Keys of Awakening

DUMAN ( O P P O S I N G )

The Fifth Power of the Arcanum

Duman is an Active power.

The Seeker learns how they block and sabotage their own growth at each step of the way. Once this is grasped and one is able to choose not to use it internally, this can be used in effectively blocking a force that is created by another. This power is mastered when a Seeker’s sense of self has become strong enough for them to recognise the ‘right’ path and to follow it uncompromisingly.

Application: Duman is the power to block another’s force, their power, an attack, or even, in a Master, their intent. It may be used to stop or even to force back.

A practitioner of Duman is known as a Sorcerer.

From The Arcanum of Wisdom – Introduction for the Initiate

It was late in the afternoon when they made it back to Mount Shantan, and Illiom was seriously regretting her decision to go to Flax in the first place. She was exhausted, saddle sore, despondent and hungry, and the only one of these likely to be appeased in the foreseeable future was the hunger.

The sight that greeted them upon entering the Pentangle brought them all to a halt. For a moment Illiom could make no sense of what she was seeing: somehow, overnight, the entire Pentangle had been transformed into a tiered amphitheatre of gigantic proportions. People milled around it and upon it, finding friends and looking for seats that offered the best vantage.

Kassargan soon rescued the Chosen and their Riders from their dazed confusion. She beamed as she approached them, her excitement shining upon her face; a beautiful and poignant sight to behold.

“This is just my second Varagan Draal,” she announced. “The first one changed the course of my life and I am so excited about tonight.”

She steered the party towards the dining hall where, just as Illiom had anticipated, the most pressing of her needs was met.

Afterwards, sated and somewhat recovered, they followed the descrier back to the gigantic structure and began the climb up towards a tier that– the descrier informed them - had been reserved just for them.

It was evident that most of Calestor was gathering for the occasion and people everywhere were clambering onto the amphitheatre.

As Illiom climbed, she gaped at her surroundings, unable to comprehend how something so huge could have been assembled in such a short time. The amphitheatre dwarfed the trees and even the considerable height of the Keep itself.

“This structure is inconceivable, Kassargan!” Sereth stated, and several other voices murmured in agreement. “How was it achieved? When we left this morning, the Pentangle was empty. How in Âtras was this accomplished? Was it built somewhere and then transported here by magic?”

Kassargan’s laugh was sparkling and contagious.

“I know that it looks impressive, but as you must have realised since arriving in Calestor, things here are often not quite as they appear. Do not be fooled by its appearance of solidity; this structure is not real. By tomorrow it will be gone.”

“How can it not be real?” demanded Scald. “Surely it would be useless if it were not.”

As he spoke, Scald looked down at the planking under his feet and stomped down a few times to test its solidity. He frowned and crossed his arms, his expression betraying a mixture of wonder and incredulity as well as a measure of anxiety, as though he was suddenly worried that the floor would vanish beneath his feet to plummet him to the ground far below.

“How does it work?” asked Azulya. “If this structure is not real, as you say, how can it support so many real bodies?”

Illiom could sense Kassargan’s grin even though the descrier did not turn in their direction.

“What makes you think that our bodies are real?” she replied evenly.

“Well, we can touch them, we can feel them,” Sereth piped in. “They carry us around the world ...”

They had reached the very top tier and Kassargan ushered them onto a broad platform. Draca Provan was seated at its centre. He was surrounded for the most part by children, but there were also a few adults, none of whom were known to Illiom. The tier to the left of the King of Iol was empty and held enough seats to accommodate their entire group.

“Can you touch the wood of this structure?” asked Kassargan benignly as they filed past. “Can you feel its texture under your feet and with your hands? Does it not support your weight? And since it is an illusion, how can it work at all if we are real and it is not?”

Draca Provan smiled as they approached him.

“Is Kassargan up to her usual antics?” he asked with an innocent smile as they filled the available spaces. “I hope that you find her entertaining. She has always loved nothing more than to stir up deeply held beliefs, especially when they are questionable, and most especially when they are held by people from your realm.”

Illiom ended up sitting just a few spaces away from the Draca himself, with Azulya on one side and Tarmel on the other. From this height they had a clear view of the dais in the centre of the Pentangle. People crowded in through the five entrances and streamed into the vast central area like a tide, their exotic attire dazzling with bright colours.

Yet even though the view of the stage was unobstructed, the distance was so great that Illiom failed to see how they would be able to make out anything at all. Even now the people standing in front of the dais, and who were therefore closer than the stage, looked so miniscule that their features were indistinguishable.

“So you are saying that our bodies are not real?” Sereth pressed Kassargan.

“What makes something real?” she asked, “Other than our belief that it is so? We consider dreams to be unreal because they dissolve like mist when we awaken. But who is to say that this is not the real dream, and what we call dreams are not actually windows into deeper realities?”

