Chapter 10: Darkness and Light
The room was windowless – so as not to distract her, they thought. It was true, she needed no further distraction than the countless minds constantly pushing into her consciousness like a radio station that overlaps its signal with another. Trying to differentiate them was hard enough, but keeping them out entirely was proving impossible. Any person within her sight was an open book for her to read, and those persons out of immediate range simply let their presence be known with a feeling like a forgotten word on the tip of the tongue.
She could feel him, even at a distance. She could sense his frustration and tight control, control that was trembling, every day chipping away like paint flaking from a rusty gate. Sooner or later the weakened steel of his resolve would receive a pressure that would crack it. Yes, and she knew when. And Morgan knew her name.
It's not that she sought him – on the contrary, she fought to keep her mind free of his chilly ponderings. But he was always like a light in her peripheral vision, and besides, the dark Hunter was on the mind of many of the persons around her. Adrian considered him quite a lot. Father Peter did as well. Even the attendant who brought her meals had a picture of him in her mind. This thought made Morgan's lips twitch in the failed beginning of a smile.
The attempted smile quickly faded and her features contracted in an expression of discomfort. Someone nearby was very unhappy, and their thoughts were embarrassed and resentful. Morgan flinched and shook her slightly as though the motion would clear it. Laughter echoed in the back recesses of her brain, laughter of a young girl whispering to her friend during lessons. A person passing in the hall was considering what would be on the menu for dinner.
God, I can't take this, Morgan pleaded for the thousandth time as she squeezed her eyes closed. I don't want these people in my head. Earlier they had hooked her up to a machine to measure her brain activity, and she hadn't needed to read their thoughts to interpret their scowls. Their results showed the presence of her brain waves along with ghost lines that represented all the other people on this island tuning in and out at random.
She had paced the floor in the hopes of outrunning the mental interference, but now she was tired body and soul. She sat crumbled in a chair staring blankly into the eyes of Father Peter who sat nearby to better study her. His thoughts seemed to be running a tag team match between herself and the young man who had arrived with her. He was at a loss for what to do with either of them, but at least someone was coming who would take Amon in hand. Morgan raised her hand and absently dabbed the balled up handkerchief against the base of her nose to catch the thick drip of blood gathering at her nostril. Yes, someone was coming to be a Master to Amon, and that person was familiar to Morgan. She could not keep a shudder from snaking up her spine. If Amon was cold, this man was glacial. Amon killed because he had to, or because he was told to. The Master on the other hand killed because he liked it. And his eyes, his unholy red eyes… Morgan dabbed at her nose again and sighed. "I hope Juliano knows what he's doing," she said softly without meeting the gaze of her observer.
Father Peter smiled quizzically. "What do you mean?"
She waved the bloodstained hankie at him absently. "Never mind. You're needed upstairs; Master Aisling is going to tell you that Amon's teacher is coming."
Peter's smile became cold and brittle, as though to move his features would shatter his face. "What?"
And then a knock sounded on the door. She didn't need to look in his eyes to see the fear of her there. She already knew.
Amon followed Father Peter as he led him down darkened hallways, ending outside the door of a small study on the first floor. Voices could be heard within, and Father Peter hesitated. "…in the middle of a Hunt no less," came a haughty male voice from inside the room. There was a pause after Peter's knocking, followed by an exasperated "Enter."
Peter opened the door to reveal two men standing before the fireplace. There was an attendant hovering anxiously over a purple clad man standing before the fire, and Amon sized him up as he entered the room. The man was strangely dressed in a velvet suit that seemed to be from another century, and his dark brown hair curled past his shoulders. The attendant was holding a wide brimmed hat of the same gauche purple velvet, and as the man turned to fix Amon in his gaze he noticed the unusual red hue of his smoldering eyes. The look he gave Amon was brimming with low grade hostility, and Amon felt his own suppressed frustration flaring. The two men glared at each other, and Peter cleared his throat as he looked between them.
"Uh, well. Amon, I would like to present Sastre, one of the most talented Air Craft Masters to come from the program since its inception."
