ALONE (Part One of "A Thousand Lies") @Copyright Maureen Lycaon, August 2001. WARNINGS: You know the drill -- all rights protected under the Berne Convention, all resemblance to persons living or dead is solely coincidental and unintentional, not intended as a guide to real life, etc. AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is what happened after the young Raven entered Zhevke's secret hold in the Jandorral Desert; it's a sequel to "The Darkness Descends". It describes the first three days of his apprenticeship under the Dark Mage, Zhevke. There's one vividly described flogging, but other than that no spooge. Re the quoted poem below, I don't know who Mel Lyman was/is. At least one person has claimed he was a member of Charles Manson's "Family", but I have no confirmation of this. Direct feedback to: maureen_lcn@yahoo.com Alone By Maureen Lycaon "I am going to burn down the world I am going to tear down everything that cannot stand alone I am going to turn ideals to shit I am going to shove hope up your ass I am going to reduce everything that stands to rubble And then I am going to burn the rubble And then I am going to scatter the ashes And then maybe SOMEONE will be able to see SOMETHING as it really is WATCH OUT" Mel Lyman The moisture from last night's unnatural storm had dried long before midday. The red desert sand no longer clung to the hooves of the two riders' horses as they walked across the plain. They had left behind the canyons and the bizarre black rock formations that seemed never to weather into the sands. The massive outcroppings they passed now were of the red sandstone that underlay the Jandorral Desert, casting long shadows in the afternoon light. The first rider's long, dark hair was shot through with silver. Despite the heat and the heavy black cloak he wore, he showed no sign of weariness; he held himself erect, watchful yet relaxed. His horse was a midnight-black stallion, its head held high and its stride vigorous even now. Strapped diagonally to his back in a specially made baldric, like a two-handed sword, was a long wooden staff. Behind him, on a seal-brown gelding, was the second rider. He was a much younger man; his long mane of hair looked as if it were normally blond but was now streaked and darkened with sweat. Though he struggled to show no sign of weakness, the sagging of his shoulders betrayed his exhaustion. A shortsword hung in a scabbard at his hip. The gelding slogged along with drooping head. The blond man no longer even tried to watch his surroundings. He merely rode behind the older man, almost swaying in the saddle when the gelding stumbled. Raven was exhausted, drenched with sweat, and light-headed from not having eaten for three days. He had also emptied the water flask Zhevke had given him. He was not used to desert travel, and the Dark Mage had taken no particular care to seek shade. Raven could not understand how he bore the heat so lightly. Ahead of them loomed yet another colossal outcropping, rising from the sands like some ancient monument to a forgotten king. It looked in no way different from the many other outcroppings they'd passed, but Zhevke rode straight toward it. "Here is my hold," the mage said, the first time he'd spoken since their brief conversation upon first meeting. As they neared the stone formation, Raven could *sense* eyes upon him with his half-developed mage-sense. He didn't turn his head, not wanting to betray his uneasiness; but he tried to catch a glimpse of the watchers from the corners of his eyes. He saw nothing, human or otherwise. Zhevke paid the invisible watchers no attention, and the horses showed no sign of nervousness. One face of the outcropping was topped by a large overhang of rock, which provided some shade for a ragged row of scrub bushes below. There was no sign of any opening in the rock. As they reached the bushes, Zhevke pulled his stallion to a halt and made a small hand gesture, and Raven felt an odd prickling in his eyes, almost like the feeling of too little sleep. The adept must be working some sort of illusion magic. The air shimmered strangely, like the air over an open fire, and several of the bushes simply vanished. Then he saw it: the darkness of a great, gaping opening like a small cave mouth in the very rock itself, large enough to take four horses and riders walking abreast. It looked like a small cave mouth. The gelding snorted mildly at the sudden revealing of the opening. The stallion showed no reaction at all, and the mage spurred it forward. At a nudge from Raven, the gelding followed. Though from outside the opening had looked natural, the interior clearly was not -- it was a hewed chamber, not a cave. The floor was perfectly level, the walls and ceiling hollowed out and carefully smoothed. It was as big as the cave Raven had stayed in. Two openings in the back wall revealed passageways that led deeper into the bedrock. A faint golden glow within each one indicated the use of oil lamps. Raven heard footsteps from the larger passageway, and then a man emerged, apparently a stablehand from his dress. He favored Raven with a curious glance before going down on one knee to Zhevke on the rough sandstone floor. Then he silently rose and stepped forward to take the reins of the black stallion. Raven was too exhausted and thirsty to feel more than faint curiosity at the man's unusual deference. The two men exchanged the usual words of greeting between a servant and his master as Zhevke dismounted. Raven dismounted as well, the solid ground a relief to his aching thigh muscles. Though he had been accustomed to riding for long turnings of time back at home, he'd never been in the saddle for an entire day. As the stablehand led their horses into one passage, the Dark Mage turned back toward the opening through which they'd entered. Once again he raised one hand and made a gesture, and again Raven saw that curious shimmering, but nothing seemed to happen this time. At least, he didn't feel that tingle again. Even so, he had no doubt that the entrance into the hold was once again concealed from outside. Zhevke returned his attention to him, his gray eyes impassive. "Follow me," he said. He strode into the other passage. There was no inner guard chamber; no visible sentinels watched the entrance. Evidently the Dark Mage had total confidence in those unseen watchers outside -- whatever they were. Once inside the blessed shade and coolness of the inner corridor, Zhevke led him on a journey through a maze of descending passageways in which Raven quickly lost his sense of direction. Each corridor seemed the same: carved smoothly into the gritty red sandstone, twice the height of a man and wide enough to let three horses pass; each one lit by rows of oil lamps set into niches carved at intervals into the walls. Obvious care had been taken to make the floors either perfectly level or sloping gently downward. Raven saw no rugs or wall decorations, no tapestries, coats of arms or other adornments. Stout oak doors barred what might be either rooms or other passages