal for his benefit, since she could probably tell that his earlier weakness had embarassed him.
"It likes you," he said absently, looking up into the dust-hazed sky. He could barely make out the Skybands, but he saw enough to determine which direction was northwest. Visibility was poor, the dust acting like fog, but he could see about a half a longspan ahead. And on this flat, rocky table, that was far enough.
"The air feels weird," Sarraya complained. "Like static."
"I noticed," he replied. "I think it's the dust."
"I don't remember feeling this before."
"I guess not every storm has the same effect," he told her. "Want to ride or fly?"
"I'm cold, so I'll fly for now. The activity will warm me up."
"I know the feeling. Let's go," he agreed, then he started out at a ground-eating pace to the northwest.
"Hey! Wait for me!"
He ran out of the dusty pall around midmorning, and the sun's blistering heat found him without the dusty haze to deflect its might. The heat of the sun didn't really bother him much anymore, nor did the radiant heat of the rocks, or the air itself. He had become truly acclimated to the savage heat of the desert, his body's Were aspects adapting him to his new environment. He was much leaner now, lean and lithe and dangerous-looking, and his black for actually served to trap cooler air next to his skin, insulating his furred parts from the full fury of the sun and leaving him feeling much cooler than someone without fur.
He still saw nothing, nothing but empty flatness, but the appearance of more rock spires on the horizon bolstered him. He began to notice them at noontime, when they stopped to eat a Conjured meal of fruits and water. The Fingers of the Goddess, they were called, reaching up from the desert floor. There were a great many of them. The last time he moved through one of those forests of stone, he'd seen a great deal of desert wildlife. Maybe those rock spires harbored an evening meal. Tarrin squatted down over the little Faerie, giving her shade from the merciless sun as he ate a curiously cold peach.
Sarraya fanned herself with her wings, pulling on the neck of her gossamer gown repeatedly to circulate fresh air under her clothes. She had done well in the desert heat, never complaining about it, but today she seemed to be affected by it. "Is it just me, or is it really hot today?" she asked in a breathless voice.
"It feels pretty hot," Tarrin agreed. The midday sun was fully up, and that meant that it was blasting the rocky flat with its full fury. It was the hottest part of the day. "I've been wondering, how are you dealing with the heat?"
"Faeries aren't as fragile as we look, Tarrin," she said primly. "We're almost as rugged as you Were-kin."
"And how much do you cheat?"
Sarraya gave him a hot look. "I don't cheat!" she flared, then she gave him a sly grin. "Well, not much, anyway. About noon, I'm starting to shield myself from the heat with Druidic magic, but I can take it most of the rest of the day."
"It's strange, Sarraya, I'm totally used to it now. I don't even sweat anymore."
"You sweat, trust me," she said. "It just evaporates so fast that you don't notice. Anyway, you're a Were-cat. Were-cats have that damned regeneration. It adapts you to anything from this blasted wasteland to arctic tundra."
"I already figured that out," he grunted. "You want to ride for a while?"
"I think I'd better," she replied. "It's so hot, I'm even feeling it through my little magical shield. I don't want to give myself a heat stroke by flying."
"I wonder how far away those rock spires are. The sun bends things, makes the distance-"
Come to me.
Tarrin's ears picked up, and he stood up and turned towards wherever that came from, towards the northeast. He hadn't heard it with his ears, he'd sensed it some other way. Almost like a whispering. And the voice was unknown to him.
Come to me, it repeated, that same inaudible whisper, yet it was plain to him.
"Tarrin? What's wrong?" Sarraya asked.
"Someone's… calling me," he replied uncertainly. "Can't you hear it?"
"No, I don't hear anything but the wind," she replied.
I know you can hear me. It is time. Come.
There was a… rippling. He couldn't describe the sensation. Like ripples in the very air itself, shivering over him. They came from the northeast, the same as the voice. The sense of static in the air returned, more oppressive now, feeling like it was weighing down on him.
Something deep inside him reacted to that sensation. Before he realized what he was doing, he was walking towards the northeast, towards a cluster of rock spires that seemed to be separate from the others, sitting just before the horizon.
"Tarrin? Tarrin, what are you doing?" Sarraya called, flitting up from the desert floor and flying up to him. She landed on his shoulder, then switched shoulders so the sun was blocked by his head a little better. "What's going on?"
"I can hear it, Sarraya," he replied. "It's calling to me."
"It could be a trick," she warned. "I don't hear it."
"I don't really hear it either. At least not with my ears."
"It could be a trap, Tarrin."
"Then let's go spring it," he said calmly. He was wildly curious about this. It seemed to cause something within to respond to it, almost like an irresistable call, like the singing of a Siren. He could not deny the power of the summons.
"What did it say?"
"Only to come," he told her. "And it said that it's time."
"Time for what?"
"I guess we'll find out when we get there."
