by Marin Landis
He controlled it like a puppet master might direct a marionette, adapting rapidly to moving and acting from a distance. He would need to cause the oxygen in the air to ignite for this improvised ritual and he needed the broken lamp’s bowl for that purpose. The art of Ardomancy was mostly incorporeal in function and execution, its main purpose being to commune and attune with the natural world around, a secondary side effect is to influence that world in a manner unexplainable by current understanding. The mental control and manipulation of the incredibly small elements that comprise all of the objects in existence was incredibly difficult and even in Talvar society a person capable of such was rare.
His body lifted the broken lamp and flicked, with his finger, all the remaining pieces of glass from around the bronze bowl, upending it to ensure all shards were removed and finally blowing into it to clear even the fine glass dust away.
He then picked up the dead snake and tore into it with his teeth, savagely yet precisely causing deep gashes along its thin body. He then squeezed and pushed as much gore from its body as he could, dripping it into the bowl of the broken lamp. It didn't amount of much, but very little was needed. Or so he hoped. The sigil for ‘flame’ burned in his mind and in his current place, the realm of the Spirit, thoughts were as deeds, and what could be imagined could be as easily brought into existence. With the requisite amount of skill in Ardomancy and a connection with the “something” that enabled the precipitation of thought into material reality, almost anything could be achieved. That “something” though was the greatest mystery of Talvar science and the subject of their most intense debates. Most would deny the supposition that it was a divine being granting the power of magic, but none could formulate a solution or even a theory that stood the test of debate. The snake’s blood burst into flame as though it were eminently flammable, Sjarcu grateful for his current lack of olfactory awareness. As quickly as the slowly fading body could move, he inhaled the thick smoke from the fiery ichor and without consciously willing it he found himself back in his physical form, coughing and spluttering and eventually vomiting a foul stream of black and lumpy effluence.
Wracked with pain, he could not stand and fell to the ground, his last memory the lamp falling end over end and the cold, hard floor rising to meet him.
He jerked awake. His eyes adjusting to the gloom in mere moments, his wrists scraping against the shackles holding him, his backside aching from the presumed hours he had spent asleep in these chains. He sat against a wall, arms spread wide, in a room ten feet by roughly ten feet, the floor unfinished and the walls bare. He shook his head to clear the cobwebs and immediately regretted his action. Pain shot through him, dehydration was taking its toll alongside the physical discomfort of being chained to a wall. Before he could test his environment by shouting, or croaking as it would have been, the door opened, a figure backlit by a warm yellow glow stood unmoving. Sjarcu squinted, he couldn't make out the figure and he tried to vocalize a greeting but it merely came out as a strangled screech.
“How are you feeling?” a voice said. It was a female voice, the timbre clear and strong. Revealingly, the words were Aelvarin, the language shared by his people and their estranged brethren and rarely spoken by outsiders.
“Non-violent, so there is no need for these restraints.” She would have known that he was alive and relatively well, so her question was designed to determine his mental state. He gave the answer that would answer the query she had, rather than the question she asked.
“We shall see,” she said. If she was surprised by his answer, it did not show. She walked into the room and stood before him momentarily before crouching down to his eye level. His legs were not chained and he could have lashed out, hoping to gain some sort of advantage while trying to kick her again, possibly injuring her enough to… What? Enough to what? There was no profit in that. Instead he got a closer look at the woman.
She was Talvar, that was certain beyond a doubt. Her eyes devoid of color, her skin with the hint of gray that marked his. Her hair jet black and straight, parted in the middle. Typically as well, her cheek-bones were well defined and her face and hands almost angular in their lack of fatty tissue. A non-animal based diet and a hunger for knowledge rather than food meant that there was no such thing as a chubby Talvar. It had never been known. Besides which, such a thing would be very dangerous to one’s health.
She wore a dark robe, the sleeves loose and in her left hand was a cup. That got his attention. Thirst overran his curiosity and he croaked “Let me drink,” in his best non-threatening manner.
She nodded and he got a better look at her face as she leaned over him. In any terms she would be considered fair of face, stern not beautiful, but pleasant to behold. Her eyes were large, brows narrow and lips full; slightly unusual for her people who had little need for overt sexual signals but of course still had them until the day they could breed out all trace of their heritage. She didn't smile and had the look of someone in Kehan as she extended her hand holding the cup to his lips and slowly poured cool water into his waiting mouth.
“More?” she questioned. He nodded and she repeated her action. He drank a further two times before leaning back. He jangled his chains, entreating her to release him,
She got the hint but instead sat on the floor before him, legs crossed, placing the cup down beside her.
“Sjarcu, do you know where you are or what is happening?”
He wasn't surprised that she knew his name, she’d proven to be extremely clever and had a look about her he couldn't define. Competence shone from her every movement, her every word. She was evidently comfortable squatting and seemed unconcerned that he might lash out with his feet.
“I don’t know where I am but I do know that this is some sort of test.” He wanted to keep his cards close to his chest but he didn't even have a theory to keep to himself.
