Ice and Fire

[Kylerryth]

In a room he could not recall renting, Coran slept.

In a dream, Coran vividly remembered.

----------

“Well son,” his da said, “it’s your fifteenth naming day. What then would you rather do, milk the cows or chop firewood?”

“Neither,” Coran replied with a grin, but he was already taking the ax from its place on the wall and going out the door.

The sun was burning bright above the horizon, and it greeted him with a golden kiss of warmth. The sky’s murk had finally drifted elsewhere, and for that Coran was grateful - it had been dreary enough the past few days to make a man want aught more than to drown in an ale cup. He was headed for Col’s home though, a somewhat distant one-story house with a thatch roof. Wonder if he’ll ever switch to tile, Coran thought. Probably not. Col’s too old-fashioned. Col, a man nearing eighty years, was in charge of the town’s wood, and had a team of men who took down trees and divided them into stacks for each home to chop and use. That way everyone had the same amount of wood, the only exceptions being the inn -- so it had enough wood for its custom -- and the people with large families. But that setup didn’t deprive people of the chance to acquire their own wood if they so wished, and Coran’s da firmly believed in taking full advantage of that detail. Coran didn’t mind; he rather enjoyed the exercise.

Many of the houses around Col’s were similar in appearance, but many others had already switched their roofs to slate or tile. Surrounding the town to the east and north was an enormous forest, and every man had a tale of some brave, often inebriated soul plunging into the trees, boasting of finding the end ... but they either came back a day or two later and were harassed for just as long about it, or they didn’t come back at all. No one ventured into the trees to find them, and the funeral that followed each incident was often very brief. Unpaved streets packed hard from uncounted years of feet and horses’ hooves wove between the buildings, all of them eventually leading to -- or from, depending on which way one was going -- a central green where children often were at play with hoops and sticks. Some were doing just that, and Coran watched while walking along the green’s edge; and in tandem each child's mother watched, seeming to be lost in a buzz of conversation about the day's work or gossip about whoever did whatever -- but that facade was swiftly shattered: a young boy crashed into another and the two began fighting, rolling in the dirt and pounding each other as best as they could, but no sooner had they begun than the pair's mothers descended like hawks on prey, tearing them apart and scolding simultaneously. Coran shook his head and grinned. Looking toward the grouped mothers, Coran waved as he passed them. Some of those mothers recognized him and waved back; some of those mothers recognized him and frowned -- especially Mistress Polen, he noticed; he thought she’d forgiven him for the pies -- and those he hurried past.

It was autumn, and Joran -- his da -- had set him to gathering wood as quickly as possible. They could stave off this year’s coming winter only if they were quick about it. Joran had already received their portion of the season’s wood from Col; it was now up to Coran to get more. “Going to be something fierce, it is,” his father had stated rather solemnly. Coran hadn’t liked seeing him in such low spirits, but he’d only nodded and continued eating his supper, choosing not to drag the subject out. Whatever the elder D’zir thought about winter, it wouldn’t get the wood chopped -- and they found Coran was surprisingly better at it than his father. “You’re young. I’m not,” was the conclusion to the discovery. And then: “You seem to enjoy it, too, so you can do it from now on.” He’d balked at first, then relented and grimly got to it -- and soon realized it was growing colder. That inspired him to work even more, and faster and harder. It had rained almost all of last week, and it had been so cold that stepping outside practically guaranteed a case of the chills -- and it had made his work all but impossible, leaving him grumbling about being bored. What could he do, argue with the weather?

“No, but afterward I could gather firewood,” Coran chuckled to himself, “that’s what.”

“Talkin' to yerself 'gain?” called a high voice behind him. He turned, another grin already on his face.

Jainye was a pretty girl who’d taken a fancy to him, and Coran couldn’t say he was not interested in her as well. She was fourteen, slim-bodied but not sickeningly thin, had hair the color of wheat in a wrist-thick braid that hung to her waist, and amazingly clear green eyes. Her mouth always seemed ready for a smile or grin, and it was the latter that greeted him now, exposing two straight rows of white teeth. She was already falling in beside him, matching his strides -- which were one for her every three. Coran was considerably taller.

“For the moment,” he answered. “I’d rather have someone else to talk to, though. I think I’m pretty boring.”

“You are not,” she said, giving him a punch in the shoulder. Coran feigned being hurt, but only partially. He’d forgotten she was strong, despite her looks.

“So you say.”

“An’ that’s all that should matter.” They laughed together.

After talking a bit more, she gave him a quick hug -- and he returned it as best as he could, what with an ax in one hand -- and dashed off, lifting her skirts a little so she could run. Coran admired the sight for a moment and then resumed his trek toward Col’s house. Not much farther, now. Lifting a hand to shade his eyes, Coran actually saw Col himself leaning on a gnarled walking stick, talking to some of the men of the town. That’s either good or bad, he murmured mentally, and most likely bad.

