Shadow Walker
by James 'Fel' Galloway
Chapter 5
He . . . hurt.
There was pain everywhere, when he finally climbed back out of the black pit. Everywhere. It wasn't excruciating pain, but it was pain. He couldn't remember why he was in pain, and there was nothing but that pain. There was no light. There was no sound. The air in his lungs had no smell. The only sensation, sensory input he had was pain.
But in a way, the pain was good. It told him that he was alive.
Over time, how much he didn't know, the sense of the pain seemed to refine. At first, he was only aware of pain a vague pain that seemed to be everywhere, but then that pain seemed to diverge, to shift, and he became aware of different types of pain. There was a pain in his head that was a dull throbbing that was pounded in his skull with every beat of his heart. There was a sharp pain in his wrists and ankles, as something dug into them, and he became aware of a dull ache in his joints, the ache of joints held in an awkward position for a long time. The divulgence of the pain was still all there was, though. There was still no sound, there was still no light, there was still no smell.
For how long he did not know, the separation of the pain was all there was, as each sensation became more distinct, sharper, until he became aware of a new sensation . . . cold. His skin was cold. It was cold, even as he felt . . . water? Water. There was water on his skin.
Skin. Skin . . . not fur. Skin.
It was like a jolt behind his eyes. He came much more in focus and much of his rational mind came back to him all at once. Yes . . . skin! Skin, not fur! He felt inside himself, took stock of the sensations that were now coming to his brain, and he realized that there was no tail sprouting out from the upper cleft of his buttocks. The tail was gone, and his ears were not on top of his head, and his tongue in his mouth revealed a very small, flat mouth filled with human teeth.
That should be impossible. With cognizance came memory, and the last thing he remembered was trying to enter the shadows, trying to enter the shadows in his Arcan form. He could only change with conscious effort. He should not be in his human shape now, because he had not enacted the change . . . and besides, the amulet had to rest once he returned to his Arcan body. It could not have changed him back, unless he'd been asleep for hours.
Wait a minute . . .
More and more memory came back to him. He had been trying to enter the shadows while in the Loremasters' headquarters, because he had been found out. Not found out as a Shaman, the Loreguard had tracked his activities during his Walk back to him, back when he was a human. They hadn't been after him because he was the Shaman they were seeking, but they had to know he was the one they wanted now. They had seen him, maybe even seen him change from Arcan to human. How did he come to be . . . wherever he was? And why could he not see or hear anything?
He tried to move an arm. He tensed his muscles in his left arm, and felt them respond. He shifted his arm, but felt something pull against his wrist, and pull painfully.
Manacle. It was a manacle. He got more of a sense of himself, and realized that he was vertical, that the pain he felt before was the manacles biting into his wrists, pressing against his hands because he was hanging from them.
Oh, spirits. He was in chains.
They had captured him.
No wonder he couldn't see. They must have taken out his eyes. He tried to open his eyes to the spirits, but there was . . . nothing. Nothing. Nothing but darkness. All he could feel was something wrapped around the upper part of his face, and he found that his eyelids didn't seem to work anymore . . . they were sealed shut. He tried to move his eyes, to see if they were under those sealed lids, and he felt nothing against his lids, felt or sensed no movement behind them, though he felt a strange tingling around his upper face and head, a tingling that seemed odd, strange.
He wilted against his chains. Robbed of his eyes, he couldn't even kill himself using magic. The eyes of a Shaman were literally the focus of his power, and without his eyes, a Shaman had no power. They had captured him, they had removed his only way to keep them from learning anything from him, and he again felt the cage of the Ledwell plantation forming around him. He was again a prisoner, again a slave. But this time he would have a short, brutal time before they killed him. He had no doubt they would interrogate him before they killed him, and they would not be gentle.
All he could hope to do was take his secrets to the grave with him.
He steeled himself. He had to do just that. No matter what they did, he had to keep the others safe. He had to protect Clover, protect Lightfoot and the children - if they were still alive - protect Haven and his Shaman brothers and sisters. He could give them nothing.
But . . . he was human. That still made no sense. Why was he human now, when he could not have changed back? The amulet required him to trigger it through conscious will -
The amulet. It was gone. It wasn't there! He couldn't feel it around his neck!
But, but he couldn't be human without that amulet unless -
He almost gasped. The fox had changed him back! She had restored his humanity! And that bitch had done it at the worst possible time! He could have used his shadow powers to try to escape. But now, if he was human once more, then he no longer had those powers, and that meant that he was truly, completely, and utterly helpless to the merciless Loremasters.
She had abandoned him. He realized that now. She saw he was captured, and instead of trying to help him as she did once before, she instead took from him what she gave him to deny the Loremasters the chance to examine his Arcan body and left him behind without a second thought, abandoning him to his fate.
She had betrayed him. And in a mocking action of keeping her word, she had indeed restored his humanity, as she said she would.
It seemed that even when she kept her word, it was filled with guile and deceit.
He couldn't even find any fury in himself over it. It was, after all, her nature . . . and she could not go against her nature. She had told him that she did not care for him, only cared that he obeyed her. He was no longer any use to her, and so she left him behind, and would not give him another thought. Her tool was broken, so she cast it aside and would seek another.
He was alone.
Wait . . . or was he?
His spirit was cold and ruthless, but she was not stupid. The logical thing to do for her would have been to kill him. If she could change him back into a human, then she could have easily killed him, to deny the Loremasters what he knew. But she didn't. She had to have a reason for not killing him, she had to have a reason for leaving him alive and in the hands of their enemies. There was something she wanted him to do here, there had to be. Some part of the plan she had that she didn't show him. She had abandoned him to die, yes, but it was clear that she wanted him to do something before that happened. The stakes were too high in this game for her to risk Kyven's vast knowledge of the Shaman and Haven to fall into the hands of the Loremasters. She didn't care about him, but she did care about the big picture, else she'd never have set Kyven on his path in the first place.
And what of him? Would he play that part? Would he still obey his spirit even after she threw him to the wolves?
Yes. Too much was at stake, and this wasn't about him. He was just a soldier on the battlefield, and in this battle, he was expendable. All that mattered was his duty to the Arcans, his duty as a Shaman, to protect the defenseless, serve the spirits, and try to stop the Loremasters from doing the unthinkable. He was needed, and he would serve that need.
For him, there would be no happy ending. But so long as there was a happy ending for the Arcans, then he would be content. That would be his happy ending. That would be his little victory.
All he had to do was figure out what she wanted him to do. Once he did that, he would be ready to meet the spirits face to face . . . if that indeed was what happened to Shaman when they died, as Clover said. According to Clover, a Shaman who died became a spirit himself, to serve the spirits beyond the flesh, while the spirits of others . . . moved on. Kyven didn't really believe that, but if it was true, maybe he'd get a chance to punch the shadow fox in the mouth for everything she put him through when he was alive.
That thought comforted him. He should have been terrified to be hanging by chains in the clutches of the Loremasters, but he felt an odd peace. He knew he had something to do here, and because of that . . . he had nothing to fear. He was a Shaman, and he would act like one. Clover wouldn't whimper or whine in her chains, she would stand tall and act with dignity, even under the whip. He would do the same. They would not get the satisfaction of seeing him cower in fear.
But that didn't change his situation much. He could see nothing, hear nothing, could only feel the pain of hanging by manacles and a throbbing in his head that came from a knot just over his left ear. They must have hit him with something, but he couldn't remember. There was nothing for him to do, but hang there, hurt, and wait.
Time is a funny thing when one has no concept of its passage. He honestly had no idea how long he hung there, for the only indication he had of the passage of time was the change in the pain in his body. The throbbing in his head eased, but the pain in his arms and body increased from hanging with his full weight on those manacles for longer and longer. His feet were not on the ground, and they were also chained slightly behind him, forcing him to lean forward with his arms more behind him, adding to the awkwardness of the position and therefore the pain it caused. He swam in a haze, where it was hard to think, which he thought was because he was hit in the head, and hit hard. That blow had addled him, caused him to drift in and out of periods of rationality, but over time, the pain of the blow to his head did fade, and with it came a more solid concept of the passage of time. That time dragged by as the pain in his arms and back got worse and worse . . . and then he heard something.
It was faint. Very faint. At first, he thought it was just a figment of his imagination. But he heard . . . the sound of his own breathing. He was sure of it. He inhaled, and heard the sound of the air filling his lungs. Slowly, he became aware of another sound, the faint rattle of chains from somewhere above him, the chains holding him up. He shifted his hand, and heard the very faint yet unmistakable sound of to chain links clicking together. Quicker than he thought, his ears seemed to recover from whatever had rendered them useless, and he became aware of more sounds. The faint dripping of water far distant. He thought he heard the scraping of a boot, but it was such a faint sound that he wasn't sure. Then he heard faint skittering of a type that told him it was a mouse or other small creature.
His nose seemed to wake up, too. His Arcan sense of smell was gone, but he could smell dank, almost stale air, air that was cool, almost cold, moist, and unpleasant both in his lungs and against his skin. He could smell the faint odor of detritus, the smell of human waste, and could smell both the tang of sweat and the metallic scent of blood. Probably his own blood.
A voice. A very faint voice, from a distance, or maybe through a door. He couldn't make out what it said, but it was clear to him it was a man, speaking in a low tone, probably to someone standing just beside him or very close to him. Guards, maybe? It had to be. If he was hanging from chains, then he had to be in a place that was set up for it, and needed to be close to where they would torture him. Torture wasn't a business one conducted without having the proper tools available, so that meant they either had to bring those tools to him, or take him to those tools . . . and odds were they would take him to the tools. Those tools would be in a secure location where they could keep him under complete control, and where his screams wouldn't arouse any attention or upset anyone of a mild disposition. He had to be in a jail or dungeon, either under the Loremaster headquarters or in the fabled Black Keep, the prison of the Loremasters and the Free Territories.
