FEAR Part Two of "A Thousand Lies" @Copyright Maureen Lycaon, February 2002. 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 another story about Raven's training under the Dark Mage, Zhevke. It comes after "The Darkness Descends" and "Alone". You could have trouble understanding the references to past events unless you have read "The Darkness Descends", but briefly: young Raven's older brother was put to death by torture on false charges of "consorting with the Darkness". Vowing revenge, Raven fled into a certain cave in the Jandorral Desert, was accepted into the service of the Darkness, and is now learning Magecraft under the Dark Mage Zhevke. At the time period of this story, Raven is perhaps seventeen years old. I could disavow the philosophy here, but have chosen not to do so. Experience its impact as Raven did; then, if you have questions, you are invited to email me. At the time of writing this (January 2002), I plan to write at least two more stories exploring Raven's further training. Don't worry, I'll get to the spooge *eventually*. Direct feedback to: maureen_lcn@yahoo.com FEAR By Maureen Lycaon "Fear And you shall fall Weakness suffocates your will Dare Yet never fail Wisdom guides the one The strong who can defy Death" -- Emperor, "Thus Spake the Nightspirit" The youth sat cross-legged in the darkened cell, eyes closed, breathing slowly and evenly. He was perhaps seventeen years of age, with a fine-boned, clean-shaven face and a nose that was just slightly too long. His hair, so thick and wavy as to be almost shaggy, fell well below his shoulders; in sunlight it would have been golden-blond, but the windowless room was almost devoid of light. That almost beautiful face showed the dreamy, slack relaxation of one whose attention is focused entirely inward. The small cell's floor, walls and ceiling were solid red sandstone, unbroken by any sconces or tapestries. There were no windows and only one door, now closed. The room's only decoration was a woolen rug: red, but with a large black circle within which the youth sat. An oil lamp rested on the floor beside the rug, turned so low that the flame was no more than a spark of blue. Incense burned in a small brass brazier in one corner. It filled the room with its odd scent: earthy yet mingled with the sweetness of perfume, with a slight bitter note. The youth sat perfectly still, not a single muscle moving, wrapped in an almost inhuman concentration as he worked his magic. As he had done in the cave in the Jandorral Desert, Raven now did with more skill: he called to the Darkness and hoped that It would answer him. And that he would have the courage to remain when It did. A few days before, he and Zhevke had talked before the fire after their evening meal, as they often did. Or rather, the Dark Mage had asked questions, and he had answered. When he had come to the hold, he had thought that Zhevke would formally instruct him in Catechisms of the Darkness, as the Bright Priests once had lectured him in those of the Light. Perhaps even hoped for it, in a way. That had yet to happen, if it would at all. Zhevke commanded obedience, but not belief; during these talks, he questioned Raven more than he spoke. The Mage began: "You had questioned the Priests of the Light in your heart even before your brother was accused, did you not?" Startled, Raven looked sharply at him. Could Zhevke somehow sense his very thoughts? The Mage smiled an ungentle smile, apparently enjoying Raven's sudden fear before he calmed it. "If you had never questioned the Light before, you would not have sought the aid of the Darkness. Would you not agree?" Raven blinked, nodded. It was so easy to mistake Zhevke's incredible discernment for Magecraft . . . "Yes, Master." "Why did you question them, precisely? What things did they say or do that caused you to doubt them?" Raven took a deep breath, feeling the fluttering lightness of anxiety in his stomach. He had scarcely spoken of these things to anyone before. The few times he *had* tried to speak of them to Vechan, his brother had refused to hear them, had bidden him to speak no more. But if any living man would listen, surely it would be a Dark Mage . . . He searched his memory -- but could not find the threads of his doubts. Once he had had these thoughts every day, but in the turmoil of his life since Vechan's arrest all his lesser reasons to detest the Priests had been almost forgotten. How much had he changed, since those three days in the cave and his coming to Zhevke's hold? Had he forgotten even this? At last the memories returned. He paused a few moments longer to sort his thoughts. Zhevke had not spoken or moved; he only waited patiently, and Raven wondered how much the Mage had perceived of his inner struggle. "I don't remember just what my first thoughts were," he said carefully, not sure how much depended upon his answer, but certain he must be as truthful -- and remember -- as much as possible. "But . . . so often, what they did differed from their words." "Tell me of these words, and what they did instead," Zhevke commanded. He quelled his misgivings and began to speak. He spoke of how the Bright Priests preached of the obligation that those who were granted worldly authority by the Light had toward those below them. Of how sometimes they even dared to criticize a lord's dealings with his farmers or servants; yet in the year when the harvest failed, they had encouraged the Council of Lords in Aroll to raise the taxes, because they wanted new furnishings for the Temple. Of the teachings of the Light that lovemaking and the pleasures of flesh were things to be shunned, because the body was a prison for the soul and to create a child was to trap one more soul in that prison -- and yet at least two lesser Priests in Aroll were well known to keep mistresses and had fathered bastards upon them. And if such conduct was not truly of the Light, the Bright Lords did not make their disapproval known in any way that mortals could perceive. He told Zhevke of all the things he had seen during his life which