by Mark E Lacy
The Ban of Irsisri
Mark E Lacy
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Glossary
Text Copyright © 2018
Lacy Family Trust, dated May 22, 2000,
Mark Edward Lacy and Barbara May Lacy Trustees
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 9781947683082
To Ellie, Olive, Etta, and Sam
May your imagination take you far in life
Prologue
Benshaer handed his sword to the steward and stepped into the small shrine. He was still dressed in his damp cloak and woolen riding clothes, but his corocir, the braided leather headband that might reveal his calling, was now tucked in a bag at his side.
The sound of his boots echoed among the marble columns as he approached a tall statue at the end of the room, a simple statue of a bearded man holding a pair of gauntlets in his outstretched hands. The sculpted folds of the man's robes seemed to shift in the dancing torchlight. The figure, some eight feet high, stood atop a low, square plinth and gazed out over an empty room.
Benshaer knelt before the statue of the Disciple Lassar and stared at the marble floor, looked through it, saw nothing. He tried to clear his mind, but his mother's last words seemed to reverberate through the granite chamber.
Don't fail me, Ben, she had said. Don't be like your father.
He closed his eyes, remembering. How could pain so old feel so fresh?
“I am a musaresara, Mother. Now and until the day I die.”
“A resara? A reader? What does that mean?”
“We read the Weave, Mother. The pattern that Eloeth weaves, working us into the fabric of space and time.”
“So? Does it pay well? Does it put bread on the table?”
“We rely on the good will of the people we meet.”
“You're beggars, then, like those godforsaken priests?”
It had been more than he could stand. He had swallowed his anger and walked out of the house before he could say something he'd regret. When he was not yet a mile away, he had vomited up his anger in one great cry of rage.
But when he returned, he had found his mother dead, her throat cut, robbed of her most meager possessions as well as her most important one – her life.
Once Benshaer had found the other resari and told them what had happened, they offered their sympathies. But they also reminded him that following the ruta, the path, of a musaresara, a weave-reader, would require sacrifice. He found little solace in their words, and he wondered if the resari had sacrificed their compassion in the name of duty.
Now, in the town in Kophid, in the land of Braemya, the least of the resari found himself alone before a statue honoring one of Eloeth’s disciples from long ago. He wanted to pray for answers, but he couldn't find the words. His mother had been dead for several years, yet the loss still clenched him, and her contempt still stung.
Scuffing footsteps whispered behind him.
“Sir? Excuse me.”
Benshaer turned and stood. It was not the steward but a much younger man who approached him, a youth in his teens in simple garb with a look of serenity on his face. Serenity that Benshaer instantly envied.
“I'm sorry to disturb you. Could I speak with you for a moment?”
He looked the boy up and down. The youth wasn't a thief. Judging by his clothes, he wasn't a noble either. At least he had decent manners.
“What can I do for you, son?”
“Aren't you one of the resari?”
Benshaer felt like he'd been slapped. How did the boy know?
He stalled by answering the question with a question. “Are you looking for a resara?”
“Yes. I thought you might be one of them.”
“What made you think that?”
“My mother used to say only the resari continued to venerate Lassar. And no one else has come in here in weeks.”
“Why do you need to speak to a resara?”
“I want to become one.”
“You're talking to the wrong person.”
“Because you can't tell me or don't want to tell me?”
What happened to the boy's manners?
“No, because you are forward and insolent,” said Benshaer. “Good day.” He gathered his cloak and made to move past the boy.
“They call me Del,” said the boy to Benshaer's back.
Benshaer stopped and waited a moment before turning around.
“Well, Del, from what I'm told, the resari don't take volunteers. They usually make resari out of their own children, and that is all.”
“Were your parents resari?”
“No, they weren't.”
“Then how—”
“You ask too many questions, boy. Listen to me. The resari's numbers have dwindled over the years. To make up for that, they will, on occasion, seek out someone they think has the potential to become a resara. If that person agrees to join them and dedicate his or her life to the ruta, they are given training. But they don't take volunteers.”
The boy said nothing.
“Are you satisfied?” asked Benshaer.
“I have more questions.”
“I have no more answers. Go home.”
“Will you come back here?”
“Not if I have to worry about you annoying me.”
“I promise not to.”
“We shall see.”
And Benshaer walked out.
