Chapter 29

Naomi was awaiting him at the end of First Clay when Scorio returned from his run. Breathing lightly, brow damp with perspiration, he climbed in through his window and saw her leaning against the far wall, one of his last dawn apples in hand.

“Hey,” he gasped, swinging his legs over the sill and remaining seated, smiling at her. “Good to see you.”

“Don’t get too excited,” she said, taking a large bite out of the apple. “I’m of two minds about being here at all.”

“Oh yeah?” He wiped his forearm across his forehead. “How’s that?”

She chewed slowly, methodically, as if punishing the apple for numerous transgressions. “I was up late last night deliberating our arrangement. What the point of it was. Where it was going.”

“And?”

She took another bite. “I didn’t figure out any clear answers.”

He winced sympathetically. “Sorry about that.”

“But. One thing I did determine is that I’ve… enjoyed our training sessions these past few months. They give structure to my day. Have become something of a habit.” She considered the apple, its golden flecks gleaming in the gloom. “Before, I was… existing. Numb. Each day a tedious obstacle to be overcome. I wasn’t progressing, but nor was I giving up. I was in harmony with my small world. If I didn’t think too hard about the future, the present could be an endless series of similar days. I was… fine.”

Scorio carefully remained still, not allowing his face to betray his opinion.

“But then you showed up.” She stared accusingly at him. “Dared me. Provoked me. And somehow, against all the odds, trapped me into this arrangement. And I started feeling anger again, amusement. Both in equal measure. You’re infuriating and foolish, and I sincerely doubt you’ll live another couple of months, but I decided—well.”

She frowned down at the apple.

“Decided what?”

“That I might as well enjoy the diversion while it’s here. All too soon you’ll be gone, and then I’ll have to reconcile myself to tedium once more as I figure out my next step.”

“Glad to be of service,” he said with a grin. “Should have been one of my titles: Scorio the Abhorred, Destroyer of Tedium.”

Despite herself, the corner of her lips curled up. “You are such a fool.”

“You might be right.” He hopped down off the sill and padded over to where his pail of water sat. Dipped a ragged hand towel into the water and then washed off his face and the nape of his neck. “But I’m a fool that’s defied the odds thus far. Even managed to charm the Nightmare Lady into tolerating his presence.”

She scowled at him. “You have not charmed me.”

“Beguiled? Mesmerized? The alternatives sound far worse.” He flinched as she pretended to throw the apple at him, then laughed and took up the pail to drink several large gulps from it.

“Whatever the term, I’ll continue your training. It’s reminding me of things I’d forgotten. Opened avenues of exploration for my own development.” She sighed and bit another chunk from the apple.

“Excellent, thank you.” He wiped the smile from his face and bowed to her. “I don’t take even a moment of your time for granted.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, searching for a hint of mockery, but found none.

“Well,” she said, pushing off the wall. “You’ve so much to learn that I’m curious as to how much I can cram inside your brain before you die.”

“I love your motivation,” said Scorio, straightening. “Speaking of which, I got access to my locker last night.”

“You did?” She blinked at him. “How?”

“My friends helped me out. But it was all for naught. The locker was empty but for a name carved deep into the back wall. I think it’s a message from my previous self, telling me to check in with the Great Soul in question.”

Despite herself, she seemed intrigued. “What was the name?”

“Jova Spike. Which is as good as a dead end.”

“Jova Spike,” murmured Naomi pensively. “She’s a… Charnel Duke, isn’t she? Out at LastRock?”

“Was. She died a year or so ago and was reborn in my cohort. And, apparently, will turn me over to the authorities the moment I say hello. So, a dead-end for now.”

“You have my condolences,” said Naomi, her tone equivocal. “But at least you tried.”

“True.” He considered telling her of his plans to reach the Academy with his friends’ help, then decided not to tempt her ire. “So. Same training schedule as before?”

“Let’s change things up.” She took a final bite from the apple and then tossed it into the small pile of trash. “You can ignite your Heart, well and good. But you’ll often find yourself in a place that’s low on mana, or perhaps there’s plenty but it’s so thin that you’d need hours to draw in enough. How do you ignite then?”

Scorio hesitated. “Keep elixirs on me?”

“No.” Her frown was perfunctory. “You saturate your Heart and keep it saturated so that if later you need to ignite, you can do so immediately.”

“Oh,” said Scorio nodding. Then his face fell. “Oh.”

