The Deepcombers

Chapter Fifty Four

Ephram, the legendary deepcomber, if that's indeed who he was, sat in the gilded throne chair just behind the center of the white marble circle. The pad was forty feet across and looked like the top surface of Wolfspire except it was bone white. The master's thick black hair was braided in a shoulder-length weave. His short beard was as black-as-coal and well-shaped around his strong chin. His eyes were closed but Lon could see his face was powerful and commanded attention. In the center of his forehead was a glowing silver-ball tattoo. It was iridescent right now; Lon was sure it glowed, even from this distance, and in the tricky morning light. The great master's left hand rested at his side and was hidden out-of-sight behind an eight-foot tall white column. Wait. It wasn't an upright at all, it was a ring! It was a circular artifact from the First Age of Tokal, the same-sized round relic to which Lon was tied on the Annabelle, but this one was white. Ephram had placed his hand on the inner curve of the object. Did he communicate with the artifact somehow? Is that why his tattoo glowed?

"That's Ephram." Tot said following Lon's gaze, and then he pointed to the sphere inked on his own skull. "He's busy right now."

"He's using the ring?" Lon asked.

"Oh yes. And sometimes he shows us. The Bright Ones. We gather around at his feet and hold hands," Tot smiled. He looked proud to be part of the sect. "We can see."

The lad's mind reeled at the idea. What could they see?

"The geigorin in the doorway back there?" Lon guessed.

"That's how we know your name Sea Drover."

This mini waterfall inside was now louder than the giant waterfall outside and both made a constant thrum only punctuated by other shrill sounds, most notably the tinkle of pickaxes, hammers and metal chisels carving stone.

"You'll start here," Tot said.

"Alright." Lon became aware they stood in an open-air office; a bookshelf, chairs and crates of materials were stacked beside small desk under a gossamer sunshade.

"This is the Marsin's cubby. Just answer whatever questions he asks, and he'll treat you okay." The friendly guide indicated three feigors in cherry red jackets who stood in an adjacent space and appeared to supervise printers in a nearby shop. One senior administrator had long grey hair and gold epaulets on both his shoulders. He was accompanied by two subordinates in the same style outfits but without the fancy trim. As the lad watched, one dignitary bowed deferentially and was dispatched away on some unknown errand. The grey-haired feigor frowned at his second-in-command who shrugged and nodded solemnly if to say sorry for some unknown slight.

"That be the Marsin," Tot whispered delicately just before the middle-aged feigor turned and spotted them in his sanctum. Lon saw immediately that he did not have the silver-ball tattoo and neither did his assistant. That surprised the lad and made it more understandable that Tot should be so proud of his own brand. The big fellow stood respectfully silent beside him and waited until the senior seneschal was closer before he curtsied. "Your grace."

The executive ignored Tot completely to study the new immigrant. He ran his eyes over the white-haired lad from top to bottom as though taking his measure. It felt awkward and Lon broke the silence.

"Hello. You're the... Camp Director?"

"Yes. Welcome. I'm Lenard the Marsin of Midwash," the administrator wiped his brow, no doubt overheated under his thick coat of office. "You're my charge as is the custom." He fished about in his left pocket for a feather quill which he sharpened with a pen knife from another pouch. He whittled the nib casually and continued, "it's a privilege of my rank and station to claim newly arrived pilgrims and harness their strengths so we might profit from their internment."