Another voice, and it seemed to be growing stronger. It was moving closer. Another voice, deeper, rougher. It too was moving, getting stronger, moving closer. The sounds of footsteps, more than one. Yes, people were moving, moving towards him.
He felt no fear as he realized that the time had come, and they were coming for him.
He was certain he was in a dungeon when he heard hinges squealing in protest as a door was opened. It was hard to tell if it was in front of him or behind him, but it was definitely either or. He was hanging parallel to that door. The voices stopped when the door opened, and he imagined the visitors were standing at the door, regarding him hanging there motionless with his head hanging down, unsure if he was awake or unconscious.
A man in terror would have hung there silent as the grave, hoping they would think him unconscious and leave him be at least for a little while longer, but Kyven was not a man with fear inside him. "I do hope I'm not offending any sensibilities," he said in a weary, weak voice. "If there's a lady present, I apologize, for I do think that I'm not wearing anything."
"You'll offend no sensibilities here," came a rather casual response, by a young man from the sound of it. He could hear movement, and picked out four separate people standing near each other.
"That's a relief. Trinity forbid I give some impressionable young lady impure thoughts."
"I doubt she'd be that pure if she got excited at the sight of a man in chains," the voice said with a wry chuckle.
"He won't be chatty long," came a growling reply.
"Oh, leave off, Barker. I rather like the man chatty. Maybe that means our job will be easier. He certainly seems to grasp his situation, and with far more dignity than other men, I might add."
"A man has little but his dignity when hanging naked from the ceiling," Kyven said sagely, which actually made one of them laugh.
"Ah, but you see, that's one of the little things we're going to talk about," the young man said lightly, and from the sound of wood scraping, Kyven got the feeling he was sitting on a chair. "When we caught you, you were the black fox Arcan Shaman we've been searching for. But the instant we put grounders on you, you show yourself as a human, so we can only assume that the black fox was nothing but an elaborate disguise to conceal the truth of you. Which, naturally, is impossible, so what we think is that you're an Shaman transformed into a human by magic so you could get past our defenses. Quite a curious little development, isn't it? So, one of the loose ends we'll be tying up is figuring out just what you are, my dangling friend."
"I do hope my dangling looks menacing. I think this is where I'm supposed to make some foolishly brave comment about how you'll never make me talk. I do so hope I can live up to your expectations."
"He's fearless, alright," a new voice spoke up.
"A man in the right has nothing to fear," Kyven said simply. "When you're done with me, I'll go on to my reward. How could a man show fear in the face of that? A little pain now is a good trade for an eternity of happiness."
"Now he talks like a Eusican," a fourth voice noted, the final unidentified person in the room.
"No, he talks like a Shaman," the young man said intently. "But let's start simply, my hanging friend. We're here to have a little chat in the presence of a truth crystal. We'll ask questions, and you will answer. If you speak the truth and answer the question to our satisfaction, we move on to the next question. Every time you lie, or every time you refuse to answer, we jab you with a pain stick. You know what a pain stick is, don't you?"
"Intimately," he said, shuddering a little deep inside. He thought they would torture him with branding irons or blades, that they would be afraid to use an alchemical device on someone they suspected was a Shaman . . . but he guessed they felt that without his eyes, he was powerless and therefore the pain stick was the most effective tool. He'd never considered them using a pain stick . . . maybe because that was something he didn't particularly want to face. It was certainly the best choice. It was easy, it didn't make a mess, and it didn't require any extensive preparations . . . and a pain stick could incite far more pain than any other form of torture, with the added bonus of doing no actual injury. Just the memory of the pain of the Ledwell's collar was enough to make him go cold inside . . . but he would show no outward fear.
"After we talk a while, if you behave and cooperate, we may even take you down from there and let you sleep a little in a more comfortable position."
"I see you haven't put your truth crystal out yet," Kyven said lightly, inwardly steeling himself for what he knew was going to come. "I'd be expecting to hear it go off after a whopper like that. You'll learn what you want to know from me, and then you will kill me. Then you'll hang my body from the gibbet outside the Black Keep as a warning to others not to cross the Loremasters . . . which won't make a whit of difference, because the world already thinks the lot of you are fools."
"I'd be careful who I called a fool in this room, prisoner," the gravelly-voiced man growled.
"Oh please. Idle threats at this point? Put up or shut up."
And the world exploded in pain.
Kyven was proud of himself that he did not scream. He knew it was coming, had goaded them into it on purpose, and he was ready. His body did jerk and convulse slightly as it was assaulted with pure agony, washed to his bones in acid, and he gritted his teeth and clenched his eyelids shut tightly, gripping the chains attached to his manacles in a grip that nearly broke his finger bones. But he did not cry out. The tormentor only held the pain stick to him for a brief second, but that was like an eternity when it came to those cursed objects. The pain vanished as quickly as it came, leaving Kyven weak and trembling, wilting against his chains . . . but he did not cry out.
"Want me to put up again, you nothing little shit?" the gravel-voiced man growled.
"You should check the crystal in that pain stick. I think it's about done," Kyven said in a weak, panting voice, but his tone was light and off-handed.
"How much help did you have, Arcan?" the deep-voiced man asked. "How many are in your cell?"
"Why, the entire city helped me," Kyven chuckled weakly. "Even your own Loremasters and Loreguard helped me. You made it so easy." He raised his chin, and his hopes soared as he realized an important point. "Found the shop burned to the ground, didn't you?" he asked conversationally.
There was a brief yet pregnant silence that told Kyven volumes.
They had got out! Bless the spirits, they had got out! Praise be to Shario, that clever, clever man! He got them out!
"Shut up! We ask the questions here!" the gravel-voiced man snapped angrily.
"Oh, we know all about your Arcan helpers, and we'll have them soon," the young man purred. "After all, they won't be hard to find. But let's not jump around. I think we should start with introductions, after all. My name is Major Will Savage, and you will address me as Major, or Major Savage. And you are?"
"The king of Itana," he answered pleasantly, and immediately heard a faint whine from their truth crystal. "You may address me as your Imperial Majesty."
And the world exploded in pain.
Again, Kyven did not cry out as his body jerked and recoiled from the pain stick held against the pit of his stomach. His back arched severely as he gritted his teeth, and then the pain stick was removed, bringing blessed, wonderful relief.
"I'm sure we'd like to keep this civil," the man named Savage said calmly.
"You forgot to say your Imperial Majesty," Kyven corrected him.
He paid for that bit of impertinence as well, as the pain stick was pressed against him and held against him longer, making him start to convulse after a few seconds, pain scouring away everything but the feeling that he had been dropped into Hell.
"We have all day, Master Steelhammer," Savage said in a relaxed manner. "And lots of crystals for our pain stick. All you have to do is cooperate, and it can be much more pleasant. We are civilized men, and contrary to your beliefs, we don't particularly enjoy having to do this."
"Then I hope I single-handedly cause a crystal shortage for crystals that fit in pain sticks," Kyven said weakly. "I think if I force you to use more barbaric forms of torture, you might be too squeamish to be serious about it. Because you're such civilized men, you understand. Do you faint at the sight of blood?"
He paid for that, too. The stick was held against him for nearly fifteen seconds, and his teeth clenched for so long that he almost felt like they were going to shatter as he endured unspeakable agony.
"You will address me as Major," the man said, less polite.
"I will do anything that pisses you off, if only because it amuses me," Kyven answered immediately.
"I think we need to take the sass out of him, Major," the gravel-voiced man urged.
"I do believe you're right, Sergeant. We'll go have some coffee while you take care of it."
The gravel-voiced Sergeant was a man whom Arthur Ledwell would have admired, for he clearly enjoyed torturing people. For nearly half an hour, Kyven endured applications of a pain stick that left him so weak that the blows to his face and stomach from a man's fist barely registered, almost felt like love taps in comparison. Nothing could compare to the agony that could be exacted with a pain stick, and compared to that, his need to beat Kyven's body was as nothing. The gravel-voiced man never said a word, never made a sound outside of sharp exhales that accompanied his punches into Kyven's prostrated stomach and chest. He would hold the pain stick to Kyven until he was about to pass out from the pain, and then relent and let him recover while he amused himself with blows to Kyven's body.
Kyven's Shaman training served him well over that agonizing time. His body was in peak physical condition, and tensed muscles absorbed much of the impact of the physical blows safely, even as his Shaman stamina allowed him to quickly recover from the aftereffects of the pain stick. But over time, he began to weaken, to tire. Resisting the pain stick was much harder than working with magic, and tired him quickly. But he continued to try to resist.
By the time he heard the other three men file back in, he was trembling and exhausted from the pain stick. It was harder to think now, and he couldn't seem to keep his breath, and his muscles were shivering violently. He'd never been exposed to a pain stick for that long before, and could only guess what kind of effect it had on a body over time. "Now that you're less sassy," the major noted in a calm voice. "Let's start again, shall we? What is your name?"
"Major . . . Will . . . Savage," he answered between heavy breaths.
"Not what is my name, what is your name?" he demanded in a harsher tone.
"Why . . . I don't really know . . . what a your name is. I've never thought . . . about it."
"Sergeant."
And the world exploded in pain. Kyven again refused to scream as the pain stick burned into his very soul, but then the pain seemed to waver, then weaken . . . then it vanished. He could feel the tip of the pain stick against his stomach, and he laughed weakly. "That's . . . one . . . crystal," he declared between heavy pants of breath. "I do . . . hope . . . you have . . . extras handy."
