But it was too late. There was a shimmering to his side, and the sword appeared in his hand.
A sword that was glowing white-hot from heat.
His immediate reaction was to drop it, to let go of it, as the heat of it assaulted his senses. He flinched away from it as he let go, rolling to the side as it clattered to the rocky ground, his heart going from slow to racing in half a breath. Adrenalin surged through him as it anticipated pain from his blunder.
Pain that never came.
His breathing becoming quick and shallow, he looked down at his paw, and saw that it was totally unmarked. Impossible! He could feel the heat of the sword. He could feel that it was so hot that it would instantly blacken flesh that came into contact with it. Yet it had not so much as singed him. The heat of it made his face feel tight, but it had not burned him. How could he feel the heat, yet not be burned?
"Tarrin!" Sarraya said in a strangled tone. "Are you alright?"
"It, it didn't hurt me," he said in confusion. He reached out towards it, felt its heat...but felt no pain. He reached closer and closer, but still there was heat but no pain. Then he put a finger on it and immediately recoiled. Again, he felt the heat, felt that the metal was a little rubbery from the heat, but there was no sizzling of flesh or singing of fur. "Sarraya, I can feel the heat, but it's not hurting me!" he exclaimed in shock, touching the weapon again. Then, courage bolstering him, he reached down and wrapped his paw around it, picking it up off the rock. He could feel the heat radiating against him. The air around it was so hot that it could burn the lungs, yet it did him no harm. He held it close to his vest for a moment, a vest that was already blackened from the exposure to heat before. He touched it to the leather, which immediately began to hiss and burn from contact with the blade. Then he shifted it and put the flat of it against his chest. Again, he felt the heat, but there was no pain involved with it. He pulled it away from his chest, and saw that aside from a bit of ash from the leather of the vest that was left behind by the blade, it didn't leave a mark on him.
"Amazing!" Tarrin exclaimed in awe. "Is it the sword?"
"It's you," Sarraya said quietly. "That's what the Sha'Kar woman meant!" she shouted suddenly, startling him. "That's what she meant when she pointed out that the heat should have already killed you! Whatever it is that's doing it has to be--"
"It's an aspect of a Weavespinner," he concluded for her. "I noticed that in the fight, that fire wouldn't hurt her. Oh, it burned her clothes, but it wasn't hurting her. I guess Weavespinners can't be hurt by heat, or fire. I wonder why."
"Don't look a gift horse in the mouth," Sarraya laughed. "Fire is one of the few things that can hurt you, Tarrin. Or at least it used to be."
It was a weird feeling. He, Tarrin Kael, was now utterly invulnerable to heat. But he just didn't feel very much different than before. It's not like it was something flashy or gaudy, like when he was turned. Not something noticable, something that separated him from the rest of humanity. But Sarraya was right, it was very much welcome. It would keep the desert's heat from bothering him, at any rate.
But then again, it hadn't been bothering him before. It did at first, but days went by and he felt more and more comfortable. He thought it was because of his regeneration...but maybe it wasn't. Maybe, as he grew closer and closer to this new level of power, maybe this aspect of it had begun to appear in him. Maybe his tolerance for the heat had to do with his magical power and not his Were regeneration.
Tarrin chuckled ruefully. Cook a piece of meat enough times, it gets to the point where it can't get any more done. Maybe that's what happened to him.
"What do I do with this?" Tarrin asked, holding up the sword.
"I can't cool it off, it may damage the metal," Sarraya replied. "Just put it aside and make sure it stays flat. It's so hot, it may bend if you don't lay it flat."
He nodded, fidgeting the sword on the rocky flat until he found a position where the blade laid flatly on the ground. The leather bindings around the hilt were burned off, but that wasn't a great problem. "Alright, now what?"
"Now?" Sarraya asked. "Now we rest. You need to recover before we can start off again. While you're resting, I'm going to go over there and study it," she motioned at the pillar of smoke. "I've never had the chance to study a rift before. It should be interesting."
