Merrin found fragility. "Why is it required?"
"The effects of madness hardly solely affect the caster." Catelyn Said, "It dips into the reality of hysteria. What would happen once the darkCrowns learn destruction came at the hands of mad casters? This is true as in the thrills of madness, a caster has little control over their force and symbols. Wide casting is witnessed, and entropy is released."
Merrin shuddered—a sudden stream of emotion that battered against his awareness. He felt his ears dull—pulling away from the words as though they were some heresy. He forced back against the egression, nodded, and said, "And there is no way to prevent this."
"Usually. Some call it a seal of the Almighty. A purpose to stop casters. But the orders are the man discovered patch—not cure, but patch." Catelyn said, "The orders dictate the relative symbols—and with the increase in force, they gain the strength to cast higher ones. Hence, the ranks define what symbols one can cast—and the means to do so."
"Knowledge is power."
Catelyn scanned him—he knew this through the pierciness of her clear blue eyes. Deep, intelligent, observing. Merrin coughed her attention away and said, "How can one know the chosen order?"
Again, Catelyn observed him, but turned curtly, staring out from the peak. Her back turned against him; smooth, see through as the queer dress offered little opaqueness. There was no wind in the mines—too much heat saw to that, but there, she, standing there, brought the self-imparted illusion of flapping hair. Merrin awaited her response.
"The means belong to the caster. Only they can see it. Perhaps in the same way, blood calls to blood. Perhaps that. Only a caster can know—a powerful one. Of course, the physical traits often reveal certain possibilities. The veilCounsel for their black hair, darker in brightCrowns, black eyes, pale skin. Though as members of each clan share this trait, it often reverts to selective identification. Though some simply by the symbols they find easier to cast during the initial stages, as an acolyte brings more accurate knowledge."
Merrin understood something. "I suppose you plan on creating exceptionalism through trial and error."
"If you die." She gave a knowing look.
"If I die."
She shrugged. "You are an ashman. Drawing symbolism from heritage, bloodline, and aesthetics. Chances are you are a veilCounsel."
"And if I'm not?"
"Then, once you say the honorific words, attempt casting, the related symbols would be repulsed by you. Perhaps you might go mad."
Honorific words? Merrin cocked his head and saw then, the realization she gained from it. She sighed.
"Honorific words are the actual buffer of the order. Speaking these created words forges a familiarity within you with the symbols. They think they know you, and the initial casting resistance is reduced. 9 recitations for the known ranks. Each recite made for the chosen rank. It's a progression of sorts."
"If I fail," Merrin asked.
"If you do." Catelyn dipped her fingers into her clothes, her ankles, and pulled out a knife. Chipped, old. Merrin felt little harm could be caused by it. The ashman in him cringed at it.
What a weak knife…Holding that was akin to holding no-death.
"It's worn, I know." Catelyn passed him a cold glance. "But when you are losing your mind and begin wild casting, it would just as easily slit your throat as anything."
Merrin saw truth in her eyes—but strangely, not fear, assurance ruled his senses. If he became a threat, she would kill him. Odd. Yet, there was solace in that. He smiled within.
"I suppose teaching me in truth refers to a test on my order."
"I can't teach you without a path—therein lies madness to roam blind through a cave of even madder symbols. You would simply die, and harm might come to me. And oh, that can't happen. My fawlessness ensures my survival."
The virgin harlot. Merrin, even now, developed no newer basis for the delirately chosen title. How could one be a virgin and a harlot? What a confounding triviality. He sat up. "You plan to test for the veilCounsel."
"Yes."
"You have the honorific words."
"Yes."
"How did you get them?"
"I read stone." Passive—uncaring, that was the tone she spoke with. "It's easier than it seems."
Merrin sighed, openly now. "Let it be done."
She stared at him. "I could wonder if the martyr in you is the one who speaks now, but then I remember the Rav'zul that lies in you too. Darkness in light. Using the mines as a shield and spear, so you may save your chosen. Now, that sounds like a man who already sees himself a savior. A god, perhaps."
Merrin clenched.
"But I don't care." She walked forward, steps gentle, moving over the stone floor. "You are an acolyte, you might have casted here and there, but you are still that. You lack control, you lack the tools for it. The words will fix that."
"The words seem like a mystical fix." Merrin allowed the jest to lace his voice.
"I suppose they are. But either that or the ones you made believe you were god will die." She returned the mockery.
Merrin closed his eyes and went inward. There was risk to what he did now, a great threat. He knew that—feared it even, yet, saw no alternative. He poured strength into careful mentation, a hopeful act that his mind might create through itself some solution other than almost death. There was none. The collective polling of knowledge gracefully offered by Catelyn brought more questions than needed answers.
Death, death, death. The recursive thought echoed through his being, threatening a sure breakdown from the reverberation. He felt, no, the patent awareness of weakness resided within. He knew, if given time, he would refuse. Some logic, some delusion would creep into his thought, offering a flawed reason not to do it.
Then, don't give yourself time to do it.
Meerrin looked to Catelyn, "Give me the words."
She moved closer and took from her robes a paper. "This has them. Of course, a non-caster can say them without fear, but one never really knows for sure now, do they?"
Merrin took the paper. "What if I can't read?"
"Doesn't matter." She shook her head. "I've already transcribed them to Ashman words. Even if you can't read, an ashman should know their own language."
Merrin looked down at the brown dirt paper, opened it, and saw, written in crude ink, words—the used glyphs of the ashmen. How did she know this? A brief moment of kin suspicion followed, but he soon understood the stupidity in the dubiety.
He stared at the words, then back at Catelyn. The woman was already steps away, a cautionary tactic he held no ill against. She needed to protect herself, regardless of the outcome. He heaved a breath and quelled the internal turmoil.
Do not give yourself time to refuse!
"Embrace the unembraced—"
"sunBringer!" A voice, weak, called to him. Merrin froze, turned, and saw, walking up the stone ladder, a man, short, dark-haired, blood spewing from his mouth and chest. Skin drawn numerous with sharp slashes, cutting flesh and spilling blood.
Moeash!
Merrin ran to him, but heard a voice shouting.
"Speak the words, Merrin! Speaking the misting words!"
He drowned out her sounds—Moeash! Moeash, what did they do to you? He caught and cradled the manchild, stared in those dark, familiar eyes—blood marred like a painting. An eerie scene that brought a chilling coldness into his heart. Oh, what have they done? Merrin hugged him. "Please, almighty please. Don't unmake me."
Merrin gentled his cheeks and said in fearful whispers. "What happened? What happened to you?"
Moeash panted, body trembling from the pain shock.
"What happened?"
Finally. "The Excubitors!"
Merrin startled. No, they couldn't have. They need the miners. They. They. They need them to mine!
"They asked for you…We. We didn't give in." Moeash's voice grew faint—a bare undertone of words. "They took out their blade and attacked."
No. NO. NO! Why? They can track me with the brand, so why attack them? Why. Almighty!… Merrin's thoughts snapped back into shock. They promised they would harm the ones I saved if I casted again…This was not to find me, this was just to harm them. No reason. No other reason. Just that! "Everyone?"
"Ron escaped some." He coughed again and blood fountained over Merrin. "He saved me, but I don't know about him. They killed many. So many."
Merrin saw tears streak down the man's face, and cupped it. "Please don't!" He said, "There's still hope. I will. I will save them. Yes. Yes. I will save them!"
How can you save the dead? The familiar voice whispered—it held him, froze him, chained him. The awareness—the sense of predetermined failure lorded. What could he do? These were Excubitors, he was an ashman, what could be done against men said to split boulders in two?
Almighty, what have I done?