The Strangling

"The scrolls suggested a simple act of faith, entwined somehow with an act of physical love."

Bron smiled. “You still look to the scrolls in the matter?"

"I never doubted the words of the scrolls, Bron. I doubted Egremont's rather simplistic view of their meaning. Let's just say I believe they are open to more complex interpretation."

Bron nodded. It was, after all, true. The prophecies were vague at best. “We cannot say what will happen on Samhain and how the events depicted on the scrolls will be played out; we can only guess."

Veldor watched him awhile and then snatched up his tankard of ale.

Bron didn't want to keep pressing him, but he needed to know everything he could find out. “And your interpretation of the act?"

"That part is simple. To plant my seed within her.” He stared boldly at Bron. “Whether she likes it or not."

Veldor would have to force her; any fool could see that. Is that what he considered an act of love? Again, scorn and jealousy flared within Bron, but he attempted to reply without emotion. “The act of love is to give life; that part is simple."

He forced the words out as levelly as he could. Lust for power had always been at Veldor's very core. It was his root, his sap. And it would indeed be Veldor's seed, if he could not alter the path of events.

Veldor's eyes glittered. “She is merely a means, a ... sacrifice."

His emphasis ran shards of ice through Bron.

"The act of faith is the more slippery merchant,” Veldor continued. “The scrolls mentioned a man who had the faith, if my memory serves me?"

Bron nodded. They had both studied the elder ways. Egremont had groomed them both for this time. It could have been either one of them; they had known that back when they had been together. Veldor had taken umbrage, insisting there should be only one, chosen ahead of time. Even now, it could be Veldor—but at a stretch, since he had gone his own way. He'd left the fold, but he knew what was coming.

Bron looked toward the flames in the hearth, pushing the thoughts away, aware of Veldor prodding in his mind to lead his thoughts and see if he meant what he said.

Veldor smiled darkly. “The man must have faith in the act, its power and ... in his power.” His eyes shone in the firelight.

"I see."

"Oh, I think not, Bron, you have no idea how much I believe in my power, and my ability to gain more.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his expression growing conceited. “You say you wish to consider my opinion, perhaps follow it.” He gave a shallow laugh. “You will never be aligned with me, Bron. We will never be as brothers again. I am stronger now. You and the elders at Western Tor are nothing, no more than fallen leaves in my path."

Bron could not withhold a wry smile. “In that case, why did you grant me an audience?"

"To show you what you were missing. The lovely Maerose and all that follows. Unless, of course, you'd like to come along and watch?” He paused. “I intend to warm her up this very evening, to make her more pliable for what is to come."

His smile turned Bron's innards.

"No, I thought not."

Bron gritted his teeth. He couldn't trust himself to reply.

"Leave the task to me. You will hear of my successes soon enough."

Bron grew curious as to his deeper meaning. Veldor's ideas had always been radical, anarchic at times, harking back to dark days when men were pitted against men like wild creatures without compassion. Like animals, they fought for supremacy. A menacing shadow crossed his soul. It was as if Veldor manifested something from the times when the bloody hordes had fallen at The Strangeling.

Veldor was watching him closely, still smiling. “Yes, Bron, ask yourself why the elders at Western Tor want the curse to be contained, turned back. The elder way is to source natural powers for magic, divining power from the gods and from the natural world, through meditation and incantation. But we have learnt their ways, and we could use them for our own benefit, if we so wish.” His expression was driven. “Why not source the power of the fallen army itself, take control of them, instead of turning them back? Imagine it—gaining that immensity of power over a spirit energy so large, exploiting it for our own purpose."

Bron felt what he described, and stood up to break free of it. He could not maintain the barrier. Veldor spoke of forbidden, dangerous things. He had broken in to Bron's mind and led his thought trail. “I will take my leave."

"As you wish.” Veldor didn't rise from his seat, but rested back, his gray eyes filled with deadly charm. “I'm quite sure that you have refined your magic, Bron, as I myself have.” He paused for effect. “You can watch me soil Maerose in your little visior pool."

Bron resisted response. Yes, he had been refining his magic, but in ways far beyond anything that Veldor had been taught. Together they had learnt to see beyond themselves and project beyond themselves. After Veldor had gone, Egremont had taken him to a different level of understanding, into a whole new sphere of magic. There he had learnt to draw upon the gifts of the gods and the ability to change form and move at great speed. This breed of magic was far beyond Veldor. It existed for those with true faith in the power of all things; a source only to be used when needs must. He turned away, easily deflecting the dart of hatred he felt aimed at his backbone.

"Oh, and when you see the old crones up at Western Tor, give them my greetings."

Bron glanced back, his anger rising again at Veldor's obvious scorn toward his sage elders.