"You do realize, Keevan, I can't promise you anything." Madol insisted, resting his hands on the hilts of his weapons. "You could fail in the first season and be right back where you started. It will not be a soft life of easy gold that these other Guilds are offering. If anything, I will have to be harder on you than the rest of the applicants. An accident could befall you during training. You could lose a limb, or your life."
"Would you give me the chance to try?" Keevan persisted, standing up straight. This felt like a decision meant for one to make on his feet. Particularly when asking one of the Malik's own Persuaders. "Will you, please?"
Varta's expression turned more sour with each passing word, as if she'd eaten something foul. Nariem on the other hand, looked more hopeful with each of Madol’s words. The Persuader crossed his arms, wincing at the pressure on his burns and said, "How would you like to study under me as my apprentice?"
Nariem actually yelled for joy, punching his fist up into the air. Varta sputtered wordlessly, before storming out of the room to the echoes of bells chirping against stone. Keevan sat there stunned while Madol watched with a pleased, sly expression.
"I can be a Persuader?" Keevan echoed. He stared at his hands nervously, second thoughts racing through his mind. "I don't wield elements."
"You're immune to repulsor fields," Madol offered, pointing at the ceiling above them. "That alone is something unique and dare I say, useful. As to your limitations, we might be able to work with that."
"What do you mean?" Keevan asked.
Madol walked over to the couch, sitting beside Keevan. He took off his boot and rolled his pant leg up, wincing with the motion as he bent at the torso. His legs were perhaps the only place on his body not burned. "Take a close look at my leg. A very close look."
Curious, Keevan drew on his elemental vision. Madol's leg glowed white, an extension of the Tri-Being soul, just like any other Child of the Sky. But, there, along the calf, Keevan noticed something faint. Running his finger along Madol's calf, Keevan murmured in surprise. "So, that's how a Haldran can work among Etrendi."
"Yes," Madol echoed, rolling down his pant leg. "I have Danica veins implanted under my skin. Now, I'm not suggesting we do the same with you, but I'm sure if we put our heads together, we can find a way to help you protect yourself and perform your duties."
"You're serious about this?" Nariem asked, leaning forwards intently. "I'd be happy to show you a few ideas I've drawn up at the forge. I didn't want Bahjal and Keevan trying them out on their own, but with a Persuader in charge... That's another matter."
"Of course," Madol said, pausing as he regarded Keevan cautiously. "What do you say, boy? Would you be interested in a life fighting crime and tracking down traitors?"
Keevan glanced at his father and chuckled. For now, Nariem looked rather excited at the idea. He wondered if those feelings would persist once they left the repulsor room. Especially once they faced Masha. Still, the lack of elements didn't impede Keevan's judgment and that was more important.
He looked at Madol, then at his bruised hands, considering the events of the previous day. The people wouldn't consider him powerless anymore. Working as the Malik's right hand would protect him from the Tribunal's retributions, particularly the Harbor Guild. Not to mention, he'd learn to protect himself. The prospect felt exciting, challenging and somehow... right.
"When do we start?" Keevan asked with a grin.
"When Bahjal's done recovering from her wounds," Madol answered with a chuckle. "I've a feeling that woman will want a hand in your training. At least, I'd hate to be the one to try and stop her from participating. You make quite a pair, you too. I believe Issamere will be better for it. Persuader Stratagar, your training will commence on the morrow."
*****
"How is he?" Zerik demanded, supporting himself with both hands upon his gnarled cane. At least the runner arrived earlier than expected. A lucky stroke, since he'd just realized his old legs lacked the strength to make it down to the Suadan chambers of his little fortress.
Sparks crackled under the Raejinian's feet as the messenger ground to a halt. The flickering light cut the walls and floor into jagged shadows as the electricity sapped into the tunnel floor. The boy's black hair and intelligent, green eyes complemented his yellow and black Raejinian garb, a striped tunic hanging over his loose-fitting trousers.
"Master Zerik," the boy reported, his eyes unfocusing as he quoted the message from memory.