Sastre's frown deepened as he turned his crimson eyes on Peter. This flustered the young Master and he quickly corrected himself. "I mean the best, naturally." Sastre allowed the pause to stretch before nodding slightly. Peter directed his next statement to the glowering Amon. "Juliano insisted that only Sastre train you to the Craft the two of you share," he explained hurriedly.
The pencil thin mustache perched on Sastre's lip twitched slightly as he pursed his mouth. "Yes, Juliano knows my worth," the foppishly dressed Master replied, "though he called me off a mission to come. But," he closed his unsettling eyes and Amon idly noted the long girlish eyelashes, "when the premier Master calls, one must run to heel, mustn't one?" He sat in a chair before the fire with a flourish of his tailed coat, leaving Amon standing.
Amon had never met or seen the infamous Sastre before this moment, but his reputation had certainly preceded him. Stories were rampant of his flair for the dramatic, tales that Amon now found to be spot on if he could judge by the man's choice in clothes. But rumors also abounded of the man's extraordinary power and his ruthless efficiency in a Hunt. No person set in Sastre's path had lived to tell of it. Bells and whistles aside, this man was a Master Hunter in the truest sense of the term, and this fact was confirmed in the glowing coals of his eyes. They were the eyes of a serpent made human, or so Amon found himself thinking; deliberate, dangerous, deadly.
"When do we begin my training?" Amon asked in what he hoped was a respectful tone.
Sastre flipped his hand as though brushing away a fly. "Tomorrow at dawn, meet me on the beach and we'll see what you're made of."
With a curt nod, Amon pivoted smartly and exited the room. As he closed the door behind him he heard Sastre say, "At least he looks like a Hunter, but I wonder…" Amon stiffened his spine with the implied insult that had been intentionally overheard, and strode purposefully back to his room. He couldn't guess what was coming in the morning, but he was going to be ready for it.
The sky was still drab with the lingering of night when William fetched Amon the next morning. The wake-up call was hardly necessary – Amon had been awake and dressed since the first hint of the new day and had sat meditatively upon his hard narrow bed, steadying his mind for the interaction ahead.
William led him out of the valley and back toward the island's edge, stopping on a stony patch of beach that snuggled against stark cliffs. During high tide the forlorn bit of coast would be completely submerged, letting the greedy ocean lap away at the rock face. Sastre was already present and was sitting on a larger boulder staring out to sea. He did not turn to acknowledge the arrival of his apprentice and the guide, merely making a faint shooing gesture with one long fingered hand. William nodded hurriedly to Amon and quickly retreated back up the path leading back to the valley and villa.
The cold and erratic ocean breeze was playing havoc with Amon's long black hair, and he resisted the urge to push it aside, choosing stillness instead while waiting to see what his new 'teacher' would do. There they stayed for some time, Amon glaring silently at Sastre, Sastre gazing unconcerned over the ocean which remained heavy and leaden without the light of dawn to yet spark its life and color. Amon was just about to conclude Sastre had no intention of addressing him at all when the Master Hunter broke the silence and did just that.
"I hear you're a real piece of work," he cast over his shoulder without looking on the recipient.
Glad of the break in the stalemate, Amon chose to recklessly reply. "I hear the same of you."
Rather than anger him, the remark seemed to amuse Sastre and he smiled sardonically to the sea. "Stubborn, arrogant, overconfident. You are all of these things." He glanced at Amon from the corner of his eye as though daring the dark man to repeat his previous statement. Amon held his tongue with difficulty, making sure no sign showed of the effort it cost him.
"In fact I think that your refusal to use your Craft before now is a sign of ignorant willfulness that merely masks cowardice."
Amon took a deep breath, trying to remove himself from the surge of anger this statement stoked in him. For all he knew Sastre was trying to make him slip up, to bait him into doing something stupid. For now Amon would have to swallow his pride and put up with this self important, purple wearing pansy. A time would come when the charge could be answered.
