The Dawning of Power

by Brian Rathbone

  "Think? No. She tell you her name. Look in eyes and ask; then you know."

  Not certain Vertook was serious, Brunson knelt down before the filly, wondering if he were being made to look a fool. When he met her eyes and asked her name, though, he was shocked to have something immediately pop into his mind, and he knew it was right. It was not simply a name for the filly, it was her name: Shasheenia.

  Vertook nodded and smiled when Brunson spoke the name. His voice an awe-filled whisper, he repeated it over and over, feeling its rightness.

  Shasheenia.

  Chapter 10

  The stench of fear can be cleansed only by eliminating its source.

  --Datmar Kahn, assassin

  * * *

  The feel of cold metal against her skin was the most frightening thing Catrin had ever experienced, but she was not cut or stabbed, and none of her blood was shed. She kept her eyes closed and her breaths shallow as the blades glided across her taught flesh. Starting with her eyebrows, they carefully and skillfully shaved her. Cool air brushed the newly exposed skin left in their wake. Bits of loose hair tickled her face, but she was afraid to flinch as her mind filled with visions of sharp knives biting deep.

  Her hair fell away silently, without pain or struggle, but Catrin felt as if she were being assaulted. The robed women continued their ministrations until her head was completely shaved.

  Upon completing their task, they helped Catrin stand. After helping her undress, they wrapped her in a warm, soft robe. When not bearing knives, the women seemed much less threatening. She sensed empathy and caring from them, and when they led her through a door in the opposite wall, she followed with a mixture of anticipation and wonder.

  They emerged into a long corridor lined with doors on both sides, all of which were closed. Darkness shrouded the far end of the hall, hiding what lay beyond. The women approached the first door on her left, and it opened silently with the slightest push. The hallway beyond was dimly lit by the reddish glow of a small fire. Around a bend was what looked like a natural rock formation, though many of its features appeared to have been shaped by skillful hands.

  Pools of clear water filled the room, a haze of steam shifting above them. Near the edge of the largest pool stood another stone table, but this one was topped with a soft pad. The women silently instructed her to disrobe and climb atop the table, and Catrin did so with less inhibition than she would have expected. Her embarrassment dissipated, and she found it liberating.

  As she lay on the table, though, a chill tightened her flesh, and she wished for a blanket or something to cover her. Looking about, she saw the women use wooden tongs to remove a variety of smooth stones from the steaming water. They lined the stones along the pool's edge and, using their slender fingers, appeared to test the temperature of each. When they were satisfied with each stone, they placed them under and around her with care. Catrin reveled in the heat emanating from the stones, which were now in her palms, under her feet, and behind her neck, and still more were coming.

  Soon Catrin wished she were wearing some sort of clothing just so she could take something off. The heat permeated her skin and soaked into her body. Sweat poured from her, and she wondered if she would shrivel into a dried husk, but she continued to shed water, beads of sweat sliding down her face and the length of her body. As the stones cooled, the women replaced them with hot ones. The purge was intense, and Catrin licked her parched lips.

  After they removed the stones and returned them to the hot pool, the women brought basins of water that had been soaking in the hot pools. They dipped soft cloths in the water and cleansed the sweat from Catrin's body. As they helped her up, she grew dizzy, but the spell soon passed. She donned her soft robe again and gratefully accepted a large of mug of water. It was cool and sweet and tasted delicious.

  One of the women guided her back to the hall then walked straight to the opposite door. It led to a small room that contained only a sleeping pallet and chamber pot. The other woman arrived a moment later with a pitcher of water and a mug. Then they left, closing the door behind themselves. Left alone with her thoughts, Catrin spent the rest of the day in quiet reflection, trying to ignore pangs of hunger.

  * * *

  In the oppressive heat of the forge building, the cold and snow seemed a distant dream. Sweat rolled into Strom's eyes as they waited for the molten blob within the crucible to reach what Gustad considered the optimal consistency.