"Two of our Suadans pulled Kors from the Harbor. He's...lost his left hand, my Lord. His right is greatly injured. They're not sure it can be saved. He's also suffering from a sharp fever but they're certain he's out of the Death God's reach, for now."
Zerik sighed, looking down the roughly cut tunnel past the runner. Damaged hands meant weaker commands of fire, which wasn't Kors' specialty anyway. However, amputations were unpredictable, it may hinder Kors' other elemental commands. What use would their benefactor find for an elementally disarmed Exile?
"How are his spirits?" Zerik asked further, tapping his chin. After such severe trauma, there was no telling where Kors' emotional center lay.
"The fever still addles his mind," the runner echoed. His sandals still smoked from the heat of the boy's passage. Even the thick leather couldn't restrain the boy's power. Given another ten years of training, he'd be a force worth keeping. A pity the war would rise so much sooner than that. "But he mutters constantly about the Sight Seeker. Something about the mistake of ignoring him and returning to make an example of him next time."
His boyish features and lanky build reminded Zerik of the first day he met Kors, training among the Suadans. Even then, the man was stubborn and strong willed. Kors didn't have this boy's memory though. All runners were taught this skill, for paraphrasing one's message could often lead to miss-understandings.
In his business, miss-communication could cost him Issamere. It was also impossible for robbers or the Malik's precious Persuaders to intercept an unwritten message, at least without torturing the runner and abandoning all secrecy of who-watched-who. These days, the kingdom ran on secrets. Zerik's benefactor seemed to know them all. Zerik's rebellion grew by leaps and bounds once he accepted the stranger's gold and orders.
"Tell them to save all they can, arm and mind if possible." Zerik ordered, pointing back down the tunnel. "I always reward loyalty. Kors finally removed the Watcher from our path and weakened the Towers considerably. Save him. Whatever the cost."
"As you wish, my Lord." The runner echoed, vanishing back down the tunnel in burst of lighting. The boy crested the side of the tunnel as it turned, pushing off into the air. For a brief, electric moment, he could see the pure ecstasy in the boy's eyes. He cared little for political agendas, nor who ruled, as long as he got to do something 'secret' and relish his powers.
Zerik felt a rush of jealousy, and a sudden chill. His years of glory and power, both elemental and otherwise, were behind him. Each day, his bones ached a little worse and his breath failed him a bit earlier upon exertion. His days were numbered, though only Raejin, the Death God, knew the exact count.
Trying to shake off the dark thoughts, Zerik retreated back down the hall. Two tall Belenokans stood guard, heavy spears held at the ready. Their close-cut hairs were edged with gray, but their strength and reflexes were still just as sharp as the day they first shed blood. They nodded respectfully as he past, ignorantly blissful of the added jealousy that seeing their youthful strength cast upon Zerik's heart. They no doubt felt the cold accompanying him though. They probably thought his sorrow was for Kors' state.
Zerik closed the door behind him as he entered his private quarters, glad to turn his grey hair and wrinkled face from the view of his subordinates. These were not the lavish holdings he expected when he took the Stranger's gold. Zerik's bed, chair and desk were sturdy but worn, edged with unavoidable mold from the moisture in the underground confines.
Lighting a candle, he uttered a sigh of relief. The cave's con
stant cold drove most Tri-Being's mad, given enough time. It was the consistency, not the intensity that did it. Living creatures were never met to experience the same emotion for...ever. The warmth of the nearby flame lifted Zerik's spirits, reminding him of the Malik's offenses over the years as his anger kindled and flickered in his chest. They were so close to results, Malik Morgra's hold on Issamere hung like a ripe pear, the slightest breath of wind could knock it loose.
Sitting down at the table, Zerik whistled a jolly lyric as he gathered his quill and parchment. Finally, after years of exile, he had good news for his mysterious benefactor. The issues of this Corvan Outlander and Calistra's maiming were secondary, for this missive, he focused on the key points he knew the Stranger longed to hear.
'Stranger,
I bring news of Issamere. The Watcher is fallen. Kors ensured that not only are the catacombs free of their sentinel, but even the Great Crystal has lost its potency, damaged in the fighting. The Malik can no longer summon moisture to accompany his supporters in the city, nor cast it away to discourage dissent. Honestly, I thought you slightly mad to pit the Outlander boy against the Watcher, but now my faith in you is unshaken. What more would you have us do?
