The sensation of a man kicking him none too gently in the ribs jarred Rynn from a deep sleep. He pulled his arms up to protect himself and yelled for the man to stop.
Seeing that his subject was awake, the black-robed figure looked down and nearly spat his orders. "Get up. You have an audience with the Belab. There is some water in the corner. Use it to clean yourself then step out of the tent. Be quick. The Belab does not wait."
Rynn sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He had been sleeping hard, and it took him some time before he remembered where he was. When he finally did, he wished that he could forget. The memories of what he had seen rushed over him, and he shook as the horrible images replayed in his mind. At the same time, he remembered what Ipid had told him, remembered who he was and what he had to do. He had to be strong. He could not let fear beat him. He repeated Ipid’s mantras to himself, pushed the emotions deep into his guts, and kept them there like a small fire that could warm his courage when he thought it might fail.
He looked around the small tent and found a bowl of water in the corner. His stomach growled with hunger, a sharp pain lancing through him. He had not eaten in over a day now, and he wished that he had something, anything to fill the hole in his middle. As it was, he drank deeply from the water then used what remained to wash his face and hands. As he wiped the water away, he thought back trying to remember who he was being summoned to meet.
Following that first night in the sheep’s pen, he had spent the next day huddled with the villagers, sparsely guarded and largely forgotten. He remembered wondering why he had not been separated the others – his father would never pay a ransom, but he should have at least been worth the effort. He remembered other strange things about the bandits as well but had been too busy worrying about his neck to piece them all together.
Then, in the afternoon, a cadre had come and separated the young villagers from their families. The villagers had clung to their children, men had tried to fight, but it was pointless. The bastards showed no mercy or remorse. They killed the parents and pulled the children away sobbing. With no one to fight for him, Rynn had offered no resistance. He had watched the slaughter from the side of the pen, unable to divert his eyes as men and women were cut down for the simple act of clinging to their children.
When enough blood had been spilled to drown the nascent uprising, the village children, boys and girls alike, were herded away and lined up in front of a large tent. One at a time they entered the tent and came out looking dazed but otherwise unhurt. The girls and small children were then returned to their weeping families. The boys were led to the opposite side of the village outside of Rynn’s view.
Rynn had been one of the last to enter the tent. He had been terrified, certain that, for better or worse, these men would realize who he was and make him part of their ransom requests. He had repeated what Ipid had told him, told himself over and over that he was too valuable to hurt. Inside the tent had been an old man in black robes sitting on a small stool with two similarly attired men standing on either side of him. The standing men’s features were hidden inside voluminous hoods, but the seated man had his hood cast back. Rynn’s eyes had come to rest on the old man.
His memories stopped there. Try as he might, Rynn could not remember anything past that, could not even remember what the old man looked like or how he had come to lie in this tent. He guessed that he had fainted during the questioning. Had there had been torture? He shuddered at the thought then assessed himself, realized there was no pain, and dismissed the idea – certainly he would remember something as traumatic as torture.
Exiting the tent, he heard the man outside mutter something about his being slower than a frost slug in a snow bank. Despite the man’s harsh tone, Rynn could not hold back his questions. “A frost slug? So you must be Morgs, though I have never heard of a frost slug and you don’t look nearly big enough. I also thought Morgs never rode horses. But I suppose if you are resorting to kidnapping and murder, minor cultural infractions are probably the least of your worries. I can only imagine . . . .”
“Shut up!” The black-robed man turned on Rynn and glared at him through his cowl. In the darkness, Rynn could only see his sparkling black eyes and the tip of his long nose. The play of shadows on his face suggested something gruesome – possibly some kind of childhood accident – but before he could look closer, the man turned and led him across what remained of the village.
“So I struck a nerve, did I? My father always tells me that I talk too much. Of course, he doesn’t think. . . .“
“Silence!” the man seethed. “If you speak another word, I swear it will be your last. I don’t care how important the Belab thinks you are.”
That was enough for Rynn. It was obvious that these criminals knew who he was, so it was unlikely that they would hurt him. Still, they had proven to be brutally unpredictable, and he didn’t want to take any chances. So, despite the incredible difficulty, he kept his mouth clamped shut for the remainder of the walk.
Stuck with his own thoughts, Rynn’s mind went over what the dark man had said, and he suddenly realized that the man had not spoken in any language that he knew. His words had been totally foreign, but he had somehow understood them. The immensity of that discovery quickly overpowered his oath of silence. He opened his mouth, but his escort seemed to know what he was thinking. The man turned before he could get a word out and hit him with a stare that withered even his ability to speak.
They walked on in silence, so Rynn turned his attention to the remnants of the village and found that it had become a huge camp. That afternoon there had only been a few tents; now there were hundreds of long, low canvas or hide structures stacked in rows so close that they were almost touching. Rynn could not hope to understand the meaning of the structures – even if every villager had their own tent, it would be too many.
Before he could think on it, their journey ended. They stood before the same large tent he had visited that afternoon. His guide pulled the flap aside and motioned him to enter. Rynn took a deep breath, stepped inside, and was blinded by a bright light. Squinting and blinking, he searched for the source of the light, but it just seemed to exist in the tent without any variation in its intensity. It was as if the very air glowed around him. He searched the tent but found no lamps, candles, or explanations. Beyond the light, the scene in the tent had not changed from the one he had witnessed that afternoon. In the middle of the tent was the same old man, sitting on the same collapsible stool, with the same men flanking him in their still-wrinkled black robes.