  "Do you really think we can do this?" Osbourne asked.

  "Don't know," Strom said. "Milo said we just need steady hands, and I suppose we have that."

  "So much work has gone into making the glass; I don't want to ruin it."

  "No worries, my boy," Milo said from across the room. "You boys are just what we need to achieve the perfect pour. Practice it may take, but you will succeed, of that I am confident."

  "See," Strom said. "Milo believes in us."

  "Yeah," Osbourne said, his voice barely above a whisper, "but that's coming from someone who sets himself on fire at least once a day."

  "He hasn't gone up in flames today," Strom countered.

  "The day is young yet."

  Gustad bent down to peer into the small opening in the furnace, admiring the molten glass in the crucible. "I believe we are ready to pour," he said. "Remember, the key is slow and steady, and you must increase the rate of your pour as you reach the bottom of the crucible. Understand?" Strom and Osbourne nodded, though Strom wondered if his confidence were misplaced. He certainly had no reason to believe he and Osbourne were capable of a task that required such precision, but he was determined to try. "Steady now," Gustad said as they slowly eased the crucible out of the furnace, their arms hidden within long, thick, leather gloves.

  Despite their efforts, hot coals clung to the crucible and fell to the floor. "Don't let any coals drop into the mold," Milo said, his eyes wide with excitement.

  "Hurry now," Gustad said. "We must not let the glass cool. Begin the pour. Slow and steady, boys. Slow and steady."

  Strom tried to keep his hands from trembling, but the pressure was on him. Osbourne's task was simply to balance the long pouring rod while Strom regulated the rate of the pour. Slowly he began to tip the crucible. Like heated tree sap, the molten glass oozed from the crucible, and Strom tried to ignore the sweat that was seeping into his eyes.

  "Easy, now. Nice and slow," Milo said, moving closer to inspect the pour, his long robes gliding across the floor.

  "Increase the flow," Gustad said after most of the glass had left the crucible; only a small amount remained. "Steady now. Steady."

  Squinting, Strom tried his best, but his eyes burned, and the crucible wobbled slightly.

  "Blast!" Gustad said. "So very close. You nearly had it. Put the pouring rod and crucible on the rack."

  After replacing the rod, Strom turned and shook his head. "Milo," he said.

  Milo ignored him as he examined the glass cooling in the mold. "Not bad," he said. "Almost as good as what we've accomplished on our own--only a few bubbles. If only my hands did not shake with age, we could have had this done a dozen times."

  "Milo," Strom said more forcefully while trying to catch up with the monk who now paced the floor.

  "I wonder if we should change the shape of the crucible so we don't have to increase the rate of pour so dramatically--"

  "Milo!"

  "What is it, m'boy?" Milo asked, suddenly sniffing the air.

  "You're on fire again."

  * * *

  The next morning brought two more robed figures, and Catrin sensed these were not the same women from the day before, but women they were. Acquainting herself with the aura of each robed figure, Catrin became more adept at the process. Using only her senses, she examined the robed figures with no apparent reaction from her subjects, but she kept her investigations brief and cursory, not wanting her exploration to be discovered again.

  They led her down the hall, past several doors, and picked a door see
mingly at random. It led to a man-made chamber that housed another large stone slab, but this slab differed from the others in that it had a large cavity hollowed out of its base, which was filled with glowing red embers. The women helped Catrin from her robe and motioned for her to climb atop the table. Catrin ran her hand across the slab. It was quite warm. She seated herself on the end of the table and lay back slowly.

  The stone seemed too hot on her skin at first, but as she eased herself down, the intensity seemed to lessen. Both women sorted through a tray of small vials; then they anointed her with hot oils. Each drop brought its own unique sensation, and a variety of pungent smells assaulted her senses. The mixture was heady, and it nearly gave Catrin a headache, but as she relaxed, the pain subsided. As the women massaged the oils into her skin, she relaxed further. Kinks in her stiff muscles seemed to melt, and she was amazed by how many places were sore. She'd felt fine before she lay down, but the women worked knotted and sore muscles she had been completely unaware of.

