CHAPTER 2: THE PAITH
This is it. Everything I’ve lived for over the past ten years is about to be put on trial.
Chancellor Kerson’s heart pounded rapidly and his skin tingled. Beads of perspiration collected on his forehead, glistening as he anticipated the fulfillment of his quest. The atmosphere pulsated with energy; even the stone walls around him raged with it, shouting, “Use me; use me.”
Huddling together at their secret rendezvous point, the four restless allies shifted. Master Merak glared at the two kalethar, mistrust darkening his sharp sepia eyes.
“All you need is in this.” The kalethar Parlan presented a sealed document, his hands steady.
In contrast, Pulawa’s silver-haired leader trembled with expectancy once the precious missive was in his hands. Allaying his impatience, he postponed its reading. Competent, self-assured and with an uncanny ability to produce winning solutions to challenges, Kerson set aside the uncertainty of the moment.
“Are you ready?” he scrutinized the two kalethar before him. The cold stone walls of the fortress amplified his voice.
Grimly determined, Parlan and Ametano reaffirmed their commitment to the mission.
Merak stood by, a volcano ready to erupt.
“One final detail,” Kerson added thoughtfully. “The messenger in my dreams had a warning: ‘Select your envoys carefully, for they’ll enter a mirror-world and recognize the man they summon. Only one individual in your world can guard against the inherent dangers.’”
“One” echoed resoundingly.
“I have no understanding of this portion of the message,” Kerson shrugged his shoulders in acknowledgment of the awkward fact. “But I have to pass this along to you. That much I know.” With one questioning eyebrow slanted, he waited till both kalethar nodded. Master Merak, his loyal confidant, watched, still suspicious.
Kerson then raised his right fist toward his throat—the deepest heartfelt expression of Pulawan brotherhood, loyalty, and friendship.
“We wish the creator’s blessings and the goodwill of Pulawa’s people upon you.”
The kalethar reciprocated with a predictably stoical bow.
Merak, however, refused to follow Kerson’s lead—a rude reminder of his skepticism. Instead, he scanned the room closely, alert for stowaways. Nobody was going to sabotage their plans under his watch.
The humans braced for the physically taxing release of light and energy that accompanied a kalethar transformation. And then, in a blink, two silvery, luminescent rodents—the kalethar—were carefully secreted into Merak’s pockets—despite his deep scowl.
“Ok, what’s the problem, Merak?” the Chancellor whispered.
“You know I don’t trust them,” the healer mouthed, grimacing.
“We heard that,” Parlan’s voice buzzed from Merak’s pocket. The master rolled his eyes, his mouth twisted in aggravation. “But we don’t hold it against you, and we promise not to fail.”
Merak exchanged angry glares with the Chancellor, eventually dropping his shoulders in resignation. Pretending he wasn’t curious about the parchment in Kerson’s hands, he created a paithing door, stepped forward, and vanished. The Chancellor conjured another portal, extinguished his lantern, and paused, staring. Then, he rushed through, the edge of his robe clearing the threshold just in the nick of time.
Arriving in his personal quarters, Kerson slumped onto his bed, heart still racing. He stared at the vaulted ceiling, following the random zigzag veins of granite and ore--as intricate and complicated as the confrontation he was about to face.
Then, eyes closed, he meditated on his costly decisions. Ten long years of research, ten long years of political maneuvering. So many friends alienated—not intentionally or because of unsavory actions—but merely by virtue of his position. Yes, leadership assured a certain degree of loneliness. Had it been worth the sacrifice?
You’re simply too intense, Kerson. Slow down! You should just retire and return to your hometown to escape Pulawa’s troubles. Ha—little chance of that ever happening.
The mental argument faded the longer he fingered the scroll. Finally, he succumbed to its allure. Skimming through its message, he wrinkled his brow in disappointment. Instead of allaying fears, it added to them.
No more doubting, he demanded of himself. You’re going to finish this.
Even though preserving “the good” was a tiring, often thankless task, the cruelty of his enemies fueled him with a ferocious, unquenchable desire to triumph.
After slipping the parchment into a drawer, he stopped to comb his thinning silver hair—a smile softening his mien, loosening up before the big showdown.