branching off. It wasn't what one might expect of a Dark Mage's hold. There were no eldritch horrors or demons, no blasphemous symbols, no signs of Zhevke's allegiance. They passed servants bound on errands of their own -- more servants than Raven would have expected. All of them looked entirely human, and they all knelt before their master with the same subservience and respect as the stablehand when Zhevke passed by. Sometimes they glanced curiously at Raven as they rose to their feet to continue on their way. He didn't see any female servants. As they descended into the depths of the hold, Raven's mage-sense could just detect a hint of the shadowy, sullen dark feeling that had filled the cave in the desert. At last they entered a chamber. It wasn't as large as the main hall in the small manor Raven had shared with his brother, but it was clearly meant to serve the same purpose as any noble family's great hall. Unlike the passageways, its walls were decorated. Tapestries of hunting scenes lined the red sandstone walls, along with a few curios whose nature and purpose he could not identify. Several heavy chairs and a sturdy dining table were the only furniture. Underground as it was, there were no windows. The hearth and the oil lamps lining the walls were the only sources of light, filling the room with a golden glow. Oddly, the logs in the hearth were lit, the flames leaping high. They filled the hall with stifling heat, all too much like the draining heat of the desert he had passed through. Two servants awaited them, one with short, dull brown hair, the other with straight black hair long enough to reach his shoulders and what looked like a sword scar across one cheek. Neither was as tall as Raven, but both were much more powerfully built. They stood by the hearth as if waiting for them; perhaps they had been. They each slipped to one knee like the other servants had, their eyes on Zhevke, as he and Raven stopped in the middle of the hall. Even beneath his bone-deep fatigue and hunger, Raven felt a qualm of unease. No one in his family had demanded so much subservience of the servants in his household -- not even his father while he was alive. Were these men, and all the other men he had passed, actually slaves rather than servants? He turned his gaze from the kneeling men to his host standing beside him. Zhevke looked back at him, his face inscrutable. His gray eyes looked almost black in the light of the lamps, deep and dark without a spark of light. "You are of noble blood, are you not?" he asked. "Yes, I am," Raven answered. Zhevke smiled a small, chill smile and shook his head. "No, Raven. You *were* of noble blood. You no longer are." Raven felt the muscles of his face stiffen. In any other context, that would be a blood insult; he would have been justified in drawing steel. Zhevke's smile vanished, his face turning stern, unyielding. "Who you once were does not matter now. I counsel you to consider your old life dead, for dead it most certainly is. You are no longer anything but my apprentice. Do not think you are owed anything save what you earn. "Now, give me your sword. You will not bear a weapon in my hold unless I command it." Raven glowered. The mage only waited with one hand extended, as if his obedience were inevitable. The kneeling servants watched with no hint of expression. Finally, reluctantly, he obeyed. He was the guest and the supplicant here, after all. He also felt too weary to argue. He slowly unbuckled his belt with the scabbard that held his shortsword, then offered it to the mage. Zhevke took it in silence and held it out to one side without looking. The brown-haired servant immediately rose to his feet and walked over to him, took the scabbard and belt, turned and left the room. Zhevke turned to Raven again. "Now, take off your clothes, all of them." Raven stared at him in open-mouthed shock. The mage's hand came up, slapping him hard across the face. "Strip!" Zhevke's voice brooked no refusal. Raven glared, fury roiling in him, on the verge of violence. The scar-faced servant who had remained had risen to his feet at the sound of the blow and was watching him alertly, tensely. Suddenly Raven understood the man's true function; though he was unarmed, he was a bodyguard. Zhevke waited, his face as cold as a mountain winter, with no hint of yielding. There seemed nothing to do but obey. His only other choice was to return out into the desert, and probably die of thirst. Quelling his anger, Raven took off his boots and his clothes, letting them drop to the floor, as Zhevke watched. The brown-haired servant returned to the room, empty- handed. This time, instead of kneeling, he stood beside the other attendant, watching Raven; he, too, was clearly a bodyguard. Raven felt humiliated at standing there naked, exposed to their gaze, but he would not surrender to the feeling by trying to cover himself. Instead, he looked Zhevke in the eye, arms at his sides, refusing to let his discomfiture get the better of him. The bodyguards watched without expression. The mage nodded. "Now, pick them up and throw them into the fire." Another shock. It seemed his first day here would be a succession of shocks. Somehow, he obeyed, gathering up his shirt, breeches and boots. The bodyguards parted to let him pass as he walked to the hearth. He threw the clothes in, piece by piece. The stink of burning leather filled the room after his boots went in. When the task was finished, he turned back to the mage, feeling the heat of the hearth on his bare skin as he stood there. Zhevke's eyes bored into his, unrelenting. "As I said, your old life is dead now," said the Dark Mage. "From now on, you will obey me without hesitation. Tehm" -- he turned to the scarred bodyguard -- "fetch clothes." Tehm left the room without a word. Raven was left there standing stark naked. Zhevke crossed his arms and continued to look back at him, the brown- haired servant by his side. He wanted to fidget as they waited, but he would not show his discomfort. He doubted that this man would have any sympathy for it. Finally Tehm returned with a bundle under one arm. "Drop them on the floor," Zhevke instructed, and Tehm obeyed. "Put them on," to Raven. They were the kind of clothing the poorest, lowest-ranking noble families gave to their servants and slaves: breeches and shirt of coarse, threadbare linen; shoes of equally poor leather. After a moment of hesitation, Raven decided not to argue about it. When he finished dressing, he looked back at Zhevke, who only nodded. "Come. I will show you to your quarters now." They walked down another two descending corridors, the bodyguards following like silent shadows, and now Raven didn't even try to remember their route. He simply followed the Dark Mage's lead. He wondered how far underground they were. At last Zhevke reached an open entranceway. There was no door, nothing to bar entry, and he stepped through into the room beyond, Raven and the bodyguards behind them. It was small, windowless and empty of all furniture -- except for a stuffed-straw