“Yes it is, There is no further need for secrecy and I will explain what is happening shortly. I will leave you chained until I am satisfied that you represent no danger.”
“I’m no danger to you, chains or not, lady.” He knew he was right and she knew it too.
“The danger would be to yourself. I have no desire to kill the most promising potential asset we've identified in decades.” She stood, leaving the cup of water on the ground.
“What of my parents? They will have missed me. Would you at least communicate to them that I am healthy?” In the excitement he had thought little of them; Talvar family units were more functional than emotional, but yet the old habits and biological imperatives died hard.
“Your parents believe you dead. For all intents and purposes, you are dead.” She looked at him closely for a reaction.
“I thought as much and sought only confirmation.” He looked around him. “I’ll make of my fate what I can. Tell me what it is I need to know”
She looked at him for a few seconds and the crouched down again and unlocked his shackles with a key he hadn't noticed her holding. There were a few brief moments of pain as his blood flow returned to normal but he ignored it and stood. Stretching had rarely, if ever, felt so good. His head was still pounding, his throat sore and the muscles all along the front of his torso pained him greatly, but he didn't care. His discomfort was over-ruled by curiosity. Something was happening here, something important enough to involve this woman who was not your run of the mill scholar, but some sort of throw back to darker days. It was exciting, truly exciting, not like learning something new but like experiencing something new.
She motioned with her head and he followed. Through the door into a room unlike all the scenarios he had played out in his head.
It was a large room, the focus of which was an ornate fireplace, fire burning heartily. The fireplace itself was white marble with black veins. It had been carved and smoothed into the form of a naked woman on her back, waves lapping around her body. It was well crafted which was all Sjarcu noticed. Aesthetic considerations meant little to his people and had he been a
sked he would have noted that an uncarved block of stone would be as good. There were numerous plush chairs and couches around the room. A long piece of dark wood furniture lay against the wall opposite the fire and held an array of presumably alcoholic beverages. He noted a lack of rosemary wine but a surfeit of grape wine. There were no books. A Talvar room with no books was unheard of. Virtually every house he’d ever been to was akin to a library; the living inhabitants were almost an afterthought.
“Have a seat, I’ll have food and water brought.” The mysterious robed woman pulled a thick fancy rope that hung next to a door which appeared to be the only other exit from this room. He expected to hear a bell or the like but there was silence. This room was totally silent save the crackling of the fire. He didn't even have to hear his own thoughts and felt peaceful for the first time in some time. How long had he been a prisoner or someone being tested? He guessed less than a week but it felt, on an emotional level, much longer.
He sat on a large red couch, placing his bare feet on a footstool covered over with a blanket. He was filthy and he half expected her to admonish him for his impertinence. Thinking of it briefly he was surprised that a person would situate such a room in the immediate vicinity of the dank cell he had just vacated. He turned to look at where the door was, but there was nothing but a wall dominated by a large painting of fantastical beasts involved in some nonsensical battle. No door to be found. No matter. He didn't wish to return.
His captor sat on the couch next to him, one leg tucked beneath the other. “Have you heard of Shrike?”
“Yes, the leader of a mythical sect of assassins that shared that name. They were a reaction to the diaspora from Fana-Aelvar after the civil war. A common explanation is that they were formed to battle the wrath of the spurned Gods, but as we know that’s all fantasy. I believe they were, at best, killers for sale to the highest bidder and most of the stories attributed to them are tales to keep children quiet.”
“I see that smug cynicism grows worse with every generation of spoiled children who've never experienced real struggle.” Her face showed no vestige of humor. She was deadly serious.
“Well, I, that is exactly what I’ve heard.” He felt defensive. His parents rarely disagreed with him, even if he was wrong. Being challenged like this put him firmly outside of his comfort zone.
“Your first lesson then, Sjarcu. Apply your critical mind to the information you receive. Whether it be from people you trust or enemies that mean you harm, doubt even your senses; your mind will often invent reality for the sake of ease or to keep you safe. The fine line between over-thinking and taking everything at face value is the goal.”
“If I have no point of reference, why would I doubt those I trust? My parents wouldn't lie to me.“ He was firm in that belief. And then he remembered. His parents were dead to him. While he didn't mind them thinking he was dead, self-sufficient as he was, reframing that perception suddenly made him feel sad. If he was dead, so were they. He would never again hold his mother’s hand, rare though that was. He would also never sit in awe of his father’s depth of knowledge of just about everything.
Sjarcu couldn't remember the last time he had cried. That indicated that it would have been when he was a mere toddling babe. Even at this stage his grief seemed distant, as though he'd been guarded against it.
She was watching him carefully and did not expect his next question, predicting something about his parents.
“Have you given me a drug to counteract the impact of losing my life?”
There was the barest raising of an eyebrow. “Yes. There are no lies here. Only necessity. “
“In that case, please continue and I promise not to pour scorn upon your words again.” He had hardly done so but wanted to redeem himself somewhat.