Scald shook his head dismissively.

“This is nonsense, Kassargan. When we wake up, reality is always the same; we remember it immediately, for it is as consistent as a toothache. Dreams are fanciful and inconsistent; the reality within them changes more often than I change my clothes. How can they be more real than this?”

Kassargan turned to face him. The still-reddened rims of her eyes gave the impression that the descrier was on the verge of tears. As a result, the smile that she directed at him seemed incongruent.

“You take consistency as a sign of reality. I say that when you were born there was nothing consistent about the world or about your experience of it. Yet you were taught, little by little, to mark certain patterns as real and others as not. Eventually you came to call some real - at the expense of your deeper knowing. Dear Scald, like everyone else, you have been trained to believe in the reality that surrounds you. In fact it is your very belief that holds your experience of the world securely in its place.”

Scald threw back his head and laughed.

“Oh, so now I am responsible for creating the world? And I suppose you are walking within this creation of mine?”

Kassargan laughed with him.

“That is exactly what I am saying!” she agreed, nodding at Scald’s consternation. “Simultaneously, however, that is also true for every other being in this …”

A blaring of trumpets drew everyone’s attention towards the dais, where a group of several hundred scarlet-robed persons had gathered to encircle the stage.

Provan, Draca and King of Iol, arose formally.

He raised his arms as if to enfold within their sweep all those who had gathered in the Pentangle.

“Be still, my people,” he invoked.

The Draca’s voice was barely raised and yet a hush spread over the gathered citizens of Calestor. Once the silence was complete, Provan continued his address.

“Today we are gathered, as is our custom, to be dazzled by the great Varagan Draal of Iol, this being the one hundred and seventeenth such occasion. Many of our best have been studying, learning, and practicing their arts for these past thirteen years, and are now ready to share the fruits of their efforts with us.”

Illiom marvelled that the crowd could hear his voice.

“Today we are also privileged to have here with us some guests from other parts of Theregon. Thirteen esteemed visitors from Albradan have joined our ranks and will witness what unfolds here tonight. There is also one other, an unprecedented guest from the distant lands of Kroen, the very first to ever attend any Varagan Draal since its inception.”

Azulya looked up at the Draca, shocked at having been singled out in such a way. Nevertheless, she stood up and bowed to the people of Calestor. The response of the Iolan crowd fascinated Illiom. As one, they all raised their hands above their heads, palms outward and in a sweeping gesture, then drew them back down to cover their hearts in an unambiguous gesture of welcome.

“Let the Draal begin!” Provan declared.

On cue, the scarlet-robed Iolans filed onto the dais amidst a cacophony of blaring trumpets, conches and cries of encouragement. Once there the competitors formed a circle and delivered a synchronised bow for the spectators’ benefit. The crowd roared.

Then something took place that Illiom would have deemed impossible anywhere else: the air above the dais shimmered in a way reminiscent of the air directly above a raging fire. This shimmering, however, only affected the stage and those upon it. In the next breath, the affected area began to pulse rhythmically and, with each pulse, the stage expanded. In this way the dais, with all the people upon it, grew in size, until it appeared to fill the entire clearing.

The result of this unlikely feat was that the crimson-clad Iolans also grew in size until they looked like a gathering of giants. Their faces and expressions, no longer cloaked by distance, became clearer to Illiom than if she had wandered down to stand among them.

They were as diverse a group as if they had been selected at random: young and old, women as well as men.

Illiom leaned towards the descrier.

“Are they selected for their skill and competence or by some other method?”

Kassargan shook her head.

“There is no selection at all! The Draal is open to anyone who wishes to demonstrate their skill. However, not everyone who stands here now will necessarily perform. Usually some succumb to the error of comparing themselves to previous performers, and withdraw. On the other hand, others may take heart from the triumphs they witness here and may endeavour to join their ranks.”

Kassargan smiled wryly.

“Over the next three days anyone who wishes to perform is free to do so, though the first day is most often the best attended as this is when the greatest wonders are most likely to be witnessed. Do not expect to see the best performances up first, however. In this last half-moon the participants have negotiated extensively in regard to their order of appearance; many require daylight or darkness in order to enhance their work. Some will be dramatic while others will be very subtle. But you will see for yourself soon enough ...”

A hush swept over the spectators as the contestants on the stage began to file out. Kassargan stilled her voice and became silent.

The Varagan Draal was about to begin.

Illiom soon had to face the fact that what she was witnessing belonged to a culture vastly different to anything she could possibly have imagined. As a result she did not understand much of what took place in the early part of the Trials.

Of the first dozen or so performances only three made any sense to her; the rest were quite obscure for, as Kassargan had explained, they dealt with the subtle and the intangible.