Stay away from the boy, was the counsel of the others. For a while, Benshaer had done exactly that. Ardemis warned them all to stay away from the shrines and temples on the outside chance that anyone would realize they were resari. But as the days wore on, and they settled in for as long a wait as needed, Benshaer returned to the shrine, spending long hours in meditation but also wondering if Del would return.
When the boy came to the shrine again, he made a point of showing more respect to Benshaer, and the two began meeting regularly. Despite his reservations, Benshaer found himself drawn to the youth. Like Benshaer, Del had lost his mother. He was an intelligent young man, and he displayed a sensitivity to the world around him that made
Benshaer wonder if the boy might make a good resara. Benshaer remembered how he had approached Ardemis in much the same way that Del had approached him, asking how he could become someone who reads the Weave.
The resari had Seen that their number would diminish. In a past long forgotten, there had been a musaresara in almost every town. Now, there were only four: Ardemis, his daughter Ki'rana, Strigin, and Benshaer. If there was any chance that the boy called Del might someday join them, Benshaer wanted to do what he could. But he said nothing to the others.
The two began spending as much time together as they could arrange, the tall, dark resara and the inquisitive blonde youth. One evening as he sat with Del in the shadows outside the shrine of Lassar, Benshaer was startled to realize that the boy had pieced together why the few existing resari were in Kophid. He couldn't remember telling Del anything specific, but the youth now seemed to grasp the resari's mission.
The next day, as Benshaer walked to the Shrine, he decided he must tell the others about Del, tell them the boy had figured out why they were here. Ardemis would not be pleased. Benshaer had disregarded the elder resara's warnings, and now, someone else knew why they were in Kophid. But he doubted that Del's knowledge placed them in danger. He would remind the boy that he must keep this knowledge secret. Eager to impress the resari, Del would surely watch his tongue.
Benshaer left his sword once again with the steward and entered the chamber. The boy was not yet there. Instead, a man with long red hair in a braid, dressed in black leather, leaned against one of the columns and stroked his beard.
“Are you looking for the boy?”
“Yes,” said Benshaer after some hesitation.
“You have found him.” The red-haired man moved away from the column, hands clasped behind his back, looking around.
“I don't understand.”
“This is where it all began, isn't it?” said the other man, motioning across the room.
“I don't know you, and I don't know what you're talking about.”
The red-haired man sighed and looked up at the ceiling. “It seems to be my fate to explain to others what they don't know. Aren't you looking for the boy named 'Del'?”
Benshaer didn't answer.
“Well, I told you, ‘you have found him.’” The man waved his hands in front of himself, and for a moment, Benshaer saw a young man who wanted to become one of the musaresari.
“My real name is Raethir Del,” said the man, once again standing before Benshaer as an adult. “This, what you see now, is my true form.”
Benshaer reached for his sword out of reflex, but it wasn't there. It was in the hands of the shrine's steward.
“So, Benshaer, how does it feel to know that you have revealed secrets to the one person in all the world who shouldn't know them?”
The resara stared at Raethir Del and stumbled backward to collapse, sitting on Lassar's pedestal.
“Stunned, are you? Feeling a bit guilty for betraying your calling? And now betrayed yourself?” Raethir Del laughed. “I know why you're here in Kophid. I know what you seek. I know that it is nearby, and that I must find it first.”
Benshaer said nothing. He stared at the floor and covered his face with his hands, trembling. He had dropped their fate in the hands of an abramusara, a sorcerer.
“You've placed yourself in a rather delicate position, haven't you?” said Raethir Del. “You can't tell the others what you've done without losing your ruta. You'd be removed from the resari immediately. But you can't let me get to the Gauntlets either, can you?”
The sorcerer raised his eyebrows in mock surprise.
“What will you do? If the others learn, they will throw you out, even though the resari are already too few, as we both know. They really can't afford to lose one more, but they could never trust you again, could they?”
Benshaer looked up in anger. “You leave me few options.”
“Yes, I suppose I've only left you a few. You can't fight me. I'd only bat you away like a fly. Your conscience won't let you leave the resari or give them reason to dismiss you. But you can't lead them to me without confessing your betrayal.”
“I can accept any punishment.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. But there's another option.” Raethir Del held his hands out to Benshaer. “Join me. Join me, and we will combine the powers of the musari and the resari. Together, we will create the highest of the High rutaya. Can you imagine? We'll not only read the Weave. We'll set the pattern ourselves.”