“You were not entirely wrong. Shrike was the name adopted by the founder of our Order and we became known as The Shrike over time. It was a good enough name and conveyed a certain sense of danger and threat which has only been useful for us.” She could tell that he was desperate to jump in with questions but had adopted the correct posture for listening without speaking; leaning slightly forward, head slightly turned that the ear was strategically placed. Such a pose wouldn't even be a conscious decision after the years he would have spent using it. “Also partly useful has been the delusion that now pervades, that we existed as mere killers, and our achievements marginalized. Understandable, considering our desire to stay in the shadows.”
He nodded, not that he needed to, but even with each other the Talvar modeled re-assuring behavior. While they strove to elevate themselves beyond such necessities, they all recognized the need to treat other kindly and warmly.
“There we have stayed. Revealing ourselves to none. Unless it be those like you. I have observed you, Sjarcu for years, and although our societies have grown apart over the decades, I would like you to join with us. You have little choice in the matter.” She laughed. An attractive bark of a laugh, high pitched and infectious and he found himself smiling. The irony that he did so in reference to his life being threatened didn't escape him.
“What will happen? What is the purpose of all of this?” As storytellers, the Talvar would never light up the world. Direct and to the point, with little editorializing, was how they liked their information.
“You will be trained for five years as one of us and then go out in the world and further our goals. The purpose of all this is to fulfill the promise of Shrike, the first among us. His oath, sworn in the ruins of Fana-Aelvar, that never again would our people be at the mercy of such unthinking and nigh omnipotent children, is our guiding mantra. We spend our lives pushing here and pulling there, tweaking our society so that it functions at the optimal level. Manipulating other influential societies so that their destinies do not impact heavily on us. Eventually we will ensure that the Gods are forced from our lives.” She seemed almost in a rapture, her eyes were glazed over again. Not as previously, from the Kehan he believed, but from some almost religious zeal, her life dedicated to the principles of self-reliance and vengeance.
He was almost in shock himself, if what she claimed was true. “Madame,” he started with the honorific so as to put her in a more positive frame of mind for his potentially inflammatory next question, “that would mean that Shrike is Sjahothe, the first defier. Are you saying that he,” he paused then, as he often did, while considering exactly the right words or the sake of precision, “existed outside of legend and that he still lives?”
“I have said the words,” which was something he would hear often from her; a peculiarity of speech which meant that she had no desire to be questioned, nor was there a need to do so.
He didn't answer. There was no point. Either she was insane or she spoke the literal truth, the ramifications of which were enormous. Sociologically speaking, cultures needed their heroes, their stories of times past. Myths and storytelling bound a people together and cultural unity, especially for the Talvar, was important. These tales though, were childish and mere allegories. They all understood the importance of them but nobody believed they were literal truth. Nobody he knew accepted that Sjahothe existed in anything like the form attributed to him and as far as swearing vengeance in the ruins of a mythical ancestral homeland, before the Gods themselves, shaking his fist in defiance at their creator; purest fantasy. It had long been assumed that Sjahothe was a leader of his people in their diaspora from Fana-Aelvar. Ascribing supernatural abilities and heroic adventures were simple acts of myth making and of course mostly impossible and totally improbable. Modern Talvar society was built on the principle that the most obvious solution was the correct solution and to prove that was the purpose of scientific investigation. Looking too deeply into such legends would be futile as they could not reasonably be true and were relegated to the status of folklore.
“Have you any questions that aren’t sarcastic or otherwise annoying? I understand how you’ve been raised, but much of that will need to come to an end. Your new li
fe is not a science experiment nor are you required to prove everything that you say. I will make your decisions until you have proven yourself and by then you will have learned that quiet contemplation and logical deduction will see you dead faster than you can say ‘deliberate obfuscation.’”
A small part of him was indeed tired of ceaselessly trying to impress and always searching his mind for the cleverest thing to say. Intuition and instinct being absent and the constant stress wouldn't be missed. “I apologize, Mistress. I’ll make every effort to relax and take myself less seriously.”
“That's your second lesson learned then. All the children we get through here are prodigies and advanced for their age and have been lauded by their parents and their enclaves. None of that is applicable here. You've been selected for your intellectual attributes and your physical potential, but you’re not the first to be selected nor will you be the last and you're certainly not the best we’ve ever seen. Potential doesn’t matter though and nor do any of the faux achievements you've made in academics. It will be your actions upon which you will be judged. Your life will now be difficult, you will need to do things. Sitting on your backside thinking is not enough. You will get no thanks and yet you will be one of the most vital parts of the Talvar machine. We would have fallen to corruption without the Shrike and yet we remain shrouded in legend and mystery through no machination of ours.” She stood, her lithe figure making little noise, “Sleep now, the drugs will wear off and the couch will be more comfortable than the floor, but put your childhood behind you, I will speak of it no more.”
She left without another word, his old life with her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Found Faith
“Somehow when we removed his obsession with logic, the space was filled with compassion. I can’t tell which is worse.” - Surakoita on Sjarcu.