"Lies?" Davos eyed him, his voice low and dangerous. "You think the works of God are lies?"
"A mere Caster," Moeash said in a correcting tone, as though his words held any meaning outside the blasphemy they uttered.
But who was to blame him? Yeimen glanced at the fuming Davos; he saw the clenched stone fist and even the one of flesh. Sooner, if this conversation were to continue, the blademaster would likely reap the life from the deceiver.
That, as much as he wanted it, he could not allow—for the Witnesses, of course. For their protection. Who knew what that vile Morgan would do in the face of Moeash's death? Even a wretched soul like his served some use.
"Tell me," Yeimen said, cutting through the tension. "Tell me why you are truly here."
The man-child bit down on his lip, eyes darting between the two. "Come with me."
Davos scoffed, the sound sharp in the small cave.
"Come with me," Moeash repeated, pressing on. "Come with me to a ball."
A ball? Yeimen pictured a thing of roundness—a toy. Why would he want them to go into that? What meaning did those words have?
Moeash added, "Lord Tyrion Driftpoint is to host a ball. A celebration of sorts for his recent acquisition of the Nightsailer camps."
Yeimen tilted his head. "Why in the mist would I do that?"
Davos interrupted. "Aren't the Nightsailers supposed to be a secret?"
Moeash startled. Most likely, he did not expect such data to be grasped by them. But they had learned. In the end, that was the sole endpoint for every thought: knowledge. Somehow, for some reason, the House of Noctis conducted runs through the Black Sea in search of something—or perhaps in hopes of something.
Whatever it was, Jeseries had given them more than enough information. Their God was there, after all, and what kind of devotees would they be if such knowledge were bereft from them?
Finally, some level of normalcy returned to the man-child. "How much more do you know?"
Davos disengaged from the walls, sauntering through the cave room with his arms crossed. "Let me guess," he muttered mockingly. "Whatever you learn here, you will be more than willing to reveal to your new GOD."
"MISTSENSE!" Moeash screamed, teeth gritted. "I believe only in the Almighty."
"And according to his prophecy…" Yeimen stood now, feet slightly warm against the rough, heated earth. "The Kael'theuron, the Promised Sun, is to be God Reborn."
Moeash shook his head. "He is to be born a part of one of the Great Clans."
Davos grinned. "And do we not now stand in the land of a Great Clan?"
"Ah." Moeash waved them off, stepping in and leaning against the wall.
Why would he do that? Yeimen wondered, thoughts swirling. The walls were considerably hotter than the froststone-cooled walls of the nobility.
"You still haven't explained yourself," Yeimen urged coldly. This creature did not deserve softness. Not after what he had done. Not after those he had killed.
"I want you to represent the Witnesses at the ball."
"That's not the question," Yeimen corrected and repeated. "Why is this happening? Why is your Lord suddenly risking exposure for some ceremony?"
Would he answer?
Moeash maintained silence for a moment. "How would this help you?" He pressed his back harder into the wall, rubbing against the stone. Almost in a scratching manner. It was an oddity to observe.
Again with that repetition: Why was he doing that?
Davos answered first. "Who knows why you want us there. Who knows what your Lord aims to achieve… We, however, cannot take that risk. For a member, perhaps, but not for you… Never you."
"I do this for you," Moeash said, his eyes lowered.
"No," Yeimen stated. "You do this for yourself. You do this because you know of the sin you have committed. Oh, Moeash have you forgotten…You had harmed a good man."
"A man, yes," the child in him chimed. "But no God. Not a god."
"A good enough man is God to many," Davos said. A rather surprising thing given that Yeimen never knew the blademaster to be a savant of spoken words… Savant? Yet another word gained from his revealing dreams.
Moeash sighed then. "It's to be a pretense," he said. "Tyrion wishes to create business with the other clans, be they Vassal or not."
Davos frowned. "And what exactly does Driftpoint have to even offer?"
Moeash glanced at him. "Ships… They have ships. Equal to or greater than those of the Redblood Clan."