Coran started toward the group, and ... fell. A sudden bolt of heat went through him, so stark and raw that he gasped, wondering if he’d burst into flame. Just as soon as that flared in him, his body turned to ice and was racked by chills; and then the internal fires began anew, a fever worse than any he’d ever felt before. The ax lay forgotten on the ground beside him, and for some peculiar reason Coran distinctly remembered seeing the light in its steel, then an amorphous shape that grew ever nearer. He screamed and thrashed, and the song of ice and fire in his veins began once more, a cacophony of elements vying for the right to occupy every single fiber of his being. Coran stopped soon after that and simply lay there, suffering the terrible mixture coursing through his body, listening to how flames and glaciers rose their voices in a dueling yet strangely harmonious chorus. And then there were other voices joining the noise of his soul, but these were somehow different -- they existed outside, beyond the reach of the frozen fire, the burning ice. Then it came to him: people. Men’s voices were chattering at the edge of hearing, but all were made nearly inaudible because of the roaring in his head.

“Out of the way!” someone bellowed, and a man appeared. The man bent down, and then he was leaving the ground. Coran was dimly aware of his arms and legs swinging as though lifeless, and through eyes that were darkening rapidly, he saw a young girl crying, trying to reach at him through a press of other girls, growing distant as the sway of the man’s steps carried him toward ... toward what? He tried to yell; all that came out was a croak.

And then the world was gone.

[Kylerryth]

Coran trembled but did not wake. He turned onto his side, and as if in response to the physical motion, the memory turned to the next page.

----------

Voices. So distant, yet growing closer.

“You say he was perfectly well?”

“Would I lie to you about my son, Merelin?”

“No, Joran,” a voice that was suddenly female said, “but I know you would do anything to protect him, too.”

“You know Coran as well as you know every other child in this town, Mere. By the Light, you’ve watched him grow and tended his illnesses. You should be telling me what’s wrong, not the other way round.”

Father. The word slithered through his mind, followed by others: Father, arguing with a woman. Merelin. That name …so familiar. Merelin...

How long have I been unconscious, Coran abruptly thought, and why can’t I see?

“He’s moving,” stated a hoarse, shaking voice. Another woman?

Coran heard feet shuffling over floorboards, felt people near him, hovering over him. “Son,” his da said gently, “are you awake?”

“Y ... yes,” Coran replied weakly. I sound as if I’m dying.

“Oh, thank the Light,” the other woman breathed. She was younger, Coran realized -- and then he knew her.

“Jainye,” he said. “You were ... crying. Thought ... I was dead?”

“No!” the girl denied vehemently, and Coran thought she was shaking her head as well. “I was just worried, s’all.”

He smiled a little and then asked, “Why can’t ... see?”

“Oh, sorry about that.” Light suddenly assailed his eyes. Coran raised a languid hand to shield them while they adjusted; and when they did he saw his father standing nearby, whispering to Jainye -- probably telling her to go home now that she knew Coran was alive -- and the Reader, Mistress D’nord, holding a moist cloth that had apparently been resting over his eyes. The Reader was an older woman -- somewhere in her late forties or fifties, Coran recalled vaguely -- who’d spent all her life learning herblore and as many other medicines as she could. She wanted to help people, she told all her patients; she wanted to help them live. Or, when they wanted aught more than peace, to help them die. Merelin D'nord was quite open about her chosen profession and made no bones about the aforementioned act of euthanasia -- despite however people felt about the matter, it was the patient's choice ... and in her view, that choice was what mattered. Her graying hair was tied into a bun, and her deep-set blue eyes watched Coran sharply. She rested two fingertips against his neck, then his wrist, and finally his chest. And then Coran realized something: he was laying there, without a shirt on, in front of Jainye ... who was glancing at him now and then, and not without a queer gleam in her eyes. He blushed like a maiden.

“You’re going, and that’s that,” Joran said sternly.

“But,” Jainye began, looking a little distraught.

“You’re going,” the man repeated, “and not just because he’s awake and better. It would be improper for you to stay here. People might get the wrong ideas.”

Now Jainye blushed. Meekly nodding, the girl gave Coran one last look -- half apology, half relieved smile -- and then went out the door. His father closed it behind her, then stepped in beside the Reader.

“Will he be all right?” Joran asked, worry creasing his brow.

“As far as I can tell, yes," D'nord answered. "I don’t exactly know what caused this sudden outburst, but it seems to have passed. He very well may have another, but this appears to be temporary and will most likely have no lasting effects beyond general weakness.” The woman frowned slightly, then nodded. “Move him into his room and let him rest. That’s all he seems to need.”