  They brought her water and gave her time to drink. When Catrin had had her fill, they motioned for her to lie back down, and she complied without complaint. The massage treatment had been wonderful, leaving her feeling limber and relaxed.

  She wasn't certain what to expect when they returned to her side, each holding some sort of narrow cone that was as long as her arm and appeared to be made of waxed cloth. After inserting the small ends of the cones into Catrin's ears, they placed her hands around them, making it clear she was to hold them in place. Catrin had begun to expect unusual things during the ritual, but she could not imagine what would come next.

  They returned, each holding a long piece of dried reed. They knelt down, and when they stood, the ends of the reeds were afire. Catrin nearly shrieked when the women lowered the flaming reeds toward the wax cones. Instinctively, she thought of her hair then realized she no longer had any. Tilting the cones forward, she saw flames dancing on the ends of the cones from the corner of her vision, but the waxed cloth burned slowly. A strange but not unpleasant sensation filled her ears, and she laughed. The hooded women just stood and watched the wax cones burn, but Catrin sensed their mirth.

  "I know you're smiling under those hoods," she said, and she stuck her tongue out at them. While they showed no visible reaction, she could almost feel their mental laughter, which made her smile. She tried to relax and trust the women not to set her head on fire, but it was difficult, and she was glad when they removed the burning cones from her ears.

  * * *

  Within the halls of Adderhold he stood, the boy with no tongue. He watched as liveried servants prepared a banquet, but he knew it for what it was: a trap. Soon the nobles would arrive, dressed in finery and expecting to be treated as honored guests, and so some would be, but for others, there awaited a surprise.

  Keeping to the shadows, the nameless boy watched and waited, knowing there was nothing he could do to stop it; there was nothing he could do to gain his freedom or to preserve the freedom of others. He was powerless, a slave, capable of little more than serving his master, and to this fate he resigned himself. There was no one who cared for him; no one would come to rescue him from this prison of flesh and bone. He was alone--now and for the rest of his days.

  With a sigh, he moved through the dark corridors known to only a few and made his way to the banquet hall. Standing behind scarlet curtains with gilded trim, he hid, hoping no one would remember he existed. Once he had been brash and proud, but now all he wanted was to be left alone, to be forgotten.

  As the guests began to arrive, he watched, waiting to see who would show the signs. His heart beating faster with every arriving noble, he almost dared to hope, almost convinced himself that none would have real power. When the nobles began to take their seats and servants served the first dishes, it seemed his wishes had been granted, but he knew better. Nothing he had ever wished for had really come true, and he had no reason to believe things would change now.

  When servants rushed to escort a late arrival to the hall, he was not surprised to see a nimbus of power around the man they led. Dressed in lavish colors and bejeweled raiment, the man stood tall and proud. This was a man accustomed to power, both physical and political, but it was obvious he knew nothing of his real power, the very thing that made him, in this case, most vulnerable.

  With a shuddering sigh, the nameless boy retreated, not needing to see any more. He knew what was to come, and he could only lament. He was powerless--a slave.

  * * *

  That night Catrin was led to a large room, most of which was taken up by a huge stone basin filled near to capacity with a colorful array of rounded and polished stones. Two pitchers of water and a jar for drinking were also present in the room, along with a few other amenities. On the edge of the rock basin was a single red rose. Her guides gave her no indication why it was there. Instead, as they left, they wordlessly instructed her to sleep in the stone basin.

  Her thirst unquenchable, Catrin drained one of the jars before approaching the basin. The rose drew her closer, and she inhaled its fragrance, felt the texture of the petals with her lips, and marveled over the bead of moisture hidden within its folds. It was surprising how enamored she could become with a rose, something she had walked by a hundred times without really noticing, but here, in her isolation, taken out of its context, the rose was a magnificent work of art. Soft, red petals stood out in contrast to the emerald stem with its brownish thorns; it seemed a magical thing.

