Golben.

[Kylerryth]

"Behold," said Aston Jylan, Lord of Aldred, Councilor of Defence and Civil Security, gesturing the expanse of land before them. "Golben."

They -- they being Aston Jylan and Cinnabar and a small retinue of armed guards for each man -- had dismounted almost half a mile away from the site. Their horses had refused to go any further, squealing and resisting every attempt to lead them; and so after hobbling them in a thicket, they had proceeded on foot. Fortunately for them it was a clear but cool day, and the walk was not long. Eventually they had arrived at their destination: the town once known as Golben.

Golben had been located in northeastern Myrken Wood, between Foggy Bottom and the Gilroy Pass, some leagues from the Derry border but still on the fringes of the Sikasoons' shadows. It had been a rural town, and never very large or even remarkable -- at most a few hundred people had lived there, most of them simple folk who rarely ventured farther than the outlying farms. Certainly it had never been a center of activity like its distant neighbor, Myrkentown.

Now, however, it was a crater.

Not only a crater, but a massive blackened crater where no life grew, where no animals took shelter -- where no animals would come. They had witnessed as much with the horses, but here, now, it was truly evident in the sheer level of quiet, the stillness of the air, the lack of ... anything. Everything. The wind seemed to die before it crossed the desolation in front of them. Grass grew to the very edge of the crater and then simply ceased to be; it followed the irregular curve of the crater perfectly, and always ended at the same distance. The crater itself was peppered with dips and depressions of various sizes, sundered earth and shattered stone, and twisted, impossible extensions rising from the ground like morbid statues symbolizing the agony and torment of nature, some whole, some broken in places or reduced to rubble; and those that were whole, they would realize in a horrible moment of revelation, were vaguely human in shape. Down, down, down the crater went, its steep, jagged sides curving into a huge bowl that, when one stood at the edge and looked into it, seemed ready to tip over on the viewer.

The scope of the crater was not immediately apparent, but Aston Jylan explained as if discussing a potential horse trade. "When I first visited here," said Aston Jylan, "I knew not what to expect, but from Count D'zir's tone I assumed the worst. 'The worst' did not come close to 'the reality'." Briefly the Lord of Aldred's mouth twisted; it was the first sign of distaste he had shown. Then: "For some reason I cannot explain I brought a cartographer with me. He had with him his tools, so I allowed him to climb into the crater to measure it. To do so in its entirety took him a full day, and cost him a few broken toes." Of all things, he seemed amused by that.

He went on. "At its widest point the crater is almost two miles in diameter. It is not nearly so deep, as you can see, but I know I would not attempt the climb." Again Aston Jylan appeared to find something funny. He did not laugh, but the faintest hint of a smile curled the corners of his mouth. "The cartographer made his best estimate: six hundred feet -- or thereabout."

Aston Jylan folded his arms beneath his chest and then turned to the High Constable and self-appointed Governor, gazing at him with unblinking bright blue eyes and gauging his reaction to the sight.

[Cinnabar]

There'd been quiet conversation while riding to where Golben once stood, carefully sticking to neutral matters for the most part; the small villages passed through along the way, birds of prey seen at a distance over the autumn fields, the success of the harvest and whether it might be a harsh winter or not. After dismounting, however, matters were quieter, more subdued. Something about the land, the air, the nervousness of the horses provoked a similar stillness in the men themselves.

And then that crater. That void. It has the Constables quiet and pale, a few of them perhaps having heard rumour of this place, but nothing more than that. Now confronted with the truth of it, there is stunned silence.

Calomel himself stands near the rim of the crater, hands in coat pockets against the autumn wind; it blows chill in this exposed place, mirroring the chill that the warped earth inspires in the hearts of those who look upon it. A frown creases his brow, pale grey gaze sweeping from one jagged horizon to the other, eyes narrowing as he squints at the far edge of the abyss, then down into the heart of it. Perhaps looking for some sign of the Golben that Aldred spoke of and which still shows on some maps; searching for a brick or slate or street-cobble or roof timber to indicate that there was once a town here. His lips are pressed thin in disapproval, as if there is something about this bleak and twisted landscape that does not invoke fear so much as displeasure.

