"What am I even looking at?" Ashman conditioning failed to quell the trembling. What he saw was a sea of dark maws—eyeless—large jaws, munching at the emptiness. Countless fanged mouths laughing, biting, hungering for anything. How accurately he felt the sensations. Feed. Feed. Feed. To consume. A darkness that hunted and preyed.
He knew to stop; ah, the instincts screamed for that obedience. But, there she was. Even in the grayworld as a singular whole—the sameness as observed in reality. Here, they craved her; the maws biting down on the pallid stone skin, fissured.
Mist me!
He surged the totality of his mediocre force—something told that the other force, the calmer one, would fail at achieving what was needed: that, and the weakness it currently contained. Moeash's attack had yet to be healed.
That left the force of the mind—the true dominator. A moment, and it rippled out from him like a tide of violent waters, crashing into that of the darkness. The struggle had begun, both oceans slamming, the darkness chowing for the energy. Merrin groaned, Just a little.
The mental dullness came upon him, thoughts slowing, memories fading into shards of faint recollections. Insentience edging for lordship—NO!, that was the thought. A will rather than a knowing.
The sea of queer light roared, pushing against the tide of shadows. A moment, and it retreated, forcing back the wave. It receded, for a start, the woman crawling out. What a conflict that was. And he was winded, darkness surging back. Her, safely away from its reach.
The grayness thinned then, symbols fading away from the high mentation of the caster. As always, there was the leftover symbolic knowledge, one that, despite the lethargy, shone significantly. Noctivore, that was the word. A term that bore in itself a meaning.
Darkness that eats.
There was no strength to tremble, eyes staring out into the high heavens. Stone-walled. Memories were all but gone now, cogitation frozen into an annoying halt. He sought to think, but fought instead with the internal self's desire not to. That was often how the effects manifested; the body refusing to ponder, preferring the solace of nullity.
What a bothersome consequence. Remaining only so, until he fell into insentience, then it became fatal. The caster's powers were both literal and metaphoric in their mechanisms… The mind was the ultimate comprehender of reality; thus, all symbols, it seemed, could be dominated by it. The soul, on the other hand, was the energy of the living—how then did it dominate the symbol?
Conclusion: Domination is but one pathway to casting… What a cognitive intrusion… Here, he was, at death's door, thinking about force.
How verbatim had his internal self taken the El'shadie mantra: The one who will never die. What nonsense. His existence proved El'shadies did die, in numbers even.
A mask of a face slid into his perception. A pallid, stoned visage, fissured at the jaw and cheeks, looked down, something of bewilderment observing. "Are you real?" she said, soft-toned. Music.
"Am I real?" Force dripped into his mind—again, he knew the origin: Her.
"Yes," she said. "Are you real?"
"I think so." What a futile response.
"Exactly something my madness would tell me," she replied, sliding back from his view, nothing except the overhead darkness watching now.
"Help me," he managed. "Take me back to the cave." Would she answer? The unnerving question.
Silence ruled for a second. "Ok." Solidity gripped around his shoulders, rearing him off the searing earth. Hefted next over her shoulder, he sensed the change of identity suddenly assigned to him. A bootless rag; that was echoed from the carried style.
________
Soon, out he went, placed gently on the stone bed, expertly carved. Smooth on both sides, impossibly so. The light of blue bathed the cave in that cerulean hue, all sides with the star-dotted patterns. The other, the lady—stone woman?—sat on a high stone, top flattened. Silent, watching.
Well.
"Thank you," Merrin said. "Thank you for saving me."
She maintained a long silence. "You saved me, allegedly."
No… Obviously. Merrin kept the thoughts internal, said, "Ma'rim, I am Merrin Ashman." Unsure why he spoke the greetings.
No admission flashed in that stone countenance; then again, how was one to determine it? She responded. "Call me Enavro. I do not know the meaning of the words you said."
"Neither do I, not truly." He said, "It's a greeting."
"I see," she mumbled. "For morning or evening?"