You should know that Kors is in our care, though the battle against the Watcher cost him a hand. He's also wounded the other and fights a strong fever. He speaks only of dealing with the Sight Seeker, though it may be only the sickness talking. Then again, perhaps purpose-fever is all that's left to him. The results of such injuries can be ... unpredictable.
With regards to the Sight Seeker, the Council seems to have accepted him, at arm's length, so to speak. I understand he chose to serve as apprentice to Madol the Persuader, an odd choice for the sire of a Haldran family. I'd have expected him to choose wealth and comfort with one of the guilds. The greedy and corrupt see a means to profit, and that alone will secure his safety, for now. What are your orders?
Zerik.'
With a nervous gulp and a shudder, Zerik opened the top right drawer and pulled out a velvet cloth, tied around the top with twine so as to leave the contents fully covered. The former Malik gingerly untied the knots and let the velvet fall freely, being careful to never touch the contents.
Two stone glistened before him. The first and smallest of the two, was a smooth black sphere that seemed to drink in any light that touched it. The second stone, a white diamond the size of his fist, brilliantly reflected the nearby candlelight. Only a fool though, or perhaps an uneducated Rhetan, would sell such relics as these as simple jewelry.
Zerik picked up the small black stone between his thumb and forefinger and held it aloft. Goosebumps danced up his arms as he felt his anger fading away. The hungry stone fed greedily on his focus and fears, until he sat there pleasantly bored, admiring the great black shadows cast across his room by the single candle. A thin breeze from an airshaft above sent the flame dancing around, its black minions following suit from their positions along his walls and roof.
After a minute, he forgot why holding this stone was so all fired important. Still, it was an oddity, one that might be worth something. So, he returned it to its rightful place on the velvet. The moment he let go of it, his shuddered from the cold, and the eerie sensation of regaining his anger, drive and fears in a single rush of emotion.
This sender stone was of the weaker variety. Whoever held its twin, received a vague emotional impression from Zerik, carried through his body's elements. The larger one, the brilliant diamond sitting next to it, was a receiver stone. It functioned as the sender stone's opposite, in both function and strength. He picked it up, grit his teeth and waited. The effects of both stones weren't limited by distance, the Stranger could be sitting on the other side of the world and respond as promptly as if he were sitting in the next room.
Zerik's benefactor usually didn't take long to respond to a sending, wherever he was. This time was no different. Zerik felt his benefactor's will stretch into his arm, chest and soul like a sudden tidal wave of force. His vision darkened, as the Stranger took over his senses. His hearing faded as well. Soon, he could only feel cold, pain and nausea. His skin crawled with the eerie knowledge that someone else sat inside his mind, reading his letter, picking up the quill with Zerik's hands and writing a response.
This time, thankfully, the Stranger didn't take long. Zerik sighed in relief as warmth flooded his body. Even the light of the distant candle felt like a blessing compared to the dark of 'receiving' the Stranger's instructions. The cold called out to his mind, threatening to drown him with the memories of his exile from Issamere and the wrath of the Tribunal when he opposed their choice in Malik Morgra.
With effort, Zerik forced himself to picture the look on the Malik's face when he heard the Watcher no longer shielded his catacombs from attack. That thought helped warm his old bones considerably. Rubbing his hands together, he coaxed them into a dull red of heat. He looked down at the page before him and blinked in surprise.
Noble Zerik,
Tend to Kors as best you can. Tell him his chance for revenge is near, if he can mend enough to fight. That motivation should guarantee his recovery, if he has a shred of water left within him to command.
As to the Sight Seeker, I doubt he'll last long under Madol's tutelage. The life of a Persuader is a painful one, in many ways that Keevan doesn't yet understand. But he will. Poor boy.
For now, watch him. Look for his weaknesses, enemies and strengths. I'd rather secure his cooperation through another hostage, but if necessary, we may have to kill him. When we make our move against the Malik, we must be prepared for anything.
Watch and wait, my friend.
Their end is near.
Stranger.'