He takes his time surveying the scene before taking a slow breath and letting it out again, then glancing to Aldred. The Councillor seems to be enjoying the expository role, the showmanship and drama of it all, and though he's already said enough for Calomel to make a reasonable guess - combine that mention of the channeller Coran D'zir with reports of Duke Burel's war-sorcerors and one would have to be a fool not to suspect the answer - the silver-haired young man obligingly asks the expected question, the obvious question.

"Very well. What happened here?"

[Kylerryth]

"You have undoubtedly reached your own conclusion, High Constable, but the truth may surprise you."

Aston Jylan turned to regard the crater -- a sick blemish on the face of Myrken Wood, as if its reputation were not enough -- and, once more gesturing to it, said: "Golben was once a town -- we've already discussed that. You know the details. What you do not know -- and what I did not know until Count D'zir told me -- was that Golben, over time -- a period of years, to be precise -- became a sort of haven for men who could channel. And then it became a school. To teach them how to channel. How to control it."

A pause; and let Cinnabar absorb that information and draw from it as he will. And then, glancing sidelong at Calomel, the Councilor inquired: "Beyond what you've heard about the incident in Derry, High Constable ... what do you know of the One Power?"

He was aware he had not answered the High Constable's question -- but here, in view of what the Power had wrought upon life and earth, Aston Jylan thought it an appropriate question.

[Cinnabar]

As Aldred speaks, the Governor's gaze returns to that crater, that blasted waste stripped clean of life. A haven for channellers, he says. A school, even. Hm.

"How long ago was this?" No way to tell, when all within the crater's circle is dead and sterile. No way to gauge the passage of time since this catastrophe when grass will not touch the earth, when saplings will not push their way up between sundered rock. It could have been decades ago, it could have been last week. But to Aldred's question Calomel offers only a shrug, and a shake of his head.

"Nothing at all. Very few in Myrken will speak of it. What is there to know?"

[Kylerryth]

"According to Count D'zir," answered Aston Jylan, "the school began forming in mid- to late 202, but was not officially a school for another six months. Around the summer of 203, then. He said that, gradually, the town of Golben became the school. He also said there was a counterpart in southwestern Thessilane -- a town named Four Stones."

Aston Jylan did not expound; he went on to explain what little he knew of the One Power, gazing out across the barren, blackened waste while he spoke.

"Count D'zir was willing to tell me about the Power, but not in great detail. One thing he made clear was that it is in fact not magic or sorcery. Apparently 'channelers' is a more than apt moniker for them: they utilize a source of energy they call the True Source -- which is, in the Count's own words, 'the infinite force that drives the Wheel of Time ever forward and is capable of manipulating the very fabric of the universe'. 'It can never be used up', he went on to say, 'only temporarily woven into a purpose'. The One Power emanates from this True Source. The channelers act like a conduit, opening themselves to the Source and seizing the Power from it; and then a conductor, managing the Power and directing it according to their will."

Very few in Myrken will speak of it, Calomel had said.

He would soon find out why.

But first Aston Jylan allowed the High Constable a moment to absorb the information just given to him. In the meantime he retrieved a short-stemmed ivory pipe from a pocket on his coat, thumbed a bit of leaf he had in a small pouch into the bowl, and lit it with a stick of tinder from a box one of his men carried. The Lord of Aldred puffed, sending eddying clouds of blue smoke toward the clear blue sky; the piece of tinder went back into the box, extinguished in a compartment filled with sand.

And he waited.

[Cinnabar]

A slight frown at the mention of a similar town in Thessilane, again perhaps forming some theories, suppositions, educated guesses. Such a thing could well explain the existence of Burel's Ducal Aegis, his cadre of war-sorcerors who'd recently proven themselves so... effective in Derry.

"How was this school formed? Who led it?"

And then the explanation of the True Source, which has the Governor shaking his head impatiently.