  As she climbed into the strange basin, the stones were cool against her skin. The more she moved, the deeper she became submerged in the rainbow of spheres. She saw topaz, turquoise, black onyx, and a host of others she could not identify. The energy of the stones surrounded her, and she basked in it. Each type had its own unique energy, much in the same way that each type of living creature had its own signature.

  Turning the basin into a game of sorts, Catrin wiggled her feet through the stones, grabbing at random with her toes. Then, using only her impression of the stone and her physical contact with it, she tried to identify what kind it was. For those types whose names she did not know, she made up names such as "Pretty Red" and "Purple Swirly." Within a short time, she could correctly identify four out of five stones without looking at them. As enjoyable as she found her little game, she paused and took time to simply bask in their energy. Within moments of quieting her mind, she slept.

  * * *

  "Please, Lord Jaharadin, do come in and sit with me," Archmaster Belegra said.

  "Thank you, Archmaster. You honor me," Icari Jaharadin replied as he eased himself into one of the chairs near the fire. The upholstery was far too gaudy for his taste, but the deep cushions were softer than they appeared, and the chair seemed to suck him in, as if it were consuming him alive. It was a feeling that left him on edge.

  While an audience with the archmaster was indeed an honor, Icari couldn't shake the feeling that he was in grave danger. Still, he could not resist the opportunity to bring greater standing and wealth to his family, not that declining was an option; to do so would be too great an insult. He had seen what happened to families that displeased the archmaster, and he had no wish to find himself working in the fields or rotting in a dungeon. "My mother sends her respects and asked that I extend an invitation to our humble--"

  "Yes, of course she did," Archmaster Belegra said, his eyes narrowing and a feral grin crossing his face. "Your mother is a weathered hag, and I'd sooner wallow with the pigs than dine in your hall. You are here for a reason, Icari, and that reason is not to flatter me."

  Icari could not have been more shocked, though he did what he could to conceal his reaction.

  Still, Archmaster Belegra chuckled and leveled a finger at him. "What would you do for me, Icari? Tell me. What would you do?"

  Squirming in the chair that now seemed a prison, Icari wanted to flee, but his limbs would not respond. Trying desperately to find words, he found his mouth worked of its own accord. "I would die fo
r you," he said involuntarily.

  Tilting his head back, Archmaster Belegra erupted in laughter that held no joy. "Of course you would, my servant. Of course you would."

  * * *

  It was an unusual awakening as stones fell from Catrin's face and cheeks when she raised her head. Some defied gravity for a moment, clinging to her skin, as if they had become embedded in her flesh. Standing slowly, she brushed off the few tenacious stones that still adhered to her and laughed at the strange patterns left on her skin by the stones. She looked almost reptilian, as if she had scales. The effect did not last long, though, and her skin returned to its normal state.

  Wondering how soon the monks would arrive, she climbed free of the basin. When she went for a mug of water, she noticed that the pitchers had been refilled, and she wondered if this were a subtle hint. It became obvious later that the monks would not return for her that day, and she decided to spend her day napping and amusing herself. One of her naps ran into the next morning.

  * * *

  Oily, black smoke rolled from the lamps that lit the Watering Hole, and Miss Mariss wiped the tears from her eyes. The smoke from the makeshift lamp oil was only part of the reason she cried; what had once been a joyful existence had turned into constant struggle. Everything was in short supply these days, especially good humor. Without decent food and drink, business was slow, and she spent much of her time simply trying to survive. Scrubbing the soot from the walls, she did what she could to keep her inn clean, but it was a battle she always lost, and she began, once again, to despair.

  Many of the people she held dear were in the Chinawpa Valley, beyond the atrocity known as Edling's Wall. Construction of the wall sapped the Pinook of resources when they were needed most. Miss Mariss could not understand how people could spend their time building a barrier between themselves and their countrymen when there was not enough food to go around. Fools they were, the lot of them, she thought.