Triumph

[Sámiel]

Samóch

A gateway opened onto a dark courtyard, moonlight spilling like silver blood across the flagstones. The sudden brightness glinted off the iron bars of the raken cage, and within, a low growl stirred. The beast's eyes slitted open to study the disturbance.

Through the gate strode Samóch, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow with weight. On his heels came the King of Arad Doman, barefoot and clad only in his silken nightclothes, the fabric clinging to him with a sheen of cold sweat. The Shaidar’an clung to his skull like it had grown there, its mechanical arms fanned across his brow, veiling his vision. Only the ground directly before his feet remained visible, and even that was warped by the lattice of silver and shadow that stretched across his world.

Every time Daryen tried to speak, agony clenched his jaw shut with a spike of invisible force. The message had been made clear: silence was not optional. He could open his mouth, but only if he made no sound. A sharper lesson had come earlier, when he'd reached instinctively for saidin. He hadn’t even touched the Source before something seared through his nerves like lightning dipped in acid.

His scream was strained soundlessness.

Now, he followed.

Stumbling over uneven flagstones, half-blinded and half-frozen, he obeyed.

Inside the grand house, torchlight flickered against domed ceilings and painted walls. Samóch called for a servant.

“Inform High Lord Sivikawa that Cassius is returned and I bring news of the King.”

The servant blinked, uncertain. His eyes flickering toward the ghostlike figure behind Samóch, who shivered and swayed in place.

“But, sir... the High Lord is sleeping.”

Samóch smiled, the way a serpent might before striking.

“If you do not wake him, I will. And when he learns you kept urgent intelligence about the King’s condition from him... shall we imagine what he will do for withholding such information from him?”

Pale, the servant fled.

In the waiting chamber, Samóch motioned the floor.

“Sit.”

Daryen didn’t move.

The pain came again. A needle of fire behind his eyes, through the back of his teeth, in his joints. So sudden and surgical it buckled his knees. He dropped with a ragged breath and folded himself cross-legged on the floor, shoulders trembling.

Samóch studied him, unreadable. Still not broken. Not at all. What was he thinking behind that silent mask? Fear? Rage? Hope?

Doesn’t matter, he told himself. None of it matters. None of it will save him.

The High Lord arrived moments later, barefoot, dressed in a silk robe hastily tied around his wide frame. Despite the lateness of the hour, his presence was still commanding. Enough to cow lesser men. But not Samóch.

“High Lord Sivikawa,” he said by way of greeting, pairing his words with a bow. “I bring you a gift.”

The High Lord halted, eyes falling upon the figure seated on the floor. His face was unreadable as it shifted sharply toward Samóch who reached for the ring on his thumb and held it out, palm up. He had promised to deliver the king as gift to the High Lord’s feet, but never once mentioned a ring.

“This,” he said quietly, “is the gift.”

Sivikawa eyed it warily, as if it might bite. “What is it?”

Samóch said. “When worn, it links you to him through the Shaidar’an. You’ll be able to use his power fully without touching the One Power yourself. It won’t stain your soul. It won’t leave a mark. I promise.”

He tilted his head, continuing. “It does more than that. You may send your emotions into him. Bend his mind with your anger, your joy, your pain. It’s not unlike the a’dam in that way. But more confined. You’ll see.”

Sivikawa recoiled, a sneer forming. “You suggest I am like a sul’dam? That I wear a slave’s leash and handle this... thing?”

“I suggest nothing,” Samóch said, voice still soft. “I deliver. The Empress… may she live forever… called you blessed.That is why you are here, and not another High Lord. Do you question her wisdom?”

That struck home. Sivikawa sneered.

“I would never,” he said stiffly. He took the ring.

The moment it crossed his finger, his eyes widened. He staggered slightly, as if something vast had just settled over him.

Samóch watched with silent amusement as the man whispered Old Tongue phrases with grotesque accent. He could feel Sivikawa feeling it. The connection, the weight, the power.

“As sworn,” Samóch said with a slight bow, “I have brought you this gift.”

He looked down at Daryen. Still silent, still still.

“If you wish to give him a new name,” he added, almost absently, “I suggest Coren’dor Saorin al’Revaine’maren.”

Sivikawa blinked. “Why?”

Samóch’s gaze lingered on Daryen.

Halo of the sun over fields of plenty, he thought. But the words had come unbidden, and their beauty unsettled him. He didn’t answer.

“Saorin, perhaps, for short,” he finished, a little colder. He offered no farewell.

+++

Another gate opened beneath his feet, the weave precise and cold. He vanished into the east.

Salt air choked his nostrils as the smell of rot and refuse assailed him. This city was no glittering dome like Bandar Eban. It was a hive of smoke, sewage, and wet stone. The streets glistened with filth and decay of the surrounding swamps.

Tear.

The Takudillar, the Stone Fortress, which the fools now called it the Stone of Tear, rose above the city. He remembered its walls carved like the molten lava of the One Power itself shaped it. He had once longed to wrench the crystal blade from its belly and watch the fortress crumble into dust. But those were the hungers of a younger man.

Now, he had other pursuits to occupy his mind.

He stepped out into the shadows of the lower gate and demanded… gently, always gently.. to see a particular resident.

“Inform Master Jorin that Cassius Grimwood brings word of his mother. Sad tidings. May her soul rest. He’ll want to hear it at once.”

Predictably, they barred him from full admittance. And compulsion was messy for him. It left people limp and leaking if he wasn’t careful. But there was a far simpler solution.

He pressed a pouch of gold into a palm, then another. “I offer twice as much if he comes quickly.”

The man bowed low, the weight of coin sealing the deal more tightly than any weave could. Samóch leaned against the stone arch and smiled.




((Sivikawa's dialogue with permission))