He picked up into a trot, then that ground-eating loping run that allowed him to run all day without rest, a pace that covered a great deal of ground. He ran in the direction that the calls had originated, his curiosity running wild. He had no idea what he'd find when he got wherever he was going, but the irrepressible need to go there and seek out this strange voice did not fade in the slightest. The thought of it absolutely consumed him all afternoon, even smothering over the eyeless face behind his eyes, dominating his thoughts. The cluster of rock spires grew closer and closer as the afternoon progressed, and he seemed to sense that that was the destination. That was from where the call had issued, that was where the answer to this mystery would be found. He didn't ponder much on the manner of the call, only its substance, only its effect. Sarraya rode along in relative silence, fretting and frowning just about the entire time, but she grew quiet when she realized that no amount of arguing, shouting, cajoling, wheedling, or even begging was going to turn him from his course. Tarrin was dead-set to his path, and she could not cause him to drift from it.
He reached the first rock spire about an hour before sunset. The spires were clustered together loosely, a good distance between each one, and as he passed by the first, he slowed to a walking pace. This was the place. What had called out to him? What was it that had incited such a powerful reaction? The static charge that had been in the air was gone now, but there was something else. It was a sense of… presence. There was someone here, a someone whose very presence weighed down on the air itself. The Weave itself seemed to oscillate, to shimmer, to vibrate in response to this presence, and the strands were actively leaning towards some focal point.
As if the presence had the power to affect the Weave, just by its presence alone.
Would he find Fara'Nae here? Was this a place holy to her? The only beings he could think of that could do such things were gods. Was this collection of rock spires like the courtyard in the hedge maze back in the Tower? It wasn't the Goddess. He'd feel it if she was the one that was here. Her sense of presence was completely different from this.
At least that sense of presence acted as a beacon. He could follow it right to its source.
Sarraya began to get fidgety as Tarrin walked towards that sense of presence, slowly, calmly, more curious than worried. "Tarrin? I feel…"
"I know. I feel it too."
"Is this what you heard?"
"No, but this is what called me," he said. He didn't know how he knew that, but he did. "It's over there," he said, pointing.
"That's not the only thing here," Sarraya said. "I just saw a Selani."
"Where?" he asked.
"To your right," she replied. "Just behind that rock spire over there."
Tarrin turned and looked. It was a smaller rock spire, as thick around as most large trees, and only about twenty spans high. He couldn't see a Selani, but Selani were experts at hiding and stealth. If Sarraya saw one, she saw one, and she was lucky to see the Selani in the first place.
"I'll go see what else is around. I'll be right back."
"Be careful," he called as her wings began to buzz, and she faded from sight as she started towards the rock spire.
Tarrin continued walking towards that sense of presence alone. He wasn't really afraid. There had been nothing in the call that invoked fear. Even his feral suspicion seemed to be overwhelmed by the wild curiosity behind the strange, voiceless call. All of him wanted to find out who this strange presence was, and why it called to him.
For another ten minutes he moved towards that sensation, until he came around a small rock spire and got his first look at it.
It was a humanoid, or at least he thought it was. It was tall, and was totally garbed in a strange black cloak, a cloak so black that it consumed any sense of dimension the figure held. It was as if the cloak had been cut from the most impenetrable darkness, and the figure he saw was nothing but a cut out sheet of paper held up to the sun. It stood upon one of the rock spires, one of the smaller ones, and he couldn't tell if it faced him or not. All he could see was a black shadow between him and the sun. The only reason he could tell it was a cloak was because the afternoon winds pulled and tugged at it, making the dimensionless form before him waver and ripple like a reflection on dark water.
He came to a stop about a hundred spans from the spire, looking up the thirty spans to the figure. He was closer now, and he could see that it was indeed a cloak. It opened occasionally in the wind to reveal a formless figure beneath, a figure wearing black garments that blended in with the utter blackness of the cloak, serving to distort the figure's shape and form from his eyes. That opening told him that the figure faced him, but he could not see through the hood to discern any features.
He still felt no fear, but he felt a powerful sense from the figure. The Weave was bending in towards it, and just as the Sorcerer back in that city had sensed him, so he sensed it. This figure was a Sorcerer, and its power was unfathomable. He had never felt anything like it before.
" Vosh, " the figure intoned, and that made his jaw drop, intoned in a rich alto voice that absolutely had to belong to a woman. That was a Sha'Kar word! " Vosh. Unda ne. Vasti dosba no. "
He was absolutely stunned. The pronunciation was much different from what Keritanima had taught him, but it was undeniable that it was Sha'Kar that the form was speaking. " Time-ending. Arrived have. I for-you-waiting have been. " At last. You have come. I have waited for you.
He was completely bowled over. She spoke Sha'Kar! That language was dead, nobody spoke it anymore! And she spoke it like she'd spoken it all her life!
"Do I surprise you?" she asked in Sulasian, and her pattern of speech was odd. It was as if she spoke every word with absolute exacting precision before moving on to the next. "You have come. You are ready," she told him, reverting to Sha'Kar.
Hearing her speak Sha'Kar invoked an automatic response in him, and his gift for languages rose up, instantly correcting the improper pronunciations that Keritanima had taught him when they were learning the language. "Wh-What do you mean? Who are you?" he managed to stammer, in a Sha'Kar dialect almost mirroring her own.
"Who I am does not matter," she said, reaching up for the hood of her cloak. "That you heard my call is all that matters now. You are ready." She pulled back her hood, and he almost fell to his knees.
She was a Selani!