“Thank you, Merelin. Truly, you have all my thanks,” his father said sincerely. Coran had slowly begun to drift into sleep, his grip on the frail bit of strength he'd found loosening ... but right then, for the first time that he could remember, Coran thought his father sounded close to tears, and just as weak as he felt.

The Reader patted Joran's shoulder and spoke gently. “You are welcome, as always, Joran. He will be fine.” And then she left, the door closing softly behind her.

For a long moment, there was silence. Coran was barely awake, barely aware, but he knew his father was still there. He could feel the man, could feel his presence lingering just beyond the edge of sight. He tried to speak.

“How ... long?” A thin, quavering question.

“What’s that?” His father moved into view, his eyes concerned. Coran felt a surge of love for the man, and it provided him with the power to go on.

“How ... long?”

“How long? How long were you out, you mean?” When Coran nodded, his father went on. “No more than an hour or two, but everyone's worried about you. I'd just stepped out of the house and was going to see Fletcher Marlens when I heard that scream. I thought someone had died ... and when I came over to see what’d happened, I saw you on the ground...”

Coran felt tears, warm and thick, rising in his eyes. With the last bit of strength in his body, Coran lifted his hand and grasped his father’s, squeezed it as tightly as he could, and said: “I ... will be ... fine.”

Blackness.

----------

Even in deep sleep the young channeler was affected by these puissant memories. Coran tossed and turned on the mattress, suddenly unable to find a comfortable position. And just as suddenly, a new memory invaded, one that his mind did not recognize as its own -- but it played out all the same, with strange, bleached images as accompaniment.

----------

It was cold outside, though the day was not yet done. After the incident people had resumed their daily work, but with many wondering what had happened and to whom. But soon everyone knew the D’zir boy had caught something ... but what? No one truly knew, and just as soon as they knew that he’d caught something, they already feared it would spread amongst the other townsfolk. Worried faces were visible in every household on every parent's face; children continued to play, unaware of their concerns, only caring about how much longer they'd be able to play today.

Behind the D’zir household, though, were two figures that did their best to remain out of sight. One was the father; the other was the Reader; and both spoke in hushed tones.

“You wanted to talk to me, Merelin?”

“Yes. It’s about your son.”

“What about him?” Joran asked. The question was lined with suspicion; D'nord frowned, but continued after a moment.

“I have seen these conditions before, in another young man.”

“Then you do know what’s causing it? Why not speak it then, where the boy could hear as well? Why not cure him?”

“It’s not something I can cure, Joran.”

A sudden, brooding silence answered that revelation.

“This is going to be very difficult," the Reader said, "and ... 'delicate' is the only word that comes to mind.” Her face was a stoic mask, but in her eyes Joran recognized what could only be called raw fear.

“What is wrong with my son?” he asked slowly.

And for a moment he thought she wasn’t going to respond. When she did, however, Joran wished she hadn’t.

“He is going to channel, Joran. Not immediately, but in the future he will be able to wield saidin. You have, of course, heard the stories. Madness, then decay, and then death -- those are what await your son. Perhaps soon, perhaps late ... it is impossible to say, considering no one can predict how the taint will affect the man it’s tainting.”

More silence.

“I know these things because it was my nephew who started to channel, Joran,” Merelin said softly, laying a hand on the man’s shoulder. “His name was Kellan. You met him once, several years ago.”

“I remember the boy,” Joran said -- perhaps a bit too roughly, for the Reader lifted her hand and took a half-step back, frowning slightly. “I apologize, Mere. It’s just that ... your nephew is not my son. My only son.”

“I know that,” she replied, “just as I knew when I saw these symptoms that it was best not to frighten him with this news. Not just yet. Perhaps when the flashes and chills pass, we will--”

“No,” Joran interrupted. “This is something I need to deal with on my own.”

The Reader silently gazed at him, then nodded and departed without another word. Joran watched her go, and when she rounded a house's corner and disappeared, he sat down on the ground and stared at it, simply letting his mind run free.

After a while, after the sun had started to descend past the distant mountains to the west and his quiet tears had finally subsided, Joran went back inside.

----------

Coran bolted awake, one hand tearing the bedsheet off of his body and the other going to his forehead. He panted heavily, sucked air into his lungs in deep gulps, and wiped sweat from his brow, his face. Where had that come from? Coran couldn't remember the experience -- how could he when he hadn't been there? At the time he had been unconscious ... so how had he recalled something he could not, should not be able to?

He went cold. A new layer of sweat popped out, and Coran couldn't find the strength to wipe it away.

"No," he finally breathed. "No. I won't think about it. I'm going back to bed, and that's that."

Coran first went to the washbasin and cleansed himself as best as he could; after toweling himself dry, he then checked the lock on the door, just to be sure it was locked; and only then did he lay back down.

But sleep never did quite return.