“Sit. Draw as much Coal into your Heart as you can.”

He dropped to a cross-legged position and did as he was bid; visualized his Heart, and then swept his will through the thin mana that suffused the room.

“Good. Now, holding the mana tight within your Heart, stand up.”

Scorio frowned and carefully, slowly, rose to his feet. It felt like trying to rise while balancing a glass of water atop a large sphere that he held in his palm. The mana within his Heart sloshed from side to side, seeping out here and there, but finally, he managed.

“There!” He focused on her, his smile immediate. “Did it!”

Naomi stepped forward and shoved him on the chest.

Scorio tripped backward, fought to regain his balance, and as he did the mana poured out of his Heart.

“Not as easy as it looks, is it?” asked Naomi.

“But when I was fighting that lobster monster—”

“Kitursk.”

“—I managed to draw mana into my Heart while running away from it. How come?”

“You weren’t trying to hold the mana in your Heart. You drew it in and ignited immediately. The act of saturating your Heart is like inhaling; anyone can do it under almost any condition. But holding the mana is like holding your breath; a babe can’t do so for more than a second or two, while a trained warrior can go minutes. As a Great Soul, you’ll train and improve until you can go days.”

“Days?” Scorio tried not to feel discouraged. “Very well. Again?”

“Yes. But pushing you is unfair. You need to learn to crawl before I start beating you about the neck and shoulders with a stick.”

“Beating—?”

“So first you’ll practice rising to your feet and walking from one end of the room to the other. When you can cross the room four times without losing a drop, we’ll make it a little more challenging.”

“Got it.” Scorio nodded decisively and dropped to the ground once more. “You want to meet up later when I’ve mastered it?”

“Mastered it?” She smiled in dark amusement. “Oh, no, I’m going to sit here and watch. Wouldn’t want to miss your moment of imminent ‘mastery’ for the world.”

Scorio snorted, closed his eyes, and got to work.

It was surprisingly difficult. The effort wasn’t one of will, but of balance. His Heart, which had always seemed so stable within its void, suddenly felt like a precarious vessel; the slightest distraction on his part, the merest loss of focus caused its hermetic walls to weaken and for mana to pour forth.

“It’s simply a question of practice,” said Naomi as he lost the mana for a third time before reaching the far wall. “Also, don’t forget that you’re working with Coal; it resists manipulation, has all the subtlety of an avalanche of gravel. Have patience, don’t grow frustrated, and try again.”

It was easy to tell him not to grow frustrated. Sometimes the mana would slip forth before he’d taken a few steps; sometimes he’d hold onto it right up to the point where he was about to touch the wall, but the very excitement of having almost achieved that record would destabilize him in turn.

But slowly, painfully, he made progress. By the time First Clay become First Rust, he’d managed to touch the far wall and return across the room, feeling all the while as if he were balancing spinning plates all over his body.

“That’s enough for now. Well done. I saw Great Souls who for weeks couldn’t rise to their feet without losing focus. You seem particularly motivated today.”

He smiled gratefully and remained silent again about his plans for the next Eighthday. If he was going to fight alongside Lianshi and Leonis, he wanted to be at his absolute best. He’d do whatever it took to maximize his gains before then.

“What now?” he asked, stomach gurgling with hunger.

“Let’s go for a walk,” said Naomi, rising to her feet.

“A walk?”

“A walk. You’re locked in the habit of all Cinders, where you must stop and focus, even close your eyes, to tell the quality of the mana around you. We’re going to walk, and you’re going to try and sense the quality, density, and quantity of the mana around you as we go.”

Scorio nodded slowly. “You can obviously do that yourself?”

Her smile was just shy of mocking. “Of course.”

“Great. Can our walk loop by a gruel fountain?”

“It can.”

They walked for the entirety of First Rust, moving slowly through the ruins, Naomi prompting him to check every now and again when the mana around them changed. The best he could do was narrow his eyes as he summoned his Heart, and only then get a rough sense of what manner of mana lay about them; his walk would slow, and he’d grow almost oblivious to the world around them as he focused on the dark clouds.

Each time he lost track of where he was, Naomi would shove him, sending him sprawling. Each time he bit back his anger, bowed his head in apology, and rose to try again.