"Hmm?"
She gave no explication, said instead, "You were injured from the fall. I suppose you coated yourself in something to prevent sure death."
"Yes," Merrin said, hoping the apprehension was beyond his face. "The wind."
"Primitive," she said simply. "No wonder your body is crude. Other symbols could have been used, mixed, and blended into a better outcome. But I suspect this was your limit, being human and all."
"And you are not."
Silence.
"How can I leave this place?" No point in stalling.
"There is no door." She pointed at the entryway—a rough circle.
"This…this city," he said. "How can I leave this city?"
"You can't," she said, drawing lines on the earth with her fingers.
"WHAT?" A cough flooded his throat, head snapping back in the hard hacking. How painful that was. Oddly, a stupid thing to remember considering the constantness of its reminders. A full minute had passed. "What do you mean?" He knew what she meant.
"You are a caster. Nothing contained beyond a certain point can leave here. You are contained beyond that point." Her artwork took the form of a woman, like her, but older—colder too.
"Who?" The words left before mentation.
Stillness passed through the cave. She said, eyes locked on the imagery, "She's the one to first betray me. My creator. My mother." She looked to him. "Are you here to send me to her?"
There, he perked. Something of malice fuming out from her—no, not that. More of a warning than the desire for death. It was in the way of the tightened fists, flexed shoulders. Subtle clues.
"No," he said. "I don't know her."
"Good," she said. "Perhaps I should thank that my madness is milder today."
"So there is no escape?" He refused to believe; in fact, he knew the words were wrong. The bird had almost surely confirmed it.
Her eyes were downcast, adding details to the image of the woman, twinlike to hers.
Merrin felt like sighing. He did. "You know about symbols?"
"Yes."
"And that darkness." He sensed an opportunity in that.
"Noctivore," she said. "A non-naturally occurring symbol. At least that's what the steles wrote of it. I believe it started during the second age. Unsure, regardless." The blue shade, screening her stone face. Quite an alien thing to behold. He knew statues, seldom, yes, but ashmen did carve. Theirs , of course, did not more…She did.
Merrin was stunned. Non-naturally occurring symbols? "What do you mean by that?"
"Symbols that cannot be replicated in nature. Artificial in their creation," she said simply, adding finishing touches to the drawing.
"Did you make it?" A reasonable question.
"And I would not have casted myself out of it?"
She can't cast? Merrin frowned, said, "You're quite open about…things."
"As I said." Her eyes met his, chilling. "I am still unsure whether or not you are real."
"I am."
"Remains to be seen."
So that was her madness. The undermines had done their work on her. They would soon do the same to him. Not if I left. Something of pity warmed in his heart, head lowering atop the stone bed. "I am real," he said, falling then into cogitation.
I need to study that symbol, he thought. It's something I must do. That and learn about this place. Enavro has confirmed its existence as a city. An ancient city, perhaps. Though certain links remained—who was she? What was she? And how did she get here?
Greatly, he doubted the casters of Nightfell would have allowed for this—then again, many bizarre things existed here, and yet, no means had been done for its purification. That, he could easily attribute to the seal; however, for a great clan, how was a simple seal what kept them away? Shouldn't beings like Sacred casters be akin to gods?
He could only guess.
The other possibility was the lack of their awareness. Unlikely, but there existed the chance that the undermines were unknown to them. This he pondered briefly. If they did, a mine would not be built above it… So which was it?
Did they or did they not know?
He shelved the thought, finding interest in another. The artificial symbol… I need to study that. He thought, but knew the weakness that existed currently.
First was the acquisition of the old strength, next the symbol, and finally, the escape. This, Merrin accepted as a tangible plan.
A breath left his lungs, eyes locked hard on the stone woman… a strange thing, no doubt. The more I move, the more I think this world is bigger than the simple ashmountains…. Too big…I miss my home.
And pain flared into his awareness, wincing. Mist it! He cursed, curling into himself. The instinctive thing to endure the pain.
I hate this…