"I am not well-versed in the fine distinctions between such things, Councillor. Channeller or sorceror or mage, the overall result is the same." A glance for Aldred as he fusses with his pipe, then his gaze turns back over the pit. The scuff of his boot sends a loose stone winging out into the void, to drop and clatter and tumble down the slope of the crater.

"Go on."

[Kylerryth]

"I told you that, eventually, Golben became the school," said Aston Jylan, glancing at the High Constable. "It wasn't a hostile takeover, though -- the people of Golben, while wary of the channelers, saw no reason to fear them. And, after a while, Golben came to welcome them: they contributed to the growth of the community, aided wherever they could, even cured physical ailments and disease. Golben prospered, and all was well."

Aston Jylan paused to puff on the pipe, his gaze -- his thought -- elsewhere. Then:

"And before the town knew it, the channelers were in charge. Their town government was intact, but if the channelers wanted one thing or didn't like another thing, they were all too happy to oblige. The people of Golben didn't complain, not at first -- these men had worked such wonders, after all. What they did not know, however, was that an ambitious man, an instructor at the school by the name of Jorn Lundstroem, intended to change everything.

"Lundstroem was arrogant yet charming, intelligent yet hotheaded -- you understand, surely. He was also a channeler, and a very skilled one. Not the strongest of the lot, but so well versed in the various uses of the Power that he was feared -- yet also admired and respected, particularly by his students. Count D'zir was the one who found the first few men who could channel, who wanted to help them learn how to control the Power and themselves. Lundstroem, however, had a knack for locating men of any age who had the ability or the potential. In less than a year there were suddenly three hundred such men in Golben."

Another pause. Then, while looking at the High Constable: "Perhaps," said Aston Jylan around the stem of his pipe, "it will be some comfort to know he is dead. Count D'zir told me a woman by the name of Ariane Emory killed him during the battle in Orvere some two to three years ago."

[Cinnabar]

Three hundred. Three hundred. And Burel had defeated an army with less than a half-dozen. And with that, some understanding of the totality of this catastrophe becomes clear. A whole town of such sorcerors, hundreds of them in one place. So much destructive power so closely concentrated, little wonder that such desolation is the result. Then there is this telling of Lundstroem and his fate; a nod at that, the Governor pressing his hands deeper into his pockets against the autumnal chill.

"I have heard something of what happened at Orvere. Not all of it, but enough to know that two of these channellers were enough to wreck a town. Was Orvere before or after this?" He jerks his head towards the pit, the twisted shapes of earth and stone therein.

[Kylerryth]

"After," said Aston Jylan, tapping the bowl of his pipe -- it seemed an unconscious gesture, one born out of habit. "Orvere was a year or so later, in the autumn of 204. Baron Wiglaf -- a supercilious fellow you don't and won't ever know, as he's also dead -- decided he wanted to be the ruler of Thessilane, as Duke Tassnehof was thought dead at the time, and began by consolidating a number of smaller Houses to his cause. He then conquered Orvere, one of Thessilane's major port cities. A smart move, but it would be his downfall.

"As it turned out," continued Aston Jylan, "Tassnehof was very much not dead: he had foiled a complex assassination plot against his life and then went into hiding so the minds behind the plot would believe him killed, which they did. So they made their move, revealing themselves, and when the time was ripe Tassnehof made a triumphant return and, with the aid of a few doughty friends -- Ariane Emory, our very own Marshal Karolinger, then-Captain of the Companions Kerrak al'Nerun, and a young channeler whose name I can't recall -- and the men who would rally to his banner and call, Tassnehof was able to kill Wiglaf and reclaim Orvere.

"What he had not known until he arrived on Wiglaf's doorstep, however," said Aston Jylan, tapping the pipe out on the heel of his boot and then slipping it back into his pocket, "was that Jorn Lundstroem, being, as I've said, an ambitious man, had allied himself to Wiglaf's cause ... and did not appreciate Tassnehof's interference."

The Lord of Aldred paused there, figuring the High Constable capable of filling in the blanks. He did not know how much Calomel knew of Orvere, of course -- his own knowledge was detailed but hardly complete -- but assumed from his earlier statement that he did not know one crucial detail about the devastation of the port city...

