| Dharin dreamt of a scream, a wet warm stickiness on his face, and a voice he had not heard in years - a voice which he had hoped to not hear again. He dreamt of the day, a few months before he was to leave the Bastion on his first mission, when he first laid eyes on the wretch named Sylvae. His hair was patchy around his forehead, and what little skin was visible looked held together only by scars. Sylvae's eyes had shone with an old hatred and deep insanity. He'd moved with a swagger, winced at every step and made every Tracker in the Bastion uneasy. Perhaps it was the way he kept his head down and peered at anyone sideways, the manner in which he slouched and spoke softly but managed to lend a glib accent to every word. Or perhaps it was the way he'd become an alternate being once handed a weapon. Sylvae had decided to master a Dai'kenah - a double-edged staff with blades that resembled bloody flora - and had managed to do so before Dharin left the Bastion. When going through battle practices with the other Trackers, he moved with a grace, which made felines sick with envy. Those who faced Sylvae in mock duels always limped away, and never limped away whole. Dharin dreamt of the mass of scars, which had composed the only face Dharin had ever feared. As Dharin dreamt, he did not hear the disapproval in Felanya's voice as she reprimanded Sylvae for being so sloppy. He did not hear Jenya snarling, nor did he hear Corridan's laughter. Dharin dreamt, shielded from the world, but caught in the tortuous landscapes of his own mind; he dreamt of the origin of the only scars he'd acquired as a Tracker and the cruel stories Sylvae had told of his desires to twist and mutilate. "Did you have to cut so much?" Felanya's lips twisted in disgust. "Did you have to take it at all?" She turned her face away as Sylvae grinned perversely, playing with his trophy. He never actually gave an answer to the question. "Stop that," Irritation resonated in Dalnek's voice. "We shouldn't stay here much longer." His eyes slid over the bloodied floor, the flecks that had found their ways to the walls and the droplets that had somehow gotten on to the ceiling. The thought occurred to him that Sylvae had enjoyed this far too much. The Seer, whom Sylvae had called Malan Kenara - a name which none of the Magi here had known, or cared about - had fallen unconscious once her brother began removing her tongue, slashing at the back of her mouth and spraying the entire room with blood in the process. She lay on her side, and would have still been bleeding all over the floor had Lyahr not shown some semblance of compassion and healed the wound. His reasoning had been that she should be brought to Trinlayra still breathing, and not allowed to bleed to death inside a scurvy inn in the slums of Shivralliah. "Fine, fine." Sylvae stuffed the bloody tongue into one of the folds of his onyx robes. "I don't plan on walking the distance to Trinlayra, and a small voice tells me you do not have any carts, horses, servants..." He raised an eyebrow, and smirked when Varesh rolled his sunken eyes. He stood behind Jenya, still bound, blind and silent. "Then how will we get there," Varesh clenched his fists, tempted to let his short temper rage yet in the interest of self-preservation decided to remain silent. Even if by some chance he could overcome Sylvae, Acharya would surely take his head; though Varesh could not remember why Acharya was looking for an excuse to end his existence. "No more Kael'adahn, it would be too much of a risk to Call them here. Why do we not just buy more horses?" Felanya stared out the window at the nearly empty streets. The sun was beginning to set, and most of the townspeople found it unwise to wander in the dark. "Probably because we have no coins," Corridan smirked. "Unless Dalnek has some hidden up-" "Enough," Lyahr sighed, not really wanting to let Corridan finish his sentence. Dalnek had become insufferable, but this would be much easier if there was little fighting. "Give me half of an hour, and meet me outside." He left the room, muttering to himself. Dalnek shook his head and knelt beside the Seer, attempting to wipe some of the tears and blood from her face. Corridan sighed and sat on the floor next to the door, toying with one of the small throwing knives he'd concealed beneath the sleeves of his robe. Sylvae smirked tauntingly at Varesh, knowing that in any sort of fight he could slaughter the amethyst-haired Mage. Felanya noticed the dangerous glint in Sylvae's eyes and pulled him aside, whispering into his ear. She stood with her back turned to Varesh, next to the bed where Dharin lay, spattered with blood. "Leave him be. Acharya has plans for him." She set a hand on his shoulder in an attempt to calm him, but the dark-eyed Mage shrugged it off. "Acharya has plans for everyone," he laughed. "Varesh is an insect, and I know you agree by the look in your eyes," his voice hissed in her ear. "I see failure in him, yet he is still needlessly arrogant. He believes himself invincible