Selani! Her features were undeniable! She actually bore a curious resemblance to Allia in her cheeks and her blue, blue eyes. Her hair was silver where Allia's was white, shimmering in the brutal desert sun, and she had a faint scar on her left cheek, a dark line on her smooth, dusky brown face. The scar did nothing to mar her exceptional beauty, it only accented the graceful beauty of her face to his eyes. Almost as if it were a beauty mark. Her face was lovely, but it was her eyes that captured his attention. A deep blue, like Allia's, but behind them was a sort of deep ocean of knowldge and wisdom that made her eyes haunting, piercing, ensnaring the eyes of others yet making them worrisome and uncomfortable to stare into their depths. Those eyes looked into you, and they exposed all your secrets, made her know every part of you, both good and bad. There was no hiding from those eyes. They were not the eyes of an ordinary mortal being, and they marked her for the kind of exotic, unique entity that she was. Piercing blue eyes stared down at him, and the expression on the face was stony, unreadable. She was obviously mature, but her features did not betray her age. But there was a set in the way she held herself, the way she looked at him with those powerful eyes, a sense and feeling much like Triana. This woman was old. At least as old as Triana, and that made him make a vital connection.
A truth crashed down on him at that moment. Sha'Kar is alot like Selani, he had told Keritanima as he learned it. The words are different, but the structure of both languages is similar, Keritanima had told him. Almost as if they had been descended from the same root language.
This strange woman wasn't Selani. She was Sha'Kar!
The Selani and the Sha'Kar were related!
A Sha'Kar! A living Sha'Kar! They were supposed to be extinct, the race snuffed out in the Breaking! He took a frightful step back from her, fearing her now, because if she was a Sha'Kar, then that meant that she was an Ancient. It certainly explained how her very presence seemed to attract the Weave, warp it, draw it to her. Her power was incredible!
"You see truth," she said in a calm voice. "You know me now. You fear it."
"Y-Y-You're-You're a Sha'Kar!" he managed to get out.
"If giving me such title pleases you," she told him mysteriously.
"What do you want from me?"
"You have heard my call," she said again. "It is time."
"Time? Time for what?"
"Time," she replied, pulling a slender arm from beneath her cloak and simply pointing a delicate finger at him.
And with that word and gesture, the ground in front of him just simply exploded. The impact of it blasted the breath from his lungs, picked him up, carried him along with the shockwave of the explosion as bits of rock and debris drove into him. He felt himself flying through the air, and then was tumbling on the ground with a dozen shouts of pain emanating from various parts of his body. He rolled to a stop, his body a bit dazed, but his mind whirling like a hurricane. There had been no touching the Weave, no sense of Sorcery from her! It was as if she'd woven the spell outside his senses!
She attacked him! She was a Sha'Kar, an Ancient, and she had attacked him! How was he going to fight an Ancient? How was he supposed to stand against that kind of incredible power?
He rose up to his feet, crouching down over them, tail slashing back and forth as an instinctual need to face this challenger battled with the human realization that this was no being to fight. Panting from the pain of the shrapnel, pain that eased as his body mended itself, he looked up and saw her descending from the top of the spire slower than would be natural, as if the air was holding onto her and lowering her gently to the ground.
His mind raced through innumerable possibilities, but it kept returning to two simple conclusions. One, that there was no escape from someone like this. Her magic could easily keep him from escaping. And since he could not flee, he had to fight. Sarraya wasn't here, so that made his most poweful weapon unavailable to him, but that didn't mean that he was just going to lie down and die for her benefit. He was a Were-cat. He knew how to fight without Sorcery.
That one thought nearly scared him into losing his composure. Fight an Ancient? It was madness! Something very close to abject terror closed on him as the woman's feet hit the ground, as she lowered those eyes on him. She outmatched him in every sense of the word… but then again, he'd been outmatched before, and he had found ways to win. It was live or die, so he'd better get his mind going and find a way to either defeat her or escape from her.
With deliberate slowness, he drew his sword, letting her hear the sound, trying to do anything to rattle her steely composure. He was much taller than her, and he was a physically intimidating person. It had worked on many others before her. Perhaps it would work on her as well.
She simply stood there, staring at him.
He couldn't show fear. Gritting his teeth, feeling like he was about to run into the mouth of some giant predator, Tarrin exploded forward out of nowhere, moving with all the speed and power his body could give to him. Sword held point towards her, he covered the distance between them faster than a thoroughbred could sprint, his fear and adrenaline granting him incredible speed. She simply watched him coming, and made no move to avoid him or defend herself. He knew that that was a very important observation, but if she wasn't going to move, he was going to take his shot at her. He charged right at her, on top of her in the blink of an eye, and he thrust the black-bladed sword directly at her chest.
And she made no move to evade, until the very last second, when she pulled her cloak around her.
The blade met nothing. It simply kept going, and going, even as Tarrin's feet slid to a stop just before her. It sank into the impenetrable blackness of her cloak, swallowed up by it, and it met nothing to slow it down. He thrust through her so hard that his paw also dipped into that inky blackness, and when it did he felt an agonizing, biting cold slash through his paw and arm, like the touch of a Wraith. Crying out, he recoiled from that icy cold, letting go of the sword in his haste to free himself from that painful touch. He pulled his paw back, seeing that the fur had frost on it, and his fingers were numb and nerveless.
The sword was simply gone.
It had went inside the cloak! The cloak wasn't natural, it was some kind of magical artifact!