“That's blasphemy. I want no part of you.”
“Of course. But, in time, you will have a change of heart.”
Benshaer looked up at the sorcerer. “Impossible.”
“Ah, Ben, you are so close-minded. But I can't say I'm surprised. Here, I have something for you. If you should change your mind, use this.” He pressed something small into the resara's hand. “You'll know what to do when the time comes.”
The sorcerer turned and left.
Benshaer sank to his knees in silent shame and anger.
Chapter 1
Enkinor rolled away from the dying embers of their campfire and tugged a coarse blanket under his chin. His fellow guard was silhouetted against a starry sky, sitting among the lichen-splattered rocks that studded the hilltop. Rigalen sat near the edge of the bluff, looking out over the valley.
A few moments later, Enkinor cast his blanket aside.
“It's not yet your watch,” said Rigalen in a low voice as Enkinor sat down on a nearby boulder. “Why are you up?”
“I can't sleep.” Enkinor looked to the horizon. The glow of dawn's approach could only be imagined.
“You haven't slept well in some time.”
“I'll make you an offer — I'll take your watch if you'll try to catch up on my sleep for me.”
Rigalen smiled. Within moments, he was curled up beside the fire. Only his black hair showed from under the blanket, like the night itself had curled up to rest.
Despite his heavy tunic and leggings, Enkinor shivered. Like Rigalen, he wore clothing dyed the quiet colors of brittle autumn leaves. Even by the full light of day he would blend in with the forest.
I must find the resari. That's what Grandfather told me to do if I ever needed help.
But Enkinor didn't know who the resari were, nor where to find them. And his grandfather was dead.
He ran his fingers through hair and beard as he scanned the wrinkled hills surrounding Lake Cinnaril. For miles around, all was still. Enkinor imagined he could hear a fish splash on the other side of the lake.
I can't even talk to my own father about it. He's dead.
No, that wasn't quite the way to word it. Face the truth, Enkinor. Say it again.
He was murdered.
They were all gone. His grandfather, and now both parents. Enkinor's father had died of treachery only months before, slain by the Draelani under a flag of truce. His mother had died many years before, giving birth to a stillborn child. Enkinor had no family, and he could not betray his grandfather's trust by sharing their secret with anyone else.
I must leave. I can't bear it any longer.
Enkinor took his sleeping friend by the shoulder and shook him. “Sentara.” Guard. “We have work to do.”
“I'm trying to sleep for you,” Rigalen grumbled, only half awake. “Make up your mind.” He opened his eyes a little. The worried expression on Enkinor's face squashed his hopes for more rest.
“Come, this may mean trouble,” Enkinor whispered.
Rigalen rose without a sound. The two men duck-walked to the edge of the bluff.
Lake Cinnaril lay before them, a black expanse surrounded by steep forested hills. Several brooks trickled from narrow gorges to feed the lake, while a small river carried away the overflow, spilling over a low rock shelf at the end of the lake. Below and behind the guards, on a sliver of shoreline barely level enough to stand on, the log huts of their tribe kept the forest from tumbling into the lake.
Rigalen and Enkin
or watched as torchlight flickered through gaps in the forest canopy, following the shoreline toward the Saerani camp. Then, it was passed down the line, and other torches flared till a dozen were strung out along the shoreline trail.
Enkinor looked up for a moment at the gray-black sky, wondering at the new darkness. Moments before, there were thousands of stars cast across the sky. Now they were gone, but there were no clouds, and dawn still had not come.
The torchbearers changed direction and began ascending one of the creeks.
“Whoever they are,” said Rigalen, “they should know to wait before fording the stream.”
Enkinor turned and trotted over to a nearby mews. He donned a padded glove and swung open the door to the cage.
“Gerakhi,” he called in a low voice.
The response was a sound of beating wings. Enkinor withdrew his hand, clasped in the grip of a falcon's talons.
“Good. They've stopped,” said Rigalen.
Enkinor took his time in removing the falcon's leather hood. He stroked the back of its neck to reassure the raptor and cast it in the direction of the men waiting beside the creek.
Sleek wings unfolded, rose, beat down, and rose again. Gerakhi began gliding down the chill currents of air. The falcon circled twice before pulling its wings to its sides and diving through the trees with a cry that echoed from hill to hill and up to the guards.