mattress with a single threadbare coverlet of wool, and the inevitable brass chamberpot in one corner. There weren't even any rugs to relieve the coldness and roughness of the sandstone underfoot. The only light in the chamber came from the passageway outside, from a small oil lamp on the floor and the turning-candle in its brass sconce on one wall. There was no hearth, not even a brazier for warmth. "I will come for you tomorrow morning," Zhevke said. "Until then, you will stay here." It was an order, not an observation. "A servant will bring you a meal and bathing supplies." He departed without another word and walked back down the hallway, the bodyguards following. Raven was alone. After a few turnings of exhausted slumber, he spent the remainder of the night in restless half-sleep, tossing and turning, waking up every so often. The straw in the thin mattress prickled him uncomfortably, and through it he felt the hardness of the stone floor all too keenly. With no door between him and the hallway outside, he was disturbed by every servant who walked past the entrance, which was all too often. Fortunately, it hadn't been cold; if it had been, the thin woolen blanket would have offered hardly any warmth. When he was awake, memories came to him unbidden -- memories of his former life at the family hold. The comfort of his bed with its soft mattress and quilts and furs; a bodyservant always just outside the door in case he needed anything. Breakfast with his brother Vechan in the mornings, going hunting together, riding the bounds of their lands . . . He closed his eyes and tried to fall asleep again, to escape the ache in his heart. He suffered no nightmares about Vechan's execution. At least there was that small mercy. The next morning, Raven was awakened by footsteps entering the room. He opened his eyes to see a pair of weather-beaten black boots in front of his face. Looking up, he saw they belonged to Zhevke, who was standing by his mattress. Once again the Dark Mage was wearing ordinary breeches and a shirt instead of mage-robes. The staff was now in his right hand with its tip resting on the floor, like a walking stick. His gray eyes studied Raven with no hint of what he was thinking. His face was as hard as ever, with that unsettling hint of ruthlessness. Oddly, his long black hair was tied into a ponytail, the way a fighter's would be before he entered the training arena. "Good, you are awake," Zhevke said. "Put on your boots and get up." Raven pushed the blanket away and obeyed. When he stood up, he looked into Zhevke's eyes to get some idea of what he would do next, but the mage's face revealed nothing. "Into the corridor," Zhevke ordered. As Raven stepped through the doorway behind him, he saw that two servants stood there, waiting -- not Tehm and the other bodyguard from yesterday, but just as muscular, with eyes as hard as their master's. One, with long curly red hair and the stubble of a beard and mustache on his blunt, brutal face, wore a key ring dangling from his belt. The other was brown-haired, with plain, undistinguished features. Zhevke turned back to Raven and smiled, a thin smile with little warmth. "It's time you learned how to comport yourself properly with me, Raven, since we will be together for the next few years. You had your first lesson last night: to obey me without question or hesitation. Here is your second lesson. From now on, when you enter my presence, or I yours, you will kneel fully before me." Raven stared at him. The man couldn't be serious. Only slaves knelt fully, on both knees. Zhevke stepped forward. Raven thought he would be slapped again, but instead the iron-hard staff flicked out and rapped sharply and painfully across his right knee. He yelped, falling down on the other knee. Zhevke rapped his kneecap again, giving him no time to react. "Both knees!" he snapped. The impulse of anger took over, and Raven reacted without thought. He cursed and scrambled to his feet, fists clenched, meaning to strike Zhevke back -- hard. He never quite saw the next move; it was too fast. Zhevke changed his grip on the staff and drove the end of it into his belly, like a spear. Raven doubled over, fighting to breathe with tears in his eyes. He hadn't intended to obey, but sink down to his knees he did, not because he had been commanded to but because the wind had been completely knocked out of him. He would have fallen flat on the floor if he hadn't braced himself with one hand, clutching his belly with the other. Raven tried to force his paralyzed lungs to work as blackness ate at the edges of his vision. Finally he managed to suck in a breath, then another. Gradually his tortured lungs remembered how to take in air, and the darkness in his vision receded. He wiped the cold sweat off his face with his arm, breath easing, and lifted his head to look up at his mentor. The mage was watching, and as their eyes met he smiled his cold smile. The servants smirked openly. Raven glared back, wondering whether he had the courage to defy Zhevke again . . . found that courage, his hot fury turning into cold, deadly anger. He got up slowly, deliberately, putting all the challenge and insolence he could into his gaze. He no longer cared if he was turned out into the Jandorral again; he was going to teach this arrogant pig a lesson. He took a step toward the smiling mage. "You orc-loving --" he began, but had no chance to finish. Though he had thought himself ready, Zhevke's movement was a blur. The staff cracked yet again, this time across his jaw, and stars swam in his vision. Another sharp blow across his ribs. Then the end of it went between his legs, tripping him expertly. He landed half on his side, half on his back with an audible grunt. Zhevke stepped back and watched him recover, his face stone once more. "Are you ready to obey me?" Raven rolled onto his side, supporting himself on one arm, looking up at the mage. Anger still burned in his aching belly. "Why?" he finally asked. That cold smile again. "Because I wish it. That's all you need to know." As slowly as he could manage, he rose to his knees and remained there. Zhevke's smile changed subtly, acquiring a hint of catlike smugness. Stung with anger and humiliation, Raven almost cursed him, almost tried to get up. Almost. Zhevke's staff quivered in readiness, and he subsided. "Good," the mage said, and the smile left his lips. "Now" - - he stepped up to within touching distance -- "you may show your respect by kissing my hand." He shifted the staff to his left hand while extending his right in front of Raven's face. Raven stared at him, mouth half-open. Having to kneel like a slave was bad enough, but this was past all endurance. "No!" He expected another blow from the staff, and indeed it darted toward him, but he was ready for Zhevke's uncanny speed now and threw up an arm to take the blow aimed for his jaw. The wood struck his forearm with bruising force, but this time it proved to be only a diversionary tactic. The Dark Mage took a quick step back, extended his free hand, and spoke a single