She gave him the slightest of knowing smiles as he staggered back away from her. She reached within her cloak, and with deliberate slowness, drew out his sword, holding it by the middle of the blade. It was nearly as tall as she was, but she held it with a surety and confidence that told him that she was much stronger than she appeared. She glanced at the blade casually, then tossed it aside like it was so much dross.
Feeling was returning to his paw. He flexed it a few times as he took a few more steps back from her, trying to figure out what to do next. But she only gave him a slight look, a shift in the set of her eyes, and that was all he needed to react to whatever was about to happen. He spun aside and sprinted away from her, diving over a large rock, then turning and rushing towards the nearest rock spire. This was insanity! What was he supposed to do against something like that? She couldn't be injured by weapons, and he'd destroy himself with Sorcery long before he got anywhere near her!
He reached the spire, hiding behind it for cover, trying to recover his breath and his racing mind, as his heart pounded in his chest. Think, he had to think! He couldn't use Sorcery, and he couldn't fight her hand to paw. That didn't leave him many options. He could use some Druidic magic, but he'd never tried to use it in a fight before, at least not consciously. And Sarraya had never taught him any Druidic spells that would be useful in a fight.
"You shame us," the woman called out. "Must I force it of you?"
And with that, the rock spire against which he was leaning began to shudder and vibrate. For a fleeting moment, he could feel the magic from her, feel it through the weave, a rippling and pulsating energy that vibrated through it like the plucking of a lute's string. The sound of cracking rock reached him, and he looked up in time to see several large chunks of the spire beginning to fall down to the desert floor. He scampered aside as a big one hit very close to him. He raced away from the spire as it shuddered and groaned, then ear-splitting sound of ripping stone raked over his ears. He turned back in time to see the entire rock spire shudder, then begin to topple to one side. It struck the desert floor in a massive cloud of dust, with so much energy that the rock and ground beneath his feet heaved violently from the blow, nearly knocking him down in its convulsions. The sound of the impact nearly deafened him, sent a huge cloud of dust roaring over him.
Merciful Goddess! he thought frantically. What power! And without High Sorcery!
She was just too powerful! There was no way to fight her, no way to hide from her, no way to run from her!
He had no choice. He couldn't fight someone like this. He needed High Sorcery.
Paws limning over in Magelight, Tarrin reached out to the Weave, felt it connect to him, and then try to drown him in a tidal wave of its power. More than ever before, he felt a modicum of control over the power, as if his abilities had reached a point where he could control High Sorcery to a limited degree. He found that he could push against that power, resist it at least enough to be able to use the power within before it built up past the point where he could contain it. It flooded into him, joined with him, and that power caused him to become more attuned and connected to the Weave. He could feel her magic now, feel it flow and eddy within the strands. With a primal scream, he harnessed that power within him, used it against the Weave, caused the strands to expel flows of the Spheres. Those flows coalesced around his paws as he wove them into a spell, and then he released its power. The weave manifested as a powerful blast of wind, shattering the dust cloud and then sending it back the other way. The force of the wind was enough to pick up small stones, sending a cloud of debris flying back at the Sha'Kar with enough force to injure, maybe even kill if they hit right.
But the cloud parted, then passed by on both sides of the Sha'Kar woman harmlessly. She gave him a penetrating look, a look that unnerved him despite the distance between them, and then she gave him a chilling smile. "Now," she said, and then she raised delicate hands limned over with the ghostly radiance of Magelight.
She could use High Sorcery too!
She was a Weavespinner!
The sight of that caused his human mind to retreat, to literally drag the Cat out into the forefront. He needed all his power, he needed the rage of fury to give him the power to control his own magic. He needed everything he could possibly find, because he was facing an opponent who had the power to beat him at his own game.
With a building roar, Tarrin's body exploded completely into Magelight as he relaxed the constraints he had placed on himself, and it responded by trying to burn him to ashes. Rational thought was scoured away, leaving behind only the instinctive impulses of the Cat, a mind that did not need to think in order to function. Power that would kill a linked Circle roared into him, through him, saturated his being with its power. It sent a shockwave of pain through him, pain that his Cat nature could block, ignore, shrug off, as the animal within ignored the dangers to the body in order to protect itself from an enemy.
So fast that most Sorcerers would not be able to follow it, with a speed borne of familiarity, Tarrin wove together that chaotic weave of Fire, Air, Water, and Divine flows, with only token flows of the other Spheres to grant his weave the power of High Sorcery, and then unleashed it on the dark figure. A blinding, incandescent bolt of pure magical power, a bar of light containing heat beyond anything natural, ripped through the air as it hurtled directly at the Sha'Kar's body. But the Sha'Kar slapped the bolt aside with a hand casually, and it deflected in its path and struck the ground a few hundred spans behind her. That touch caused the rock to vaporize, and then to explode, sending a shockwave of flying debris, dust, and loud noise roaring across the small forest of rocky pillars.