There was a quiet grumbling, and he heard one of them stump towards the door. As he hung there, weary, exhausted, he pondered something curious that had just occurred to him as the pain stick was applied. They had taken his eyes, and his eyes were the focus of his power . . . but were they all of his power? He couldn't cast spells, and since he couldn't open his eyes to the spirits, he couldn't channel magic from the spirit world into the material world. But . . . could he use energy that was already here? He didn't have to be able to see in order to use a blessing, and since he would be shaping the power himself, he didn't necessarily need the fox's consent either.
Not that that would be much help, since he only knew two blessings, and neither would help him here. But, what he could do is stockpile that power, and try to use it to kill himself. Now that he thought he might be able to accomplish.
It couldn't be blatant, if he tried and it worked. If they jabbed him with a pain stick and it didn't work, they might figure out that he had drained the crystal. They thought he was a Shaman, which was why he couldn't see now, and they thought they had neutralized his power. If he didn't drain enough power to kill himself, then they'd react, and it might not be pretty. The pain stick would definitely be replaced then, replaced with red-hot irons, serrated blades, barbed hooks, ropes and chains, and all the entrapments of what most people imagined a torture chamber contained.
He heard gravel-voice return to the room, heard something smack against a hand, probably some auditory warning to Kyven that he had a new pain stick, but Kyven wasn't paying attention to that right now. He was focusing on the strange tingling that still persisted around his upper face and head, because when he started pondering the possibility of draining a crystal, that tingling, faint but tactile, seemed sharper to him.
Tingling . . . of course! Why didn't he realize it before, he felt that tingle all the time in his fingers! He must have been more addled by that blow to his head than he thought, it made him miss something so obvious!
They had something alchemical wrapped around his head!
He searched that tingling with his senses, and found it. There was definitely a crystal there, he could sense it now that he was actively looking for it. It was attached to him through what felt like a mesh of metal wire cloth wrapped around his eyes like a bandage.
The question now, was, why was it there? He had to find out. He had to trick one of them into saying something about the device that might help him understand it.
"Are you or are you not Kyven Steelhammer?" the major demanded.
"I am . . . and I'm not," he answered, a bit more stable now that he had a moment to rest and recover. "I am both."
"The truth crystal disagrees with one part of that statement, Master Steelhammer," the major warned. "You'd better clarify before the Sergeant takes issue."
"Then let me say that I used to be Kyven Steelhammer."
"Then who are you now?" another asked after a pause.
"Kyven Steelhammer," he answered simply.
"Took the name after he replaced the real one," he heard a bare whisper. Spirits, were they dense! Confronted with incontrovertible proof that a human had used Shaman magic, they still would not accept what they had seen. They believed him to be an Arcan changed into a human by magic . . . when the reality was the exact opposite!
"Who were you before?" another voice asked.
"Kyven Steelhammer," he answered. When he heard a long silence, he knew that this statement, which passed muster with their truth crystal, was now giving them a bit of trouble.
"Are you the same Kyven Steelhammer that is registered with the guild as being trained in Atan by Master Holm?"
"That's the identity I once possessed."
"Since you seem to know how to talk around a truth crystal, I want a yes or no answer, or you get fifteen seconds with the pain stick," the major warned. "And if you don't answer, you get thirty seconds. "Now answer the question."
"No." Silly man, he didn't specifically ask which question Kyven was to answer, therefore any answer he gave would be correct so long as he thought of a question for which that answer was the right one.
"Then where did you learn to appraise and cut crystals? What artisan taught an Arcan such skills?"
"A dead man who is beyond your reach," he said with a slightly amused voice.
"What was his name?"
"Whose name?"
"The man who taught you?" came an annoyed response.
"Aven," he answered. The man didn't ask what he was taught, and Aven had taught him quite a bit about prospecting. "Don't bother looking for him, he's dead. Was killed by a Touched Arcan about a year ago."
"Alright then, how did you manage to become human, Arcan? What magic is this?"
"No magic did this," he said simply, which was true. Magic didn't change him, his spirit did. Just how she changed him, he couldn't say exactly, and since he wasn't sure she used magic in the sense to which the man was referring, therefore his statement was not untrue.
"He's cheating the truth crystal, Major," the older voice called out. "He clearly knows how they work. You'll have to question him as if he was testifying at a trial. Everything must be explicit."
"Well then, let's begin again, and if your answers don't match what you've already given, we'll have to make sure you pay for it," the major said calmly. "Is your name Kyven Steelhammer?"
"Yes," he answered.
"Are you the same Kyven Steelhammer trained by Master Holm of Atan?"
"Yes," he answered, seeing no other way to interpret it that would allow him to cheat the crystal. He would give them the little things they probably already knew, and save his strength for enduring the pain stick when it came time to refuse to answer the important questions.
"Impossible!" he heard one of them whisper.
"Are you a Shaman?" he asked directly.
"No. I'm not." Without his eyes, he was not a Shaman. Take that, truth crystal and explicit questions.
"We have documented evidence you used Shaman magic!" the fifth man finally called, who sounded like an old man.
Kyven laughed scornfully. "You have no idea," he said cryptically.
"So you admit that you are Kyven Steelhammer, crystalcutter, Artisan, trained by Master Holm of Atan?"
"I am," he admitted.
"Then how did you use magic?" the major demanded. "What alchemical device did you have that allowed you to look like an Arcan and mimic the spells of a Shaman?"
"That device was destroyed when you put the grounders on me," he answered honestly. That was when the foxhead medallion was destroyed, he had to guess, because it wasn't on him now. And it did give him the power to look like an Arcan . . . sort of.
"Who made it for you?"
"No body did," he said cryptically. Since the fox was not a living thing with a body, therefore to say that no body made it for him was essentially correct. That they would construe his response as nobody rather than no body was not his affair.
"What is the name of the one who made that device?" the older voice demanded, seeing through his trick.
"Names are like clothes, who knows which is the cloak and which is the shift?" he answered simply. "Names are a dangerous thing, and best left packed in your suitcase with your underwear."
"You're getting perilously close to tasting the pain stick, Steelhammer," the major warned.
"My dear fellow, I haven't spoken a single truth since you started questioning me," Kyven said lightly. "I do indeed know how truth crystals work, and I can get around them, no matter how careful you think you are in framing your questions. I can make yours get up and dance across the table, if you'd like. Want to see it?"
And the world exploded in pain. He still refused to scream, refused to give them that satisfaction, kept his teeth clenched as he endured the agony that only a pain stick could inflict, like his blood had turned to fire inside him.
He heard them discussing something when he recovered enough to hear something other than the pounding of his own heart, speaking in low murmurs that he couldn't make out.
"Sergeant, I believe he needs more sass taken from him. Work him until he screams. No matter how long it takes. Maybe by then, he'll be ready to answer honestly, when he faces an equal length of time under the pain stick as it takes for him to scream each time he fails to satisfy me with an answer."
"I hope you have plenty of crystals," Kyven murmured.
He had no idea how long it took. The Sergeant applied the pain stick to him, and held it to him for what seemed an eternity. His body jerked, convulsed and spasmed, and the indescribable pain caused his heart to flutter, caused his lungs to burn as he exhaled and refused to inhale so as to be incapable of screaming, even if they made him do it. It was endless, ceaseless pain, applied expertly right up until the verge where he would pass out, then it was removed and he was given some brief period to pant heavily and recover somewhat before it was applied again. The Sergeant made not a single sound as he systematically tortured Kyven to the brink of unconsciousness, again, and again, and again, and again. Every time, it seemed, the pain lasted longer. Every time, it seemed, he would surely die from the trauma, from the stress the pain stick put on his body. But every time, it didn't happen. Rational thought was scattered to the winds as Kyven's mind withdrew from the pain, retreated deep inside himself, leaving only one unalterable command: do not scream.
And he did not. Right up until the pain stick was held just a second too long, through what seemed an absolute eternity of mind-shattering pain, Kyven did not scream. It could have been ten seconds later, it could have been ten days later, but when the pain stick was applied just a touch too long, it caused Kyven to spiral into blessed, welcome blackness, and know no more.
It was again the pain that he felt first, before anything else. It was worse now, as his arms and body protested vociferously being held in that awkward position, which told him that he was still hanging by chains from his cell. There was an oozing sensation on his forearms, which told him that his wrists were now bleeding, the skin rubbed away by the manacles and now biting into raw open wounds.
How long had he been unconscious? He had no idea. All he knew was that it was unnaturally quiet . . . that, or his ears weren't working again as they hadn't been when he woke up the first time.
He had achieved his first little victory. He had not screamed. He knew that he didn't scream. The Sergeant had literally tortured him into unconsciousness, but he did not scream. By now, he knew, they were debating this. They now knew they were dealing with someone whom they very well may kill before they got any useful information out of him. Kyven was a Shaman, and even though he was no longer an Arcan, he still had the physical conditioning. He was stronger than any man in the building, he was certain of that, and he had the endurance of a mule. That formidable physical conditioning was what was giving him the strength to defy the pain stick, and he would die before giving them a single thing . . . .
A single thing he did not want them to know.
As he came back to consciousness, he realized he had to look at this situation as his totem would. She had abandoned him to this fate, but there was something she wanted him to say or do before he died. Being a spirit of guile and deceit, it told him that what she wanted him to do was trick the Loremasters, probably give them some bit of information that turned them on their ears and disrupted them to the core.
Well, that was easy enough. Was that all she wanted him to do? Admit he was a human Shaman?