Rynn moved so that he was in front of the man on the stool – he was obviously the leader. He stood with his chin high as his father had always told him to do, but his hands were shaking, his heart was beating out of his chest, and his eyes ached to study his shoes. Normally, his mind would have been full of questions, but facing the strange old man, he could not seem to think of a single word, let along speak them.
"So you are still proud,” the old man said with distaste. “I like pride, but only in those who know how to use it. Your pride is because you were told to have it, not because you can earn it, not because you believe it. You will be broken of it, and then someday, perhaps, you will earn it back.” The man's voice was like the hiss of sandpaper across wood and the edge in it was so strong that Rynn did lower his chin. His knees trembled under the pressure of a devious smile.
The old man laughed. It was a terrible sound, the maniacal cackles of a madman. The sound made Rynn’s mind spin and body shake. It made him desperately afraid. He could no longer think for the fear that gripped him. It was a mad kind of fear that overpowered all sense of rationality until he thought that he might run from the tent in a hopeless dash for freedom or, in the same stroke, fall to the ground and weep like a child. When that feeling had grown so powerful that he could no longer control it, the laughter stopped, and the fear was gone as if someone had turned a sw
itch in his mind.
"Fear, I like much better.” The old man’s voice had become sweet, almost fatherly. “For now, it is fear that will open your mind to Hilaal’s power. When you are afraid, you are thinking only of yourself. Order be damned. You will do anything to survive. You will rend the very laws of nature to overcome your fear. That is power. That is strength.”
"Ah, but, you will learn all of that in time.” The old man waved off the words as a meaningless philosophical digression – Rynn did not understand any of it, so it was just as well. “I am being rude. My name is Thay a’ Raginor, but my followers refer to me as the Belab." The last was said with an extraordinary gravity as if he had just said he was the San Chier Emperor – his name actually denoted that he was an imperial bastard. The other men in the tent bowed their heads in deference – the lone movement they had made since Rynn entered.
Before Rynn could respond with his own introduction, the man spoke his part. "And you, my child, are Rynnier de Alettenhof lal Hurchstal, the third son of the Lord Baron of Hurchstal and current student of the Order and the Way at the University of Liandrin. You are in training for a place as a counselor, if I am not mistaken.”
Rynn could only nod at the accuracy of the assessment. It seemed to give the old man great pleasure. “I do so love irony,” he chuckled to himself, but Rynn failed to see the irony and focused on remaining calm.
“You are commonly known as Rynn? You do not mind if I call you Rynn, do you?" The old man smiled and paused as if expecting an answer.
For the first time in his life, it took Rynn a long time to find his voice, and even then it was weak. "N . . . No!"
There was another laugh from the Belab. "You seem less talkative now, my child. Did you sleep well?”
“I . . . I slept fine,” he managed. Rynn did not remember having ever talked to this man.
“That is an understatement. You have been asleep for a day and a half. I finally had to send someone to rouse you, but you should feel better now. You were hysterical the last time we spoke.”
The image of himself lying on the ground begging, wracked with pain flashed through Rynn’s mind. The image shook him to the core, but he could not explore it further before his attention was drawn to the old man.
“Do you know why you were singled out from the others?"
When he did not answer, the old man prodded him with a light, "Hmmm," to which Rynn finally replied, "No . . . no, sir, I . . . I don’t, but I assume it has to do with my father. You should know that he will not pay a high ransom. We never have gotten along, and he would probably be just as happy if you keep me. . . ."
"I am not concerned with your father.” The old man growled before he composed himself and turned sweet. “He has nothing to do with why you are here. Yesterday, you were tested, Rynn, and you passed. You have within you a spark that no other in this village possesses. Have you ever heard of Hilaal's gift?"
Rynn only shook his head when he found that he could not seem to speak no matter how he tried. Belab continued without concern for whether there had been a shake or not. "You will know Rynn of Hurchstal, and you will count yourself fortunate. Hilaal has granted you powers beyond your wildest dreams, the ability to change the order of the world, and all you must do in return is serve Hilaal, Hilaal and me."
Rynn still did not have the slightest idea what the old man was talking about – Hilaal was he evil brother of Hileil from the old legends in The Book of Valatarian – but it was clear that he was utterly mad. Serve him? What kind of bandit was this? The thought nearly made him laugh, but the next turn in the conversation ended any sense of mirth.
"Unfortunately, before we can begin that phase of your life, you have another purpose to fulfill.” The old man watched him for a moment with apparent regret. Finally, he sighed and began again. “Now, my child, I understand that you know something of a young man named Dasen Ronigan." The man was smiling and speaking as if they were the best of friends, but Rynn saw through this farce.
"I don't know anyone of that name,” Rynn lied nervously. “You must be mis . . . ."
He did not have the chance to finish his sentence as every nerve in his body erupted in pain. It was like nothing he had ever experienced, like a thousand needles stabbing him at once. The pain was everywhere, and all he could do was convulse, unable even to scream.
The pain extended for an eternity before it suddenly ceased. Rynn fell to the ground panting. His heart hammered, and his eyes rolled in their sockets. When he had recovered enough to raise his head from the ground, the Belab began again in the same sweet voice as if nothing had happened. "Now, I believe we were discussing your friend, Dasen . . . ."