The Sha'Kar responded with a whip-like tongue of fire that emanated from her hand, and then she lashed it at him over the distance between them. It moved with a speed that defied rational thought, but to Tarrin's heightened senses, it moved with a ponderous slowness that he could easily track. He wove together a weave of Fire and released it, forming it around his paw, and he caught that tendril of fire as it tried to strike him. He felt the nature of the weave, then charged it with a huge surge of Air. The Fire mixed with the Air, and he sent it back towards the Sha'Kar like throwing a burning pot of pitch. The tendril detonated along its length in rapid succession, but it winked out as the Sha'Kar countered with flows of Water into the tendril to counter the explosive mix of flows.
He didn't hesitate. His Cat mind was already working on the next gambit, weaving together a weave of High Sorcery that was primarily composed of Earth. It was the magical effect he'd seen Jegojah use before, and he released it by stomping on the ground. It created a seismic shockwave that raced in the Sha'Kar's direction at shocking speed, causing a line of dust and flying shards of rock to follow in its wake as it shattered the rock through which it travelled. But the Sha'Kar rose up into the air, allowing the shockwave to travel under her harmlessly. He felt her weaving spells now, using High Sorcery, a weave of Water, Air, and Divine mainly, and then she released it. A pale beam of cold blue erupted from her hand. He didn't have the time or the presence to study the weave and create a counter for it, so he simply dove aside as it hit the ground where he'd been standing. He looked back, and saw that the ground had been covered by a thick layer of ice.
The human in him wondered at this. She was strong. She could do all the things he could. So why such small things? Was she toying with him?
There was one way to find out.
Setting his feet apart, he wove on a massive scale, flows of Air mainly, forming the first stages of the air shockwave that had proved to be so devastating all the other times. Eyes blazing with white light, a vicious snarl on his face, the air before him took on a reddish hue, an irregular reddish haze as the weave began to form-
– -But a lance of Fire struck his weaving, Fire laced with weaves of Air. The Air weaves in her counterstroke interacted with the flows in his, causing them to cancel one another out. The weave collapsed in on itself violently, then the flows of Fire interacted with the remaining flows in an odd manner, reforming into a new weave that immediately manifested. It formed as a ball of intense burning flame that suddenly exploded in all directions. An inferno of hellish fire blasted towards him, and he barely had the time to erect a Ward of Fire flows, a shield against it, before it engulfed him. He covered his face and flinched away instinctively as the fire blasted over him, but his Ward protected him from the fire. The Ward itself seemed to be caught up into the fire, as latent magical flows in the fire itself attached to the Ward, consumed it, ate away at its integrity, causing it to fail. But not before the fire exhausted its magical energy and dissipated.
Even the Cat was impressed. She used his own weaves against him!
The fire winked out, and in its wake it left a rocky ground that was blackened and smoking. The dirt and sand that had collected were now pools of clear glass laying on the blackened stone.
She had struck at his weave! While he was weaving it! And she even set up her attack so it used the flows not cancelled out to reform into a new spell. She had caused him to use up his own energy to create a spell of her design!
This was a true Ancient.
But the Cat understood its mistake. The weave took too long to create. Against her, he had to use fast weaves, things easy to create and with power. If he gave her an openeing, she would destroy his attempts to weave, maybe even turn them against him once again.
Weaving Air again, this time he used something fast and quick, something that could be realeased as quickly as it was woven. It released as a scythe of pure Air, a rush of air with a cutting edge more lethal than any sword or blade, and it lashed out like a whip towards the Sha'Kar as she drifted to the ground. The Sha'Kar simply raised her hand to meet the leading edge of that weave, then deflected it with a slash of her hand, deflected it to the side. It continued on, striking a rock pillar, then slicing it in half at the base as neatly as a knife cut butter. The pillar shuddered, then slid off its sliced base and then toppled over in an explosion of dust and a ear-splitting boom.
The power rebuilt in him as quickly as it had been expended, and he felt the stress. He was starting to wear out, to tire, and the power was becoming harder and harder to control. But there was no room for weariness here. The Sha'Kar was advancing on him confidently, advancing through the dust cloud that had concealed her for a moment. He had to use something that would burn off the power inside, give him a chance to catch his breath, but not something that she could disrupt.
He could feel her counterstroke building within the Weave itself. Earth. It had something to do with Earth. Whatever she was doing wasn't High Sorcery… it was that other-magic that she used, a type of Sorcery he couldn't sense, couldn't see. He reacted too late to sense the weave as the ground beneath him began to shudder. He tried to jump aside, but a massive hand of stone rose up from the ground, and it closed over him. Crushing pressure struck him, broke his tail and one of his arms, and it squeezed a ragged cry from him as the hand tried to snap him in half. The power within shuddered as the pain made him lose control for a split second, then he quickly wove a weave of Air and Fire, then unleashed it outwards from his body. The effect was purely explosive, like gunpowder put to the torch, and it shattered the stone hand in a loud blast of dust, fire, and black smoke.
The pain had been too much. The Cat rose up within in a heartbeat, going from unwilling participant to fully in control in the blink of an eye. The Cat completely dropped all his defensive measures, opened itself up to the Weave without hindrance. It thrust out into the Weave with flows, and then snapped them back to make them form a small spiderweb of little strands to feed his power, to directly connect him to the Weave itself. The power that flooded into him went from a flood to an absolute deluge, causing the nimbus of Magelight around him to intensify, to expand visibly. The connection to the Weave intensified his sense of it, and he could feel its power pulse and flow like blood, circulating through the Weave, but it coalesced in the strands nearest the Sha'Kar, as if her very presence saturated the strands with power. In that fleeting moment he realized that all strands were not the same, that the power within one strand was not the same as all other strands, as he'd been taught. It was something that he'd seemed to comprehend already, but he hadn't realized it until he saw the effect the Sha'Kar had on the Weave, an effect caused by her very presence.
