"Stupid." She muttered, stood slowly, and said, "Let us continue the conversation while exploring."
"You will allow the predator like me out with the prey?" Ment to be a quib.
"Now I know a greater Predator will make quick work of the lesser one." She replied. "That I suppose, will fix two problems. My madness and your annoyance."
"Ah." Merrin made the wordless sound, familiar now with the lady's words.
They both left the white, bleached room, found fleeting solace in the wide amphitheatre—a Colosseum that rose from the earth like a great pearly mountain. Its form, a honeycomb of arches, three tiers high, each one a perfect, symmetrical curve, carved seemingly from light. The arches of the first level were heavy and squat, their keystones worn smooth, radiant. Magnificant. Above them, the second and third tiers stood taller, slender, their repeated forms creating a rhythmic pattern. Eye-catching. Within the grand shell, the tiered seating was a dizzying cascade of stone or light, a funnel leading down to the elliptical arena floor. Seated on them, the bright ones melded with the ambience—a certain natural camouflage of light.
Bright ones—the words he had chosen to regard them as. Never to be spoken aloud, of course.
They clapped, cheered, never screamed, though—like it was beneath them. Such elegance these creatures exuded. Such purity was often what darkCrowns imagined in brightCrowns. Ah, the fantasy of impressions. Enavro sided him, leaning forward, watching silently the arena below.
Something was happening.
Two bright figures rounded the coliseum, stone spears and blades in hand—makings of an imminent battle. There was a certain air of preparation within them. Who was to go first? Who was to attack first? A milder and perceivable form of stalking.
Let me see how symbols do battle. Merrin heightened the ocular prowess, achieving a zoomed-in perspective of the happenings. Their weapons were trained and ready, both subtly aware of the internal dialogue. Fighters, hunters, or combatants commonly sensed the thoughts within. A thing about the face, eye twitching, flesh trembling. Little clues that fitted into a webwork of understanding.
They both knew what happened here and stood prepared for the consequences, whatever they may be.
Did symbols die?
A voice boomed from a square structure built into the hippodrome, an open-faced chamber, with a rooted podium. Seats were arranged within the roofed square, especially distinct from the rest. A man stood tall within it. White hair fluttering in the wind, body wrapped in a white, filmy robe—aglow.
Auwale!
He spoke aloud, his voice filling the vast stadium. "We have ourselves a hunt of the same. The oldest venery in this world. Same species. Do not despair or call this brutality or barbarism, because I say to you, all things are equal before the face of death, so is the greatest duty of a Hunter to grant the quick release. This is not madness. This is not cruelty. This is the acceptance of the base nature." A pause quietened the space. "Let the Game begin!"
Claps and cheers drowned the velodrome, hands pounding hard against themselves. Ah, the fervour that ruled those actions.
Unnerving.
So this was it, Merrin thought, they are all truly mad. He sighed. An obvious thing to observe. Auwale, prior, was seen as the virtuous Hunter, but perhaps virtue was not the right word. Not the accurate word to use in the given context.
He was a hunter—what then in the act of hunting was considered virtuous? Did the animal killed thank the killer for the quick death…I'm thinking too much these days. The curse of the caster, I suppose. He noted the warriors below, closing in, bathed in light.
There was every attempt in the world to adapt to the sheer brightness, not the sensation, but the hue of it all. Failure, all of it. Merrin felt exposed in the brilliance. Perhaps a thing of the Ashman, or veilCounsel. Regardless, here he was, internally cowering against the luminosity. What could he do?
Humans seldom changed…Even he was a creature of habit.
Mentation spewed logic from an earlier pondering.
That was it—the difference: Same hunting, as Auwale had called it. One did not kill the same species—doing so was synonymous with the self-killing, murder; a thing hated by the Almighty himself. Yet, here he was, watching such atrocities.
Priorities.
These people were mad—and he knew it, but chose to disregard it. This was a matter of priorities. His people needed him. After all, one did not need to willingly become the catalyst for societal destruction. Many did, but the need was hardly the cause.