That would certainly put them into total chaos. The foundational cornerstone of the Loremaster position that Shaman were twisted, evil creatures bound to sinister forces. If they found out that humans were becoming Shaman, then they would see that as a spread of that dark infection, a direct assault on humanity itself. But under that religious foundation was a much more frightening one to the Loremasters; human Shaman could infiltrate their organization and expose all their dark secrets, just as Kyven had done. They had worked for centuries to wipe out the Shaman, and they feared them above all other things in this world. The fact that no Arcan was allowed to even set foot on the island holding their headquarters showed that fear to the world. If the Loremasters had proof that humans were Shaman, then they would all but self-destruct as they desperately tried to find out how many humans had become Shaman, and try to destroy them. But that would be impossible. A Shaman was completely indistinguishable from other Arcans unless he used his powers, and the same would hold for the humans.
The Loremasters would go nuts, knowing that there were human Shaman out there working against them, and all their elaborate precautions, which were aimed at Arcans, would mean nothing.
Yes, his totem would salt lies with that little bit of truth, and throw the Loremasters into disarray. As would telling them that their secret was out, that the kingdoms of Noraam knew about their perfidy. That would force the Loremasters to devote most of their resources and energy towards keeping the alliance that gave them complete power together until they were ready to dissolve it . . . which would fail. Flaur was already leaving the alliance, and Kyven figured that as more and more kingdoms learned of the treachery of the Loremasters, they would follow suit. The more the Loremasters had to keep their eyes focused on this side of the Smoke Mountains, the better it would be for Haven.
That was what he must do. Admitting he was a Shaman would ruin any chance he might have to use it to escape . . . but that was a moot point. They had taken his eyes and put this device over his face, and without his eyes, without being able to see, escaping from this place would be all but impossible. Even if he could use magic, him stumbling around looking for the door would make escaping just a tiny bit difficult.
They may not even believe he was a Shaman since he couldn't use magic.
He just wanted it done, so he could die. Being tortured into unconsciousness wasn't very much fun, and this place was starting to get to him in a way that had nothing to do with his tormentors. He was hungry and thirsty, and that triggered a terror far more effective than anything the Loremasters could throw at him, a lingering trauma from his time in the Ledwell's cage. He had a nearly phobic fear, a terror, of starving to death, of dying of thirst, and internal fears like that were far stronger than the kind of fear the Loremasters were trying to instill into him to make him talk.
Yes, these men knew nothing of true torture. Coming hours from dying of starvation in plain view of dozens of people, and having a sadistic monster eat and drink in front of you while it was happening, that was true torture.
He sighed and raised his head, feeling nothing but pain and exhaustion, reaching out with his senses, but he felt his hearing return quickly, even as he heard the steps coming towards him. Maybe this thing on his head rendered him deaf unless they wanted him to hear, to make it that much harder to try to escape. That could certainly be it, though it was a silly point. Maybe it was another torture mechanism, sensory deprivation to augment the terror, the fear of waiting, of never knowing . . . . That would work on some men, but not Kyven, for he had nothing to fear from these men. He was a Shaman, he would stand tall and proud, and not fear death so long as his death served the spirits and the Arcans. The only fear he had in him was fear of failing his totem, and the lingering phobia of starving left in him by the Ledwells.
He knew almost immediately what was coming when he heard the door open, and only one set of footsteps entered the room. The promise was unfulfilled, and until it was, they would not stop. They would not stop torturing him and start asking him questions until he screamed.
And he intended for them to break that promise, for fear that they'd kill him before they got anything out of him. Though a pain stick did no physical harm, it did put stresses on the body. The weaker the victim, the more apt a pain stick was to cause them to die from the shock.
"You are going to scream," the gravel-voiced sergeant said in a dreadfully eager voice. "And I think you owe me a scream on top of that.
And before Kyven could offer a tart response, the world exploded into pain.
The sergeant was as effective with his pain stick as he was sadistic. It took a cruel, twisted man to train and practice to bring a man to the brink of passing out with a pain stick over and over, inflicting unspeakable agony, and not either be horrified by it or enjoy it. This man was the kind that enjoyed it. For how long, Kyven had no idea, he was repeatably tormented with a device whose soul function was to make someone feel like they had been cast into Hell. Every time, he could feel consciousness slipping away as the pain stick was held to him for an eternity, and each time, the man expertly removed the stick just a second before he dropped into that abyss. Minutes passed, or hours, or maybe years, and the cycle continued of being tortured with the pain stick to the brink of unconsciousness, only to be denied that sweet oblivion. His Shaman-trained endurance worked both for him and against him, as it gave him the strength and focus to fight the pain enough not to scream, but it also gave him a strength that caused him to remain strong and conscious long after weaker men would have either passed out or died from the trauma of the pain stick.
Kyven lost all sense of rationality, after a while. Logical thought escaped him, all rationality retreated into the deepest recesses of his mind, leaving only a vacant, unthinking mind that knew only pain, knew only that no matter what, it could not scream, that no matter how unbearable the pain was, something even worse would happen to him if he screamed. It just kept on and on, pain sweeping him towards a dark pit, only to drag him back away from the edge over which he so desperately wanted to jump. That was his little victory, that was his refuge from the pain, that black hole deep in himself, and it was to that point the clawed and struggled to reach. But the pain was an effective shackle holding him in the conscious world, until the one time the shackle seemed to have just a tiny bit too much slack. Kyven reached his goal, lunged over the edge and into the pit, and found, if only for a moment, the sweet nothingness of oblivion.
But that itself was a lie. He became aware of something jabbing him in the stomach, something that felt like a cane's tip, and the conscious part of his mind that had been huddling in the dark tunnels of his subconscious like a child realized that the crystal in the pain stick had been depleted.
That was two.
"Two . . . down," he whispered so feebly that he wasn't sure if he even made a sound.
"Then you owe me four screams, you piece of shit," the sergeant growled, and Kyven's drooping head snapped to the side as the man punched him, punched him hard enough to fracture his cheekbone.
What the pain stick couldn't accomplish, the brutal punch had. Kyven spiraled down into the welcome darkness like a traveler stepping across the threshold of a house unseen and missed for a long, long time.
Pain.
Eventually, that was all there was. All else succumbed to pain, the pain in his arms and back, the pain in his head from his broken cheekbone, the shuddering pain of a body that had been subjected to a pain stick for so long that now there was a lingering pain in every cell of his body, as if a pain stick had taken up residence inside of him. The pain scoured away his rational mind, and over some time - how long he had no idea - of being tortured to unconsciousness, of being weakened from no food and no water, Kyven's mind began to wander.
He could no longer remember how many times he'd been tortured, it was as if his entire life had been spent in this terrifying darkness, where the sudden arrival of sound in his ears as naught but the realization that he was awake, and also that he was about to be sent back into oblivion only after he was tortured to the brink of madness. The only thing he knew, the only thing to which he clung from his rational mind, was the fact that he had not screamed. He had not made a single sound since he had uttered the words "that's two."
But it wasn't the pain that had the most effect on him, it was the horrid, horrifying emptiness inside him. Kyven's mind reacted to his starvation like a child confronted with a monster, and that was sheer terror and a desperate need to flee, to escape. He feared his hunger far more than he feared the footsteps entering the room, because at least the footsteps eventually brought blissful unknowingness, where the emptiness inside him threatened to consume him from within. The deep subconscious of his mind remembered the cage, remembered the torment, remembered what it felt like to be so hungry that it took a man's very soul. That was a feeling that he never wanted to feel again, feel the burn of his muscles as a dehydrated body consumed its own tissues to survive, to be so hungry that he would eat stones if only to fill the terrifying emptiness at his core.
Kyven's will was powerful and his body was strong, but the strongest body could not last long without water. Some hazy part of him was aware of that, that he would die of dehydration, that his raw wrists had stopped oozing blood if only because there was little blood left to seep out. He was weakened from the repeated tortures, debilitated by his injuries, and his life had drained away to hang by a thread by the seeping drops of blood that escaped the tortured flesh under the manacles that held him suspended over the floor.
He was so far gone that as he hung there, he distinctly heard and felt his left shoulder dislocate, pulled out of its socket by the stress placed on it by the manacle and the awkward position. But even that injury was painless. He was only aware of it because he had felt his shoulder pull free, and felt a strange new pressure on his shoulder and arm as he hung by a slightly different angle.
No matter how hard he tried to keep focused, he felt his mind slipping away, overwhelmed by hunger, thirst, exhaustion, and trauma. He drifted in a haze, a shadowy world where the present and the past were all mixed up, a world of shades and spectres conjured by a delirious mind. He was again in the cage, chained to the roof, feeling the fire in his veins from no water, the fire in his throat, and the all-consuming hunger, even as he watched the Ledwell family enjoy a breakfast out on their back porch. Every bite ripped out his very soul as they ate in front of a starving man, a man who wore a collar that would destroy him if he made a single sound. He hung there, watching them eat, and then the world exploded into pain.
And that was too much. His determined defiance wilted as his mind lost its focus, and he screamed. It was a primal scream, a scream of a mindless animal in absolute agony, and had it been heard beyond the walls of the prison, it would have given children nightmares and sent respectable women racing for the safety of their homes.
The pain eased, leaving him trembling and totally delirious. He drifted in his own world, a world of shadows and strange shapes, of strange whispers and both pain and fear. Pain from a tortured body, pain from a starving stomach, and fear of what that emptiness inside him meant, though he had lost too much rationality to understand why it made him so afraid. It was reflexive, innate, subconscious, that fear, and that fear overwhelmed all others.
Then, there was respite. Something cool and wet touched his lips, and he responded by instinct, taking in the blessed wetness and swallowing it. It was like nectar from the gods, and the liquid eased the mind-consuming pain within him, seemed to take the pain away, and made him feel . . . good. He felt better, but still weak, still felt the pain behind that sensation, but he felt like the pain just . . . didn't matter.