made him suspect that the Priests did not truly believe the Catechisms they taught or the words of ritual they spoke in the public ceremonies, all the things he had learned to keep behind his teeth. Zhevke listened gravely without interruption, his steady gray eyes never leaving Raven's face as he spoke. Sometimes he would nod once or twice, briefly, but he spoke not a word. At length Raven trailed off, the flood of private doubts and secret thoughts running out at last. He felt a strange weariness, a weariness that actually felt good, as if he had been purged of something. Hard on the heels of that came sudden fear. He looked up quickly at Zhevke, trying to gauge his reaction, but the Mage's expression had not changed. Zhevke spoke -- but only to ask another question. "If you had been so indiscreet as to speak such thoughts to others beside your brother, what might they have said or done?" Raven laughed, a short, bitter bark that held no humor in it. "Some would have been angry with me for saying such things. Others would have laughed and mocked me. For certain, anyone who heard me would gossip about it. It would have reached the ears of the Priests eventually." "Why would some be angry with you?" "Because they would think I was lacking in respect for the Priests." Bitterness hardened Raven's voice. "And why would some mock?" "Because they would think me a fool!" He took a deep, shaky breath, trying to calm the burning anger and bitterness in his soul. "Here is a thing to consider. Do you think every man has such doubts, but never speaks of them? Or, do you think most men fear even to think them?" Raven clamped down tighter on his emotions, succeeded a little more, as Zhevke waited impassively. Finally he replied, "I think most men don't have such doubts. Or -- if they do, they do not let themselves think of them." Zhevke nodded. "So, they refuse to think that the Priests might not be what they claim -- concerned only with the welfare of every spirit, and freeing us all from the imprisonment of base flesh so that we may return to the Light after bodily death." There was no trace of scorn or irony in his voice or eyes as he spoke, only the flat words. "Just as they did not wish to think the Priests might possibly be wrong in the matter of your brother's guilt." "Yes, Master," Raven answered, nodding. "And yet, *you* were willing to doubt," Zhevke remarked. "*You* thought such things, and even sought to speak of them with the one person you felt you could trust." "Yes, Master. And even he would not listen to me." Raven felt the old bitterness rise in his throat. He swallowed it back, not wanting to risk its turning into tears. Now Zhevke leaned forward a little, looking deeply into Raven's eyes. "Listen, Raven. You are brave. Not many have your courage, the courage to doubt and to stand alone -- only the few who are strong. That courage is a thing to be proud of. Remember that." Raven blinked. He had never dreamed of being praised for his doubts before; he wasn't prepared for it, could barely accept it, and it stirred emotions he couldn't put names to. With an effort of will, he held himself steady and just nodded back. Raven spent the next morning as he usually did: as a household menial. His days in the hold followed a strict pattern, laid down by Zhevke. He took meals upon waking, at midday and with Zhevke in the evening. Zhevke took him to practice his daily lesson in magic at mid-morning; he practiced weaponry with the arms master Ja'eki in the afternoon. That left open much of the day, time that Zhevke wished filled. So the Dark Mage ordained that Raven do the same work as his lowest-ranking servants, under the supervision of gray-haired Jaim, the oldest man in the hold. At first, Raven had been outraged. It was humiliating enough that he had to kneel before Zhevke, kiss his hand and call him Master. That he should have to empty chamberpots and scrub floors, taking orders from a mere over-servant, was beyond tolerance. When he had balked at the indignity, Zhevke had called for the assistance of two burly minions and had him dragged to the room he remembered all too well. There, as Jaim watched with an air of quiet satisfaction and the two servants smirked openly, he was given his second flogging since he had come to Zhevke's hold. Afterward, his throat raw from screaming and his back a mass of pain, he had been allowed only enough time to change into a new shirt, and returned to Jaim's charge. The old servant taught Raven his tasks, where the scrub brushes and buckets and brooms were kept, where the chamberpots were to be taken, even in what order to clean the rooms. Raven and three other servants were responsible for a middle level of the hold -- one where the higher-ranking men slept and ate. He had been set as a servant to other servants, and he felt the humiliation keenly. He felt it still more as he carried the heavy, reeking chamberpots, as he got down on hands and knees with the others to scrub the sandstone floors -- with Jaim standing nearby, watching to make sure they did a good job or occasionally giving a correction. Jaim never smirked at him or mocked him; that was the only mercy he had. The old servant did badger him relentlessly -- to be faster in coming back with the emptied, cleaned chamberpots, to scrub the floor more thoroughly until it was spotless. After the midday meal, he was sent back to Jaim for more work. That first day, by the time he was let off for arms practice, Raven would gladly have strangled the old man. In the many days since then, his resentment had dwindled as he had become used to it. He didn't often earn a correction from Jaim any more. Today, resentment was the farthest thing from his mind; last night's conversation with Zhevke was what filled it. He had at last confessed his most secret thoughts and doubts to someone who had listened, truly *listened*. Indeed, the Mage had actually *praised* him, speaking of his courage, calling him strong. He remembered with a pang of embarrassment that he'd been near tears with the sheer relief, the joy of it, and the gratitude, and he felt again that upwelling of mingled emotions. A little shamed at himself, he turned his mind from his almost-tears. Still, he felt as if a deep lifelong wound had at last healed. *He understands. He even agrees with me,* Raven thought. Then his mind turned to other thoughts . . . *Why could no one else see these things? Why did the nobles deceive themselves? What is different about me?