I will make myself blind to what I see here. The seal is all that matters…
They're not humans, anyway—ah, the fatuity he heard in those words.
The battle below had begun, two brilliant figures crossing weapons in sharp, precise strikes. Awesome, this he could only exclaim. Their motions, the quick arching of the back for evasion, the twirling of the weapon for confusion, the creation of feints for analysis. He saw it. Even in battle, these combatants were learning.
Less of a dance and more of a class.
Was that what a battle inherently was? A learning about perspectives. My weapon isn't good. What if I use his? My tactics aren't suitable, his are better. Education in motion. He smiled. What happens if this were combined with the dance of self?
One was the freedom of the internal self to control the external—the daze that halted the fear and protective instincts for something more. Something deeper. Yet a flaw existed in its usage. Never to improve. Never to go beyond the internal self. Merrin leaned, "There is treasure to be found here."
Enavro replied. "There is madness to be found here."
So she also saw it? He regarded her. "Didn't you say you have something for me?"
"Knowledge." She said, "Just say the words, no need to play the caster role with me."
"Just trying to be mysterious."
"It does not suit you."
Oh, Enavro, Merrin thought, I AM what I AM. He said then, still observing the skirmish below. "Tell me all you know about the Bastard."
"He is a beast."
"A fallen?"
"He is no creature of Ruin." She said, "But he is a strange beast. Other Memory considers him similar to a soul split out and turned into that."
"Casted?"
"Obviously." She continued. "The Bastard is the name he echoes."
"It can speak?" Surprising.
"No," Enavro confirmed. "The symbols within him are bastards."
A halting of thought. "What?" He raised a brow. "Its symbols have the name bastard. So it's the symbol of a bastard."
"No."
Merrin felt frustrated. "Then what is it?" Below, a combatant with a sword had done an intriguing winging stance. Learning.
Enavro regarded him. "I said his symbols are called bastard—but he does not have the symbol of bastard." She added. "Think of it as false labeling. Somehow, the symbol bears the name not inherent to its nature."
A shudder washed through him. The implications of her words were frightening. "Who did that? Or is the Bastard a caster?"
"No, he is not," Enavro said, flat-toned. "He is, however, a casted creature. The caster is unknown."
Merrin pondered the gained knowledge, realized then the threat the unknown caster posed. He, or they, were ultimately the weakness for their own kind; casters. Imagine casting the wind only to learn it was never that. Of course, enough data, and one did not need the words to recognize the chosen symbols.
Yet…what power that was.
"Anything else?"
Enavro said, "The Bastard can vanish into the darkness."
"Hiding?"
"No." She said, "Consider it a form of Teleportation. Like those used in the waygates."
"What's that?"
She rubbed her face—first time. "Nariel?"
"Old tongue? Still don't know what it is."
"Just think of it as the movement from one place to another—through the shadows. He moves through the shadows."
Merrin frowned. "And I'm supposed to hunt it in a place utterly devoid of light."
"You seem not to have a problem with the darkness." Enavro voiced. "Likely an effect of the symbol you cast."
"You know about the Orders?"
"No idea what that is." Enavro said, simply, "Again, you ask me that. Have we run out of things to say that we now fall into repetitions?"
"Ah, sorry."
"I think you should focus on one."
"What?"
"Either the fight below or me, obviously, you cannot function as a dual mind."
"That's not tru—"
Abrupt
Cheers filled the space, hands pounding like thunderclaps. Aloud. Shuddering. He observed fully the ring below, noted the climax of the prior battle. Signs of combat on the floor; scars on earth. The sword wielder had emerged victorious, the other…the victim was dissipating, turning into fumes of flowing white—blurring away.
So that's how they die…He thought, reining in the internal chaos. Someone had died, and yet they cheered. No, no one has died…these are not people.
Again, how stupid those words sounded to him.
I cannot save them! But I must never harm them.
Reality took that as a challenge.
A voice pierced through the arena, a loud, manly baritone. Who?
"As the winner, I exercise my right for my next hunt." Said the sword-wielding combatant, looking up. Where? Me? "I choose him. I choose the intruder."
Ah…the ways of reality.