Perhaps the most startling of these was when four people, two young and two old, two male and two female, linked hands and sang a strange song that filled Illiom with an unsettling tremor, vibrating her to the very bone. She looked down at her hands to see if they were indeed shaking, but they were not; she had no doubt though that her mysterious and somewhat uncomfortable experience was directly caused by the four linked together on the stage.

When that demonstration came to an end, it left her feeling breathless and elated, but without any real understanding of what had taken place. Yet the crowd responded with unrestrained appreciation.

Another unsettling performance saw a woman position herself in the middle of the stage, whilst a couple of assistants lowered a contraption like a helmet over her head.

When the assistants withdrew, Illiom began to feel palpable waves of heat, noticeable even from this distance. With each pulse something began to take shape in the air around the woman. It was a face, and it filled the empty space over the stage. The woman remained visible through the apparition for a while, but with each wave of energy the features of the giant face became more defined and the performer faded until she disappeared altogether.

The apparition depicted a young woman with innocent eyes and boyish features, a diamond-shaped face, straight nose and dimpled chin.

With a startled jolt Illiom realised that she was in fact looking at herself. Around the Pentangle there were titters of delight.

“Everyone sees only their own face,” Kassargan chuckled.

There was no let-up. One demonstration had barely finished when a new one began. In one, a young lad conjured up clouds, lightning, and thunder, until rain bucketed down; but the rain fell only upon the area of the stage, drenching the lad while leaving everyone else dry.

In another, an older woman filled the entire dais with a continuous eruption of buds that blossomed into exotic flowers. The visual experience would have been impressive enough, but what made it breathtaking were the rich, heady scents that wafted around the Pentangle with the appearance of each new variety of flowers.

When trays laden with food and drink appeared before the spectators, Illiom at first thought it was another performance. The trays hovered in mid-air, unsupported by anything visible, until people availed themselves of what was arrayed upon them.

“Is the food conjured up as well?” Azulya asked, turning to Kassargan.

“Yes, it is,” the descrier replied with a grin. “In the kitchens, by an army of cooks! Only its delivery is magical. No one has ever been able to manifest food that is edible, attractive, and nourishing … although several have tried.”

The Chosen and their Riders took from the trays what they wanted, and as each tray was emptied it simply vanished.

Conversation spread throughout the Pentangle, quickly filling the vacuum left behind by the pause in the performances. When Illiom became aware of a hush spreading across the arena she lifted her gaze back to the stage.

A lone woman stood erect upon the dais. She was dressed in a gown of aquamarine hues and her long dark hair cascaded past her shoulders. Opalescent pearls adorned her brow, shimmering delicately as they caught the light. She placed a cylindrical drum on a stand in front of her as some assistants carried a wooden vat filled with water up onto the dais and positioned it where she directed.

The woman waited for the audience to still before proceeding.

When the silence was complete, she began to sing. The language, if indeed it was that, was not Iolan; the vowels were rounded and nasal and the thread of the song lulled the mind into torpor. This chant – for surely this was one – grew in pace as well as in volume, and the beat of the woman’s fingers on the drum’s face began to speed up until it acquired an almost frenzied urgency.

The water in the tub began to stir. It bubbled and swelled until a shape began to rise out of the container, defying both gravity and reason.

It was a woman’s figure, shaped entirely of water … water that coalesced and somehow held itself together in this form. The watery being pulled herself into a full standing position, brazenly naked and beautiful. The audience’s response was one of barely suppressed awe.

The performer, drumming now with a single hand, reached towards her creation with her free hand in an offer of assistance. The maiden took the proffered hand and carefully stepped from the tub. As soon as she was out, the water-maiden let go of the performer’s hand and began to dance. Slow at first, stepping lightly around the perimeter of the dais, wet footprints trailing behind her, her movements grew faster as she adjusted to the drumming’s quickening tempo.

She pirouetted around her creator in rapture and Illiom felt something stir in her own breast as she watched, as though the dancer’s footfalls were choreographed to match the beating of her own heart. The dance continued for a time but never did Illiom tire of the spectacle. She could have stayed here all night, watching the water-maiden dance, and would have been content with that.

All too soon however the performance drew to an end. The dance lessened in its intensity, the drumbeat quieted and ebbed. The watery maiden made her way back to the vat. Here, once inside, she bowed deeply to the audience and then dramatically subsided back into the natural formlessness of water.

There was one moment of utter silence and then the Pentangle erupted with enthusiastic applause.

Illiom, her heart filled with unexpected emotion, looked around and caught sight of Undina. The tribal’s eyes glowed with rapture and her cheeks were lined with tears. Only natural, she thought, since the Pelonui tribal had just witnessed the incarnation of her beloved element.

Before long the vat was quickly carted off stage to make ready for what was to follow.