* Perhaps, as Zhevke said, simply because he was stronger, braver. Perhaps it was only that. In the afternoon, as usual, he trained under Ja'eki. Ja'eki had kept his word about making Raven start over from the beginning; they still used wooden swords. Only now was Raven beginning to appreciate how much he had to learn, and unlearn. His family instructor had been little more than mediocre. He was growing used to taking weapons instruction from the half-orc. Ugly though the abomination was, Ja'eki no longer made his skin crawl. At times, in the press of swordplay, he even forgot what his teacher was. Afterward, resting and bathing in his room before supper, he wondered about some of what he'd been told about Ja'eki's breed. Perhaps that, too, was wrong. That night, Zhevke questioned him about the experience in the cave. "You managed to Call the Darkness in that cave, if clumsily. I wish you to tell me of what happened when you called, what you felt. How long did you Call before the Darkness came?" Raven swallowed as he thought back. He still felt shame over those moments of panicked, paralyzed fear; he hoped Zhevke would not force him to speak of that. "I began the morning of the day before." "So, it took you two days to succeed." Zhevke's tone held no scorn of any kind, but Raven felt his own face warm as he nodded acknowledgement. He looked away, covering his embarrassment by glancing at the flames of the low hearth fire. "Tell me, how difficult was it?" Zhevke asked. "Very hard. Perhaps the hardest thing I have ever done," Raven admitted, remembering how he had Called for turnings until he fell asleep at the task. "And how did you first sense an answer?" He swallowed again. Even remembering that sent a chill through his flesh that the fire did nothing to warm. He fought it down, forcing himself to recall things in the order that they had happened. "There was a great storm," he said, "with lightning. There was this one flash of lightning, and I saw something, some sort of great beast standing outside the cave. It was gone before I could see what it was . . ." "What sort of beast?" Zhevke interrupted. Raven tried to picture it again in his mind's eye. He'd never seen the creature clearly -- only as a swiftly glimpsed dark form against the quick brilliant light. "I don't know," he said. "It was very big, bigger than a mastiff. At first I thought it was a wolf, and I thought it had red eyes -- but perhaps I just imagined that." He went silent then, remembering Zhevke's crimson-eyed stallion, D'vogel. Zhevke nodded, his expression oddly knowing. Raven hoped the Dark Mage would tell him what it was that he knew, but instead he went on, "And did the beast return?" "No, Master." "What happened after that? Were you afraid?" Zhevke's eyes bored into him, unrelenting. So he *would* have to admit it. Zhevke would see through any lie. "Yes," he admitted, feeling hot blood rush into his face. "Yes, I was." Mercifully, Zhevke ignored his embarrassment. "Go on." Haltingly, he told the Mage of how the Darkness had appeared in the cave -- the way the stars had been blotted out by the complete blackness, even that primeval terror that had nearly unhinged his sanity. As he remembered that vague horrible form, it took every bit of his will not to let himself shiver; there was a chill in his spirit that the hearth fire couldn't warm. At that point he looked anxiously into Zhevke's face, dreading to see mockery there. But no trace of scorn showed in those impassive gray eyes, only that look of calm, intent listening. Forcing himself on, he described how the terror had suddenly vanished and the Darkness had spoken to him, and he described the vision recalling Vechan's torture and death . . . When he faltered here, his throat closing and his voice fading to a whisper, Zhevke said almost gently, "It is in the past, Raven. Go on." When Raven spoke of the vision of the great hall and the strange, magnificent longsword being placed in his hands, the Dark Mage at last lifted one hand for him to stop speaking. "The sword -- it was black?" "Yes, Master. With inlaid gold patterns." He remembered it vividly: the weight of the blade in his hands, the gold markings and patterns upon it . . . the fierce pride he'd felt at that moment. An echo of that pride entered his spirit, and the "Master" he had just spoken felt strange on his tongue. He looked into Zhevke's eyes. Something stirred in their shadowy gray depths, something he couldn't read. "What does it mean?" he risked asking. "Later. For now, continue," Zhevke said, waving one hand dismissively. He did, describing the visions of vengeance. Zhevke listened without expression until he had finished. Only then, as he took a long breath, did the Mage speak again. "The sword means that you will be a Dark Mage of truly exceptional talent and power, Raven. Provided, of course, that you succeed in your training. Take heart from it, for the Kings of the Black Realm have favored you." Raven's eyes widened as he stared back at the Mage. It was too much to take in all at once, and Zhevke didn't give him time to dwell upon it. "But for now, let me go back to another thing," the Mage said. "You felt terror when the Darkness came to you. Do you believe that you would have Called anyway, even if you knew you would be so afraid?" Raven stifled his quick reply, examining it until he knew it to be the truth. "Yes," he answered. "I still would have done it, Master." Zhevke nodded gravely. "Good. You are indeed brave, Raven. That is enough for tonight." The next night: "Let us once again discuss your brother's death, Raven," the Mage said. "I know this causes you grief, but it is