A voice drifted within his haze, a voice he did not know. "What is your name?"
"Kyven . . . Steelhammer," he whispered in reply. He saw no reason why he should not respond to the voice. It was something, something other than pain or fear, something that gave his mind a new stimulus to which to respond.
"You are the same Kyven Steelhammer from Atan?"
"Yes."
There seemed to be a . . . pause. He swam in his delusion for what seemed like long moments before the voice whispered to him again.
"How were you helping the black fox Shaman?"
"I . . . am . . . the black fox," he whispered feverishly. "It's . . . my disguise."
A startled silence. "You are a Shaman?"
"I . . . was. No eyes . . . no eyes . . . ."
"A Shaman? You're a Shaman?"
He couldn't understand why the voice was so insistent. "Yes," he reaffirmed.
"A human Shaman?"
"The . . . first," he breathed, then he coughed, which weakened him considerably. "The . . . first of . . . those . . . to come."
"Who sent you to Avannar?"
"Haven."
"What is Haven?"
"Haven."
"Again, what is Haven?"
"Arcans," he whispered, his head drooping even lower. "Arcans."
"They're part of the Masked?"
"The . . . Masked is . . . part of . . . them."
There was another silence. "You mean Arcans run the Masked, and not humans?"
"Yes. Haven commands . . . Masked obey."
"Where are the leaders of Haven?"
"Far," he mumbled. "Far."
"Where exactly?"
"Far," he repeated. "Cold. Snow. Far."
"What city do they hide in?"
"Haven," he answered. "Capitol . . . Arcan nation. Haven."
There was a long silence, so much so that Kyven thought the comforting voice that was giving him a reason to focus on something other than the pain had left him.
"You mean to say that there is a nation of Arcans?" came the whisper in his mind, incredulous.
"Cities. Villages. Many," he whispered disjointedly. "Far. Cold. Snow."
There was another lengthy time where he floated alone in his shadowy world, and then the voice touched him once again. "What is your purpose here, Kyven Steelhammer?"
"Learn. Watch. Warn," he answered. "Share."
"And what did you learn?"
"Loremasters . . . lie. Crystals . . . gone. Loreguard. Atan. Mines. Take. War . . . coming. Warn. Flaur believes. Flaur . . . fighting . . . Loremasters. Mountains . . . blood. War. Noraam. War."
"War with who?"
"Everyone. All Noraam . . . war . . . coming. Crystals . . . gone. Noraam . . . fight. Mines. Mountains . . . blood.
"Flaur intends to go to war with the Loremasters?"
"Yes. Loremasters . . . lie. No . . . crystals. Flaur . . . warns . . . others. Alliance . . . dissolved. War. Everywhere. Everyone. Mountains . . . blood. Mines. War."
"So, this Haven is trying to dissolve the Noraavi alliance and get the kingdoms to fight each other?"
"No. War . . . coming. Humans . . . war . . . each other. Crystals . . . gone. Mines. Fight over mines. Mountains . . . blood. Haven . . . save Arcans. Arcans . . . die . . . humans . . . fight. Arcans . . . killed. No crystals . . . collars. Save Arcans."
"So Haven is trying to free the Arcans?"
"Bought . . . Arcans. Bought. Haven . . . send Masked . . . buy. Crystals. Bring . . . crystals. Buy . . . Arcans. Legal. Take . . . Arcans . . . crystals . . . last longer. Collars. Crystals . . . for Arcans. Helps . . . Arcans. Helps . . . humans."
"This Haven has its own crystals? Where do they mine them? What deposits have they found?"
"Shaman . . . make."
There was a startled silence. "Shaman can make crystals?" came a stunned question.
"Spirits . . . mana . . . same. Energy . . . spirits . . . energy . . . crystals. Magic. Same. Shaman . . . .crystals . . . same. Shaman . . . drain. Shaman . . . make. Crystals . . . same . . . Shaman. Shaman . . . make . . . crystals. Masked . . . use. Buy Arcans."
"So you're telling me that you can make crystals?"
"Me . . . no. Weak. Guile . . . deceit. Tricks. Spy. Crystals . . . too weak. Shaman . . . make. Not me. Too weak."
He was starting to feel quite peculiar, and the pain was starting to push away his sense of strange contentment. He could hear the voice, that whispering voice, but it was as if, now, it had no meaning. It joined other voices, other whispers, other murmurs in his head, descended into the cacophony of his shadowy, delusional world.
He heard it, but it meant nothing to him. "The drug is wearing off, and he's no longer in a lucid state. We have to let him rest."
"Give him another dose."
"You don't understand how this drug works, Major. It has what you might call diminishing returns, because his body builds a tolerance to it every time it's used. To get him into a lucid state where he'll answer questions, we'll have to give him a larger dose. If we do give him another dose right now, it will kill him. This drug puts stress on the heart, and I don't think his heart can take that kind of strain right now given he's been weakened by torture and dehydration and his heart is already stressed from the first dose. No, his pulse is racing like a frightened rabbit. Another dose would be fatal."
"That's unacceptable."
"It's our only option, Major. He already proved he can resist torture, so you're not going to get anything out of him unless he's drugged, and these drugs have limits. No dominator or hypnotizer will work on him because of that hood, and I seriously doubt you want to remove that hood right now. No Shaman ever caught has lived more than an hour after taking out his eyes. If he really is a Shaman, then maybe the fact that we didn't take out his eyes is the only reason he's still alive . . . but do you really want to take that hood off of him while he still has his eyes? He won't get out of this room alive, but he'll sure as hell kill everyone in it before he goes."
"How long do we have to wait?"
"Two hours. I suggest giving him some water or broth to build up his strength as well, or the next dose will kill him. He's so weak now, I'm honestly shocked he's not dead."
"Do it, Sergeant. Water him, and we'll continue this in two hours."
There was a long period of shadowy drifting, and then a voice seemed to rise up from the fog. "I can't fuckin' believe it, a human Shaman," the voice growled in a rough voice. "Father - damned traitor to your own race is what you are, you sack a' shit. I'll give you water, alright, but by fuckin' grace, you're gonna scream for it."
And the world exploded in pain.
The pain scoured everything away, everything but a pair of eyes, green and glowing with an unwavering light, staring at him through the darkness of eternity, exploding through the white light popping in his skull from the agony being inflicted on him. The darkness around the eyes swallowed the light, and swallowed the pain, leaving him numb, leaving him unfeeling, leaving him in a state he imagined death would feel.
The eyes simply regarded him emotionlessly, coming no closer, but keeping the pain away, shielding him with the comforting darkness of shadow. The shadow kept the pain away, shadow that seemed to comfort him, shadow that could stand no longer the torment of something that was part of itself and had rose up of its own volition to defend. It shielded him now, protected him from the pain, left him with nothing . . . but at least the pain had been shunted away, blocked.
There was no more pain, and there was nothing more to fear. He was dying. He knew that now. He was dying, and he would go to his grave without giving them the satisfaction of even making him scream. But he would make one more sound before it happened. He looked into those eyes, steady and unmoved, and yearned for them and the release they represented. She had abandoned him, but he still belonged to her. She had come for what was hers. "Did I do well?" he asked in a bare whisper.
"That remains to be seen, my Shaman," came the answer, an answer that filled him with a pride that even staved off the burning of his thirst and the emptiness of his hunger. "Let me show you something."
In a flash, he was no longer in his shifting, private world of ghosts and shadows and voices. He was no longer hungry. He was no longer thirsty. He merely . . . was. He was beside his spirit, and they were moving, even though they were both motionless. Hills and forests blurred by, until he was looking down at a plantation, a tobacco plantation that covered two very low, gentle hills between which a small river flowed. Below him, dozens of Arcans labored in the fields under the watchful eye of a single human carrying a black rod, sitting astride a horse. The Arcans were collared, most of them were naked, and they worked in silence with their heads down
"Where are we?" he asked in a voice that was strong and steady. He looked down and saw that he was nude, but he was whole and unharmed. The hunger was gone, the thirst was gone, the pain was gone. All there was left in him was a peculiar kind of weariness, an exhaustion of a man who had walked the length of Noraam without a single moment's rest. Though he felt weary, he also felt like he could go on for a while longer. He wasn't ready to rest yet . . . and he seemed to sense that if he rested, his spirit would take him, and he would be dead.
"What do you see?" came the answer.
"I see a plantation," he answered, looking down from their hovering viewpoint. "It looks like the piedmonts south of Riyan."
"What do you see?"
He looked again. "I see . . . Arcans. Working the fields. There's a man on a horse watching over them."
"What do you see?"
He looked closer, and that act almost seemed to put him right in the fields among the Arcans. They worked quietly, hands moving among the tobacco stalks picking off insects, pulling up weeds. He looked at a young canine, a brown bristly-furred canine with a nick out of his left ear, and he saw what he had seen in so many Arcans before this one. This one had nothing left in him. The hope, the joy of life, it was gone. The Arcan had been beaten into submission, and now he was nothing but a slave.
"I see despair," he answered after a long moment, looking from Arcan to Arcan. "These Arcans have lost all hope."
"What do you see?"
He looked closer at an older feline, one that vaguely reminded him of Stripes. Is this what could have happened to Stripes had she not had the luck of being bought by Clet's parents? Could Patches be working in this field, or Lightfoot, or Tweak? Was this the fate that awaited the Arcans, to become the slaves the humans made them to be? That almost filled him with despair himself, the thought of beautiful, timid little Patches, so meek and yet so strong, who had endured unspeakable abuse and yet had the strength in her to be her own woman, had the courage to go back into human lands to help her friend, her dear friend, in his dangerous mission. She was on the run now, watched over by Lightfoot and being smuggled to Atan by Shario, who would fulfill his final promise to Kyven and save his beloved Arcan companions. He knew Shario would. Shario was a man of honor, and a man which made Kyven feel honored to consider a friend.