because he has found some power," Sylvae mused, staring coldly at the unnaturally short Mage. Varesh was rifling through the contents of a display case. "He knows nothing about himself," Sylvae concluded; his voice lilted knowingly. "Perhaps you are completely right about him, but it does not matter. Touch him - or any other being - without the Acharya's order, and you will regret it." She stepped away from Sylvae to kneel at Dalnek's side, irritated by the way Sylvae's lips quirked at her warning. She could not be sure that she knew anything at all about the Acharya, but a memory told her that his anger was to be avoided at all costs. Sylvae remained by the bed, watching Jenya. He could not be sure if the Tracker was awake, even if he was standing up. Sylvae vaguely remembered the blonde Tracker from the Bastion. Only three people had ever left scars on his skin: his father, his sister, and Jenya. He suspected the Sun-Chylde was wide-awake, absorbing every word spoken; Sylvae knew there was much more behind the shallow front Jenya presented to the world. How much more still remained to be seen. The room was coated in a thick silence, interrupted sporadically by a groan from the Seer. Her face could not be cleaned of the opalescent tears, but there was little to be done for it. Dalnek felt a growing sense of apprehension about returning to the Acharya. They got along and understood one another, as far as Dalnek could remember, but there was a small voice in the back of his mind, whispering that none of this was to last. He stood and moved over to a corner of the room, peering at his companions. He wondered to himself how much he could trust any of them. He felt as if - at one time - he had trusted them all completely, but now that feeling was but a shadow of a faded memory. Now that he actually thought about it, so much was missing from his mind. He could not remember parents, comrades, or anything aside from waking in a cold stone room in Talrek Cerdai, and being called to Trinlayra to become a Mage. That had been a year ago. No training, no real tests to pass; Dalnek had essentially been Blessed and sent to find Lyahr and Varesh. He had found Lyahr first, engaged in a debate inside a library in Rehn'acet. The two got along easily enough. He found Varesh wandering near the Kaerfahl Mounts, and loathed him immediately. He was arrogant, derisive, and consistently wrong. Yet here they were, and somehow this seemed familiar. Felanya sat by the Seer, watching her chest rise and fall with each ragged breath. A twinge of pity touched her eyes. There was little doubt in her mind that Sylvae had intentionally misinterpreted his orders, just as he had done habitually when she still traveled with him. She smoothed out the Mage's hair, wondering if she could still call this woman on the floor a Mage. Without her tongue there was no way for her to form the words to manipulate Cair'leih. She could hum, but there were only a handful of Rites in which pitch was the only thing that mattered. The true power of a Mage was in the words they knew. "Corridan," the silence blanketing the chamber slid away as Jenya lifted his voice barely above a whisper. "Is it necessary to keep me blinded?" The Sun-Chylde still stood with his hands bound behind his back. His head hung down, and his hair had fallen into his face, almost concealing the black eyes, which focused on the floor, seeing nothing. Corridan stood and looked to Dalnek, who nodded curtly. He muttered the word of release, and sat again. Silence fell once more as Jenya took in the room. He had heard Mal'aran's gurgling cries, and every word spoken. He had heard the soft spatter of blood droplets hitting nearly everything in the room, and he had heard when Mal'aran stopped whimpering and crying. His eyes took in the woman lying on the floor; the other people in the room and his eyes did not care. He did not want to be here anymore. Dalnek stood and looked out the window. His lips quirked in surprise. "Lyahr is waiting for us." He gathered the Seer into his arms, telling Corridan and Varesh to rouse Dharin, leaving Felanya to lead Jenya. They walked down the stairs, leaving the room as it was and ignoring the cold looks from the innkeeper. The door creaked as they poured outside into the cool air. The horses Lyahr had acquired shied uneasily. The Cleansers mounted easily enough; Dalnek rode with the Seer facing him, still unconscious. Varesh rode with Jenya, bound with rope and Cair'leih to the mare. Lyahr rode a horse alone, and rode in front next to Dalnek's mount. Felanya rode with Dharin, grumbling about Sylvae and Corridan getting their own mounts. The seven horses loped away from the Raven and the Murderer, weaving through the dark streets of Shivralliah towards the gates. Once outside the city, they rode to the northwest, heading for the immense tower of Trinlayra. It could not be seen yet, but every Mage could feel the pull home. With luck, the party could arrive at the stone gates of Trinlayra without needing to make camp. |