necessary to speak further of it." "Yes, Master," Raven answered, ignoring the twinge of sorrow. He met Zhevke's gray eyes, seeking a clue as to what he had in mind, but as usual that penetrating gaze gave nothing back -- no hint of sympathy, nor of scorn. "Do you think that your brother's allies truly believed the charges laid against him, or did they not?" At that single question, the too-familiar anger and mourning rose in Raven's spirit, almost smothering him. He fought them down to give Zhevke an answer, using the disciplines of controlling the mind that he had learned over the past months. "I think," he said slowly, carefully controlling the tremor that threatened to creep into his voice, "they were not certain." The Mage nodded. "And yet, at least some of them must have known him well. Not as well as you did, to be sure, but well enough to know that he was surely not guilty. Would you agree with that?" Raven's jaw muscles clenched. "Yes, Master." "So why did they say nothing?" "They were cowards! They feared his enemies. And they feared the Priests --" Raven broke off as he realized his voice was rising. He inhaled deeply. It had been three months, and every detail of his life was now changed, and still his anger and sorrow were so great that they could escape his control. He wondered if the pain would ever ease. "I can see that these are words you have spoken in your heart many times," Zhevke remarked. "Yes . . . Yes, Master, they are." His breathing steadied a little. "And so they forsook honor and all else in the face of that fear," the Mage said. "And perhaps they also feared to *question* the Priests. Feared to consider whether they might be wrong." His tone changed, turning the last into a question. Raven nodded firmly, angrily. "Yes! The cowards wouldn't question them." Zhevke's eyes remained calm as stones in the rain. "Here is something to ponder," he observed. "Your brother's allies let him go to his death out of fear. Fear of his enemies. Fear of the Priests of the Light. And, finally, fear of even *doubting* the Priests, not daring to even consider whether they might be wrong in such a grave matter." He raised his eyebrows questioningly. "Yes, Master," Raven said, nodding again. He had never been able to put it into words before, but he felt the *rightness* of what Zhevke said, and knew that it was true. The Mage leaned back in his chair, elbows on the armrests, and clasped just the tips of his fingers together as he regarded his student. "I will tell you something of what we who ally ourselves with the Dark Kings understand, Raven," he began. It was the first time he had frankly said anything of the Power that he served, and Raven stilled his thoughts and listened eagerly. The Dark Mage spoke: "You know the Bright Priests teach that there are five Deadly Sins, five errors that cause us to fall from the path of the Light. But to the Dark Kings, there are three Deadly Weaknesses which blind us to truth and dissuade us from our goals, and which thus cause us to fall back into folly and enslavement to the Bright Lords and their minions. "It is not necessary that you know all three of them yet. But know this, now: the first of those weaknesses is fear. "The Bright Priests tell us a thousand lies to make us accept fear as somehow good, or 'right'. Fear itself comes in a thousand forms: fear of death; fear of what others might think or say; fear of dishonor; fear of damnation. Worst of all, we are taught to pretend to ourselves that our fear is not really fear but something else: 'conscience', 'love', 'honor' or other things. We pretend to ourselves, and we pretend to others." Raven nodded uncertainly; something in his spirit stirred powerfully at these words, but he didn't quite trust it yet. "Know this, as well," Zhevke went on. "In order to walk the path of the Darkness, to wield power, you must drive these lies from your heart. The first step to conquering fear is to unmask it, to examine your every hesitation, your every qualm. Always, seek to strip your fear of its disguises, and see it for what it truly is. "Tomorrow, I will give you not one but two lessons in meditation. I will not only have you practice clearing your mind, but also teach you how to give your mind over to pondering one thought, one idea until you have understood it fully in your heart. You will begin by pondering fear." Before going to sleep, Raven once again thought over Zhevke's words. *We are taught to pretend to ourselves that our fear is not really fear but something else: 'conscience', 'love', 'honor' or other things.* He was right about the nobles of Aroll, at least. They had spoken of "respect" for the Priests, of "faith" in their judgment, when they had really been afraid. Raven felt the reflexive anger rising, but it seemed weaker now, as if somehow Zhevke's words had lessened it. He pushed it back and continued to think . . . Indeed, he suddenly wondered, what *was* "respect", if not really fear? His family had demanded respect from the farmers they ruled over -- deference, obedience, submission. The Priests advised the lowborn to respect their superiors, to accept their station in earthly life and not distract themselves with resentment or greed. But at bottom, as every lord knew, that respect could only be kept by fear of punishment -- by the use of the flogging post, the dungeon, the executioner's axe. Respect was merely one of the disguises that the Bright Priests put upon fear. It was one of the thousand lies. At that thought, Raven felt a curious sensation in his mind: a feeling of a chain being cast off, sinking into nothingness -- of growing freedom. He would have thought further upon this, but he was too sleepy to ponder it further. He left it for tomorrow. In the meditation chamber, Raven had to control his eagerness to get on with it. He practiced clearing his mind as he already had learned to do. Always, it was an exhausting battle. As ever, when Zhevke entered the room to call a halt, he thought that he had failed, and yet his mind felt clearer -- more focused, seeing and