"I see . . . I see a wrong that must be set right," he declared.
"What do you see?"
He hesitated a moment. He knew the answer, but he also understood that to answer that question was to deny the release from the pain he so desperately wanted, and he could sense that in this decision, the spirit would not sway him one way or the other. Two paths split at a fork in the road before him. One was short, but ended in contentment. The other was long and difficult, and ended at the same contentment. He could take either path and arrive at the same destination, and would be welcomed by those at that destination with equal joy and welcome no matter which path he took.
One path was death. The other path was life.
Which path would he choose? There was more to them than that simple idea. If he chose death, he would die hanging from those chains, die and go on to whatever reward the fox felt him worthy, for she owned him, body and soul. But if he chose life, he was returning to the pain, to the horror and the terror of the hunger, but he was also returning to try to make a difference. He had achieved his little victory, but if he chose life, he could maybe achieve a few more little victories.
Maybe . . . he could make a difference.
But he already knew the answer. And to accept that answer was to accept a fundamental truth about himself that he had played at, but had never faced in earnest.
He could not deny it. He was a Shaman now, and he would honor the path he had chosen for himself by being a Shaman in heart, body, mind, and soul. He had believed that by mimicking Clover, he could be a true Shaman, but now he understood that every Shaman was different, that there was no one way to be a Shaman. Clover had her way, he would have his . . . and neither of them would be any less a Shaman. That they served the spirits, served the Arcans, and even served the humans, that was all that mattered. That was their purpose.
That was his purpose.
He had known that truth, but in that moment, he understood it, deep inside himself. Like a door opening in his soul, he understood what it meant to be a Shaman, understood in a way far beyond mere words.
He, Kyven Steelhammer, was a Shaman.
He chose his path.
"I see that I am needed."
He felt . . . acceptance. She was pleased by his decision, but would have thought no less of him for choosing the other path. After suffering so much, she would have accepted it if he chose to end his pain. "Remember this place, my Shaman, for you are needed here. This is where your Walk will end, and you begin the path of a true Shaman. This is where you will begin. This is where you will begin. This is where you will begin. This is where you will begin.
"This is where you will begin . . . ."
The plantation shuddered around him, then it dissolved into darkness, then that darkness shattered like a thousand mirrors and was consumed by the light. And with that light came pain. A world exploded into pain.
But there was more than pain. As the pain stick was removed and rational thought returned to him, he realized that there was more there than there had been.
The fox had taught him the second of the three spells she said he ever had need to know.
That simple act told him everything. It told him that they had not taken his eyes. The device over his face had to shut his eyes down in a way that made it impossible for him to use his magic, since his eyes were his window into the spirit world, and therefore the focus of his power. He was also keenly aware of every shadow around him, he could sense every single one of them, sense how deep they were, their shapes, and could sense the energy within them in a way he had only felt when he was an Arcan. As unbelievable as that seemed, he knew what it meant. Somehow, some way, the fox had restored him to humanity, but she did not take his shadow powers. She left them within him, and only now, in this moment of clarity, did he understand the truth.
The truth within the truth, within the lie. Which was itself within a deeper truth.
Guile and deceit.
He understood that he had had a vision, incited by a moment of near-death, but that didn't make it any less real or true. His spirit had communicated with him in that vision, and now he understood.
He understood.
All of this, it had been a test. She had tested his devotion, tested his determination, and tested his loyalty.
And he passed.
He understood that the fox did want him to reveal certain truths to the Loremasters. He knew that he had said . . . something. He couldn't clearly remember, only knew that he had heard a voice, and had responded to it while in some kind of haze. He had no idea what he'd told the Loremasters, but something told him that he said exactly what his spirit wanted them to hear. She was playing her own game in this, a game separate from the other spirits, and Kyven was the primary piece on her board. He had served his purpose, and now she was moving him elsewhere, to begin the game again.
For some reason, she felt his time in Avannar was complete, and though he could certainly serve Haven by remaining in the city to feed them information, the fox had decided to use him in some other manner. But before he left, she wanted certain truths revealed, truths which would be highly effective in turning the Loremasters on their ears and sending them in a panic. He had no idea what he told the Loremasters, but given what he knew, he was certain that any one of his deeper secrets would cause the Loremasters to go into hysterics.
To use that spell, he needed his eyes and he needed to be in contact with his victim. That wouldn't be that hard, because he could sense the crystal in the device over his upper face, and he was absolutely sure he could drain it even without his eyes. And he'd be in contact with his victim the next time he jabbed him with that pain stick. The alchemical device would serve as a bridge, for it was a conductor of magical energy. All he had to do was open himself to the energy within the pain stick, and the crystal inside would get drained the instant it made contact with him. It wouldn't be instant, but the pain stick wouldn't function while he was draining it, which would protect him from its pain-giving purpose.
He was starved, dehydrated, injured, exhausted, and disoriented, but he knew it was time to act.
He focused his attention on feeling the magic around him. He could feel the crystal on the device over his face, and could sense the crystal of the pain stick close to him, as well as a few other crystals. The sergeant was loaded with alchemical devices, he could assense them. From the sense of the shadow under him, Kyven could detect that he was close, within reach of the pain stick. He had recoiled, watching Kyven carefully, no doubt having heard him make a sound, and would most likely hit him again to make him scream.
First things first. He focused his attention on the crystal and the device over his face, sensing the magic within them, the power of the spirits trapped in the mortal world. He opened himself to that power completely, and that act caused the crystal within the device to discharge all of its power into Kyven through the alchemical device which was specifically built to channel magic. Kyven absorbed that power and immediately turned it on himself in a blessing, a blessing that would cause him to recover quickly from his wounds and exhaustion after he rested. Such a blessing would remain within him until it was activated, so that ensured that he would recover much faster than if he let nature take its course.
The instant the crystal was drained, the device over his face ceased functioning. Light assaulted his eyes, and his eyelids and eyes suddenly worked again, no longer paralyzed and rendered useless by the device which had been placed over them. His eyes worked again, and delving the device told him that it had been made to render the wearer blind and deaf when the user so desired. It was a clever device, no doubt designed to use against a Shaman in how it rendered one sightless, by completely disabling the eyes. The problem was, the Loremasters believed that a Shaman was powerless without his eyes, but that wasn't entirely true. Crystals had the same power within them, and with a crystal to serve as the source of magic, a Shaman could utilize blessings, which did not require him to be able to see, and thus didn't require that he even have eyes to use. That was why he had been surprised when they used an alchemical device to torture him rather than use mundane means. They obviously felt that with that device on his head, he was powerless.
Back to the drawing board for them. But he had to admit, it was a very clever idea that almost worked.
He opened his eyes to the spirits, and opened his eyes, the glow all but concealed behind the wire mesh over his eyes. The metal mesh over his face didn't exist to spirit sight, so he saw right through it and saw that he was in a medium sized room holding only the one man. Behind him there was a large table behind which there were several chairs, and from the pattern of tiny life and also the crystals within them, he saw that there were several small objects and two alchemical devices on that table. Clearly they believed he was absolutely no threat, for the man was alone, alone with him in the room. No other observers, not even guards. That was . . . that was just stupid. The man was wearing three devices in addition to the pain stick in his hand, a talker, a shockrod, and a small device hanging by a chain around his neck. He watched a moment as Kyven's head wilted, then he reared back with the pain stick, and pushed it forward -
Kyven struck the instant the pain stick touched him. The crystal in the pain stick suddenly had an unimpeded path for its power to return to the spirit world, which caused the stick to cease to function as its power bled away from a different path. Even as he drained the pain stick, he imagined the spell the fox had taught him and then unleashed it against the unwary man.
He didn't even get the chance to scream. Kyven would never be strong enough to heal, but what the fox taught him was a spell that wasn't quite healing, but would help him now. It was a vampiric attack, as Kyven drained away the very life energy of his victim, life energy that would revitalize him enough to be able to move and function for a short time. He would still be starved and dehydrated, but the borrowed strength would be enough for him to operate for a good half an hour before it drained away, giving him a good, solid chance to effect his escape. Energy flowed into him, through him, surging into a weakened heart and causing it to beat with strength and certainly, flowed through muscles that had been slowly eroding away and gave them renewed vitality. The strength and energy did nothing for his raw wrists or dislocated shoulder, but it did give him the sudden strength to pull against his chains and take the stress off his shoulders, even as the man, paralyzed by the spell and his eyes wild, began to degrade. His skin took a grayish pall, and his muscles seemed to wilt and wither as the energy was drained from him. As Kyven grew stronger, the man grew weaker, until he was no longer strong enough to hold the pain stick or stand. He broke the contact, which ended the spell, but by then it was too late. He collapsed to the ground, too weak to move, too weak to cry out, his eyes the only thing that could move . . . until they rolled back in his head and he passed out
He wasn't dead, but it would take him weeks to recover what Kyven took from him. But, Kyven knew he could kill with that spell, if he kept contact long enough to drain away every iota of life energy within his victim. The fox would not grant him the black energy of death magic that could kill instantly, but she had no qualms teaching him spells that killed as secondary effect, like his cold and his lightning. The spells themselves weren't killing, it was the effects they created that caused death . . . just indirectly. A small difference, but it made all the difference in the world when once compared black crystal energy to other energies.