word that Raven couldn't understand or quite catch. The pain struck instantly, all-consuming, unbearable. He forgot the lesser pain of the staff's blows as he doubled over, falling to the stone floor, writhing. He screamed sharply, unable to stop himself. He didn't see what Zhevke did then, but the agony departed as abruptly as it had struck. And then the two burly servants had stepped forward, and hard, powerful hands fastened onto his arms, holding him in a grip that was impossible to dislodge. They hauled him upright, holding him helpless between them. They weren't as tall as he was, but they were far stronger. Zhevke's face could have frozen a forge. "I see that first lesson is not quite learned yet," he said. "This time I will drive it home and ensure you do not forget it." He nodded coldly at the two men, turned, and began walking down the corridor. The bodyguards forced Raven forward in the mage's wake, half-pushing, half-dragging him. Still weak from that remembered agony, Raven didn't put up even the pretense of a struggle. The one on the left, the redhead with the keyring, turned icy blue eyes on him and smirked blatantly into his face, teeth flashing, before turning away; at that moment Raven knew he would come to hate him savagely. Zhevke never even looked around to see if they were following him. They traversed three more corridors, two of which slanted slightly upward, and at the end of the last corridor was yet another heavy oak door. This one was ironbound at top and bottom. Zhevke stopped in front of it. "Tejil, open it," he ordered. The red-haired man let go of Raven and stepped forward. The moment he did, the other servant tightened his grip on Raven's right arm, forced it behind his back and held it there at an angle that sent bolts of pain shrieking up his shoulder into his neck. If he struggled, he would dislocate his shoulder. As he gritted his teeth against the pain and stood motionless, Tejil took the key ring from his belt and unlocked the heavy door, throwing it open wide. That done, the bodyguards restored their grip on his arms, and he was forced forward into the room beyond. A window was cut through the sandstone -- a barred window high up in the wall, letting in enough sunlight to see its contents clearly. What Raven first saw was a sort of wooden scaffold, taller than any man. Dangling from its arm was a chain ending in a pair of iron shackles. Two other shackles lay on the floor below, attached to staples set into the stone itself. He barely had time to glimpse a rack filled with whips on one wall before he was shoved toward the scaffolding. He recognized the flogging post, and a strange, numb feeling of unreality seized him. This couldn't be happening. Common criminals and servants were flogged. It didn't happen to nobles, no matter how minor their titles. As the two men forced Raven into position under the shackles, he looked quickly back at Zhevke. The mage's face was as hard and unrelenting as ever. While the brown-haired man held Raven's left arm in a bruising grip, Tejil seized his right wrist and forced it forward. Had he been less stunned, he might have tried to free himself; but as it was, he offered no resistance as Tejil snapped the shackle closed over his wrist, then locked it with a key. His left wrist followed, and now it was too late to struggle even if it would have done any good. They pulled off his boots and tossed them aside, then seized his ankles and spread them apart, shackling them as well, so that he could not turn in his bonds. Then they stepped away from him, leaving him shackled to the whipping post. The wrist shackles' chain passed through a pulley on the whipping post and led to a crank set into the nearby wall. Tejil went over to the crank and turned it, shortening the chain and raising the shackles, pulling Raven up until he was stretched out almost on tiptoe. Craning his neck to look, Raven saw that Zhevke had propped his staff against the wall and was at the rack, selecting a whip. The feeling of unreality ebbed. This was really going to happen to him; it wasn't a nightmare he could wake up from. There was no one here to stop Zhevke. The Dark Mage's word was the only law here. Nevertheless, the rage of wounded pride washed through him, demanding expression. "You bastard!" he hissed at Zhevke. Zhevke did not react, even with a blink of his cold gray eyes. Clearly, he knew empty defiance when he heard it. He gave the two men a quick, curt nod. "Vash," he said. The brown-haired man stepped behind him, and Raven felt him take hold of his shirt. Using a small knife, Vash cut and tore the threadbare shirt off him, dropping it to the floor, leaving him stripped to the waist. Zhevke had chosen his whip, a long cruel black thing. He stepped forward. Raven felt that something irrevocable was being torn from him. He didn't know what it was. Perhaps a woman losing her virginity to a rape felt thus. He watched the mage walk toward him like a bird charmed into helplessness by a snake. Then Zhevke stepped behind him, out of his line of sight. A breath later, there was an ear-splitting crack, and then a blow like a powerful fist struck his back, knocking him forward. A moment later, a line of white-hot pain scorched a path from his right shoulder down his rib cage to his spine. His head jerked back involuntarily, his jaw dropping at the sheer shock of the pain. He didn't scream, mainly because the blow had knocked the breath out of him. The second blow was just as bad, and the third no better. The sheer humiliation and helpless anger he felt mingled with the pain to make it nigh-unbearable. At least the element of surprise was gone. He gritted his teeth, refusing to cry out as the lash descended upon his back again and again. There was a rhythm to the flogging: first the whipcrack, then the violent blow and the savage pain, and one or two breaths before the next crack. Raven fought to remain silent, to keep still and not flinch, but it was impossible not to move. With each lash, his wrists and ankles jerked painfully against the hard iron shackles, his shoulders tensing as if they could somehow ward off the whip. The sting of each stroke did not die down before its successor fell, and so the pain accumulated until his shoulders and back felt as if they were covered with liquid, burning fire. Worst of all was the agony when the whip cut into the welt from a previous blow; his entire body jerked violently, his face contorting, when that happened. He gritted his teeth to keep from crying out. He could not stop these bastards, but at least he could deny them the satisfaction of hearing him scream. But it became more and more difficult as one lash succeeded the next. Zhevke's arm seemed tireless. Now Raven's eyes were screwed shut with agony, tears running down his face, breath hissing between his bared teeth. Nausea roiled in his belly. He felt that he couldn't breath; he was afraid that he would faint, or vomit. And finally he could remain silent no more. A whimper of pain escaped him despite his best efforts. His back