understanding with a new clarity. Now, instead of bidding him to rise, the Dark Mage stepped before him, then sat down on the rug cross-legged. He waited a few moments before speaking -- perhaps to be sure he had his student's full attention. "Now, I will teach you a new form of meditation, as I promised last night. "You must think only of one thing, letting yourself dwell upon it, while still keeping out all thought of other things. You tried to do this while Calling the Darkness in that cave, but you have more skill now. "This time, as I said, you will meditate upon fear. Think of fear -- what you have been taught about it, what you yourself have learned, what it truly is. Think of how the strong might master fear. "Now, close your eyes and begin." Zhevke made no move to get up, and Raven realized that he intended to stay with him throughout the exercise. Raven closed his eyes. Fear. He repeated the word to himself mentally over and over, focusing upon it. At last, he set his mind to Zhevke's words, asking himself: *What is fear, really?* It was a feeling, an emotion. One felt it when something unpleasant seemed about to happen, such as death or great pain. And last night, he had learned that it could indeed disguise itself as other things. It was that last thought that he had been eager to explore; he wanted to tear away every mask that fear had, to uncover every false concept, every virtue that was only another of those masks. He had made a beginning last night. Now that he had the opportunity, he held that thought and dwelled upon it -- but, to his annoyance, nothing came. He strove harder, but it was as if he were beating his fists against a blank wall. Finally, he gave up. This must not be the right way to do it. Perhaps he should think upon Zhevke's other questions. *What did I learn, before I came here? What did I think I knew of fear?* Once he would not even have admitted to knowing what it felt like. Fear was ignoble, disgraceful. A nobleman must banish every trace of it from his spirit. Those who gave into it were weaklings and cowards, fit only to be mere peasants and commoners. So had his tutors and his father taught him. He was of noble birth; noblemen and their sons did not admit to feeling fear. And yet, the nobles of Aroll *had* given in to it -- *No*, he told himself. He didn't want to get caught up in endless circles upon that subject again. He forced his mind away. That fear was shameful, the Bright Priests also taught, though they scorned it less than the nobles did and gave different reasons. It was one of the impulses of the flesh that men had in common with the beasts, and which hindered their union with the Light. What else was there to think upon? Nothing came. But there was no word or sound from Zhevke to signal that he could stop. Bored, his mind snapped back to his motionless body. He struggled to control his restlessness, the itch in his muscles that demanded he get up and move about. At length, he succeeded. *What do I really *know* of fear, other than what I was taught?* It was a strange new way of thinking, one Zhevke had taught him over the past two months, to think of some of your own thoughts as coming from what others had taught you, and to separate that from your own experiences. But it brought him a strange clarity, a feeling he was seeing all things with new and better eyes, thinking more clearly than he ever had before. Last night had been a witness to that . . . Raven admitted it now, though he couldn't avoid feeling shame over it: he *did* know how fear felt. It could feel almost like a tangible enemy that fought you. How did one overcome fear? Only through one's own will. Practice and training made it easier. The terror he had suffered in the cave was something outside his experience, a fear he hadn't been prepared for. It had truly felt like something outside him, a powerful spell cast by a Mage or a demon. Could he truly overcome fear such as *that*? Raven wasn't at all sure. If he could not, he would never take his revenge, never be more than a lowly Mage's apprentice. He pushed the thought away, refusing to accept the possibility of defeat. *I will not give in to fear*, he thought. *I did not before the Torgelin Court; I will not now. I will not let fear rule me now, nor ever again.* He filled himself with that resolve, seeking to fix his will upon it for eternity. He was interrupted by Zhevke's soft, "Enough." Raven opened his eyes. The Dark Mage still sat before him; as usual, he did not appear to have moved at all, and Raven had no idea how much time had passed. He waited, expecting Zhevke to ask him what he had learned. Instead, the Mage shook his head at the unspoken question in his eyes, saying only, "No, I do not need to know what came to your mind. It is better that you hold it to your own heart, by yourself, without speaking of it for now. We will talk another time." Indeed, that was Zhevke's last conversation with him for several days. Over the course of that time, the subject of fear returned to Raven at odd moments now and then: while he scrubbed floors and emptied chamberpots; while he rested alone in his cell at midday or at night before sleeping. *Why didn't they defend my brother?* It was the same question that he had asked himself over and over again since that misbegotten trial. He'd thought he finally knew the answer . . . yet a part of his mind kept asking, unsatisfied. *Why do men refuse to doubt the Bright Priests? Why do they lie even to *themselves*?* How could they not believe the evidence of their own senses, the proof that lay right before them, that the Priests were corrupt? Were they truly just afraid of the Priests' retaliation? He gritted his teeth and scrubbed harder at a spot that was no dirtier than the rest without really looking at it. *Are they all such ignoble cowards? Are they just lackwits? Surely it isn't only the Torgelin Court they fear . . .