[Cinnabar]

Hm. Some familiar names, some not so much. There is a nod as he describes this, though, this plot against the Duke. He's heard the name of Orvere spoken before, though never in detail, only the most general idea of what occurred there.

"So. Tassnehoff's channeller against Wiglaf's, and the town paid the price. A band of heroes came to the Duke's aid, and were rewarded in land and titles for their assistance. What became of this place, though?" He nods back to the crater, frowning a touch as he shrugs his collar higher.

"Something occurred here to move Lundstroem along, prompting him to side with Wiglaf, though what need one who wields such power might have for a noble patron is questionable - why not simply move in and take what he desired by force? And was he the cause of whatever destroyed Golben, or merely reacting to it?" A glance to the Councillor, speculative. "What became of the rest of them?"

[Kylerryth]

"No," corrected Aston Jylan, looking to Calomel and raising a finger. "Not Tassnehof's channeler. At the time he did not have channelers -- in essence these school-towns were independent, as the channelers were able to provide without difficulty for themselves and those that lived in Golben and Four Stones. Of course they cooperated with the territories they inhabited, but for the most part they were overlooked -- no one wanted to think about them, much less actually be involved in their activities."

An interesting point, one the High Constable would certainly wish to know more about; of that the Lord of Aldred had no doubt.

"No, Calomel -- if I may call you that," said Aston Jylan, folding his arms again. "Not Tassnehof's channeler.

"Coran D'zir."

That might be news to the High Constable: that Coran D'zir, now a count in Thessilane, had been one-half of the force that had demolished one of the country's cities; that Coran D'zir, by and large a down-to-earth young man with a genial disposition, was in fact capable of such widespread destruction.

"Coran D'zir and Jorn Lundstroem battled each other in Orvere with the One Power, and the city, the earth, the sea -- the world paid for it. But," said Aston Jylan, forestalling any comment by raising a hand, "its people did not. Yes, some had been killed in Wiglaf's takeover; but none came to harm during that terrible duel, Calomel, for one of Tassnehof's objectives in addition to reclaiming the city had been evacuating it. He would see the city destroyed utterly before allowing a renegade Baron to rule it in his stead. Lundstroem's presence compounded matters, but solidified the decision in Tassnehof's head: there was no way he or his men could fight that. So they appealed to D'zir for aid, and he answered in the form of blood, fire, and death."

A pause; a lengthy pause, one where the Lord of Aldred removed a silver flask from another pocket, twisted off its cap and had a quick pull of its contents. He offered it to Calomel, who would catch the faint yet pungent smell of cognac.

"Though you are correct about the rest," added Aston Jylan, an ironic smile on his face. "Land, titles, and everlasting friendship."

And then Calomel has other questions, and more questions forming out of those questions; and Aston Jylan, before answering them, said:

"In something of a humorous twist, the people of Orvere rebuilt the city from the ground up ... and erected statues of Tassnehof, D'zir and Ariane Emory, and the others -- those heroes who had risked their own lives to save the lives of others so selflessly. They claimed the city had been poorly planned and poorly built anyway, so its destruction allowed them the chance to construct it to their liking."

Aston Jylan chuckled; after a moment he went on.

"Here, on the other hand," said Aston Jylan, gesturing to the dead and black crater in front of them. "Here, Calomel ... was madness."

Madness, D'zir had said.

Madness, decay, and death.

The Lord of Aldred, normally unflappable, involuntarily shivered -- only slightly, enough that the High Constable might not see it ... but what the Count of Calael had described...

Aston Jylan had another drink from the flask.

[Cinnabar]

Again listening as the Councillor explains the tale of Orvere, though some small frown at his correction.

"The channeller who sided with Tassnehoff as Lundstroem sided with Wiglaf, then. D'zir was the young channeller whose name you had trouble recalling, then?" A brow raised at this inconsistency, suspecting that the Lord of Aldred is enjoying the drama of his tale, to add such narrative flourishes. A shrug, not interested in quibbling further over the distinction.