Overhead, Iod had continued his march across the heavens towards sunset, an ever-changing layer of fiery hues spreading across the sky in his wake.

Another performer, an older man this time, climbed the steps to the dais. He stood there and closed his eyes, silent and unmoving.

When the world darkened, Illiom realised that Iod had set. His fiery hues, the vestiges of his passing, streaked across the sky and faded quickly, to be replaced by the deep indigo that precedes full night. Stars appeared, more rapidly than was possible … and suddenly realisation dawned.

Throughout the Pentangle people came to their feet, pointing at the heavens. And so the cosmic daily cycle, ordinarily imperceptible to the senses, was played out for the spectators. Unfolding in minutes rather than hours, Sudra rose in pristine elegance over the crater’s rim to claim her rightful place in the vault of sky. Yet in no time at all Iod shrugged off his nightly cloak and rose above the earth, painting the sky with a blaze of pink and gold before launching himself in pursuit of his beloved.

She eluded him, as she always does. She lowered herself beyond his reach at the edge of the world and left his light to shine unrivalled. Iod continued to traverse the sky until he neared once more the place where he had been when the old man had taken to the stage. Here, his movement slowed once more to become imperceptible, until he was back in the same position he had been when the demonstration had started.

Down upon the stage, the white-haired man bowed to his audience and descended the steps leading away from the stage.

A few moments later he was gone, swallowed up by a silent standing ovation.

“Daranan has been waiting to do this for a long time,” Kassargan informed them. “Last year he fell deathly ill and his healer confided that she thought only his will to attend this Draal had sustained him. I believe his time among us may not be long now, but I am pleased he has lived to see this day …”

She was interrupted by a cry of wonder.

A large fiery bird was circling overhead. Illiom wondered if this was yet another demonstration, until she saw the function that the bird served.

With its wings of flame, the firebird ignited countless other fires in vats that had sat, dark and waiting, for its passage to bring them to light. By the time it finished its rounds, hundreds of vats blazed brightly around the Pentangle, preparing for Iod’s true and imminent departure beyond the western rim of Calestor’s volcano.

Illiom was beyond tired.

It had been a long and taxing day and she knew that there would be no rest tonight; not for her, nor for anyone else in their party. As marvellous as the demonstrations had been, they had also been exhausting to watch: having her senses stretched so - witnessing so many breaches of what she had once considered natural law.

Her mind began to wander. In a few scant hours they would be leaving Calestor for Flax, where the Diamantine waited to bear them away … towards what? What waited for them in Evárudas? Allies and welcome? Or danger and conflict?

She shook her head, dismissing her concerns as she found her attention drawn back to the stage. A young man with a mop of unruly black hair simply sat there.

She wondered what he was doing, as nothing seemed to be happening beyond the growing murmuring of the audience. That may have been what wrested her away from her ruminations. As the sound grew louder, some hissed in annoyance, only to be completely ignored by the performer.

Suddenly the young man stood, bowed, and made to leave.

The entire Pentangle gaped at him in bewilderment.

A lone applause arose nearby. Draca Provan stood in ovation, a wide grin across his face.

It seemed to Illiom that the Draca was the only one who had any idea what the performance was about.

By then the young man was on the steps leading from the dais. Here he stopped and looked around at his baffled audience.

“Ah yes,” he intoned in a pleasant voice. “Before I go, you would do well to check your belongings, for I fear that some of them may be missing … I must apologise for this, but I did need to borrow some of your possessions as props for my performance, you see. So please, do make sure to check, and if you discover that something is missing, well … you will probably find it here.”

Even as he spoke the last word, a table materialised right alongside him. It was laden with a motley collection of purses, ornaments, jewellery, weapons, hats, belts, shoes, and all manner of sundry items.

“Oh, and just to make sure you do claim what is rightfully yours, please take a moment to look at your left hand. If its colour is blue, then you will know that I have something of yours and you should come down here and reclaim it …”

“Ah! I must also extend an apology to our guest from Kroen. Of course your hand is already blue …” A titter of laughter ran through the spectators. “I did not know that someone from your realm would be in attendance, or else I might have chosen a different colour. However, rest assured that I have not taken anything of yours. For the rest of you who are not from Kroen, please do not worry, the blue on your hand is not permanent; it will vanish the moment you retrieve your object.”

He gave the assembly a wide, self-satisfied grin before bidding them all good night.

Illiom saw people everywhere looking sheepishly down at their hands. A growing number of outcries signalled those who had discovered that they bore the mark.

Illiom grinned at Tarmel, only he did not grin back. He was looking down.

“Illiom,” he said. “Your hand …”

She looked down at her blue left hand and the grin froze on her lips.

She looked at her Rider.

“The Key ...” she whispered. For it was the only thing she had carried with her. Frantic, she searched her pockets.

The Key of Faith was gone.