* Why were they afraid even to *think*? Each time he thought about it, he came no closer to an answer. After a few days, Zhevke pronounced himself satisfied with Raven's ability to clear his mind and to hold to a single thought. Now, at last, the Mage began to give him instruction in Calling the Darkness. It was the first time he would perform actual magic under the Dark Mage's tutelage, and Raven concealed his eagerness as he listened. "You managed to Call It in a cave where Its presence was already very strong," Zhekve said. "But you must learn to do it at will, without so much difficulty; and you must not merely Call It but meditate upon It, let yourself become one with It for a time. If you wish to use its power, you must come to understand the Darkness and not fear it." Raven remembered his terror in the cave and wondered if he would feel it this time, but he said nothing. Zhevke did not remain in the room with him as he had during the very first lesson in meditation, but instead left him to perform the exercise alone. For three turnings Raven sat cross-legged within the black circle on that scarlet rug, putting all his concentration into that Call, as he had in the Jandorral Desert. His anxiety proved pointless. Nothing came to his summons that day. No presence, no Power, even though he Called until Zhevke entered the room again to end the session. The Dark Mage did not seem annoyed or surprised. "It takes much practice. You will continue each day until you succeed." His tone permitted no dispute. Nothing came the next morning, or the one after that. Now, Raven tried yet again. He sat with his eyes closed, oblivious to the darkened room around him and the strange, earthy smell of the incense. In the world behind his closed eyelids, only the thread of the Calling existed, spreading out into the world of spirit. At last he felt what might have been a response. Not the abrupt, overwhelming Presence of the cave, but a small sensation, almost indescribable, that *something* had heard and was listening -- something very far away. He thought at first that it was only a phantom of his own imagining. He continued to Call. Slowly, that feeling grew stronger, closer. As the impression of that Presence strengthened, it became more distinct. It felt cold, and somehow very -- black; that was the only word that came to Raven's mind. He felt a prickle of cold sweat forming on his skin, hairs rising on the back of his neck. Then the fear began. It was the same soul-deep animal fear he had felt in the cave. He swallowed, feeling his stomach turn over, and sought to force down that instinctive terror with all the discipline he had learned. It was too powerful to be brushed aside that way for long. When it rose up again, defying his will, he tried to reason with it. He had allied himself with this Power, had he not? And had It not accepted him into Its service? Why should It harm him? His terror mocked the feeble attempts of his reason to control it. The Presence grew stronger still -- and so did the fear. He began to shiver. And suddenly It was *right there*, in the room with him as It had been in the cave, and the nature of that Presence became clear to him: utter, inhuman ruthlessness, a cold predatory essence. It had the slaughterhouse stink of blood and death, and It was relentlessly, unspeakably hungry -- Raven had a brief, hideously vivid flash of himself swallowed by that Power: dead, no, worse than dead, his very spirit devoured by that bottomless hunger. Then he was on his feet, leaping for the door, scrambling to open it, and then fleeing out of it into the light and safety of the corridor. When he confessed what had happened to Zhevke, the Dark Mage slapped him hard across the face, once. Raven quickly lowered his gaze to the floor, hiding his anger as he rubbed his cheek. "You succeeded, and then you threw it away," Zhevke said, when Raven lifted his head again. "Perhaps you *are* only a coward in bondage to the Light after all. Are you?" His cold gray eyes bored into Raven's. Raven glared helplessly back at Zhevke for a long moment, unable to summon a reply. The Mage spoke again, cutting across anything he might have said. "The next time you succeed," and Zhevke's voice was pure ice, "you will remain in the room, come what may. If you do not, I will do much worse than flog you. Do you understand me?" Right now, mere physical pain seemed less terrifying than the prospect of once again facing that Power. But Raven forced himself to reply, "Yes, Master." "Good." After a silent, brooding supper that Raven barely tasted, he and Zhevke sat before the hearth fire again. He had expected to be berated further about his cowardice, but now there was no trace of contempt on the Dark Mage's face. "Tell me," Zhevke began. "How did your fear feel?" Once again, the blood rose to Raven's face. He forced himself to speak, ignoring his embarrassment. "It felt -- like something I couldn't control." He couldn't help but feel how weak that sounded. "Like something from the very depths of my being." Zhevke's face was stone. "And how did the Darkness feel?" "It . . . it felt like nothing I've ever known." Raven struggled to put what he had sensed into words. "Hungry. So hungry . . . as if it would love nothing better than to tear me apart. And yet -- worse than that." The words seemed so feeble, a mere shadow of what he had felt. "As if it would destroy my very spirit, along with my body." Zhevke nodded once, and continued to stare at him without expression. The silence stretched out uncomfortably. The fire emitted a soft hiss and a pop before returning to its low crackling. Finally, when it seemed that neither of them would ever speak again, Raven took a deep breath. "I'm damned, aren't I?" He looked deep into the Dark Mage's inscrutable eyes. "Since the moment I Called in the cave. I'm damned." "Why are you damned, Raven?" Zhevke's face was as unreadable as it had ever been. "Because I Called the Darkness and agreed to serve it." The Mage waited a long moment before replying. Then, "Really? Do you truly believe it was only then that you became damned?" Raven stared at him uncomprehendingly. "What do you mean?" "Think back to your catechisms, Raven. Long before the charges of heresy were laid against your brother, you had begun to doubt, to not believe. What does the First Catechism say? 