"Whether D'zir stood by Burel as servant or ally barely matters; the result was the same." Conflict. A clash of power, and a town obliterated. A glance for that flask and it looks as if he might decline at first, but a moment's thought has him nodding as he accepts; a brief swig of the flask's warming contents, and it is handed back. Ha. Statues, the Lord Aldred says, and there's a wry grin as he imagines how Ariane Emory reacted to that.

Then this talk of madness, now, something which Calomel has heard associated with the channellers from various sources, and the grin fades.

"Crazed, and yet still unspeakably powerful." A sidelong glance for Aldred, there, before he looks out to the gaping wound in Myrken's landscape. "All of them together? Or a mere fraction?" Two to destroy a city such that it must be totally rebuild; how many to lose their minds and create this blasted waste - or how few? A whole town of such will-workers... hm. All too tempting to look away, to leave them be rather than confront them, rather than to interfere in the business of those who might level buildings with a glance. As long as they remain quiet, at least...

"In any case, Golben went mad." Another stone caught by the toe of his boot, flicked over the edge and down into the pit. An unthinkable amount of life and matter, gone; removed, excised as one might carve the rotten part out of an apple, or the cut the putrifying meat from around a wound that festers - take out the badness before it spreads, allow the untainted flesh to heal, to scar.

"They destroyed themselves? Or were they destroyed by another?"

[Kylerryth]

"No, it wasn't D'zir who initially went with them. I can't seem to ... ah!" The Lord of Aldred snapped his fingers. "Ciaran. Ciaran O'Laoghaire. My apologies, Calomel -- normally I'm very good with names. Ciaran O'Laoghaire, apparently a very young channeler -- ten-and-seven, Count D'zir said, and just a few weeks short of his next birthday. He was killed by Wiglaf. Took a knife to the chest," and Aston Jylan placed a hand over his heart to indicate where the now-deceased channeler had been stabbed.

Perhaps, High Constable, that would provide you with a stark contrast to the earth-moving, fire-calling war-sorcerers you have heard so much about: that they may die so easily; that they are in fact fragile like any other human on the world.

"But, of course," said Aston Jylan, lowering the hand to his side, "you are correct: the distinction between ally and servant is a technicality. I take interest in such minutiae, but often forget others might not be as interested. If at all." A small smile, another pull of the flask after having accepted it back from Calomel; and then, while the High Constable spoke and the Lord of Aldred listened, the latter screwed on the flask's cap and tucked it into a hip pocket on his coat.

"Not crazed," said Aston Jylan. "There is ... Count D'zir referred to it as a 'taint' on the One Power. 'Imagine the purest stream of crystal-clear water'," he recited, "'and how wonderful it would be to partake of it. Now, in that same image, place a thin, nigh-imperceptible layer of the blackest, foulest oil at the top of the water, covering it entirely, so that you cannot reach the water without first going through the oil'. That was how he described it, though I am paraphrasing.

"The taint," said the Lord of Aldred, turning to look at Calomel, "is a mystery to all men who can channel. None are certain how it came to be, or why -- but it is there, none of them can deny that, and it cannot be cured, or removed, or stalled. It is an inexorable, slow degradation of the body and mind; it sets in some time after a man begins channeling. The effects of the taint occur at various points in time -- it's different for every man. Some succumb after a day, a week; and others, like D'zir and the Ducal Aegis, have survived for years. Eventually, they will all of them succumb to it, and they will go utterly mad, beyond any and all reason, to the point where they will probably destroy their surroundings and even their loved ones in the process. They are doomed to insanity and a slow death from the inside out; they decay, physically and mentally, until they are killed or manage to kill themselves.

"It is, in effect, a prolonged suicide."

And what would you make of that, Calomel? Aston Jylan gazed at the High Constable with something akin to ... curiosity, as though he were trying to elicit a reaction from the High Constable and gauge it accordingly.

After a moment the Lord of Aldred continued.