And it was fascinating. At first, all Coal mana had seemed the same to him, but now that he was focusing exclusively on its properties, he started to sense fine differences. In some areas the mana moved fluidly through the air, blowing past him like a low wind; in others, it hung still and stagnant, heavy like a shroud.

“The slower the mana moves, the denser it is,” Naomi told him. “What is better, denser or lighter mana?”

“Denser,” said Scorio immediately. “The more mana is present around me, the quicker I can fill my Heart.”

“The answer is: it depends.” Naomi walked along the edge of the ruined street, constantly glancing about them as they went. “Dense mana doesn’t move, which means you‘ve got to move instead if there isn’t sufficient mana to power your techniques. The more insubstantial the mana, the more it will flow into areas that have been drained, so that you might be able to remain stationary and let the mana come to you.”

“So it’s all the same?” Scorio glanced sidelong at her. “You have to move to suck up dense mana, or stand still to let light mana come to you?”

“It’s not all the same. Some densities are such that you can fuel your power from one small area alone. Others are so light that no amount washing over you will allow you to ignite. You simply must be aware of the nature of the mana around you, and adapt your battle plan accordingly. That’s not to mention how Great Souls can weaponize their use of mana to the detriment of their foes.”

“How so?”

She smiled. “We’re getting further than what you need to know but suffice to say the more adept a Great Soul is at controlling and siphoning mana from the area, the better they can deprive their foes of the very same mana. One of the trainers at the Academy while I was there had this ability to draw on the mana around her foes, leaving them in empty bubbles and depriving them of fuel.”

“Oh…” said Scorio, picturing it. “So you can win a fight just by preventing your foe from drawing on the ambient mana?”

“Unless, of course, they’ve mastered the ability to saturate their Hearts ahead of time,” said Naomi. “Though techniques will burn through reserved mana quickly, forcing all but the greatest of Great Souls to reach out to that which is around them. Of course, that all changes when you reach Pyre Lord.”

Scorio nodded thoughtfully, knowing better than to ask for more details.

“It’s also why Great Souls leave Bastion once they grow more powerful,” continued Naomi, turning onto an avenue that Scorio knew led into Bastion proper four blocks away. “Even Iron will barely sustain a Flame Vault or Dread Blaze without their focusing on mana manipulation. Pyre Lords and up are supposed to feel as if they’re asphyxiating.”

“Huh. Except the closer they get to the Pit, the better the mana?”

Naomi nodded. “So don’t believe everything they tell you about our most powerful members dedicating themselves solely to the war against the fiends. They’re out there mostly to take advantage of the higher quality mana. Rare is the Great Soul that will settle for weaker technique to remain in Bastion.”

“Praximar is a Pyre Lord,” pointed out Scorio.

“Praximar is a weak excuse for a Pyre Lord,” said Naomi, “who is content to lord his rank over everyone else at the expense of never gaining more power. It’s a miracle he passed Dread Blaze.”

Scorio walked in silence for a few moments, avoiding clumps of rocks and ankle-twisting cracks, and then smiled at her. “You seem very knowledgeable about all this, given that you claimed to know next to nothing before.”

Naomi blushed and looked away angrily. “I overheard a few things while sweeping the Academy’s halls. Found some hidden places from which I could listen in on lectures.”

“I’m sure you did. Were any of them hidden passageways? We used one last night to access the basilica.”

She couldn’t resist a complicit smile. “They might have been.”

He laughed. “I bet the Academy is riddled with them.”

“You’ve no idea,” said Naomi. “There are degrees of secret passages. Those known by the servants who use them for shortcuts. Those known by the bulk of the students, those the trainers turn a blind eye to being used, those that you’d get in real trouble for using, and then all the genuinely secret ones that aren’t on the maps.”

“Huh.” Scorio mulled that over. “Any that allow students to get out of the Academy? Or others to get in?”

“Sure,” said Naomi, “but those are dangerous to use.”

Scorio nodded soberly.

They entered Bastion, made their way to one of the gruel plazas, and there lined up to refill their pails. They stood in companionable silence, shuffling forward every few moments, until Naomi said lightly, gaze resting easily on the rooftops across from them, “Don’t look, but there’s a man dressed in black robes on the northern side of the plaza who’s trying very hard not to glare at you.”

Scorio stiffened but then forced himself to relax. Kept his gaze on the great clamshell fountain, watching as an elderly lady laboriously dipped her pail into the simmering, pale green gruel. “That so?”