Sastre rose from his rock and turned to face his student at last. "I want to be your teacher about as much as you want to have one, I think," he declared in a tone of honest disinterest with a shrug of his velvet clad shoulders. "So let's settle this now." The look he leveled on Amon now was the same smoldering glare that he had used at last night's meeting. "Fight me now. If you win, if I claim defeat, then you can walk off this island and go to the devil for all I care. If not…" He let the pause hang in the air. "If you admit defeat then we proceed with your training."
Amon felt like he was standing in the path of a tank with nothing but a plastic water pistol, but the word cowardice hung heavy in the air and he was not about to back down. Instead he squared his shoulders. "I'm not in the habit of admitting defeat."
Sastre's thin mouth twisted into another sardonic smile. "Well I'd love to play for blood, but if I kill you Juliano would have my head."
"And what makes you think you'd kill me?"
This produced a burst of laughter from Sastre. "You really are an arrogant son of a bitch," he chuckled appreciatively. "Let's see if your bite's as bad as your bark, eh?" And he fastidiously flicked his coat aside to once again sit on the jagged rock.
At first this maneuver bewildered Amon. Sastre had just asked him to attack, hadn't he? So why the hell was he sitting? And then it occurred to him – it was a sign of Sastre's confidence in Amon's harmlessness. The anger whistled inside his head like a kettle but he kept his icy veneer. To rush him head-on was a tempting prospect, the thought of Sastre face down eating sand was highly satisfactory - but Amon knew it would be ineffective. He had no gun, no weapon of any kind. Well, he had his Craft, but Amon supremely doubted his ability to call upon it at will, let alone aim with any precision.
There had to be a way, he didn't at all relish the thought of conceding to this self satisfied prick. But as he stared Sastre down a critical detail appeared to him, one that burst the bubble of his hopes for success. The wind off the ocean was erratically tossing Amon's hair and flapping his long black coat, but not Sastre's. He sat serenely on his perch in complete stillness as though captured in a picture.
Amon's only weapon was Air, and Sastre controlled that utterly. He was apparently sheltering behind a shield constructed of invisible oxygen, and Amon had the sneaking suspicion that nothing he could do right this moment could get through it.
He took a shaky breath past the anger hot in his throat. This was what Sastre wished him to learn from this encounter – his first lesson. As of this moment Amon had no way of beating him, hurting him, or even touching him. Any attempt to try would be foolish and pathetic. And so Amon stood with arms at his sides and lead in his chest, unable to force the concession out of his throat. He itched to turn on his heel and walk away. Nothing seemed worse at this moment than allowing this man to feel superior to him, let alone admitting it.
Sastre, in a rare moment of compassion, saved him from the situation. "Well you're not stupid," he said wryly. "Congratulations." He stood and faced his new apprentice. "Shall we begin?"
"Answer me something first," Amon replied. "Why are Peter and William afraid of you? And why would Juliano only allow me to be instructed by you?"
Sastre looked at the sand beneath his feet as though pondering. "Have you heard of Blake?"
"Blake?" Amon repeated. Yes, he knew who Blake was. An Air Craft user as well, Blake was rumored to be one of the most powerful Solomon Hunters since the time of the Inquisition. That is, until his power consumed him and he went mad. He had been killed years ago, before Amon had even been recruited to the STNJ. "Yeah, I've heard of him."
"He was my Master," Sastre said quietly. Then his crimson eyes looked up from under his brows. "And I'm the one that Hunted him."
His dangerous new instructor let this information sink in before taking a step forward. "Let's begin with blocking, shall we?"
Two days later Amon dragged his weary feet down the hallway toward his room. Every joint and muscle complained of the effort and it took conscious concentration to keep a grimace off his face. The 'blocking lesson' of the first day had consisted of Sastre attacking him again and again with the Air Craft until Amon could learn to call up and keep his guarding wall of air. It was a cruel way to teach - something akin to being kicked again and again until you learn the counterattack or fall down maimed – but Sastre was a cruel man so the approach suited him well. The following day's lesson had been a revisiting of the blocking technique followed by the beginnings of focusing air to attack. Somehow this lesson too involved Amon taking a physical beating, though he hadn't seen the point of it other than Sastre's sick amusement. Perhaps the Master hoped to compel Amon into such a rage that his Craft would focus. Or maybe he just liked picking on Amon. Either way it was proving to be a test in his self control.