"You say 'Golben went mad', and you have the right of it. The questions you want to ask, however, are how and why -- not who destroyed who or what, though I can answer that readily enough: they killed themselves.

"The answers to both questions are in fact linked," began Aston Jylan, glancing at the nearby desolation. "How they went mad you already know: the taint. Why they went mad ... was because someone amplified the taint."

The Lord of Aldred paused a moment to fetch his pipe again. After he began smoking, Aston Jylan resumed.

"There was a battle, he said, because several channelers, himself included, had been taken prisoner by Lundstroem and his cronies while visiting. Lundstroem had claimed Golben for himself; D'zir, Four Stones. They were barely on speaking terms, for D'zir felt betrayed by Lundstroem: the latter wanted to make channelers into soldiers, human siege engines capable of devastating land and life alike; the former wanted aught more than to teach the men he found and those who came to him how to control the One Power and, ultimately, themselves, so that they did not kill themselves trying.

"As you can imagine, D'zir's capture did not sit well with Four Stones. So they gathered their forces and Traveled," that last word being pronounced specifically, as if it had special meaning, "to Golben. By that time the schools had grown independently, yet had also maintained relatively equal numbers: in total there were some six to seven hundred men at each school-town, not including the civilians. And when all of them came here, to Golben..."

The land was torn asunder; the earth spewed white-hot flame and exploding rock. The wind was whipped to gales that blew down houses; the clouds were shaped into massive tornadoes that ravaged the landscape. Columns of fire had manifested in mid-air and then spread over and onto the ground like flowers in bloom, their searing petals consuming everything they touched. The soil became as liquid and swallowed men whole; others were caught and made into the macabre half-formed statues they could see in the crater. Fireballs had peppered the sky, carving glowing arcs through vision and air; lightning came striking, crashing down from clouds as white as snow. Too, the clash of steel, the splintering of wood; for these men were also trained with weapons crafted in smithies. Shouts, screams, moans, cries -- the sounds of those fighting, fleeing, and dying were barely audible over the thunderous explosions, the groaning of the earth, the weeping of the world...

And then...

"D'zir was freed and spirited away to Orvere by a handful of those loyal to him and Four Stones. Others followed, including some who'd sworn fealty to Lundstroem. Lundstroem, on the other hand, had left a surprise for the channelers fighting in Golben, those unfortunate enough to be unable to Travel: a ward.

"I spoke of Lundstroem's considerable skill with the Power, yes?" asked Aston Jylan, not waiting for an answer before continuing. "Well, this was perhaps his most insidious -- and brilliant -- move, for he knew of the majority of the channelers' inability to Travel. So, imagine if you will," said he, turning to the crater once more and spreading his hands wide, as if encompassing the entirety of the desolation between them, "the town of Golben as it was: rural, no more than a few buildings taller than two storeys, one major road that went through the entire town, large enough to comfortably accommodate, say, a thousand people.

"Now," said Aston Jylan, bringing his hands closer together, "imagine a sphere that will permit no living thing, human or otherwise, passage through its surfaces, that is approximately one-quarter the size of the town ... and contains just as many, if not more people. This sphere cannot be pierced by hand, weapon, or the Power. You are not even certain that air is passing through it. There is no food, no water. You have no means of escape. And," said the Lord of Aldred, looking at Calomel again over a shoulder, "you are one channeler out of many who is growing very, very afraid, and losing an already tenuous grip on your sanity."

There was another pause: Aston Jylan was puffing on his pipe, studying again the crater in front of him. Then, suddenly, he turned to face Calomel and said:

"Do you begin to understand?"

[Cinnabar]

Hm. So the channellers can be killed by simple weapons. Good to know. Human fragility certainly a contrast to the immense power wielded, but a comforting one. Aldred's insistence on picking at the details has him shrugging into his coat again, thoguh there's a quiet and sidelong observation of the Councillor as he speaks of this taint in the power, and the inevitability of succumbing to it. For the reaction that Aston Jylan seeks, there is little to be seen - some slight frown, some small wrinkle of the nose. Distaste perhaps, as if such a thing is somehow mildly offensive. An inability to understand why a man might choose to subject himself to such a thing - to seek it out, to train in that thing which will unavoidably destroy him.