And casually he knelt to tighten his sandal, and while doing so looked toward the north.

A round-shouldered man in faded black robes immediately looked away and then slipped into a side street and was gone.

“Great,” said Scorio softly, rising once more to his feet. “I think I recognized him. Part of a crew that works the Narrows. They waylaid me when I first went to see Dola.”

“Had to happen eventually,” said Naomi. “You’d best be much more careful, moving forward.”

Scorio scowled and pulled his hood lower over his face. “Should we leave?”

“We’re only four spots from the fountain. No. If they give us trouble, I’ll take care of it.” Naomi sniffed. “I don’t want to have stood here for an hour for nothing.”

Scorio watched the plaza’s edges carefully until they dunked their pails in and walked away, hurrying back toward the ruins. He insisted on a more circuitous route, and only breathed easy when they slid back into the shattered streets of gray stone.

That afternoon Naomi taught him what she called the First Form; it was a slow and elaborate dance against invisible opponents, each step laid out, each blow pre-determined. It reminded Scorio of his rhythm work against her, where they traded parries and blows, but this was one he could work alone.

High up on the rooftop, Amber giving way to Second Bronze, he walked the capital “I” shape of the form, starting at the base, moving to his left with a series of blocks and blows, then returning to move to the right, then striding up the length of the center, to turn to the left at the end, back to the right, and then return to the same spot where he’d begun.

“It’s pretty simple,” he grumbled, feeling decidedly unimpressed.

“Watch,” said Naomi with an amused smile, moving to take his place.

Scorio stepped to the edge of the roof and crossed his arms.

Something came over his trainer. Her whole body tensed without moving a muscle, as if the very air about her had begun to coil. Smooth as silk she wheeled to her left and flowed through the series of blows, each movement precise, each blow violent yet controlled. Retracted, spun to face the other side, continued.

And it really did become a dance. With no effort at all, he could visualize her opponents, could see their strikes being blocked, her own blows destroying them.

There was a logic to it. The movements weren’t arbitrary, but rather a choreograph that might have been drawn from an actual fight of a master. He’d have thought it so were it not for the artificial mirroring that happened on either side.

When finally she drew back to her starting space, she inhaled audibly, and Scorio felt the mana around them shiver, only for it to settle as she exhaled once more.

“What was that?” he asked, impressed.

Naomi relaxed, and the intensity blew away like smoke in the wind. “The First Form marries precision with intent, control with aggression. Ambitious, hungry Great Souls like yourself find it hard to dedicate time to, but in time it’ll become natural for you to move through its steps, and when it does, you’ll learn how to inhale and exhale mana from your Heart as you go. It’s the first step on the road that leads to your reflexively drawing as much mana as you need when you need it.”

“Reflexively?” Scorio’s eyes widened. “You mean I won’t even need to think about it?”

“Not at the higher ranks, no. I still need to, myself, but when I truly lose myself in the Forms, I catch a glimpse of what it will be like as a Tomb Spark.” Her smile was genuine, and her face was flushed with something that might have been exhilaration.

“It’s been a while since you did the First Form, hasn’t it?” he asked.

Naomi frowned, sighed, then kicked a rock, sending it skipping over the lopsided rooftop to disappear into the air. “It has. Perhaps for that very reason.”

They sparred then, a good hour of working on technique and going back and forth, with Naomi setting limitations or goals for him to work around or towards. When finally the clouds ceased to burn off before Second Rust and began to wind their way up to spiral around the sun-wire, presaging Second Clay, she called for them to stop.

“It’s been a good day. You’ve got lots to work on. But for now, I want you to go for a walk through the ruins instead of a run. As you go, try to draw in as much mana as you can. Hold it, and when you think you’ve reached your limit, try to draw a little bit more.”

“Oversaturation?” asked Scorio from where he’d dropped into an exhausted crouch, sweat running from his face.

“Oversaturation,” agreed Naomi. “Don’t ignite. You need to stretch your Heart to its greatest extent, deepen it to the point where you can barely ignite it. That’s the only way you’ll ever make Emberling, and the first step is in testing your limits.” Her eyes gleamed. “Might as well do it while walking.”

“Got it.” He rose to his feet. “Thank you. See you tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” she agreed. “And be careful. Now that I’ve really started your training, I’d hate to lose you to some stupid accident.”

He laughed. “I’ll do my best. Thanks.”