'Do not doubt, for that way lies only doom.' Even to doubt the Light is to risk damnation." Raven said nothing. "You were not damned in the cave, Raven, or even when you laid your plans to seek the help of the Darkness. You were damned long before your brother's arrest. You were damned the moment you questioned and would not cease from questioning." Raven realized now that he had expected himself to weep, but whatever he was feeling now wasn't tears. It was too cold, too still, and too deep. His lungs ached, and he realized he had ceased to breathe. He inhaled deeply, his eyes still locked with Zhevke's. "There is no more use in fearing, Raven," the Dark Mage said. "What will happen to me after -- afterward?" Raven's voice was barely more than a whisper. Zhevke shrugged, as if the matter were of no great import. "Your spirit goes to the Dark Realm." "What happens there?" "Again, you know your catechisms. 'Eternal torment'. Or at least so say the Priests of the Light." He actually smiled at that, a smile full of cold mockery. Raven stared at him. "What *truly* happens?" he repeated, hoping Zhevke didn't decide to take offense. He didn't. Instead, the Mage's face grew serious. "Good, you begin to doubt. But you ask as if you believe *I* have certain knowledge of that." Raven braced himself, asked the question. "Do you not -- Master?" Zhevke shook his head. "No. I have been to the Dark Realm, but never have I seen a spirit being tormented." He went on, as Raven absorbed this. "There are books of knowledge older than the catechisms which the Priests of the Light use now. Books, which claim that the ultimate fate of the dead who are not of the Light is as empty ghosts flitting about the caverns and plains of the Dark Realm. "If you wish an answer, that is as good as any." Zhevke's answer preyed upon Raven that night as he lay on the thin mattress in his cell trying to sleep, and into the next day as he worked under Jaim. Damned. Damned the moment he had begun to ask the questions no one else dared to. That was the real reason why men feared to doubt the Bright Priests. What was there to live for, then? What purpose might anything have, if one's spirit was doomed to the Dark Realm after death by an arrogant, uncaring Power? How could a mortal possibly do battle with the Light? Yet, as far as he could tell, Zhevke was not lost in despair. Far from it. Despair, at least, gave him the courage to Call again; he knew now that he had nothing to lose. But he couldn't push the thoughts away. His success of the day before was not repeated; nothing answered his summons. Weapons practice provided only a temporary escape, as he concentrated upon Ja'eki's more physical lessons. In the evening, before the fire, Zhevke spoke. "You have thought more of what was said last night, to judge from the look on your face. Tell me of that, Raven." Thought? As yet he could scarcely think -- his rage was almost as great as it had been in the days after Vechan's execution, but now it was weighed down with an equal desolation. He struggled to form thoughts, words. "I -- I am angry. But -- I cannot see what to do. How can mortals fight a Power?" He fell silent. Zhevke nodded, then: "Why angry?" His expression was neutral. "Because it's so unjust!" The Dark Mage nodded again, and now Raven could swear that a hint of anger like unto his own sparkled in those cold gray eyes. A moment later, he was not certain he had seen it at all. "Yes. It is, isn't it?" Zhevke's voice was soft. "You are damned for having the courage and the will to question. Others are rewarded for their willingness to blind themselves." Those were the words Raven had been seeking for, but been unable to articulate. "Yes! It's wrong!" "Yes," Zhevke agreed. "The Light damns those with the courage to doubt or question. It damns the best and the strongest." Zhevke's eyes glittered as darkly as Raven's own. "And yet the Priests claim that the Light is just, that the Light *is* justice itself." "Yes, Master." And he heard the open bitterness in his reply, and knew Zhevke heard it too. "But I will wager you feel something as well as anger, Raven. Tell me of that as well. Do not worry about being thought a weakling -- I wish to hear of it." With a small shock Raven realized Zhevke was speaking of the hopelessness he felt. Feeling the Dark Mage's eyes upon him, he braced himself and spoke. "I -- feel despair. I feel there is no hope." "Why is there no hope?" "Because I'm damned! I am damned, whatever I do. What meaning can there be in anything, then? How is it that *you* go on?" He trailed off. Zhevke leaned forward, and his gaze locked with Raven's, as if what he had to say now was of great import. "Listen to me, Raven. We have but one life to live, whether we serve the Light or the Darkness," the Dark Mage said. The unfeeling mask had been discarded; his eyes held an intensity Raven had seen before only in the eyes of one or two Bright Priests -- the intensity of total belief. "We can, however, choose not to blind ourselves. We can choose not to wear upon our eyes and our spirits the blinders and chains forged by others. The Darkness, at least, does not deceive those who serve it, or encourage us to deceive ourselves. Raven nodded slowly, though for the first time in his life he doubted his courage. Despair still gripped at him. "Think it over, then, until it is all clear in your heart." Zhevke lifted his arms over his head, stretching, and rose from his chair. "And you will Call again, tomorrow." He did think it over, as he waited for sleep. Now he understood the real fear the Light commanded, the fear beyond that of the Torgelin Court . . . the fear most men refused to admit even to themselves, because they feared to think about it. Damnation. He alone had had the courage to question. The only question left was whether he had the courage to accept the damnation he had already incurred. The next morning, they entered the barren meditation room