felt as if the skin had been torn to bloody rags and was hanging down in shreds. Another whimper. His first scream was more like a drowning rat's last squeal. The next one was full-throated, and soon he was screaming again and again without restraint. At last, as he was lost in a red cloud of agony, the flogging stopped. He collapsed, his entire weight hanging from the wrist shackles, coughing and sobbing without dignity. He began returning to awareness of his surroundings as Vash unlocked his shackles. Tejil caught him under the arms as he slumped, and lowered him to the stone floor only slightly more gently than if he had fallen of his own accord, to lie on his side and gasp for air. He opened his eyes, but they were still blinded by tears and he lifted an arm to wipe them. His breath was shaking in half-sobs. Gradually he recovered himself. The fire in his flesh was dwindling now. He managed to get one elbow underneath him, propping himself up, and lifted his head to see Zhevke standing beside him again. The Dark Mage looked down into his eyes. The whip was still in his right hand. "Stand up, Raven." Moving slowly, one limb after another, Raven struggled to his feet despite the pain. He stood before the mage, taking deep, gasping breaths as he steadied himself. As his pain eased, he glared again into those hard eyes. The anger and humiliation still burned in his heart, but for the first time they were joined by fear. He hated that fear, but he felt it anyway. Zhevke's thin lips twisted in that all-too-familiar frigid smile, as if what he saw in Raven's face pleased him. "Good enough," he said. "One day, you will understand enough to give me true respect as your teacher . . . but until then, fear will do. I trust we'll have no more misunderstandings of this nature. "Now, we will pick up where we left off. Kneel to me." Raven went down to his knees on the hard stone floor before the mage as the bodyguards looked on. Vash's face was as impassive as stone, but Tejil's held the barest trace of a smirk. Zhevke turned to them, and Vash stepped forward to accept the whip from him. Then he returned his attention to Raven, extending his hand as he had in the room. "Pay your respects to me, and call me your master." Raven pressed his lips to the mage's knuckles. The taste of defeat was thick in his mouth as he spoke the word, "Master". The mage withdrew his hand. "Excellent. You will call me 'Master' from now on, as befits a student with his teacher. Do you understand me?" "Yes, Master." Afterward, he was taken back to his room and given another shirt, and supplies to bathe again. He had expected to find his back covered with blood. The washwater was indeed stained pink, but not the deep scarlet he would have thought. The welts remained, hard sore ridges that chafed miserably when he lay down and tried to rest. He squirmed uncomfortably, trying to find a position that wouldn't rub the welts against the coarse blanket, and finally settled for lying on his stomach. He decided not to put on the shirt just yet. *Bastard*, he cursed Zhevke silently. *Orc-loving bastard.* *You are no longer anything but my apprentice,* Zhevke had said, and he tasted to the dregs the truth of those words. He was at the mercy of a man who could demand that he kneel before him and have him flogged on a whim. Later, Zhevke stalked into his room, alone this time, the staff tapping on the floor. His dark hair was no longer tied in a ponytail. Raven got up and knelt before him without protest, kissing his hand when he proffered it. The mage accepted it as if there had been no flogging. "Put on your shirt and come with me," he bade. "Bring the oil lamp." Raven obeyed him, gritting his teeth as the coarse cloth rubbed his welts, and followed the Dark Mage through the corridors once again. Zhevke took him to a room even more barren than his own cell. There was nothing in it, nothing at all -- except for a scarlet rug on the floor with a large black circle in the center. His oil lamp was the only source of light. "I will begin your instruction now," Zhevke said. Raven felt his heart leap. He tried to keep his delight out of his face, but the Dark Mage smiled wryly. "Don't get your hopes up," he warned. "What I will teach you today are the preliminaries, the first exercises you need to train your mind in the paths of magic. No more. "Now, sit down in the middle of the rug, cross-legged, within that black circle. Set the lamp down beside you on the floor." When Raven had obeyed, folding his long legs awkwardly into a cross-legged position, Zhevke stepped behind him. The apprentice felt his muscles tense, remembering the start of the flogging. He forced himself to relax and listen. "Close your eyes, and remove all thought from your mind," the mage directed. "Try to keep it as a blank parchment sheet, as empty as you can." The two poor books of magic Raven had had access to in his family's hold had offered some advice on the preparations for magecraft: clear the mind, they had said, of all thought save of your goal. Nowhere had there been anything about emptying the mind *entirely*. Nevertheless, he tried to follow Zhevke's orders, mentally pushing away all thought. His eagerness was quickly replaced by the memory of this morning's flogging. The emotions flooded him again: helpless rage, shame, fear. Raven gritted his teeth, reminding himself of his mission here. For what seemed a long time, he wrestled with his emotions and the remembered agony, trying desperately to force them down, to clear his mind. At length, he succeeded. But other thoughts replaced those ones: of the journey through the desert yesterday, of the closed rooms he'd passed in the corridors and what they might hold. He pushed them away, but they returned with greater force. The harder he pushed at them, the more forcefully they intruded. More memories came, this time of his old life. His father, long since dead. Hunting with Vechan. A visit to Aroll, two years ago. A disagreement they'd had, when his brother had found out he was trying to learn magic. He fought the memories down, not wanting to feel the loneliness they would invoke . . . or to face the images of Vechan's execution that would inevitably follow. Suddenly, his mind seemed to take a leap, and he was again remembering this morning's flogging. He tried to force the thoughts back yet again, but he could not. "Stop," Zhevke's voice intruded. The mage had never moved, or at least there had been no sound of fabric shifting or the scrape of a boot on sandstone. Raven opened his eyes. "More difficult than you thought, eh?" and he could hear the wry amusement in that voice. He nodded. "Yes, Master." "Until you have learned to clear your mind of all thought, and keep it that way, you cannot learn the art of the mage," Zhevke said. "This task seems impossible now, but you will master it in time. And until you do, you will learn naught else of magic. Now, begin again." He failed again and again. Never once did Zhevke show exasperation or even impatience; he stayed as motionless as a statue behind