He reached the bottom of the stairs before remembering the book Sastre had instructed him to take from the first floor library and he turned with a sigh and retraced his steps back to the grand foyer and then down another hallway. Inside the huge room it was quiet as a large collection of books tends to be housed. Three students dressed in the dove grey of first apprentices sat collected around a table with their faces peering closely over a book that looked to come from the time of Christ. Another person was sitting in a large leather chair before the large windows of the far wall, but the light from outdoors obscured Amon's view of them.
He recalled the name of the volume he was searching for and shuffled off into the stacks. It took longer to find than he would have wanted, but then, anything keeping him from a hot shower was time ill spent. The book was in his hand, a dusty old tome whose reading promised to be as dry as its pages, and Amon was turning toward the door when the strangest thing happened. A familiar voice spoke quite clearly in his head. Please don't leave without saying hello, Houdini. Amon stopped dead and turned around as though expecting to find her standing right behind him. She was not, nor was anyone else.
You're cold, Morgan's voice taunted as Amon turned slowly in a circle. Warmer, came the hint as he walked hesitantly toward the windowed wall. Warmer. Past the table with the students who were surreptitiously studying him. Hot. He saw the person curled up in the large leather chair and approached confidently, stopping before her and looking down into the bemused but haunted eyes of Morgan Excelior. Her smile was hesitant as though avoiding pain as she indicated a nearby chair. "Won't you join me?"
Amon sat as instructed and studied her a long moment. She was alone, something he hadn't expected, and she was tucked up into the chair almost in a fetal position. Several books were stacked on the floor, and one volume was closed over her finger to keep place. In the other hand was a balled up handkerchief. Her face was pale and drawn with the look of a person who is exceptionally unwell, and her eyes were guarded. He swallowed hard. "I'm glad to see you," he said in a near whisper. "I was wondering how you were."
She nodded and the hesitant smile made a brief reappearance. "I know I look bad, Amon, you don't have to pretend."
"I didn't say… I mean I didn't…"
"It's okay Amon. Sorry. I'm glad to see you too." Her eyes moved past his face and into the large library at his back. "In fact I was hoping to bump into you here."
Amon turned and looked behind him to see what she was looking at, but there was nothing extraordinary there. When he turned back Morgan was studying his face intently. "You wanted to see me?"
She nodded. "A longing for a familiar face that isn't full of concern like Adrian's is." She shifted in her plush seat so that she could sit facing Amon more fully. "And to see how you and Sastre are getting along."
Amon frowned at the mention of his Master trainer. "You heard he is teaching me?"
Morgan shrugged a thin shoulder. "I suppose you could say that. And I wanted to tell you something about him." She dog-eared the page she had been saving in her book and rested it on the arm of her chair. "He makes you angry, I know. He wants you to be, but not for any purpose that serves you." The look Amon gave must have reflected his puzzlement and Morgan continued. "It's not important how I know, but it's important that you set your feeling aside."
"What are you talking about?" Amon questioned softly, leaning closer.
She too moved forward in her chair, as though revealing confidences. "Sastre is who he is. You anger isn't about him; it's about your Craft, a curse that you don't want. It blocks and conflicts you."
The words struck Amon like a physical blow and he frowned. She noticed the reaction. "If you lose the anger then the channel will open and your focus will harness the power of your Craft. You alone stand in the way of this happening. Stop fighting your nature and start fighting him, a turn of events that will take him by surprise and allow you to excel."
"You make it sound so easy," Amon replied bitterly, noticing that his hands were wrapped with white knuckles around the book he still held.
Morgan shook her head softly. "I know it's not, Amon, not for you. To accept your power seems to be a surrender to darkness. And to some, like Sastre, it is just that." Morgan sat back in her seat and her eyes seemed to glaze and lose focus somewhat. "But what is darkness without light? Everything has its opposite. And night cannot come without the light of day."
As Amon looked upon her he noticed a thin ribbon of blood oozing from her nose, and the sight of it tightened a knot of concern in his stomach. "Morgan," he cautioned, raising a hand as though to stop her.