An effect caused by his presence.
With a vicious snarl, Tarrin wove together a weave of Fire and Divine, and the ghostly aura of Magelight around him shifted from white to red. He released it, and the aura around him suddenly expanded, grew, became a living thing unto itself, a massive bird made of pure fire. He imparted the magical construct with self-animating properties, as if the very element of Fire were collected and fused into a coherent magical being. He had no idea what he was doing, how he did it, but he knew what he'd just formed.
An Elemental.
A magical creature under his direct control. It would obey him, do his bidding, until he dismissed it back into the Weave or it was destroyed. He pointed at the Sha'Kar imperiously, and the Elemental understood exactly what it was created to do. With a shrill cry, the bird of Fire streaked away from him, towards the Sha'Kar, talons extended and ready to attack.
The Sha'Kar was smiling. That only enraged the Cat even more, sent it spiralling into the abyss of utter rage. She made a slashing motion with her hand, and he felt the eddies and currents within the strands shift, alter. They suddenly became motive, as if she were controlling them, and they suddenly extended outside the Weave and formed into flows. Flows of Water and Air. They lashed out from the Weave itself, struck the Fire Elemental as if they were arrows, and the flows coalesced within the Elemental to counter the weaving he had done to create it. The bird gave a startled cry, a cry of pain, as the Sha'Kar's weaving unravelled the very magic that made it what it was. The fiery bird spread its wings and began to thrash, and then the fire that made up its form simply broke up and evaporated like smoke.
The Sha'Kar didn't have time to gloat. Another weave of Fire, Water, and Air formed in Tarrin's paws, and he unleashed it on the woman in the form of intense, powerful lightning. She raised her hand, and he could sense the shift of the Weave as it seemed to respond to her. Flows of Earth came free of the Weave and rose up from the ground. The lightning hit that flow of Earth, and the energy of the lightning was absorbed harmlessly into it, deflecting the physical effect of the weave harmlessly.
The power rebuilt within him instantly. It began to haze the air around him as it heated him, heated it, the buildup of power so great that it started to distort the aura of Magelight around him. The Cat sensed this, felt the fiery pain of being so filled with the Weave's power, but it was too angry to care. It only saw the Sha'Kar, and it would not stop until it got her, no matter what the cost. The Cat could shrug off the pain that would have left Tarrin squirming on the ground in agony, as pure, total fury, the need to kill, overrode all sense of self. Tarrin wove again, weaves of pure Earth, sending them into the ground. The weave was on a titanic scale, a weave so vast, so convoluted that the Sha'Kar actually seemed impressed, uncertain as to how to go about stopping it before it was released.
The ground beneath his feet began to shiver. Then to tremble. More and more of the Weave's power infused it, causing it to vibrate in time with the pulsating power he pushed into it, causing the rock spires to sway and dust and rock to fall from them. More and more power was charged into the rocky flat under his feet, until the very earth tingled and trembled, making sand drum up and rising up a cloud of dust from the rocky ground. Tarrin closed his eyes and hunched his shoulders as the strain of weaving such power without releasing it began to wear on him. Sweat streamed from his face, and his paws began to shake, but he would not stop. Hair and fur began to shrivel, singe away from the internal heat of working with such power, but he would not stop. Blood began to thicken as heat caused it to coagulate, but he would not stop. Skin began to redden and blister as the awesome flow of energy through him burned into him like fire into paper, but he would not stop. He let out a gasping cry from the effort, from the pain of such power flowing into and through him, power the likes of which he had never tried to manipulate before.
His eyes snapped open, and he felt the last flows fall into place. Then he released it.
The ground suddenly split open like a melon dropped from a tree. The sound it made was indescribable, as raw stone was split open on a massive scale. The fissure opened just before him, and it raced away from him in the direction of the Sha'Kar, a shockwave of seismic force on a monumental scale, a shockwave so powerful the air above the ground was displaced with such force that it could kill. The ground shook and swayed like a table with broken legs, and an explosion of dust erupted from the ground all around him. One rock spire swayed too far, then toppled over, but the sound of its crashing to the desert floor was lost in the deafening cacophony caused by the rupturing of the earth itself. The fissure ran so deep that it punctured the crust of the land, penetrated all the way down to where the molten core of the world laid hidden. A geyser of ultra-hot liquid rock erupted from the fissure even as it continued racing away from him, spraying hundreds of spans into the air, literally burning the dust from the air as it started falling to the ground like a deadly rain. The fissure raced right towards the Sha'Kar, but the woman made no move to evade or escape it. She simply stood there until the last moment, when she vaulted into the sky with support from weaves of Air. She rose above the shockwave, but not above the sudden spraying eruption of magma that spewed out from the fissure.