He knew he didn't have much time. The energy he stole would only last a short time, a short time he had to get out of wherever he was and get somewhere safe. He turned his attention to himself, and then called forth the energy of the shadow. He felt it fill him, move through him, infuse him, and then he felt it settle into him. His body again took on that shadowy form, and that shadow he could manipulate. It was a simple matter to make his feet thin enough to slip through the manacles on his ankles, then he did the same to his hands. He slipped free of his chains, the foot chains clinking to the stone floor as he dropped lightly beside the man, using his command of his shadow form to even put his shoulder back in its socket, and doing it painlessly while his body was malleable and open to such manipulation. He felt no pain, felt strong and healthy, but he knew that underneath that false feeling he was still injured and weakened, and his good feeling would last only as long as the stolen strength within him lasted.
He didn't have time to think about this or plan it. All he had time to do was step out that door and wing it for everything he was worth, because he still had not learned how to move through the shadows, and his false sense of strength and vitality was only an illusion. In his condition, he couldn't risk trying. He would get out in a way suitable for a Shaman of the shadow fox; he would put on an illusion, walk out that door, and use every lie, trick, and deception he knew to talk his way out of this prison and to freedom.
He did have one sense of poetic justice. He wasted the time and energy to strip and search the wasted form of the grizzled, sadistic sergeant, found the key to his manacles and his cell on his body, and then put the sergeant in the manacles in his place. The man's uniform wouldn't fit him, so he used it to clean all the blood off his arms and feet so as to prevent any physical evidence give him away if he was touched. He then took all the man's alchemical devices, threw his now bloodstained uniform on the table but belted on his belt holding his pistol, shockrod, and his money, put the circular pendant device around his neck just as the sergeant had worn it, and he also decided to keep the wire mesh device that robbed him of the use of his eyes. That might be useful, but it would also be good to give it to a friendly alchemist and have them study it. He then wrapped himself in an illusion of the sergeant before Kyven attacked him, perfect in every detail. After it was done, he picked up the depleted pain stick, took out the man's keys, went out, and locked the door.
Beyond the door was a long, narrow corridor devoid of any windows. It had only one door, and that was the door to his cell, and then a fifty rod walk to where a pair of guards stood flanking a dark stairway leading up. It was a curious setup, but given what kind of security risk Kyven was, it made sense to put him in a place where the only way out was down a long corridor with no other way to go, and two guards that would see him coming. Kyven stumped down the hall in a way that mimicked what he heard of the man's walk, and it seemed to be enough to convince the two men that he was who they thought he was.
"Be right back," Kyven said in the man's own voice. "Privy."
They let him go by without challenge.
The stairs came up to another level, more what Kyven expected a prison would appear. It was a large open chamber filled with cages built into the middle, open-air cells that held men. Cell doors were also in the walls on each wall of the rectangular chamber's long sides, and there was another set of stairs at the other end of the long room. The men in the open cells were all naked, dirty, bedraggled, and looked weary. Most of them had beards, and the longer their beards, the thinner and more emaciated they appeared. The place smelled awful. There were guards at the stairs on the far end, but there were also two patrols of single roving guards that seemed to walk the path around the center cages, patrolling the chamber. The chamber was lit by a series of alchemical lamps affixed to the ceiling, high and far out of reach of anyone without a ladder.
Kyven realized he was in the Black Keep, the notorious island prison just upriver from the Loremaster headquarters. A room like this wouldn't exist in the Loremaster headquarters, and they would not take him anywhere else but the Black Keep if they took him out of that building.
He took stock. The look of this place was that it was underground, one of the dungeons under the keep, so he had to go up to the ground floor and then find his way outside. Once outside, he had to get on a boat; there were no bridges to the Black Keep. That gave the guards at least three solid chokepoints where he would have to talk or trick his way past them. Once at the door to the keep, once more at the gate through the wall surrounding it, then a third time at the boat dock as he tried to get to the mainland. The sergeant probably had no orders to leave the island, so the problem would come at the wall gate and the boat dock. He could probably talk his way out of the front door just by professing a desire for a little fresh air.
Well, no reason to dally. He set off down the length of the room, nodding to the single guard that was patrolling the rectangular hallway created by the cages in the middle and the wall. The guard nodded back, but did not challenge him. He wasn't challenged by the guards at the far stairs either, and mounted them and went up a straight stair that opened into yet another hallway. This looked vaguely familiar, a long wide passage with a set of open bar cells one side, showing that each cell held four men, and no furniture, just blankets laid out on the floor and a bucket to serve as a chamber pot. Catwalks on the upper walls above had doors, forming a stack of sorts of cells on only one side of the block, with stairs on the far side, near a closed and barred door. It looked very similar to the kennel in which he'd been kept in Cheston. Kyven passed two patrolling guards on the way to that closed door, and as he approached, he inspected it. It was a iron bar door, open from top to bottom, and two men stood guard just on the other side of it. He saw no way to open it from his side, which meant that the men beyond had to open the door for him, but he did see that it had an alchemical device inside it, which formed part of its lock. He stumped up to the door and stood there, but the two men just looked at him lazily. "Well?" he finally growled in the sergeant's voice.
"Well what, Sergeant?" one of them asked.
"You gonna make me wait all day or you gonna open the door?" Kyven demanded.
The men laughed. "I never knew a sergeant's stripes entitled a man to be treated like a general," the shorter of the two men said, who also had sergeant's stripes on his uniform.
Clearly, they expected him to open the door, but he had no key, and all there was on this side of the door was a keyslot.
Wait. The keyslot was thin, and it was just an etched depression in the door. The shape of it and the fact that it was alchemical made it pretty clear what he had to do. He took the little medallion off his neck and fitted the edge of it into that depression, and found it fit perfectly. He turned it, and then the door unlocked and retracted into the wall of its own volition. "Anything else, your Majesty?" the other sergeant asked teasingly.
"I need a drink. I'm feeling a bit drained," Kyven growled as he stumped past them. Beyond them was a short corridor with another door, and that door had a more normal door beyond it that should open to the outside, or to another part of the prison. He fitted his key to the next door, and it too opened to the key.
Not a single man challenged him as he made his way through the prison. That heavy door did not lead outside, it was more of a division between major sections of the prison. Kyven moved from section to section at a steady pace, through different cellblocks, saying nothing to any man, but always moving as if he knew exactly where he was going even though he had no idea. He was just moving from major doorway to major doorway, knowing that eventually he would either find a window or a door that would lead outside. He spent so much time walking that he started to feel the passage of time, and he knew that the strength he stole from the sergeant wasn't going to hold out forever. He had to find his way out, and find it quickly, then get himself someplace safe and hole up until he had a chance to recover.
But his luck did pay off, for he reached what seemed a major node of the keep, where there were doors on three walls that led to cell blocks, and a fourth that opened directly to the outside. He made his way to that door quickly, using his key to open it, and stepped out into a paved courtyard that had a huge set of gates at the far end, gates which were closed and guarded. There were a few guards out in the courtyard, and there was a table and chairs off to one side where a few guards sat and rested, probably taking a break. This courtyard was a staging area for the guards on top of being the main way into the prison. It was late afternoon, very nearly sunset, windy, and the sky was heavily laden with clouds that threatened rain, and that determined just what kind of angle Kyven would use to try to talk his way off the island.
He knew he had to do it, so he wasted no time. He stumped up to that main gate, and a guard on the far side regarded him. "Did the major leave?" he asked.
"Which one?"
"The one that's been coming in with me, blockhead," Kyven growled.
The guard frowned. "I don't know. I can check."
"Do it, cause I need to talk to him, and I can't find him anywhere," Kyven said bluntly.
"He's not answering his talker?"
"If he was answering his talker, would I be looking for him?" Kyven asked acidly. "That's why I'm out here seeing if he left!"
The guards checked several logs, then he came back. "He left half an hour ago," he answered.
"Then let me out, I have to go get him," Kyven said.
"Why don't you just call him in?"
Kyven had the illusion give the man a flat look. "And just how do I do that when he ain't answerin' his talker?" he asked.
"Oh. Right," the man said with a rueful chuckle.
Kyven stood there and watched with building anxiety as the guard opened the gate for him. The large gate swung open ponderously, and Kyven stalked through it and down the well-defined paved path that led down to the docks. He kept his elation in check as he marched down to the docks, and without so much as a word, stumped into the small boat and sat down as a young man started untying it from the wharf. The young man took hold of the tiller, and the boat, powered by alchemy, started across the river of its own volition. The young man aimed them at a guarded quay that jutted out into the river, and the trip only took a few minutes. The entire time, however, Kyven was carefully measuring how he felt and how it deteriorated, and estimated he only had about twenty more minutes before he was all but debilitated by his exhaustion and injuries. He had to find a place where he could rest and recover, but it couldn't be anywhere even remotely connected to Kyven Steelhammer. That meant that he had to avoid Shario and his friends, and go somewhere where he could hide when they started searching for him . . . and they would search for him. They would seal Avannar off and search the entire city from one end to the other until they found him, and he knew it. He needed to escape, but that would do him no good after his borrowed strength ebbed and he was helpless. No, he needed to eat, and he needed to do it right now. Food and water would work with the blessing he put on himself to help him recover quickly, so he wouldn't be helpless for long after his borrowed strength faded.
He knew where he could go.
As soon as the boat reached the far side, he climbed out and stumped up the quay, saying not a single word to any man. He turned on River Street towards the Loremaster headquarters, which was only a couple of blocks up, but he turned off the street and into a narrow alley as soon as he was out of convenient sight of the guards at the quay. He changed his illusion to that of a well-dressed man with short, well groomed blond hair, wearing a clean, new gray waistcoat over a linen shirt and a pair of elegant black breeches. Once he had his illusion settled, he hurried to an inn he had visited once before, the inn where he'd stayed when the fox had sent him here after parting with Stalker.
