4 November 2026
Today we begin a new chapter in the serialization of the third book of The Redemption series, The Morgle Unmasked. We return to Thalamar, who is with Blakstar on the way to Karble, in the moments after our maghi breaks contact with Klaybear and Klare, for when he noticed that Klare looked unwell and suggested soup because that’s what his mother would have done, the memory of the loss of his parents resurfaces, along with the grief. . . . (20 June 2016) The full ebook version of this book is available for purchase from all ebook sellers. We remind all that the first book in this series, Chosen of the One, and the second book, Staff of Shigmar, are both free from Smashwords! Glossary links: Book 3, Book 2, Book 1
Chapter 7, Part 1
We must never allow a difference of opinion to become a point of contention between us. If allowed to fester, such a wound can turn the dearest friends or closest brothers into the bitterest of enemies . . . giving a victory to Gar without any effort on his part. . . .
from Annals of Melbarth, Sixth Series, Early Lectures of the Hierarchs
Plea for Reunion by Sedra Melbarth
As soon as he was sure contact had been broken, the white maghi slumped back onto the bed, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, holding his face in his hands. Hot tears wet his cheeks and blurred his vision. He had done so well for so long, not thinking about what had happened to his parents and so avoiding the pain, but seeing Klare’s face and hearing her say that she had nothing to say had led him to make that stupid comment about the stew, which brought it all to the front of his mind. Once there, he could not easily send it back into the dark recesses, lock it back in a chest hidden deep within his mind. And now? He felt himself shake with suppressed sobs, glad his kortexi companion was fast asleep and so could not witness him breaking down like this. He jerked himself to his feet, beginning to pace the floor of their small room, focusing his mind on the question of why: why had the Waters run out so quickly for the nobility, but not run out, until all had drunk, for the poor? He tapped his chin with his forefinger, turning on one heel to pace the other way.
In his mind, he carefully replayed each encounter, thinking first of the afternoon and the many poor, sick, injured, or lame, and the way Master William and his sons had carefully let them into the inn’s stable and sent them out with baskets when healed. Each face swam to the surface of his thoughts, and one in particular paused, an older matron, white-haired, who smiled as the Waters healed her and looked just like his . . . ; he wrenched his mind to other poor faces, avoiding any that were older, white-haired wetham, but there were too many of these, and the tears again burned his eyes and cheeks. He pushed the poor faces aside to recall the evening’s visitors: noblemen and noblewomen who had heard of Blakstar’s power, probably from their servants, he thought, and he began passing their faces before his mind. But these were worse than the poor, if that were possible, for there were more older, white-haired wetham, matronly, who resembled his mother. The more rational and logical part of his mind recognized that this was not possible, but that his emotions were clouding and corrupting his memories; there were a few tall, white-haired wethem that, to his emotions at least, resembled his father, and so the tears flowed freely, his pacing faltered and stopped, his body again wracked by barely suppressed sobs. He slumped onto his bed.
Motivation? he thought, struggling for something, for anything, to suppress the grief and refocus his mind. Certainly not motivation alone, for both had been motivated by a desire to be healed. He recalled the way the nobility had demanded healing–attitude, he mused: the poor had not demanded but asked; had Blakstar refused. . . . Thal tried to imagine his kortexi companion refusing to help anyone, and he laughed amid his tears. A stern face floated to the surface of his mind, the thin face of an older duke, or so he claimed, narrow, hawk-like, commanding that he be allowed to see the kortexi at once, and there was something about the way this duke cocked his head and held an accusing finger in Thal’s face that recalled a conversation with his master; they stood in the lowest level below the ground, inside a room filled with brilliant light, speaking of the tower’s teka fences.
If anything should happen to your mother and I, if the tower is attacked, this you must remember. . . .
Clearly, Thal saw his father’s intense face, but what he was supposed to remember about that conversation and room was lost with the word, “remember,” which carried with it hundreds of flashes of memory: words, hints, looks, nods, pats on the shoulder from his father, hugs and kisses from his mother, and all these bits fell into place, Thal finally seeing the pattern.
He sat up on his bed. “They have always known,” he whispered to himself, “and they have been warning me for ages.” He groaned and slumped back onto his pillow. “Why didn’t I see it before? I should have seen it before!” He jumped to his feet, starting to pace. “Fool! Idiot! They have been telling you for ages! Why didn’t you see it?” he chided himself, waving his hand in the air, but then he stopped suddenly. “But they were surprised by Blakstar’s sudden appearance,” he turned to look at his sleeping companion, then moved to stand next to the bed where Blakstar lay sleeping. “Why did you come early? My parents did not expect you so soon; they indicated to me that I would not be leaving until the fall, and since we left together, I must conclude that you were not supposed to come until fall, so why did you come early?” Thal grabbed his sleeping companion’s shoulders with both his hands and shook him hard, but the sleep that had taken the kortexi, brought on by his exertions, would not release him. Thal sobbed once and released Blakstar’s shoulders. He sank down on the bed next to Blakstar.
He sat silent for a moment. “If your coming was ahead of schedule,” he said looking down at the sleeping kortexi, “doesn’t that make you partially responsible for their deaths? For, coming ahead of time caught my parents unprepared, meaning they did not have time both to send us to Shigmar and prepare for the immanent attack of the ponkolum.” Thal continued to stare at the sleeping form in the candlelight, violently suppressing other memories that contradicted his belief of the kortexi’s early arrival; an anger, fueled by grief, an emotion he had never felt before, welled up inside, and he wanted to hurt Blakstar, cause him pain in equal measure to the grief and loss he felt. He reached toward the kortexi’s temple with his right hand, index finger pointing and surrounded by red light; the color caught his attention and he paused, for he had never initiated an orthek of this kind with power of that color. He stared at his red-glowing finger, transfixed by the angry light. Blakstar shifted in his sleep; Thal looked down at him, disturbed from his examination by a soft, barely audible groan. Blakstar’s mouth worked, and Thal knew he must be dreaming, and from the look on the kortexi’s face, the dream was not pleasant. Forgetting for a moment his anger, the white maghi reached out with his mind to touch the mind of his sleeping companion, ignoring the twinge of guilt that suddenly stabbed his heart, guilt that came from entering the mind of another without that person’s permission. . . .
On Friday we will continue to follow Thal as he enters Blakstar’s nightmare, beginning to see some of the consequences of this wrong choice. Until then, we remind all that the first two books of this series, Chosen of the One and Staff of Shigmar, are free from Smashwords. Get this book, The Morgle Unmasked, from the links provided. Good reading!
Leave a Reply