Chapter 19, Hearing the Wind

The fire has burned down to coals, giving off a feeble, blood-colored glow that does little to stave off the encroaching darkness.  There is a chill in the air, which is in glaring contrast to the sweat glistening upon the body of the man, who is kneeling upon a thick morduska hide meditation mat, clothed only in a dark leather loincloth about his waist, a low-slung spray of obsidian shards mingled with feathers hangs from around his neck, and a pair of simple hide-soled sandals adorn his feet.  A lone owl hoots in the distance, startlingly loud in the silence and a chorus of crickets chirp slowly in the chill night air. 

On the ground before the man is a small marble altar with a long fossilized talon and a globular yellow sunstone upon it, while to his right, within easy reach, is a sun streaked braided leather satchel, bulging from the contents inside.  The eyes of the man are closed and his breathing is slow and shallow, his brow furrowed in concentration.

Suddenly, his eyes flutter open and he reaches into the satchel and removes a wide ceremonial copper chalice inlaid with dark bloodjewels and places it upon the alter.  He then removes a kris-bladed ritual dagger set with a misty blue snake-stone from the satchel and sticks in into the coals of the dying fire and then, removing the blade from the coals he intones a few words in a foreign tongue, while proceeding to make a shallow cut in his palm. 

He then once again places the blade of the dagger into the coals of the fire for a few moments, purifying it, and places it upon the altar beside the bowl.  Clenching his fist he holds his hand over the chalice and allows his blood, dripping black in the dim light of the coals, to flow into it. 

Evidently satisfied with the amount of blood in the chalice the man then binds his hand with a clean linen bandage from inside the satchel, staunching the flow if his life's blood.  Removing a pale violet quartz geode scrying bowl encased in a layer of limestone from within the satchel and placing it on the ground between his knees the man fills the bowl with water.

Removing the fossilized talon from the altar the man dips the end of the talon into the chalice and carefully allows one drop of his blood to drip from the tip of the talon and into the scrying bowl.  He then puts the tip of the talon into the coals for but a moment and then places it back onto the altar.

Bowing his head once again and making quiet incantations in a foreign tongue the man grips the scrying bowl with both hands, gazing into the depths of the water, continuing to speak in the same guttural and harsh language as before.  His eyes narrow in concentration and sweat begins to bead upon his forehead, running down his face.  Soon his whole body is bathed in rivulets of sweat, but he maintains his concentration and the chanting.

The man tenses his body, the muscles of his arms and shoulders rippling with the effort, as blood begins to trickle from his nose; he ignores this, concentrating solely upon the bowl and his task.  His eyelids begin to flutter erratically and his teeth clench together with his effort as his chanting becomes louder and more forceful… more desperate.

Suddenly, his chanting stops and his eyes widen and his body begins to sway gently back and forth in a silent rhythm; all the while the man maintains his death-grip upon the bowl.

The mist forms within his mind, images come and go, fleeting and faint… elusive.  A crow, golden eyed and feathered as black as the night; a lone woman standing upon a hill, the valley beneath her consumed in flames; a single white rose, the thorns upon its stem dripping blood. 

The mist parts and soon the visions are more clear and vivid.  A child, dirty and unkempt, rummages through garbage for food while people pass her by, ignoring her plight.  A woman clad in silks laughs as she walks by, glancing at the child in disdain.  Once more the mist closes in.

The body of the man is shaking with the effort of his task as a faint groan escapes his lips.  Once more he begins chanting his foreign mantra, trying desperately to maintain his tenuous contact with the bowl before him.

Just as he is about to lose his link to the bowl a glimmer of crimson light appears through the mists of his mind, growing stronger with each passing second.  He hears a beating heart in the deepest parts of his thoughts, though, strangely enough, it is not his own heart; the blood-colored light pulses in time to the heartbeat, growing stronger with each beat of the heart, until the mists are burned away completely by the light, allowing him to truly see and to experience what appears in his minds eye.

He sees the sands before him, feels the hot breath of the breeze upon his skin, and the searing heat of the sun, merciless in its intensity.  Suddenly, before him is a woman, kneeling in the sand, clad in crimson, veils flowing about her in the breeze, her viridian-swirled twilight grey eyes peering deeply into a scrying bowl… his scrying bowl.

Their eyes, identical in appearance, meet, and she smiles at him.  Her lips move and her words echo faintly in his mind, "My son, you have answered the calling, after so many years and so much pain.  Now all is as it should be, you are ready to be what you were always meant to be, nothing more, nothing less."

"Mother!," the man thinks, the words sounding strangely hollow and distant in his head, "I have accepted my fate, taken on your legacy, and I have been trained by she who once taught you." Sweating profusely, his body shakes and the man grimaces with the effort of maintaining the link created with the bowl as the mists threaten to close in about his mind.

The sound of the beating heart grows louder in his mind and her words come to him, strong and clear, the mist being driven back once again, "You are my son, you are my blood, and you are my spirit.  You will no longer seek vengeance in my name; it is finished.  You will follow your own will and, side-by-side with the raven-haired woman, you will do your own bidding; you are free, my son, to do as you wish, to live your own life; a life you have until now been denied."

He hears her voice one final time, rapidly fading, along with the sound of the beating heart, into the background, as if from a great distance, "You are Radeek Andoran, Black Raider of the Mir'Sheq, bearer of the scars of the Trials numbering twenty and two, he who was twice-born of the sand, you are Tehir… and you See."

The sound of the heartbeat disappears from his mind, as does the voice of his mother, and the mists close in, completely and totally; the mans eyelids fly open as he screams into the chill air of the night, "NO!  Come back!  Don't....leave..." His breathing becomes harsh and ragged; his hands leave the bowl before him and he places them upon the ground to maintain his balance; his body shaking uncontrollably.  The man lies down and rolls over onto his back, his tear-filled eyes staring into the starlit sky, as he struggles to regain control of his body and mind.

A light breeze blows through the surroundings, stirring the newly fallen leaves, and the man hears the wind, the voice upon it soft and eerie, "The greater the gift, the heavier the price.  Nothing more, nothing less."