Raven while the apprentice performed the exercise. His body grew restless. He wanted to move, to get up, to stretch his muscles and abandon his efforts. At last, the discomfort grew too much. Raven found himself beginning to fidget. He shifted his weight uncomfortably -- and then felt a slap across the back of his head. Startled, he looked back toward Zhevke, abandoning his efforts. "Don't move!" Zhevke snapped. "Relax your muscles, and keep them relaxed." Raven swallowed his anger and obeyed, trying to ignore the nearly unbearable desire to move that was like an itching in his bones. They stopped only when the lamp was almost out of oil. By then, Raven was frustrated, discouraged and hardly able to concentrate at all any more, and beginning to wonder if he really had any talent for this. As he stood up, stretching his legs, he caught Zhevke's gaze and looked back at him. The Dark Mage smiled, for once without mockery. "Difficult, eh?" He nodded. "Don't lose heart. This is but your first time. We will do this tomorrow, and every day from now on, until you have mastered it." Those were among the very few words of encouragement he was ever to get from Zhevke. Like most nobles, Raven had been taught the handling of weapons almost from the time he could walk. The last time Aroll had warred with another city had been before he was born, but there were still orcs in the dense forests and mountains, and bandits on most roads. No one dared grow soft. But no mage he had ever heard of bore a weapon -- until he had encountered Zhevke's staff. Nevertheless, when they left the meditation room, Zhevke did not lead him back to his cell but instead headed up an ascending corridor, obviously intent on taking him somewhere else. And then the mage told him he was to begin weapons training as well. "Why?" he asked. "Do not question me," Zhevke said quietly, and Raven did not. This, at least, was something familiar. Unlike most of Zhevke's hold, the training room was partly aboveground, so that sunlight could illuminate it through the high, narrow windows cut through the stone. Candlelight or lamplight simply wouldn't do for arms practice. No doubt those windows were concealed with magic, like the entrance to the hold. It was nearly as large as the modest training room back at his family hold, and it was equipped much the same way, with the expected racks of weapons for training, a wooden bench for resting between bouts, pells, and the rest. Standing in it, waiting for them, was Zhevke's weapons master and chief guard. He was half a head taller even than Raven, who was used to looking down at most people, and a great deal more muscular -- burlier than any human, with oddly mottled pink and dark brown skin wherever he wasn't covered by brown leather armor. A few wisps of thin black hair framed his ugly dark face, and short fangs protruded from his oversized lower jaw. His eyes were an incongruous and inhuman amber brown. "This is Ja'eki, my weapons master," Zhevke introduced him, pronouncing the name with an orcish glottal stop. "He'll give you your lessons every day." Raven stared at the half-orc, feeling his stomach twist. Half-orcs were abominations. No woman would willingly mate with an orc; they were soulless beasts, for all that they spoke and wielded weapons. Each and every half-breed was the result of a rape, a disgusting thing that was neither beast nor human. Most were killed at birth, if not before. Raven had a moment to wonder why this one hadn't been. Surely this had to be some kind of joke, or a test. His mentor couldn't possibly expect him to remain in the same room with this *thing*, let alone take instruction from it. He turned his gaze back to Zhevke. The Dark Mage looked stonily back at him, his face unyielding. "You wish to speak?" Raven thought of protesting, then thought the better of it. He had no desire to endure another flogging. "No, Master." "Good." The adept turned on his heel -- literally -- and walked away, leaving him alone with the abomination. Ja'eki grinned openly at Raven's obvious shock and disgust, which unfortunately made his fangs flash in his large mouth. At least he hadn't the doglike orcish muzzle. "So Lord Zhevke gives me another insolent human pup to train," he said. His voice was inhumanly deep, heavy with the accent of the southern Irgollon lower classes. "Well, ye'll learn to respect me, boy, or regret it." Turning his back on Raven, he walked over to one of the weapons racks on the walls and pulled out two wooden longswords. Returning, he held one out to the blond apprentice. Raven stared and didn't raise his hand. He hadn't trained with the wooden versions since he was thirteen . . . Again that ugly grin. "I'm gonna start ye over at the beginning, boy," Ja'eki said. "Let's see how much ye's got to unlearn." He practically shoved the wooden sword in Raven's face. The apprentice reluctantly accepted it, feeling his skin crawl at the idea of holding an object the half-orc had handled. He had to fight down an urge to drop it on the floor and wipe his hand. Ja'eki gave him no time to prepare himself. Instead, he quickly raised his own weapon into an attack position, and Raven barely had time to tense before he was upon him. The half-orc was every bit as powerful as his bulk suggested, and a lot faster. After only a few blows, Raven's arms were aching with the effort of turning aside his attacks; and try as he might, he couldn't follow through with any return blows -- Ja'eki always slipped away at the last possible moment with humiliating ease, then returned for another strike. He tried to break through Ja'eki's guard with a flurry of blows and lunges, but he might as well have been a stripling youth for all the good it did. Then one of Ja'eki's cuts got through, slamming into his lower right arm. If this had been with real swords, he would have lost it below the elbow then and there. As it was, his arm went numb and he almost dropped his weapon to the floor. The half-orc took full advantage, wading in to slam him repeatedly in the arms and legs with bruising force. He was defeated already, but the arms master seemed determined to drive the point home. Ja'eki ended it by simply beating down Raven's guard until he dropped his sword clattering to the floor, and then using one foot to sweep his legs out from under him. He fell squarely on his rump, and before he could get up, a solid blow to his groin left him groaning and doubled over on his side, pain filling his entire body. Slowly, all too slowly, the agony receded. He rolled onto his back, opened his eyes and looked up. The huge half-orc was standing over him, actually straddling him, and the point of the wooden sword pressed against his throat. "There ye go, pup," the arms master growled, and his deep voice was liquid scorn. "Ye think yerself better than me, but a half-grown orc pup could slice ye up for all the skill ye's just shown." He stepped back, allowing Raven to get up. As he did, Ja'eki continued. "So, ye'd better think again what ye've been taught about half-orcs. Now, come on, get