It went unheeded. She seemed not to see him at all as she continued to speak. "There is the eternal darkness, but there is the darkness that follows the light." Her eyes refocused on him. "You have a choice, Amon. It's not as hopeless as you fear."
Suddenly there was a disturbance behind him within the library and he turned to see Father Peter approaching rapidly with an attendant in tow. They made a beeline through the room toward Amon and Morgan, and when he turned he saw Morgan dabbing the blood away with her handkerchief which seemed liberally spotted with more of the same. Somehow the sight unnerved Amon even more. "Morgan, are you okay? What is going on?"
She looked utterly drained and resigned as she watched Peter approach, almost cringing deeper into her chair. Peter stood accusingly between herself and Amon. "So there you are," he scolded, and it took Amon a moment to realize he was referring to Morgan.
She looked innocently up at her accuser. "I felt like reading," she explained calmly, as though the single statement would explain all.
Apparently it did not. Peter was glowering. "You are not to leave your room without supervision," he reprimanded. "It's for your own well being." He turned his frown toward Amon. "Did you help her do this?"
Amon stared agape at the Master, and Morgan answered for him. "He happened to see me and came to say hello." She looked to Amon. "It was good to see you, but I think I have to go back to my room now."
"Indeed you do," Peter confirmed, taking hold of her thin arm and helping her to her feet. Amon rose as well. "Let's go now."
She did not protest to Peter's forceful assistance, but broke away to everyone's surprise and threw herself into Amon's astonished arms. She wrapped her arms around him, slipping the book she held into one of his hands as she did. Her mouth was close to his ear as she breathed, "You can be the dark that follows the light, Amon." And as quickly as she was there, the next moment she was not. The attendant disentangled her from Amon, who in his surprise had not even returned the embrace, and she was escorted from the room with Peter on one side and the attendant on the other.
Amon stood rooted to the spot, uncertain what all had just occurred. The three apprentices at the table were unabashedly staring now, and he quickly found his wits and left the library, climbing the stairs to his room, his aching muscles momentarily forgotten. In the quiet and privacy of his room he let slip the pretense of calm control and sat upon the bed with unabashed bewilderment. The words of their conversation played in his mind, though the entire exchange had seemed cryptic. Her assessment of his anger cut to the quick, and he turned the words over and over in his mind. Stop fighting your nature and start fighting him. Sage advice, given as how Sastre seemed hell bent on bludgeoning him to death with his own Craft.
But then he remembered the impetuous embrace she had departed with and shook his head slowly. Morgan was not one to engage in spontaneous acts of affection. No, she had done it as subterfuge in order to impart her final words. You can be the dark that follows the light. What did it mean?
And then he looked down and noticed the books still in his hands, utterly forgotten. One was the homework assignment set upon him by Sastre. The other she had slipped into his hand as she hugged him. It was the book she had been reading when he approached her, and he flipped it open. It was a collection of poetry. Had she intended to give this to him – a book of poems? Frowning, he turned to the page whose corner she had turned down, presumably to keep her place. Now he flipped to it and smoothed the paper, reading the poem, and then re-reading it more slowly. A strange sixth sense prickled down his spine and raised the hair on his arms as he read.
Follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow;
Though thou be black as night,
And she made all of light,
Yet follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow.
Follow her whose light thy light depriveth;
Though here thou liv'st disgraced,
And she in heaven is placed,
Yet follow her whose light the world reviveth!
Follow those pure beams whose beauty burneth,
That so have scorched thee,
As thou still black must be,
Till her kind beams thy black to brightness turneth.
Follow her while yet her glory shineth;
There comes a luckless night,
That will dim all her light;
And this the black unhappy shade divineth.
Follow still since so thy fates ordained;
The sun must have her shade,
Till both at once do fade;
The sun still proved, the shadow still disdained.
Author's note: The poem is 'Devotion' by Thomas Campion. Thank you all for your patience, as the holidays and a little bout of writer's block have kept me from posting as soon as I would have liked. I hope people are still reading this story! Thank you if you are, and please review! Happy Holidays!