"Make sure you take notes, or Phandebrass will never forgive you," Tarrin told her, rising up onto his knees, then shifting into cat form. He then curled up into a small niche in the rock, near the heat of the sword, and closed his eyes. "I'll be right here," he told her in the manner of the Cat.
"Alright. I'll see you in a while."
Sarraya flitted off, leaving him to his rest. It was the first time he'd been in cat form since the trek across the plains of Yar Arak, but there wasn't any hollowness or pain this time. He was too weary, and he'd been too long in his humanoid form, had enough time to sort through the complex emotions that his cat side could not tolerate, the emotions that caused that pain in the first place. The eyeless face that always seemed to be behind his eyes also dimmed with the shift, as human morality was subjugated to the purity of instinctual thinking. It was something of a respite from the guilt that eyeless gaze incited in him, to lose himself in the serenity of the now, where the future and the past were nothing but empty shadows, and the present was all that mattered.
He relaxed, and allowed himself to drift off into a contented sleep. He'd have many things to think about later, but for now, all he wanted to do was sleep.
A day's rest did wonders for his body, but did little for his mind.
The memory of what the Goddess told him had slowly seeped back into his mind as he rested, and it caused him to have strange, disjointed dreams while sleeping in cat form. He usually didn't have memorable dreams when he slept in cat form, because his thoughts were filtered through the instincts of the Cat, but these were powerful thoughts, powerful images, and they were strong enough to penetrate into his alternate mental state.
He remembered the entire conversation with the Goddess as a dream, a dream he knew was nothing but recalled reality. After that, he dreamed about Allia and those with her. He dreamed that they were standing on a ship's deck, staring at a horizon filled with smoke, and a sense of foreboding seemed to hang over them like a pall. There were dark shadows over them, over all of them, but they seemed to focus around Dar. He dreamed of Keritanima, dreamed of her standing on a mountain of screaming skulls, weeping tears of blood as she ripped the fur from her muzzle and commanded the skulls to be silent. He dreamed of Jenna, standing before a massive steel door that glowed red-hot from heat, reaching out to it with no concept of the danger it posed, walking towards it steadily and stepping over the burned, smoking bodies of their parents. He dreamed of Faalken, his curly hair matted with spoor and the flesh torn from his face, standing on a rock spire and holding a flaming sword aloft. Just behind him stood Jegojah, his sword bloody and a resolute look on his withered features.
And he dreamed of Jesmind, standing in a small, cozy cottage before a fire, holding something small in her arms. He could see nothing but her back, but there was a sense of resolve in her that radiated from her. She turned to look at him, and the determination shone on her face like the sun. She held out whatever it was in her arms, and when he looked down at it, all he could see was a mass of blazing light.
The dreams disturbed him, deeply, because all of them held a grim sense of danger in them. What danger could they be in? And why did he dream of Faalken? Faalken was dead, long dead. What did the dreams mean? Even in his slumber, he fretted at the meaning behind them, if there was any meaning at all. It could just be his worry for his friends and sisters, his yearning for Jesmind, the sorrow over Faalken that had never truly eased inside him causing it. After coming so close to being Consumed, after having his magical abilities altered in such a manner, maybe the dreams were just an extension of the anxiety he felt at what had happened to him, and what he would have to face in the fut
ure.
After his mind settled enough, the dreams began again. But this time, it was a different sense, a different type of dream. He stood on a mountainside, looking down into a valley that held a large town, a town with no roads, no carts, only grassy pathways between houses and buildings, the smallest of them large enough to be called a mansion by any definition. People in robes walked about in the town, and there was an odd sense from them, like they were ghosts of the past resurrected into the future. The sky above was utterly black, but there was plenty of light by which to see.
This is where I have to go, he told himself absently. This is where the Book of Ages is going to lead us.
With that thought, the dream dissolved, and he spent the rest of his slumber in dreamless rest.