The place was exactly as he remembered it, as was the marten at the door and the well-dressed proprietor. He wasn't playing chess this time, he was standing near a table holding men dressed in finery and smoking cigars, and he shook Kyven's hand as he entered the common room and was seated at a table by the marten. "Nice to meet you, my friend. What may my fine kitchen make for you?"
"Anything that's ready, my good gentleman," Kyven answered. "And a lot of it. I'm quite hungry."
"I have a sumptuous beef and vegetable stew simmering as we speak, sir."
"Stew it is. And some bread and some potatoes, fresh milk if you have it along with some fine ale and a pitcher of water, and be sure to make the plate heavy." Kyven handed the man a 25 chit coin.
"I'll have it brought to you at once," he said with a smile.
A slender little raccoon female came out quickly, loaded down with a tray meant for him. On that tray was two bowls of stew, milk, a bowl of sliced potatoes in a beef broth, a tankard of hearty ale, and a small decanter pitcher filled with water. Kyven felt his strength ebbing as the raccoon placed his meal before him, and his hands were shaking under the illusion as the cute little raccoon serving girl set things down one at a time. The smell of it almost made him tear it out of her hands, and it was a supreme act of willpower to allow her to set it on the table. "Will there be anything else, good Master?" the raccoon asked.
"No thank you. This smells heavenly."
"We have very good cooks here, good Master. If you need anything else, just wave and I'll come serve you."
As soon as she left, he wanted to ravenously attack the meal . . . but he couldn't do that. If he tore into the meal like a starving man here in the common room in front of everyone, it might make people curious, and Kyven didn't want to stand out. So he took his time, almost torturing himself as he first poured a glass of water with a trembling hand and started drinking slowly. His stomach heaved when the water hit it, so he took small sips, letting his stomach adjust little by little. After he'd drank about half the glass, he set it down and took up his spoon and a slice of warm dark bread and started eating very slowly, both so it didn't look unusual to the other customers and also to allow his stomach to accept the food so soon after the water without him throwing it back up. He ate the large bowl of stew and all the bread, and drank almost all of the pitcher of water, eating steadily but not too fast so as not to make himself sick. Then he ate the potatoes, drank the broth, finished off the water, then leaned back and nursed his tankard of ale . . . not for the alcohol, but because a good ale was actually good for a recovering body. He could almost feel the food working with the blessing he had placed on himself, and under his borrowed strength, which was starting to ebb, he could feel that his body was recovering. He would still be weak, and he'd have to be careful, but he felt confident he could sustain his illusion. After he felt so full he could barely move and enjoyed a few precious moments of rest and recovery, he used the privy which was just off the common room and dispelled shockingly dark yellow urine from himself.
When he returned to the common room, he saw a large number of Loreguard at the entrance, and the proprietor standing there talking to them. Kyven knew that they'd discovered he had escaped, but they didn't want to raise an alarm. But he also didn't want to use that door, nor appear even remotely human right now. They were going to stop every man they could find and make sure it wasn't Kyven, so he needed to look very much unlike himself right now.
He wrapped himself in an illusion of the raccoon serving female as soon as he was out of the common room, using the passage that went from the common room out to the stableyard behind the inn. He stepped out into the stableyard and moved to the horse gate without hesitation.
"Dancer, what are you doing out there? You know you're still on duty!" came a quiet call. Kyven looked towards the dorm, and saw a young male raccoon looking through a small window from his room.
Kyven didn't answer. What he did do was allow the illusion's eyes to suddenly glow with a steady emerald light, and the illusion put a finger before its muzzle with a slightly mischievous expression.
The raccoon's eyes widened, and he nodded vigorously. "Will you bless me?" he called in a bare whisper.
He couldn't resist. He came over to the window and reached in, putting his hand on the raccoon's shoulder. "May the spirits bless you, and watch over you, and bring you happiness," he said in his own voice, which made the young male's eyes go wild.
And for the first time, he truly meant it.
"I was never here."
"You were never here," the raccoon affirmed, putting his hands on Kyven's wrist and forearms with an adoring expression. His eyes widened even more when he felt no fur under his pads, just skin. Human skin, and raw open wounds left over from the manacles The hand that recoiled from his wrist had a little blood on the pad from his open wounds.
He just put his finger to his lips again, his eyes playful.
"To my grave, Shaman. To my grave."
He let himself out of the stable gate, and as soon as he was in an alley, he again changed his illusion. He was now a Loreguard officer, a Captain, who looked ruggedly handsome with graying black hair, salt-and-pepper, and walked with a slight limp, the illusion patterned on a real Loreguard officer whose name Kyven did not know, but whom Kyven had seen. He came back out to River Street and moved towards the quay used by boats running to the Black Keep along a street that was now empty of anything but Loreguard, for the sun had set, the streets were darkening and the sky threatened to unleash its rain at any moment, and curfew was still in effect.
This was the gamble. The last thing they would ever expect is for him to go back to the Black Keep. But this was his only way out.
Moving through Loreguard patrols with little trouble, Kyven limped back to the quay holding the boats to the Black Keep, just as the rain began to fall. He marched past the guards at the street, then was challenged by the guards near the boats. "I have business on the island, Corporal," he said in a calm yet authoritative voice.
"I need - nevermind," he said under Kyven's steady stare. Kyven limped past him as gracefully as he could, and settled himself in the very same boat he'd used to get off the island. The same young man untied it and started them towards the island.
The rain was a blessing. After they were about a hundred rods out from the quay, it made the shore hard to see in the rapidly descending darkness. Kyven simply sat there for a moment, gauging the visibility, then he turned in the boat and looked at the young man. "I imagine that a man who makes his living in boats would know how to swim, in case of an accident. Ever learn, my boy?" he asked curiously.
"Why, yes sir," he answered.
"Good."
Kyven reached out and put a hand on the young man's bare arm, and used the strength-stealing spell. The man seemed to jerk, but he too was paralyzed by the spell, unable to move as Kyven drained him of a portion of his strength. Kyven drained away more and more of his strength, feeling it flood him, until the man slumped, the tiller shifted, and the boat began to turn wild circles in the steady rain. Kyven ended the spell feeling once again invigorated and renewed, then pushed the young man to the floor of the boat and took his place at the tiller. He'd seen the young man use it, so he knew that all he had to do was twist the handle to make the boat go, and the tiller would guide it. Kyven turned the boat downstream and turned the handle enough to give them a steady pace. He passed under the bridge leading to the Loremaster's island unseen, and when he was out from under it, he turned the handle to make the boat move slowly yet steadily, not so fast that its motion would draw attention through the steady rain, and he steered the boat to the very center of the river, which would make him all but invisible in the rainy night from either shore, barely moving faster than the river's current so the boat drew no attention from its motion and it left no wake that would betray the passage of the boat to those on shore.
This was the last place they'd look, because they could account for every man that had left the island except for the sergeant, whom they had seen walk off into old Avannar. That was where they would look first, and wouldn't think to cover the rivers until their hasty first search came up empty, when it became clear to them that Kyven was not injured, did not crawl off to the first hole he could find and try to bury himself. And it would be the hardest place for them to check, for only boats could get out here.
He moved very slowly but steadily downstream, going on the strength he stole from the young man laying unconscious in the boat's bottom, until a shadow ahead of him revealed a ship anchored as close to the center of the river as it could manage. It was a Loreguard naval vessel, and its rails were manned with sailors who were peering out into the storm with alchemical lights. Kyven released the alchemical motor and caused the boat to slow to a drift, carried only by the current so as to leave no wake whatsoever, and he covered the entire boat in an illusion that it was a piece of driftwood, a large log that might explain the very faint wake trailing out behind the boat. Covering the whole boat strained him considerably in his weakened condition, and he had to concentrate every iota of strength on it to hold it steady, so much so that his heart was pounding in his ears after only a moment. But he did not waver, did not falter, drawing on the strength he stole from the young man to give him the strength he needed to drift past the anchored boat, a process that took nearly ten agonizing minutes where he thought of nothing but holding his illusion, and he burned up all the stolen strength he had taken from the young man. He slid past it silently, and once he was past it, as the ship vanished into the rainy night he saw the wharfs of Avannar. Those were on the edge of town. That naval vessel had been the picket searching for renegade boats . . . searching for him.
But he was past them.
He had escaped.
He leaned against the back of the boat, feeling weary, in pain, but strangely good. He had no stolen strength left, and it left him weak as a kitten, his wrists and ankles throbbing, his shoulder aching, and his breathing fast and a little shallow as he tried to recover . . . and he did recover. The blessing he has used on himself right at first was already at work, and he knew he would be if not in good shape, at least in good enough shape to travel by sunrise. He didn't know how much he'd told the Loremasters, but something told him that he said what he needed to say to further whatever plans his totem had in mind. He had faced himself, and had admitted, in his soul, what he was, something he had never done before. Before, he knew he was a Shaman. Now, he understood what that meant. He wasn't just parroting, mimicking Clover, imitating what he thought a Shaman should be. He knew who he was, he knew what he was, and he knew what he had to do.
He had a duty that he had to answer. Not because he knew it was the right thing to do, but because he was a Shaman, and he was needed to serve the will of the spirits, of his spirit, at that place. So she directed, so he followed. He would not be like Clover, but he would be no less a Shaman than her.
He twisted the handle on the tiller as far as it would go, and the boat surged ahead. Somewhere down this river and to the west, somewhere south of Riyan, there was a tobacco plantation situated on two gentle hills with a river between them. That was his destination. He had no idea where it was. He had no idea what he would do there, and he was too tired and weary to dwell much upon it. He only knew that his totem had ordered him to go there, that he was needed there, and so he would go.
And that, he mused, had been the most important lesson of all.