up. I'm going to start all over at the beginning with ye, 'cause that's what ye need." By the time the arms master finally let him go for the day, he was literally reeling from exhaustion, his arms and legs black and blue. "After dinner, we will talk," Zhevke said. Raven managed to conceal his surprise. After being required to show more subservience than even the servants, he would not have expected to eat dinner with his master, the way he used to take meals with Vechan. Nevertheless, they ate together in the main hall. Zhevke did not speak to him, so he ate in silence. Afterward, as the servants cleared the table, Zhevke ordered one of them to pull two chairs close to the hearth. Then he commanded them to leave; they obeyed, clearing out of the hall silently. He turned to Raven. "Sit down. Join me." The hearth was lit again, but unlike the roaring blaze of yesterday this was only a small fire, shedding a warm, comforting glow into the hall. The golden light softened Zhevke's face, concealing some of its ruthlessness. His eyes were pools of darkness with only faint flecks of light in the irises, making it difficult to read his expression. Raven remained silent, waiting for him to speak. "Raven," the Dark Mage began, "tell me: is there anything you would *not* do for the sake of your revenge?" Raven's eyes widened. How could Zhevke know . . .? He had not told him anything of his life before he came here, or of Vechan's death, or his reasons. The mage smiled at his surprise. "Yes, Raven, I *do* know about that. I know that a certain young noble was accused of consorting with our patrons, quite falsely as it so happens, and condemned to death by torture in Aroll. I also know that a few days later his brother vanished mysteriously -- a tall, handsome young man with blond hair. You see, while we *are* a bit isolated out here, I have informants in Aroll, and in other cities as well." Raven still could not find his tongue, which was just as well because Zhevke was not finished. "You need not fear. Your secret is safe with me. I have no interest whatsoever in revealing who you once were to anyone else." He smiled, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "I know that you are here to acquire the means to accomplish your revenge. I also know that the Dark Kings accepted you into their service, in that cave where I found you. Otherwise I would not have come. "Now, shall we begin again?" Raven recovered himself enough to speak. "Yes, Master." "Tell me, what would you *not* do for your revenge? Or are you a man truly free from all scruple?" He forced down the whirling of shock in his mind to think. "I'm -- not sure," he answered honestly. Zhevke smiled again. This time Raven couldn't read the meaning of that smile at all. "Would you kill a peasant?" "Of course!" Peasants were mere animals, after all. Zhevke nodded, still smiling. "Would you kill a servant?" "Yes." Raven gritted his teeth for a moment, remembering. He suspected one of the servants of planting the "evidence" that had convicted Vechan, though he had never discovered which one. "Would you kill another noble?" "Yes." Raven felt the weight of that word, but would not relent. He wondered where this was going. Zhevke's smile fled, his face serious now. "I know that Vechan was your only close kin, that your father died five years ago." Raven nodded reluctantly. There was no use denying it. This man knew all about him. "But -- let us pretend that you had other kinsmen still living. Could you slay a relative? Someone who was close kin to you?" Raven blinked, suddenly unsure. "Well --" Zhevke nodded. "Go ahead, think about it." After a few moments of thought, Raven said slowly, "No. I would not." Zhevke's face gave no sign of disapproval -- or approval. "Let us go on supposing. Let us suppose that this kinsman had *not* helped in having Vechan accused, but that you told him of your plans for revenge and he refused to help you. Would you kill him?" Raven shook his head firmly. "No." Zhevke nodded, his face still giving no hint of his thoughts. "Let us take it further. What if he not only refused to help, but also sought to stop you? What then? What would you do?" Raven blinked yet again, swallowed. "I think -- perhaps -- yes, I would kill him. If -- if I had to." He felt shock at his own words, but Zhevke gave him no time to ponder them. "Only if you had to?" "Yes." "Suppose this was your only living kin after Vechan was killed, that you had no others. Would you then still slay him, if he opposed you?" Raven struggled to control the confusion of his thoughts. After a few moments, the answer came to him. "No," he said, and knew it for the truth. "Why not?" Zhevke's tone sharpened just a little, his eyes boring into Raven's. "Why this hesitation?" "Because . . . he would be my last kinsman." Suddenly Raven felt tears welling in his eyes. With the comfort of his rage gone, his sheer, utter aloneness -- the fact that he had nothing and no one left in this world -- struck him like a blow. This secret keep in the desert and this cold, strange man were his world now, the only fixed points in his life. Those and his revenge. He turned his head away to regain control, cursing the tears and the lump in his throat. When he had succeeded, he turned back. Zhevke's eyes, his face, showed no trace of mockery. In fact, they seemed to have truly softened for the first time since Raven had met him. "Why this concern for kinsmen, Raven? What is it about this lack of family that causes you pain?" Raven stared at him in disbelief before collecting himself to answer. "Without family . . . who am I? How can I live without kin? Without my brother?" He broke off again, fighting his tears. When his eyes had cleared, Zhevke was looking intently at him, as if what he had to say was of great import. "That is for you to decide, Raven. And yet, think upon this. "Without kin, alone, you laid your plans and journeyed into the desert. Alone, you found that cave where the barrier between the worlds is weak, and you Called to the only Power that would help you. "Raven, a man *can* live without kin -- if he has the strength. *I* have done so. I believe that you, too, have such strength." Pinned by that intense gaze, the blond apprentice nodded uncertainly. After a moment, the Dark Mage continued. "Now, here is a different thing to think upon." He paused a moment, making sure he had Raven's full attention again, before going on. "Let us again imagine that you had that other kinsman beside Vechan, your father or another brother or a cousin. "What do you believe that relative might think and do, when he was told of the charges against Vechan? Would he have believed so strongly in your brother's innocence that he would speak in his defense before the Bright Priests' tribunal, even though he risked earning their suspicion and perhaps even their enmity, as you did? Would he have had the courage? "Or -- would he have kept silent for fear of the consequences, or even accepted that if the Bright Priests accused Vechan, he must be guilty?" Raven had no reply to that; he