His mind didn't race again until he woke up, until he could apply his rational mind to the memories and images he's experienced while asleep. Everything they'd concluded was right. The Sha'Kar had been there to test him, to force him into either taking the next step or being destroyed by his own power. A power he could no longer touch, he knew now. He was again a Novice, unable to use his power until he learned how, and that would not be easy. He'd become so intimately familiar with his power that the very thought of having to use some other way to access it seemed alien to him. He was tainted now, tainted by his own past experience, and he'd have to forget everything he once knew before he could learn what he had to learn to regain his powers.
Sui'kun. It was a Sha'Kar word, a word that translated as soul-fire. The Goddess had used it to refer to him, told him that the Ancients used it to describe Weavespinners. What he was now. An entirely different kind of Sorcerer, and that meant that he had to learn an entirely new way to touch the Weave. To do it all over again. He remembered how aggravating and infuriating it had been the first time, and he knew it would be even worse now. It would be worse because he could see the Weave, sense it, feel its pulse in his soul, and it felt as if it were a part of him. That sensation made him feel like the Weave was but a thought away, but something told him that that was the very reason it was going to be so difficult to find his power again.
Until then, he didn't have the power to use, didn't have it to protect him. But he could still use his Druidic magic...so that meant harassing Sarraya for more indepth lessons. He wanted to learn more of it so he could better defend himself until he managed to find his power again. She'd argue, refuse, demand, even threaten, but she'd do it in the end. Sarraya got a little mischievious thrill out of teaching him things he wasn't supposed to know. It satisfied her rebellious nature. All he had to do was appeal to her on those terms, and she'd do anything he wanted her to do.
The dreams worried him. They worried him nearly as much as the eyeless face disturbed the Human in him. He could endure what hardship came to him, but he couldn't even stomach the idea that his friends and family might be suffering, might be enduring pain. Especially if it was his fault. He'd already lost Faalken, he didn't want to lose another friend, a sister. But the dreams were short, vague, and there just wasn't much to remember other than a few images and the feelings that those images incited.
There was so much on his mind, the last thing he needed was worries for the others to distract him.
He opened his eyes and yawned, then stretched. It was a little past midday by the sun, and it shone down on him with the full fury of its heat. Heat he could feel, but could no longer affect him. He was truly sui'kun, for the heat of the sun, of the rock, of the desert, it could not touch him. He had even held a sword glowing from being immersed in lava--magma, whatever it was called--and felt no pain from it. It hadn't even put a blister on his pads. He wondered idly if he could still sweat, or if he needed to, or if alot of physical exertion would make him hot. He wondered if his body could tolerate heat generated from within as well as it could tolerate heat that came from outside.
It was so strange. It was as if the power of High Sorcery had burned away the part of him that could be hurt by it, leaving the rest of him behind. That was as good an explanation as anything. He could feel the subtle differences inside himself, for he was very attuned to his own body. He was the same, but the power had also changed him in small ways. Small ways that had impressive outward effects. He had an even more acute sense of the Weave now, able to actually see it, and he couldn't be hurt by fire. Significant changes, but the changes felt very small when he sensed them inside himself.
He rose up, stretched, then sat down on his haunches. The sword was cool now, or at least it wasn't glowing anymore. It rested close to him, close enough to feel the radiance of its heat when he was falling asleep. Sarraya was still gone, probably hovering near the rift he'd made in the earth. It felt a little frightening to wake up in this vast land and find one's self alone, but he knew that Sarraya was close by. If he called out, he had no doubt that she would come flying back. He shifted back to his humanoid form absently, then reached down and picked up the sword. He would just wait for her to come back. She wouldn't be long, and she'd watched over him for so long that he figured she deserved a little time to herself. The sword was still a little on the warm side, but it wasn't so hot that it could hurt anyone. More than likely it was hot because it was black, and had been sitting out in the sunlight since daybreak. The metal showed no crystalization, no signs that the immersion in lava had damaged it. He pressed on the sword's blade with his paws tentatively, and found that it was still strong, still razor sharp, and still virtually unbreakable.