“Those slanted eyebrows would make me take you seriously,” he laughed at his reflection in the mirror. Squaring his violet robe at its decorative shoulders, he sighed, “Now for the politics.”
The jockeying between sages required surfing delicate and changeable undercurrents, and though Kerson had fine-tuned his political skills, this hazardous experiment could easily backfire. Kneeling, he offered silent prayers. Waves of serenity pulsed around his heart.
Three attentive young sages greeted him near the Tenth Level amphitheater entrance. He erased all self-doubt from his expression.
“Has General Utamo arrived?”
An overly-thin, hapless youth stepped forward. Six months earlier, Sage Koyanin had barely received enough votes to earn admittance to the general assembly’s ranks, but now he took the lead as though it was meant to be.
“Yes, Chancellor.” His innocent enthusiasm always made the Chancellor smile inwardly.
“How many high sages are present?” Without slowing his gait, Kerson was already scanning for other High Council members—those who governed the more than one hundred sages comprising the Jimber’s general assembly.
“All are awaiting your arrival, Chancellor.”
“Is Master Merak present?”
“He just left bhut promised to return shortly. Sage Lanto is seated with the other high sages, according to your instructions.”
“Impressive attention to detail!” the Chancellor boomed, nodding to all three young protégés. Koyanin beamed proudly.
Their report infused the Chancellor with fresh confidence: Master Merak and the kalethar had completed their paiths flawlessly.
Mid-ranking officers lined the assembly hall entrance, and Kerson paused to reciprocate their salute. All three young sages disappeared, presumably into the amphitheater. Trumpets alerted the assembly to the Chancellor’s presence, quieting the chatting dignitaries.
. . . . . the chapter will continue in The Hold . . . . .
(1) Northwestern Pulawans aspirate the consonant "b." This pronunciation peculiarity is represented by adding an "h" after the "b" ("be" becomes "bhe," "everybody" becomes "everybhody," etc.) Sages Herlan and Koyanin speak with this peculiarity. It should be noted that other Pulawans find north westerners difficult to understand and often tease them about their accent.
This is it. Everything I’ve lived for over the past ten years is about to be put on trial.
Chancellor Kerson’s heart pounded rapidly and his skin tingled. Beads of perspiration collected on his forehead, glistening as he anticipated the fulfillment of his quest. The atmosphere pulsated with energy; even the stone walls around him raged with it, shouting, “Use me; use me.”
Huddling together at their secret rendezvous point, the four restless allies shifted. Master Merak glared at the two kalethar, mistrust darkening his sharp sepia eyes.
“All you need is in this.” The kalethar Parlan presented a sealed document, his hands steady.
In contrast, Pulawa’s silver-haired leader trembled with expectancy once the precious missive was in his hands. Allaying his impatience, he postponed its reading. Competent, self-assured and with an uncanny ability to produce winning solutions to challenges, Kerson set aside the uncertainty of the moment.
“Are you ready?” he scrutinized the two kalethar before him. The cold stone walls of the fortress amplified his voice.
Grimly determined, Parlan and Ametano reaffirmed their commitment to the mission.
Merak stood by, a volcano ready to erupt.
“One final detail,” Kerson added thoughtfully. “The messenger in my dreams had a warning: ‘Select your envoys carefully, for they’ll enter a mirror-world and recognize the man they summon. Only one individual in your world can guard against the inherent dangers.’”
“One” echoed resoundingly.
“I have no understanding of this portion of the message,” Kerson shrugged his shoulders in acknowledgment of the awkward fact. “But I have to pass this along to you. That much I know.” With one questioning eyebrow slanted, he waited till both kalethar nodded. Master Merak, his loyal confidant, watched, still suspicious.
Kerson then raised his right fist toward his throat—the deepest heartfelt expression of Pulawan brotherhood, loyalty, and friendship.
“We wish the creator’s blessings and the goodwill of Pulawa’s people upon you.”
The kalethar reciprocated with a predictably stoical bow.
Merak, however, refused to follow Kerson’s lead—a rude reminder of his skepticism. Instead, he scanned the room closely, alert for stowaways. Nobody was going to sabotage their plans under his watch.