The obvious answer is that the lust for power makes people short-sighted. Blind. To command air and fire and earth to adhere to your will? To walk among others with godlike power at your beck and call? Tempting. Or perhaps it is a curse, something inborn which is not so much chosen as suffered, as some are prone to diseases of the blood or ailments of the mind.

Then the tale of Golben's destruction, armies of channellers meeting in battle. The young man's gaze returns to that pit, to those tortured forms preserved in stone and dirt. Then... wards. A description of horror, of the nightmarish fate of those caught within Lundstroem's ward, desperate and trapped.

"Mm. Somewhat. The imprisoned channellers were maddened by their confinement, perhaps? Weakened by fear and frustration, so their resolve, their resistance to the curse was diminished? It would explain, at least, why we are not knee-deep in channellers." A wry glance for the Councillor, but his attention moves to the sky over the pit.

"However, I am curious as to how matters reached their current state; Lundstroem commanded Golben here in Myrken Wood, and aimed to train his followers as soldiers; D'zir led Four Stones in Thessilane, and sought only to teach them control over themselves. Lundstroem and Golben were destroyed. D'zir, at least, survives even now, even though most of the channellers of Four Stones presumably perished. In all honesty, sir, given what you have told me of their power and their inevitable... decay, I find it hard to lament their loss. They are too great a risk, to great a danger to the hand that wields them, and to all the countryside around." He waves towards the crater, an obvious enough example of the risk that channellers pose, then looks back to Aldred, curious.

"It would seem that they have been moulded into soldiers after all, into war-sorcerors as Lundstroem intended. Is this D'zir's work, a favour to his friend and patron the Duke? Or some other? And is it simply that Burel is a man who enjoys gambling with his life, to surround himself with such dangerous men? Or has he some way of knowing himself safe with them? How is it, Councillor, that Duke Burel has these channellers marching with his army, and yet Myrken Wood has none?"

[Kylerryth]

"Enraged and maddened, weakened and desperate -- so much so, Calomel, that they simply did not resist the taint at all; instead they gave in to it, allowing it to corrupt and destroy them even as they drank in more and more of the One Power, until they were in a collective burning agony. Insane, screaming, throwing themselves and the One Power against the ward; weeping, murdering each other and anyone else inside the sphere...

"And then, when the last of the survivors could no longer take it, were unwilling to accept their doom, they took that final, fatal step: they drew in even more of the One Power, more than any of them could safely handle, all at once. And they tried one last time to channel. Together."

The Lord of Aldred had again raised his hands to the width of the ward, that fateful one-quarter -- or at least what he desired it to be for the demonstration. And when he finished that last sentence he spread his hands wide, slowly at first and then with increasing speed, until they were as far apart as possible.

Once more, they encompassed the width of the crater.

"Thus the true end of Golben," said Aston Jylan, dropping his hands to his sides, "and those channelers who managed to survive the battle and the madness within the ward."

And then he was listening to the High Constable; his demeanor became thoughtful, attentive. Calomel had raised a few points of interest, ones Aston Jylan had certainly also considered.

And yet...

"The truth is," answered the Lord of Aldred after a few moments of silence, looking somewhat amused and bemused at the same time, "I don't know."

Which, without a doubt, was likely not the answer Calomel would be expecting -- or want to hear.

"I don't expect you to nor want you to pity or mourn for them," said Aston Jylan after another quiet moment. "But I have always found understanding my enemies -- and my allies -- to be more useful than not.

"On the other hand," he mused, once more tapping the pipe out on his boot heel, "it may be impossible to truly understand them without being one of them."

Aston Jylan slipped the pipe into a pocket and turned to his men, who had stood ready and alert the entire time; and with a gesture, they followed him as he started back toward the thicket where their horses were hobbled.

"Perhaps," called Aston Jylan over a shoulder, "you ought to speak to Count D'zir yourself -- provided you are able to find him."