Whatever metal was used to make the blade, he just had to get more of it. The stuff was absolutely amazing.
Sometimes it made him laugh. To think a weapon like this, a sword of legendary properties, had been sitting over a bar in Dala Yar Arak before he claimed it for his own. He liked it, in a way, but it just wasn't his staff. But that was spilled milk at any rate, because his staff was gone. Destroyed by Shiika. He was travelling west, maybe he'd find himself an Ironwood tree along the way. Then he could make a new one.
Looking up at the Skybands, Tarrin tried to touch the Weave, just to see what would happen. He reached out to what he could see, what had always been there...and it wasn't. It was like it had been moved on him, moved just outside his reach, taunting him with its proximity yet not allowing him to make contact with it. That was generally what he expected to happen. The Goddess told him that he'd have to learn how to touch the Weave all over again. It was just strange that he was so attuned to it, so close to it, and yet he could not reach out and touch it. He knew it could be done. That Sha'Kar woman had used High Sorcery, and that required her to be touching the Weave. So there was a way to do it...he just had to figure it out. Without guidance, without instruction, without support. Not that mattered much to him. He was used to doing things by himself.
"Alright then," he said quietly to himself. "If that's the way it is, then that's the way it is." He reached down and picked up the sword, felt that the leather bindings had been burned off the hilt, but that was easy to fix. He'd rebind it tonight. It wasn't like there was anything out in this rocky wasteland to fight. He pulled off his scabbard, and found that while it was burned nearly to cinders. What wood and leather that was left of the scabbard was brittle and weak. His leather clothes as well were burned, gouged, and about ready to fall apart. That, too was easy enough to fix. He reached within, reached into the All through the Cat, and formed an image of new leather clothes and a scabbard exactly like the old ones. He willed those items to appear before him, and the All saw into his intent and responded. He felt the power flow through him, much more power than was normal for regular Conjuring, felt the drain it put on him to handle that extra power. He realized that he wasn't Conjuring or Summoning, he was Creating. Sarraya said that Creation required more energy than the other two related techniques. But, it seemed that it was something that he was strong enough to do.
While putting on the new clothes, he realized that the small pouch he kept on his belt was broken, and that the little coin charm device Anayi gave him was mi
ssing. It must have fallen out. He reached within again and willed it to appear in his paw, and the All responded. The little device appeared in his hand...hot enough to burn cloth if it was placed on top of it. It must have been laying out in that volcanic rift. He set it aside and allowed it to cool as he went about Summoning or Creating new versions of all his little personal possessions that he'd lost during the fight. He really didn't carry much, just the coin, a small dagger, and usually a small coil of leather thong for the bindings of the sword. His claws tore them frequently, requiring him to rewrap the hilt from time to time. After that was done, he finished putting on the new clothes and made sure the sword would fit in the new scabbard, then got ready to move. He didn't feel very comfortable where he was, and too much had happened in the last couple of days. He wanted to move on for the rest of the day, and then he'd talk it through with Sarraya in detail tonight, talk it through and have a chance to sort through it all.
Now he just had to get Sarraya's attention.
"Sarraya!" Tarrin boomed towards the rift, holding his paws up to his mouth to direct the sound. "Sarraya, I'm ready to go!"
He waited a few moments, but she didn't reply or appear.
The rift was only a short distance away. He started off in that direction, but before he got more than a few hundred paces towards it, Sarraya's tiny form appeared in the shimmering heat and haze from the sun and smoke of the rift. Her blue skin was smudged with black here and there, and her gossamer clothing was a bit singed and blackened in places. She came up to hover in front of him, a smile on her face. "You look fresh," she noted. "I take it we're leaving?"
"I'm ready to go. You have fun?"
"Yes, I consider a stroll through a volcanic wasteland to be so enjoyable," she said in a sarcastic tone. "But I did learn a few things."
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