again. Zhevke said nothing to him, nor he to Zhevke. He sat down upon the rug as he had done so many times before, and composed himself for meditation. When the Dark Mage had left, Raven forced down his thoughts, his doubts, his despair, as he emptied his mind and began to Call. After a long and difficult struggle, he felt himself sinking into the state he had reached before, that place that was no place. There was a premonitory tingle of fear, part of him dreading to face that hungry dark essence again. He stifled it; there was naught to lose, he reminded himself. He was already damned. With a mighty effort, he pushed that thought away as well, so that his mind was as clear as pure ice, filled only with the Call. The response came faster this time, as if the way had somehow been prepared. Raven's stomach twisted, his body begging him to flee, even before the fear struck his mind like a blow. He was drenched in cold sweat yet again. The feeble light of the oil lamp had glowed through his closed eyelids, barely detectable. Suddenly even that dim light vanished, drowned in an ocean of darkness. Of Darkness . . . He was going to break and run again. He was sure of it. A trickle of despair welled up underneath the terror in his soul. He was shaking uncontrollably now, but with the last dregs of his determination he steeled himself to "look" squarely into the Power he had Called, even though when he did so the spasm of fear in his belly was so strong it seemed to rip his insides apart. It was as cold and predatory as he remembered, and as horrifying. But somehow -- he never knew how -- he managed to remain still, to study It. He stared fully into the face of that primeval hunger, and sought to understand it . . . and felt the Darkness beginning to seep into his very spirit. Would he be devoured by It -- or be filled by that need to devour, turning into something that preserved only the shell of a man and was all mindless hunger within? Which fate would be worse? Then the most terrifying thing of all happened: he could no longer move or open his eyes. It had taken control of his body, pinning him motionless, and he was helpless in Its grip. *Zhevke was wrong -- or he's tricked me -- I'm going to die --* Then . . . something changed. The transformation was not a thing he could put into words until afterward, but as it entered his shuddering spirit, that bottomless hunger abruptly turned into something else: a flowing river of limitless, intoxicating power. His fear transformed with it, into exultation at that mighty power, a deep joy in its strength running through him. Raven opened his mind completely, let the Darkness join with him in a way that was utterly beyond words, and he felt himself actually shiver with delight as he shared that strength and then knew that it was his for the taking. Now he understood the Darkness. He couldn't grasp all of It; It was too vast, too complex for his beginner's understanding to grasp. But he understood that part of It was pure, immeasurable *power*, and that anyone who shared in that essence shared in that power and was free to wield it as he wished. The very notion that anything should get in the way of his wielding that power was absurd, a mere quibbling of fools who feared to grasp the flame. All else -- the notions of good and evil that the Bright Priests taught, all conscience, all scruple -- was empty foolishness, lies which had power to bind the believer but which lost their power the moment they were recognized for what they really were. And he understood the terror he had felt as well. It was fitting and proper that one who had lived in those lies should be afraid in the face of truth. Men recoiled from truth as much as they sought it, instinctively understanding its power and how deadly it could be to the lies they comforted themselves with, how it could overthrow their world. That terror was a kind of test, one that weeded out the cowardly and weak who were destined never to be more than slaves from the truly strong who ruled. Raven exulted in his oneness with that naked power. The chains of "right" and "wrong" upon his mind, the chains of the Light's teachings, fell away from him. He had worn those chains all his life without even knowing it. They were so much a part of him that he had never dreamed of the possibility of life outside them, any more than the heavy draft horses that pulled the heavy wooden carts of the merchants could imagine a life outside of their imprisoning harnesses, running free. Now, for the first time in his life, those chains were gone, and the sudden lightness and freedom that took their place was pure joy. Power was for the strong to use and to enjoy as they chose. At that moment, Raven chose to be one of the strong. At last that glorious realization, the intoxicating sense of pure freedom, faded. The Darkness receded, seemingly of its own accord. He tried to grasp it again, wanting to remain in that freedom and power and joy, but it was like trying to hold onto a wondrous dream while being shaken awake. It left him yearning for its return, wondering if he would remember the understanding he had gained after that clarity had faded. Giving up at last, Raven slowly brought his mind back to the mundane world, and found he could move again. He opened his eyes. The incense had long since burned away. The oil lamp was burning low, about to go out. He picked it up and rose on legs as unsteady as a newborn colt's, then pushed the door open and stumbled out into the corridor. When he had finished describing his experience to Zhevke as best he could, the Dark Mage nodded gravely. "You have taken your first step into true freedom, Raven. The greatest weapons of the Bright Priests are not their Halls of Justice, or the swords of the Torgelin. They are the fetters of deception that they place upon your mind. "Today, you've glimpsed the truth beyond those lies. Welcome to the real world, Raven." And Zhevke smiled, a true smile without mockery or cruelty. 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://members.vclart.net/Maureen/