Even lost in the throes of total rage, Tarrin was astounded by what he saw. The magma struck the woman, struck her squarely and true, but it did no harm. It simply clung to her like mud, neither burning nor searing. But he knew it struck her truly, for her black clothing burned and seared from contact with it, all of it except that utter-black cloak she wore, for the magma simply struck its surface and vanished within its unfathomable depths. She brushed it away as she rose over the top of the spraying geysers of fire as if it were nothing but troublesome dust, leaving behind unharmed skin showing through the charred holes in her clothing.
She was utterly immune to heat. It could not touch her, it did her no harm whatsoever. He could assense her, he realized that it was no spell or magical effect that was protecting her. Her body itself was immune, though he could sense that the effect had been worked on her by some kind of magical process. It explained her preference for Fire weaves… even if they were turned against her, they could not harm her.
Tarrin and the Cat both were dismayed. He had put almost everything into that weave, so sure they both were that if the shockwave didn't kill her, the spray of magma would. They were both forces of such magnitude that even a Ward would not be able to resist their power. He was exhausted, exhausted even beyond his rage, all his energy used up in the weave he had created, a weave that he now saw had done nothing more than tear a gash in the flesh of the earth, a gash that now bled profusely. But his Cat half, his fury, would not permit failure now. He had nothing left to Weave, but he would not stop. The need to destroy overshadowed self-preservation. Besides, now he was vulnerable, exposed. He would not allow her to pick him apart in his weakness. Better to die fighting.
If Fire was her friend, then perhaps Water was her bane.
He collected himself to try again, looking up at her airborne form with utter fury and contempt. He reached out to the Weave-
– -something was wrong. It was beyond his control now, it flowed into him like the ocean trying to fill a teacup, it flowed into him beyond the physical limits of his body. A chain reaction had begun within him, as power beckoned to power, energy attracted energy, and his physical resistance to it had been overwhelmed.
As the fur on his right paw suddenly singed away, as the exposed skin and flesh beneath blackened like wood in a kiln, he realized that this time, he had reached too far.
He was going to be Consumed.
That was when the pain of it struck him. Drove into him like a spear. The pain his Cat instincts had suppressed could no longer be denied, and it boiled into every fiber of his being along with the power of the Weave. The entire might of the Weave was trying to flood into him, and he could no longer expend that power. It had nowhere to go. It was building inside him, building and building, and the power carried with it its lethal heat, energy that was not compatible with his body. The energy brought pain, and it built more and more.
The aura of High Sorcery around him shuddered as if struck, and then dissipated. In its place came a terrible shimmering of the air, as it began to heat beyond even the heat of the desert, heated by his proximity. The leather vest and trousers and scabbard began to smoke from contact with his body, a body that seemed paralyzed to him now, the commands to move lost in the molten sea of pain that raged inside. Through that sea of agony he tried to move, tried to think, tried to regain his contact with the Weave and expel the power building up inside, but it was as if the Weave had become a one way door. The power could come into him, but once within it became trapped by the attraction of the power with itself. That was the mechanism of being Consumed, his rational mind concluded distantly. The power reached a point where it would no longer move, it became bound to itself within, and its presence caused more power to join it. The body was never meant to hold such power, the power of the Weave itself.
Paws closed into fists, tail straight out behind him and trembling, Tarrin tried in vain to find a connection to the Weave that was not flooding into him, seeking in desperation to expel the power building up inside, but a part of him sensed that it could not be stopped. He had crossed over the line, and now the power had a life of its own. It was calling to its own, seeking to infuse him with the totality of the Weave, and that was a power that his body could not withstand. Eyes that were about to boil in their sockets gazed down at trembling paws, watching in horror as the blackened skin began to split and crack, showing nothing but blazing energy beneath. The pain scoured away all conscious thought, made the pain of being turned into a Were-cat seem like a skinned knee in comparison. There was no stopping it, no controlling it, no defense against it. The blazing energy dimmed, and then pure fire erupted around his paws, adding to the burning from within, tearing a ragged scream from him as the first physical signs of his impending doom showed themselves.
It can't end this way! Tarrin managed to scream in the silent tunnels of his mind. Not now, not like this! He wouldn't die alone in the desert, not when so much depended on him! His sisters, his family, Janette, they depended on him! They needed him, and he would not surrender. He would not! But there was no quarter in this, no mercy. He could do nothing against the power of the Weave itself. That which had saved him so many times had finally turned against him, and his own connection to the Weave only served to strengthen its power to destroy him.
For the first time, he was helpless. But he could not accept it.
"No," he gasped, forcing his arms up, forcing himself to stand up straight. Beyond all defiance of rational comprehension, he stared the full power of the Weave directly in the face, stared into the heart of the Goddess herself, and refused to yield. "Not… like… THIS!" he screamed.
But against that power, stubborn defiance could not last long. Its might overwhelmed his attempts to shunt it off, to block it, to slow it down, saturating his body with its power. The end of his tail burst into flame, the tops of his feet began to smolder, and the very air around him became alive with magical energy, charged by its proximity to him. The power was building, building, eating him piece by piece, and he could sense that once it reached the point where it would fill him no more, it would destroy him in a cataclysmic explosion of energy. Just as he had once charged Jegojah's body to the bursting point, so it was being done to him. He had Consumed Jegojah, and now the restless spirit was seeing his measure of revenge.
The pain taxed away what little he had left. He began to sag to the ground, sagging into a funeral pyre formed from himself, and the stark reality of a violent death, a death of the most unimaginable pain, rose up before him. He was too weary to care, the pain was too much to bear, even for him.