could only stare back at the Dark Mage, his mind whirling again. Zhevke nodded slightly, acknowledging his uncertainty. "You need not have an answer to these questions now, Raven," he said quietly. "But -- think upon these things. We will talk more tomorrow." Raven's bruises and welts and his own thoughts kept him awake for some time before sleep took him. He sat on the mattress with his back propped against the wall, staring into the shadows cast by the turning-candle. He knew the answer to Zhevke's last question, at least. When he had spoken in Vechan's defense before the Priests, he had done so alone. No one -- not one other man or woman, not even Vechan's closest allies -- had come forward to declare their belief in his innocence. No one else would stand by a man who faced that charge, not even a kinsman. He was the only one who ever had. Though he knew the accusation was false, and they should have suspected it, they had all turned their backs on Vechan. Raven lowered his head to his knees and took refuge in the darkness behind his closed eyes, trying to fight down the memories of the tribunal, the execution. He did not succeed. The feelings he had known then filled his soul once more: powerless rage; despair; utter, complete helplessness. The tears he had fought down in front of Zhevke flowed freely now. He hoped none of the servants would happen by while he wept. This time, he wept for only a short while. At last, the memories and the tears exhausted themselves, and he was able to think upon his own question. *Who am I, without Vechan? Without my kin?* he had asked Zhevke. An answer came to his mind, unbidden. He was someone else. Everything in his old life was gone, even his name. That life had ended with Vechan. Who was that "someone else"? Someone ruthless enough to kill another kinsman to avenge his brother's death. What he had said to Zhevke had shocked him; but as he thought over his words, he knew he would never take them back. His new self-knowledge made him feel utterly alone, completely cut off from all other men, even from the kin he no longer had. The next day, Zhevke once again took him to the little room to practice the mental exercises he had been taught. In the afternoon, he was placed under Ja'eki's tutelage again, and the arms master began to train him -- or, rather, re-train him -- in the use of the shortsword, using wooden models. Already the half-orc seemed less repulsive than he had yesterday. In time, Raven suspected, he would grow used to him. Neither task seemed any easier, but he did not earn another flogging or beating. Again that evening, he ate dinner with his teacher, then sat before the fire with him. True to his word, Zhevke picked up where he had left off. "Have you thought about my question?" Raven nodded slowly, feeling the heaviness in his heart. "Yes." Zhevke's face was a mask. "From the look upon your face, you have an answer now, and one not to your liking." Raven lowered his eyes, taking a deep breath, expelling it slowly. "Yes. Yes, I do." "And what is it?" "The answer -- is no." He looked away a moment, then braced himself to look Zhevke squarely in the face. The mage nodded. "So, even another kinsman would have abandoned your brother? He would have found no defender?" "No -- yes, a kinsman would have abandoned him." Zhevke nodded, and his face softened. "You feel alone now, so terribly alone," he said. "Do you not?" This time, Raven was prepared for the urge to weep. He managed to control it, even the tears threatening to well in his eyes. "Yes. I do." Zhevke leaned closer to him, his face still gentle. "You have never felt this alone before, have you?" Raven looked back at him. The Dark Mage sounded almost sympathetic. "No, Master." "And yet -- in a way, you have *always* felt apart from others. Have you not?" The apprentice frowned, puzzled. "What do you mean?" "Even before your brother was accused, you must have questioned the Priests of the Light in your heart. Didn't you?" Raven looked sharply at him. Zhevke smiled at his reaction. "If you had not already doubted the righteousness of the Light long before, you would not have gone to the Jandorral. Would you not agree?" The blond apprentice could only nod. "Yes, Master." "Tell me," Zhevke said, "did you ever speak of these doubts to Vechan?" "Well, yes," he admitted warily. "And how did he respond?" Raven hesitated. Speaking of that quarrel felt like betrayal. But surely Zhevke would not have asked without a reason. After a moment, the apprentice forced himself to answer. "He -- would not even listen. In fact, he forbade me to speak of it again -- to anyone, even him." After a few moments, when it became apparent that he would say nothing more, Zhevke prodded again, his voice still soft. "So, even your brother would not listen to thoughts such as these." Raven shook his head. "No. He would not." The memory overwhelmed him then, and he closed his eyes -- riding side by side with Vechan that sunlit afternoon, finally screwing up the courage to speak his thoughts, only to meet Vechan's cold reply: *Those are dangerous thoughts, kin.* He swallowed, thrusting the memory away, and opened his eyes, feeling as if something were breaking inside him. Something that could never be mended. The Dark Mage was still looking at him, watching his face. With his usual perceptiveness, he must have known, or guessed, what was going on inside his pupil. "You were alone all your life, Raven," he said firmly, all softness gone now. "You loved your brother truly, but you were alone. The difference is that now you know it. You are no longer blind to the truth. "When you have come to accept that, when you can face the world as it is and not as you wish it to be, you can go on." Raven wanted to protest. He opened his mouth, wanting to reject what Zhevke had said, refute it somehow -- but then discovered he could think of no way to do so. Zhevke lifted a hand. "No," he silenced the apprentice. "Think over what I have said. There will be tomorrow night, and many other nights." Lying in bed awake again that night, Raven admitted to himself the truth of Zhevke's words. *You were alone all your life.* He had been alone even with Vechan, who had loved but never understood him. With Vechan dead, he was doubly alone. In turning to the Darkness, he had become still more alone. If and when he returned to the world of ordinary men beyond this desert fastness, and he revealed his secret by choice or by carelessness, all would turn against him. He could count no one as true friend. His only allies would be others of the Dark. An aching, hollow emptiness filled his soul, an emptiness he knew would never be filled. He lay back and turned his face into the cover, but he did not weep this time. *I will always be alone.* I live for feedback. Direct it to maureen_lcn@yahoo.com . You can read this and other stories about Raven in my archive on Velan at: http://vcl.ctrl- c.liu.se/vcl/Artists/Maureen/Stories/Web/index2.html Or, try http://members.vclart.net/Maureen/ (Velan's filing system is in a state of flux)