###
Sample Chapter from Splintered Loyalties
"Stay on the balls of your feet, Keevan!" Hadrian roared from across the room. The arms master's thickly muscled shoulders left only the memory of a neck and his chiseled features gave the impression the tough veteran were a statue made flesh. He certainly had the personality of one.
Sucking in a desperate breath, Keevan ignored the burning sensation in his legs and hopped back a pace. Pain echoed down his arms as his wooden sword collided with Merkim's, his current opponent. The young Tri-Being only stood a few inches taller than Keevan, but his command of water was impressive. Like his single-minded concentration, glaring through those piercing hazel eyes. Merkim's concentration was so complete that a thin stream of water flowed in the wake of Merkim's arms as they spared.
Keevan held his training sword in both hands, careful not to swing too widely and leave himself open for another beating. Merkim attacked, launching three quick thrusts. Keevan managed to parry the first two but stepped back from the third, landing on the flat of his feet. Merkim sprinted in so fast Keevan stumbled in his retreat, the Tri-Being's sword a blur of tan, polished wood.
The air hissed with two quick blows and Keevan found himself on the stone floor of the training hall, clutching his stomach, his skull and gasping for air. His head rang from a strike to the temple, despite his padded training helmet. Merkim wasn't known for holding back, even in training.
"You alright there, Outlander?" Merkim chuckled, stooping down over Keevan. "It's no wonder your kind has never seen our shores. I'm amazing they'd even try to cross the sea. Fighters as poor as you should stick to their books and leave fighting to the real men."
With a breathless heave of rage, Keevan swung at his gloating opponent's feet. Merkim laughed, hoping over the blow and smacking his training weapon down on Keevan's hands. Biting back a curse, Keevan dropped his sword and scrambled away, clutching both fists to his chest. He could feel the bruises forming through his leather gloves, but at least his hands weren't broken.
"Merkim!" Hadrian barked. In Keevan's battered state, he hadn't noticed the arms master's approach. "What did I tell you about honoring a fallen opponent? You beat him. Go wait your turn in line. Now."
"As you command, Master Hadrian," Merk
im offered with a mockingly deep bow. He sauntered off, holding his training sword over his shoulder like a woodman's axe. A few of his friends greeted him at the end of the line, pointing at Keevan as they laughed.
"I see you ignored my advice," Hadrian grumbled, thick arms folded tersely as he glared down at the wounded Outlander. "You can't move as fast from the flat of your feet. Then you tried to strike in anger. What must I do to teach you even the simplest of techniques?"
All Keevan could manage in return was a series of grunts, still gasping for air. He flexed his hands open and shut, grimacing against the pain. If he didn't finish the training session, Madol would certainly hear of it. Not to mention Bahjal. He wasn't sure which prospect bothered him more.
It wasn't that he forgot Hadrian's advice, not exactly. In a quiet setting, with a quill and a few minute's time, he could enumerate them all. But once Merkim was on the rampage, those minutes boiled down to a few faint impressions, hasty breaths and the immediate need to act.
"Shall I call a Suadan to tend to your wounds?" Hadrian offered, through gritted teeth. "Oh wait, they wouldn't do you any good. Outlanders can't heal through water. By Suada's mercy boy, what are you doing here?"
"Sorry, Master Hadrian," Keevan managed to sputter. "I'll do better next time."
"You didn't answer my question," Hadrian replied, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "Why are you putting yourself through this? Go back to your books. Make your fortune and live your life."
For the fifth time that day, Keevan considered it. His body ached from hours of training, day in and day out, trying to keep up with beings who drew on the elements when he wielded nothing but his mind. But Bahjal's kidnapping and the subsequent battle left a deep impression on him. He still remembered Kors hauling him away like a sack of trade goods.
"I want to live my life protecting my family," Keevan answered, "not the other way around."
Hadrian sighed, kneeling down next to Keevan. It looked rather like an ox settling down on its hind quarters in order to talk with a mouse. Were it not for the bruises spotting Keevan's arms, head and torso, he might have laughed. Hadrian pulled off Keevan's gloves, examining the bruised knuckles with a practiced eye.
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