The humans braced for the physically taxing release of light and energy that accompanied a kalethar transformation. And then, in a blink, two silvery, luminescent rodents—the kalethar—were carefully secreted into Merak’s pockets—despite his deep scowl.
“Ok, what’s the problem, Merak?” the Chancellor whispered.
“You know I don’t trust them,” the healer mouthed, grimacing.
“We heard that,” Parlan’s voice buzzed from Merak’s pocket. The master rolled his eyes, his mouth twisted in aggravation. “But we don’t hold it against you, and we promise not to fail.”
Merak exchanged angry glares with the Chancellor, eventually dropping his shoulders in resignation. Pretending he wasn’t curious about the parchment in Kerson’s hands, he created a paithing door, stepped forward, and vanished. The Chancellor conjured another portal, extinguished his lantern, and paused, staring. Then, he rushed through, the edge of his robe clearing the threshold just in the nick of time.
Arriving in his personal quarters, Kerson slumped onto his bed, heart still racing. He stared at the vaulted ceiling, following the random zigzag veins of granite and ore--as intricate and complicated as the confrontation he was about to face.
Then, eyes closed, he meditated on his costly decisions. Ten long years of research, ten long years of political maneuvering. So many friends alienated—not intentionally or because of unsavory actions—but merely by virtue of his position. Yes, leadership assured a certain degree of loneliness. Had it been worth the sacrifice?
You’re simply too intense, Kerson. Slow down! You should just retire and return to your hometown to escape Pulawa’s troubles. Ha—little chance of that ever happening.
The mental argument faded the longer he fingered the scroll. Finally, he succumbed to its allure. Skimming through its message, he wrinkled his brow in disappointment. Instead of allaying fears, it added to them.
No more doubting, he demanded of himself. You’re going to finish this.
Even though preserving “the good” was a tiring, often thankless task, the cruelty of his enemies fueled him with a ferocious, unquenchable desire to triumph.
After slipping the parchment into a drawer, he stopped to comb his thinning silver hair—a smile softening his mien, loosening up before the big showdown.
“Those slanted eyebrows would make me take you seriously,” he laughed at his reflection in the mirror. Squaring his violet robe at its decorative shoulders, he sighed, “Now for the politics.”
The jockeying between sages required surfing delicate and changeable undercurrents, and though Kerson had fine-tuned his political skills, this hazardous experiment could easily backfire. Kneeling, he offered silent prayers. Waves of serenity pulsed around his heart.
Three attentive young sages greeted him near the Tenth Level amphitheater entrance. He erased all self-doubt from his expression.
“Has General Utamo arrived?”
An overly-thin, hapless youth stepped forward. Six months earlier, Sage Koyanin had barely received enough votes to earn admittance to the general assembly’s ranks, but now he took the lead as though it was meant to be.
“Yes, Chancellor.” His innocent enthusiasm always made the Chancellor smile inwardly.
“How many high sages are present?” Without slowing his gait, Kerson was already scanning for other High Council members—those who governed the more than one hundred sages comprising the Jimber’s general assembly.
“All are awaiting your arrival, Chancellor.”
“Is Master Merak present?”
“He just left bhut promised to return shortly. Sage Lanto is seated with the other high sages, according to your instructions.”
“Impressive attention to detail!” the Chancellor boomed, nodding to all three young protégés. Koyanin beamed proudly.
Their report infused the Chancellor with fresh confidence: Master Merak and the kalethar had completed their paiths flawlessly.
Mid-ranking officers lined the assembly hall entrance, and Kerson paused to reciprocate their salute. All three young sages disappeared, presumably into the amphitheater. Trumpets alerted the assembly to the Chancellor’s presence, quieting the chatting dignitaries.
. . . . . the chapter will continue in The Hold . . . . .
(1) Northwestern Pulawans aspirate the consonant "b." This pronunciation peculiarity is represented by adding an "h" after the "b" ("be" becomes "bhe," "everybody" becomes "everybhody," etc.) Sages Herlan and Koyanin speak with this peculiarity. It should be noted that other Pulawans find north westerners difficult to understand and often tease them about their accent.