“Don’t worry about it.” She moved to the edge of the roof where she hesitated.

“Naomi?”

She turned back to him, about to say something. But then he visibly saw her change her mind. She gave him a tight smile. “Be safe.” And only then did she drop out of view.

“I will,” he said softly. Picking up his sodden towel, he stepped to the roof’s edge and leaped down to the great block just below his window. Climbed inside and drained the water pail dry.

He allowed himself five minutes to rest and eat a quarter of his gruel, and then, replacing the lid, stood with a sigh.

Time to get back to his training.

Grabbing his rope and burlap sack, he paused, an idea occurring to him, and turned to the hundred or so small reeds he’d been whittling during the few moments before sleep. He placed them carefully in the sack, and then slipped out and down into the street.

The sun-wire was dimming, the clouds of steam rising in ragged, curling tendrils into the sky, and the temperature slowly getting cooler. Moving through the deep, bloody dusk, he focused on Naomi’s instructions and attempted to draw in Coal as he walked.

It was an exercise in frustration, but he kept at it, at times managing to reach saturation while keeping his wits about him. Each time he tried to draw in more Coal, however, he’d begin to lose focus, would panic, and release the mana to regain his clarity of vision.

Wandering around the ruins half-blind was the best way to get yourself killed. Still, it kept him busy, so that he was almost surprised when he made the final turn and saw the brutal bridge over his chasm ahead.

Suppressing the flicker of excitement, he jogged forward. They’re all gone, he told himself. Something ate them up. Or they failed to grow. It’ll be a big, barren expanse of rock and nothing more. Relax, don’t get excited.

He jogged right up to the chasm’s edge and peered down, into the gloom and fiery glow, to look at his island.

“Yes!” He straightened and punched the air, a wash of elation and satisfaction coursing through him.

Then he just stood there, staring down at the little island, feeling pitifully proud as his throat closed and his eyes prickled, hands on his hips, lips pursed as he fought the emotions roiling within him.

“All right. Enough. Just get down there and take a look. Calm down already.” And with a deep breath, he dug out the steel rod, tied the cradle to its length, and made his way down to the second ledge.

The albino spidercrabs below paused once more, forelegs waving before them as if they’d suddenly lost the ability to see and were fumbling in the dark, but Scorio ignored them. He ignited his Heart, took a deep breath, and he burst forward into a flying leap.

Out into the air, and then falling, faster and faster, till he activated the rod and jerked to a stop. Clutching at it with both hands, he swung, allowed the rod to release, and this time simply dropped all the way to land in a crouch at the island’s edge.

And there he marveled at the hundred and fifty or so slender plants that had thrust their way out of the black soil to probe at the air, luscious black petals opening wide to reveal their complex, patterned hearts to the cloying winds of Coal.

This time he stood up and was unable to restrain a booming laugh; he felt larger, taller, bursting with energy. Filling his lungs, enjoying the sensation of his chest expanding, he carefully stepped forward, placing his sandals between the delicate Black Star flowers as he crossed the island slowly.

A hundred and fifty-five plants. He’d not expected them to grow so quickly, but two Eighthdays and the sheer weight of Coal mana down here had been enough.

After endless cycles spent hunting down an errant plant, after all the risks he’d taken to reach them at their most hidden and recondite, it was stunning to see so many growing in orderly rows before him.

Reaching into his sack, he drew forth a slender reed. He’d cut them so that one end terminated at a node, while the other was a narrow spike. Carefully lowering himself to his knees, he pressed the sharp tip against a flower’s stem, and slowly inserted it at an angle, just deep enough to ensure it would cross the central channel.

The treatise had recommended little cups placed beneath each straw, but Scorio had decided to keep things simple; the open, spiked end in the plant would draw the bead of mana down into the reed, where it would roll and come to a stop at the node’s partitioning wall.

To harvest the mana, he’d simply draw the reed out, upend it into a small container, and let the bead roll back out.

Better yet, this would keep the bead hidden, trapped within the reed, and perhaps preventing flying scavengers from noticing it too easily.

Scorio delicately inserted the reed, then slowly withdrew his hands, watching it intently. The fibrous nature of the stem clutched it tightly, and it didn’t look likely to slide out. Would the weight of the bead cause it to drop?

Only one way to find out.

Reaching into his sack, he drew out another reed and turned to the next plant. Smiling contentedly, humming under his breath, he set to work.