Brian Rathbone - The Dawning of Power

Nearly losing his footing on the slippery gangplank, he thought a moment about letting himself fall into the dark waters, taking the precious crystal with him. It was so tempting. He would be free of his bonds at last, freed from the cruelty of his existence. Again, a vision of Catrin came to his mind. She glowed so brightly, and she lured him, just as the scent of roses draws the honeybee. She was brave and powerful, beautiful yet humble. He drew strength from her and climbed aboard the ship determined to find her. He would join her, and together they would be free.

She gave me a name. She gave me power. And, one day, I will be free.

Fields of aquatic vegetation shimmered under clear, blue waters, patches of white sand standing out in bold contrast. The Stealthy Shark sliced through calm seas as silent as her name would imply. Standing at the bow, Chase and Fasha watched Istra's eye set the skies afire, and neither dared give voice to their thoughts.

The longer Catrin had been gone, the less Chase liked her plan. Brother Vaughn had been true to his word and, in getting a message to Fasha, had done more than his share to help Chase achieve his goal, but that goal still seemed unattainable. The southern shores of the Greatland stretched on endlessly, and unlike on maps, there were no markings to show where Faulk ended and the Westland began.

"The southern coast of the Westland is less inhabited than that of Faulk," Fasha said. "There are places we can wait for her."

Chase just nodded, silent, unable to maintain much hope. The Greatland was so vast, a person could easily disappear into it, and he feared Catrin and Benjin would do just that.

During their journey, skirting the coastline, they had stopped at small and hidden docks along the way, getting news and supplies. Reports were clear. The Statue of Terhilian found in southern Faulk had been moved to Adderhold by barge, and more recently, another had been found in the Westland. Catrin would have to go to Adderhold. And if she survived that, would she go next to the Westland? Indecision gnawed at Chase. Should he stay with the original plan when his gut told him to go find her? He weighed every possibility in his mind as the coastline slid by.

News of revolts and unrest throughout the Greatland made him wonder if Catrin would ever even get within sight of the statue. It seemed unlikely. Trying to be strong, he committed himself to waiting, just as Catrin had asked him to do. Any other course was just too risky.

In an instant, though, the world changed. A blinding flash of green light backlit the coast, and moments later, a thunderous blast rocked the ship, followed by low, rumbling echoes in the distance.

"May the gods be gentle," Fasha said, her hand over her mouth. Chase swayed on his feet and braced himself on the railing.

"That came from the Westland, didn't it? It was over that way," Chase said, motioning ahead and to the left of their position.

"It did."

"Then the one Catrin set out to destroy?" he asked.

"Will be next."

"I need to get to Adderhold."

Scowling fiercely, Fasha concentrated, and there was a long pause before she nodded firmly and spoke, "I will take you to Madra. Perhaps her wisdom will show us a way."

The wise old wolf is not wise because he's a wolf, but because he's old. -Javid Frederick, farmer

Floating in a haze of semiconsciousness, Catrin wondered if she were dead. Death had claimed her; she knew it had. Her body had failed, unable to cope with the stresses applied by so much power. Yet it did not feel like death; something of life remained. Unable to define it, she searched for what seemed an eternity. Beyond the haze of sleep, something called to her, demanding her attention. It would not be denied, and it found her.

It was an itch.

Refusing to allow rest, it demanded she notice and, at the very least, scratch. Driven by the nagging irritation, she tried to move, and the sensations of her body slowly returned. The painful tingling of flesh left too long without blood ravaged her, and her leaden limbs failed to respond, refused to answer her desperate call for motion. Unable to lift her arms, she struggled to see what bound her and held her fast.

Her eyelids were crusted shut as if they were glued in place. Unwilling to relent, she forced them open. Soft light was like a furious blaze, daring her to see. Still she insisted, and the clouds in her eyes faded enough for her to see the face of an unfamiliar man hovering over her. Fear impaled her.

"Benjin," she tried to say through parched lips, needing his strength more than ever before. But her ears heard only an incoherent mumble, as even her voice refused to do her bidding.

"A moment, m'lady," the stranger said. "Only a moment and he'll be here. He's been by your side for days, but exhaustion overcame him." Another figure darted from the shadows and out of the room before Catrin could see who it was.

Her efforts drained the little energy she possessed, but she would not allow herself to succumb, afraid that, if she let herself sleep, she might never wake again. Holding her eyes open by the sheer force of her will, she endured pain with every involuntary blink, but her vision grew clearer, and the fog began to lift from her mind. When Benjin arrived, the concern on his face made her wonder how horrible she must look.

"It's good to see you awake, li'l miss," he said, obviously trying to be cheerful despite her condition.

When Catrin tried to reply, her parched throat ached and she could only cough.

"Get her some water," Benjin said to Morif, who waited in the shadows. He filled a small cup and handed it to Benjin, who held it to Catrin's mouth. She let it pour over her lips, and she rolled it over her tongue before swallowing. Water slid down the back of her throat and tickled, resulting in another fit of coughing, but at least her throat was now moist. She wanted to drain the entire cup, but Benjin gave her only a small amount more before he set the cup aside. "Can you talk?"

"I think," she said, but she had to stop and swallow. "I think I can." Even as she spoke, though, the itching overpowered her. Feeling began to return to her limbs. Her arm moved, unwieldy and slow, and her fingers curled to scratch her side.

Benjin gently took her hand. "You must not scratch no matter how bad it itches."

Catrin looked at her hand. Layers of dead skin, peeled and cracked, encased her like a dried husk, and her blackened fingernails curled back away from the nail beds. Despair shadowed her soul. How could she go on like this? Who had done this to her?

Barabas.

The name was like a sledge landing between her ears. He had done this to her. She had been ready to depart this world, but Barabas somehow sent her back. This was his fault, and she hated him for it. Tears stung her eyes and tickled the sides of her face. She wanted to reach up and soothe it, but she could not. Even if she'd had the will to raise her arm and scratch with her wasted nails, Benjin would stop her, and she hated him for that. "Go away. All of you. Get out."

Benjin frowned, and she thought he would resist, but he nodded slowly. "Rest some more for now, li'l miss. Things'll be better when you next wake."

"Leave me alone," she said, hating herself for it.

Weeks passed as Catrin recovered. Her fingernails fell off, and eventually she was allowed to rub away the dead skin. Still she itched. Her skin appeared whole, but it was as if the air itself offended the new skin, leaving it blotchy and irritated. Slowly, her strength returned, and when Benjin arrived for one of his daily visits, she actually smiled.