Yeimen nodded. "I see… So the ships used in the runs of the Nightsailers are provided by the House of Noctis."
"Yes."
"And this…" Yeimen continued, "is to be a failsafe. This act is to protect them in case the Nightsailer program is discovered."
"Yes." Moeash lined his lips.
"And would you tell us what this program is?"
"No."
Davos scoffed. "And so comes the Heretic."
Moeash glanced at him. "And so claims the Fool."
"Ah." Yeimen waved a hand, seeing then the silence that lorded over the room. Perhaps, for some reason, Moeash endured a certain respect for who Yeimen was. This could be in an attempt to protect the Sun-Witness. Yes, the man was a heretic, undoubtedly a blasphemer of the highest order… but there was one undeniable truth about him: he cared for these people.
That was enough… for now at the very least.
"Tell me," Yeimen said. "What capacity would we serve in this ball? We are not BrightCrowns… and it seems you are, given how well you exist in their midst."
A grumble…Davos.
The man-child rubbed his back deeper into the walls. "You will join me as my… servants."
"BAH!" Davos spat. "You would be better off cutting off my flesh hand."
"I could," Moeash said softly, his eyes, however, shined with a deep hesitancy. He would not do something as stupid as harming them—not Davos, not Yeimen. He would not leave these mines alive in that eventuality. This was truth. Every member of the Witnesses would pour upon him; with their very bodies, they would drown him, even if it meant their certain death.
Especially if it meant their sure end…And his.
Yeimen smiled. What point was there to fear death when a world of Paradise awaited those who did? That, too, was one of the stories the first Witnesses had told to him.
About a world with a glowing orb, a sun. About a great monster that had been defeated by the Bird of God. About strange figures in black.
So many miracles they had seen. Oh, how much he longed to see more of his God.
A warmth spread through his body.
"So?" Moeash snapped him from the trance. Annoying.
Yiemen lowered his head, noting the buzzing sound of the wall-embedded lamps and the froststones scattered around the room. What light those were… What light indeed. How bright was God's light?
"Excuse me?" Moeash muttered.
"We won't go as your servants."
"What?" Moeash flared now. "This helps you all. There will be food. Wine. Many things you can carry with you back to the mines."
"Oh, what a poor perception you have of us," Yeimen sighed. "We will survive, Moeash. Even without your fancy foods, we will."
Davos stepped before the man-child, eyes locked on his. "How exactly would you even get us out? Last I checked, the Excubitors would either strike us down or take us to be made into light by the Grescentant Sisters… which is odd, given that God has provided more than enough light."
"Please," Moeash rolled his eyes. "Only a year… The Caster you call God only had enough force to power the lamps for a year. The force—the will used—will fade after that time."
Yeimen smiled. "And yet you don't believe in him."
"What?"
"You just said it," Yeimen said. "Every single lamp in all of Nightfell was powered by one single scream from God. That's thousands… millions… and yet you don't believe."
Moeash frowned and sprang off the wall. "I've told you what I wanted to. Come or don't, I don't care." He turned to leave.
"Except you do," Yeimen muttered. "Nonetheless, as Davos asked, how do you intend to get us out?"
"I know people," the man-child said. "I've known enough to ensure it." And he was off, his shadow dragging away from the room.
Yeimen sighed. "Sunbringer… is this, too, a part of your plan? A part of what you have seen for us?"
The formation of impressions is often a deadlier tool than those of instinctual needs. To survive is what they are for—the creation of stereotypes rooted in the identification of recursive patterns… However, the mark of true cognitive supremacy is the bypassing of this sense. — Code of the DeadEyes.
A hand tapped on his shoulder. A soft, small limp. He was sure of it. When was he back from the Grayworld? He was building something, yes...He was building Enavro. He recalled the moments as the beads glowed to his thoughts. As they changed to the symbols he knew of Enavro...Of the small details he remembered of her.
And then there was nothing. A flash of nausea.
Ah..He sighed. I don't have enough force to make her