This time, there was no escape. Since there could be no escape, then there could only be release.
He stopped fighting. He opened himself completely to the Weave, opening himself in a way he had never done before, an opening without fear, without worry, without defense from the power. It was an opening of utter totality, exposing his very soul to the raging torrent of energy that sought to destroy him. In submission to the finality of his existence, he utterly surrendered to the might of the Weave, allowing it to do with him what it will. So long as it was done quickly. He didn't want to suffer anymore.
The energy within, the energy without, it responded to that submission, responded instantly. It drove into him with renewed vigor, with such speed and force that his body was literally picked up from the rocky ground. In the blink of an eye, he was filled to the limit, reaching the maximum potential of his body. The pain was consumed by that sensation of fullness, a power carrying a sensation that defied rational explanation, neither pain nor sweetness, hot nor cold, fast nor slow, gentle nor harsh. It merely was, and in that instant, he understood that that moment of utter maximum, that he had reached the abyss.
Yet he did not fall in.
It was as if the power stopped. He felt it radiate into him, through him, it reached out and touched the Weave, and then it bonded it to him. The pain washed away, leaving behind nothing but a sensation of the power itself, and then that sense of power faded to the sense of the Weave. And then it was gone.
There was no sensation at first, neither within nor without. Then he felt the Weave bend. He felt it warp, shift, pull towards him, and his sense of it suddenly became as clear as opening his eyes. He could feel the currents and surges within the strands, he could feel the pools and eddies and charges that existed within them. He could see inside the strands, inside the Weave, as if the totality of it were revealed to him. He could see things he had never seen before, sense things he could not before. He could feel Allia and Keritanima through the Weave, could feel the pulsing of their hearts through the Weave, felt that they, and all Sorcerers, were linked to the Weave in ways the modern katzh-dashi could not even comprehend. He could feel Jenna, knew exactly where she was, knew that she was pouting from some kind of punishment. He could feel all of them, every single one, both near and far, old and young, friend and foe, weak and powerful, those long in their power and those who had never actively touched it before. Their hearts, their souls, they were linked to the Weave, made up a part of the gentle rhythm of the beating of the Heart of the Goddess.
And at the heart of it rested a pair of glowing, benevolent eyes, eyes that looked on him with love and gentle compassion. The eyes of the Goddess herself looked upon him, and within them he could only see a loving benediction. The eyes said everything without words. He had surrendered to the power, and in that surrender, rather than destroy him, it had caused him to transcend the concepts of Sorcery. He had crossed over into a new realm of magical communion. He had become one with the Weave itself, and it was tied to him more closely than any katzh-dashi could realize. He was the Weave, and the Weave was him.
Through his mind's eye, he saw, felt the change in his amulet. The concave star in the center of the device shifted, flowed, as two delicate tendrils of black metal grew out from each side of the central star, grew out, bent, then reached out to touch the triangles that surrounded it. The eight lines merged with the six triangles, two each on the top and bottom triangles, one each on the four that formed the sides, and the central star took on the abstract image of a spider sitting within the center of its web of triangles, all held within a circle.
Now, her voice echoed through his mind, through the Weave, through the entire world, now, my dear one, you are truly a Weavespinner.
The power faded from him, and the eyes tumbled away from his inner eye as he lost contact with that sensation. His weariness and weakened condition had overcome him, and he went from basking in the eyes of the Goddess herself to the blackness of unconscious oblivion.
Half a world away, in a large courtyard in the middle of a cavernous maze of carefully tended hedges, there stood a large fountain. The fountain was made of marble, and clear, pure water flowed within its base, the sound of its splashing a soothing sound to any who heard it. In the center of this fountain stood a statue of a nude female, the carving of it defining perfection itself. The face was a lovely one, gentle and kind, and any who stared upon it was calmed and felt peace.
The eyes of the statue suddenly erupted with intense white light, and the features of the statue changed visibly, flowing from that gentle benediction to a sense of triumph, of victory. The statue suddenly became surrounded by nimbus of soft bluish light, the light of High Sorcery. And then it was gone, and the light within the eyes of the statue faded away, leaving nothing but the victorious expression upon the statue's lovely features.
Within the huge central tower of the seven that made up the Tower of Sorcery, at its very core, flowed a magical feature known as the Heart of the Goddess. It was the largest Conduit in the world, the main artery through which the lifeblood of Sorcery flowed. It was the wellspring of the power of the katzh-dashi, a spring of energy from the Goddess herself.
That pillar-thick Conduit of magical energy suddenly flickered into visibility, then flared with a soft bluish radiance. But only for a moment. It was enough for every Sorcerer on the grounds to stop in his or her tracks, to stop and clutch at his or her chest as the power of the Weave expanded, shifted, if only a little, a sense of alteration that no Sorcerer in proximity to the Heart could miss.
It was enough for most of the citizens of Suld to stop what they were doing and look towards the Tower of Six Spires, the center of the city, where a pillar of soft light shimmered in the clear morning air, and then winked out. Most of them simply shrugged and went back about their daily business, for such magical apparitions weren't uncommon when the Tower was concerned.
But others understood it for what it was. And they felt fear.
To: Title EoF