Magnus cleared his throat. His thumb rubbed the hilt of his sword, as if he were uncomfortable speaking to a crowd. Siban had known such men. They preferred action over talk. Rhys was such a man. That was the main reason Siban had joined the Bringers after escaping the Shadow World. He too preferred action and had neither the inclination nor ability for diplomacy.
“We will be imparting the Bringers’ history to you through our own memories.” Magnus pulled a short stool to the end of the table and sat. Brita mimicked his actions. “But not in a way you’re probably used to. There’s too much to communicate with words, so we will share our experiences with you through one of the Tell gifts—memory transference.” He held out his callused hands and rested them on the table. “First we must join hands.”
Each Bringer took the hand of the person sitting on either side. Siban gripped Rell and Rhys’s. Rell in turn, took his and Brita’s. Once the circle was complete all eyes turned back to Magnus.
But it was Brita who spoke. Though soft with a lilting quality, her voice commanded attention. “The circle must remain unbroken. When we are done sharing our information, either Magnus or I will release your hands. Then you may let go.”
“I’ll warn you that the experience can be somewhat…overwhelming at first. Try not to react to what you’re seeing or hearing. This is the past and nothing can be done about it now.”
Siban’s gaze slid to Rell. “Are you sure you’re up to this?”
She nodded. “Unquestionably.”
Instead of reassuring him, her conviction sent a wave of apprehension through him. Though he understood her desire to be involved, vengefulness rolled from her. Experience had taught him that anger was not the best motivation. It made one careless and illogical. Suppressing his concerns, he turned back to Magnus.
“Close your eyes and concentrate on your breathing,” Magnus said. “Try to relax. Brita and I will guide you.”
Before Siban closed his eyes, he glanced at Rell. Her lids were pressed tightly together and her fingernails dug into his hand. “Relax.”
She inhaled and blew out her breath, her shoulders dropping from her release of tension. Siban closed his eyes and focused on his breathing as Magnus had instructed. At first the surrounding noises of the crackling fire and shouts from outside drew his attention, but as he concentrated, all extraneous sounds dimmed and finally faded.
A man’s face suddenly appeared in Siban’s mind. He flinched. The clarity of the man’s harsh features was accompanied by a feeling of discontent. Siban tried to relax, letting Magnus and Brita guide his vision. The scene pulled back to reveal the man sitting on a throne. King Harlin, Gregory’s grandfather, ghosted through Siban’s mind.
The image extended further until the entire lay of a Great Hall could be seen. Lines of people were being herded into groups. They were dirty and dressed in rags. Some appeared injured, and all looked hungry. Disgust that was not his own filled Siban. An underlying outrage over what was happening flowed with the images. It was as if he watched everything through somebody else’s eyes.
An ornately dressed man sat at a parchment-covered table. His ample body flowed over the armless chair on which he was perched. His robes pooled around him in a sea of brocade and velvet. With a plump hand, he popped a grape into his mouth and chewed. The flesh beneath his chin wobbled with each chomp of the fruit, furthering Siban’s disgust.
Obviously in charge of the slaves, the official pointed to a cluster of men, whose hands and feet were bound together with lengths of rope. “The clay pits.”
Four guards nudged the slaves away from the table and toward the door. A thin man, wearing nothing but filthy, torn pants, stumbled and fell. Long white scars covered his back. Siban gritted his teeth against the anger rising inside him. He bore scars such as those from his time in the Shadow World. They had not disappeared, even after he’d been brought to full power.
An armor-clad soldier drew back his foot and kicked the felled man in the ribs. “Get up, dog.”
The prisoner stumbled upright with the help of another captive. The slave’s eyes were wide, but he made no protest, merely remained bent and gripping his side. His spirit was broken. Though he and Siban shared similar scars, Siban had never succumbed to the belief that all was lost. Rell had seen to that.
Again, the prisoners moved forward and shuffled through the wide entrance of the hall, disappearing beyond the memory’s range.
The fat man’s gaze swept over a small group of young women huddled together. Siban could hear their quiet sobs. The official seemed to derive great enjoyment from the women’s fear. A leering smile stretched across his mouth and he pointed a meaty finger toward them. “Pleasure house.”
Information came unbidden. Siban knew that Magnus was feeding it to them in understandable chunks. Though somewhat jolting at first, there was no doubt memory transference was highly effective. Another thought came to him.
At one time humans and Bringers were the same people. The only difference was that humans had no powers. Unable to fight against a tyrannical king, they were forced into servitude.
The image panned back to King Harlin. A second man stood beside the throne, his assessing stare traveling hungrily over the crowd of prisoners. Something familiar registered with Siban. He scrutinized the man’s face. Short-cropped hair lay dark against his skull and eyes the color of silver seemed to search for something among the gathered masses. A sensation of lust and thirst for power rippled through Siban, but he could not place why the man seemed familiar. Like other Bringers in the scene, he bore a tattoo. It wasn’t one Siban had seen before—an eight-pointed star. Siban made note to ask about the unfamiliar mark.
The throne room faded and a new image appeared. Lightning flashed across a gray sky. The thunder that followed mingled with the war cries of the men and women battling on an open area of blood-spattered mud. The sounds rumbled within Siban’s chest, as if he stood at the heart of the battle. The smell of rain, blood, and burning flesh assaulted his nose, causing him to recoil.
Swords clashed in endless cacophony. Fireballs whistled through the air, slamming into people and exploding. Their attack was not like the fire he’d seen the Bringers use the night of Rell’s capture. Punishing and more violent, the spinning fireballs raced through the air with a power far greater than a catapult. They connected with their targets, decimating them.
The dead and injured littered the ground as the battle raged on. Their cries tugged at Siban. Rell and Rhys’s grips tightened. They too obviously battled the urge to defend. A huge arch, ten men wide and twice as high, loomed in the center of the melee. Siban recognized it from the legends, the Mystic Arch. Several humans ran though the doorway, followed by the king’s soldiers. Many of the escaping humans were dragged back through, but not all.
Siban’s attention was drawn to a young man in the midst of battle. Prince Arron. Siban recognized the name instantly. He was Gregory’s father, and the king who had been victorious over the Bane a thousand years ago.
Again the scene altered and Arron now sat on the throne with the crown firmly on his head. Joy ebbed around the image. A quick succession of pictures flashed through Siban’s mind. King Harlin being beheaded with an immortal weapon. More, smaller battles. Once again the scenes slowed and settled on the image of the Mystic Arch. The inner area of the doorway glimmered green and blue. Humans carrying bags and pulling small carts trudged toward the entrance and then stepped through.
Sorrow accompanied the human’s departure from Bael, the Bringers’ homeland. But mixed with the sadness was the anticipation of starting a new life. Freedom from slavery and servitude lent a bittersweet quality to the exodus.