Chapter 10

Sand blew in waves against a cliff of black stone. A cave mouth opened into the mountain, rough and round, as though it had been chewed into the rock by a worm twice the height of a man. A script encircling the entrance shone scarlet, and though there was no door, a red haze rippled in the air—visible even without Lindon's Copper sight.

“There's a door deeper in, though the servants will have opened that for us,” Eithan explained as they approached. A huge stone had been rolled away from the entry, resting now to the side. “We don't want to hold it open for long. You can never be too careful when you're trying to prevent deadly beasts from escaping.”

Lindon gripped the straps of his pack tighter, feeling the weight of his halfsilver dagger in his pocket.

Half a dozen sacred artists in various uniforms dropped to their knees as Eithan approached, all of them wearing the colors of the Arelius family. One servant stood apart, outside the haze of the entryway, bowing at the waist.

“The scriptors have undone the prime seals,” he said. “Two stand ready to repair the script in the event of a breach, and three of the servants before you are trained healers with madra of blood and life. They lived through the fall of the Blackflames, and they should be able to counteract the Path’s powers if you make it outside.”

“Exemplary work as always, One-Thirteen,” Eithan said, pulling out his iron scissors to snip a stray thread from the servant's outer robe. “Keep it up, and soon I’ll have to start using your name. Do you have any—”

He was interrupted by a deep, bass roar that rumbled up from underground. It resonated in Lindon's chest, and he thought he could feel the sand beneath his shoes shaking.

He slipped one hand into his pocket for Suriel's marble, rolling its smooth, warm surface between his fingers.

“Agitated today, is he?” Eithan asked.

“His handlers say that company soothes him,” One-Thirteen responded, with a nervous glance behind him. “It seems they haven't had any volunteers since Lady Nakali lost her leg.”

“Ah, well, I can't say I blame them. Though the Soulsmiths made her a fine prosthetic, didn't they?”

“No expense was spared, I’m told, although surely she misses her flesh and blood.”

“Well, at least she can roast meat on her kneecap now. That should be some comfort.” The roar came again, and this time the cave mouth darkened with a red, smoky light. Eithan sighed. “I'm back now, so I’ll do my best to relax him. If all goes according to plan, I may have a permanent solution for you.”

The servant turned to regard the entry, but Lindon got the impression he was trying to look anywhere but at Eithan. “Underlord, if you don't mind, the handlers wanted me to remind you of the…merciful solution. He has rendered us great service, and it seems honorable to grant him rest. Please pardon my disrespect.”

Eithan rolled his shoulders and placed his palm against one of the runes on the side of the doorway. A ripple of almost-visible madra, and the light of the script died. “In this instance, One-Thirteen, I would rather extend grace than mercy.”

The haze in the entrance dissipated, and wind billowed out of the tunnel. The air outside had a slight chill to it—though there was no snow in Serpent's Grave, winter was almost upon them—but the breath of the cave felt like it was blowing from the door of a lit oven.

Servants bowed them inside, and as soon as Lindon and Eithan had passed the entrance, the field generated by the script sprang up behind them.

They walked down a long stone tunnel, its sides and floor scraped rough by the passing of ages.

“Who are we going to see?” Lindon asked, because asking what they were going to see felt somehow rude.

“We are going to meet Orthos, one of the family's oldest and most stalwart allies.” Eithan spoke with a wistful sadness, though his smile lingered. “Long before my time as Patriarch, Orthos served as a liaison between the Arelius and the imperial Blackflame family. Only ten years ago, he overused his power defending us from attack.”

Eithan waved a hand. “Defending them from attack. Had I been here...Ah, as I was saying, Orthos’ own madra overwhelmed his mind. He gave too much of himself for the sake of protecting my family. The branch heads spent a fortune trying to restore him, to their credit, but it was eventually decided to end his misery.”

Another roar shook the stone around them, and a ruddy light welled up from deeper in the twisting corridor. This time, Lindon thought he heard pain in it.

“I arrived around that time, and I countermanded the order. I can't say they were wrong for trying to spare him years of suffering, and some within the family think I'm cruel even now to keep him alive. But if there's a chance to restore him, we owe it to him to try until we can try no longer.” His voice turned grim. “I've ended lives to avert suffering before, and sometimes it is inevitable. But it's never a decision to make lightly.”

Lindon was still curious about Orthos, but a different question took priority. “If you’ll allow me a rude question, I have wondered for some time now: are you not from the Blackflame Empire?”

“Not entirely,” Eithan responded easily. “I spent most of my childhood in Blackflame City, as I believe I’ve told you before, but I was born half a world away. The Arelius family is a wide tree, my young adopted brother, with many roots. I've only returned to the Blackflame branch for…six, almost seven years now.”

The tunnel was starting to even out, with the red glow becoming slightly brighter. The air seemed to buzz against Lindon's skin, with a slight tingling vibration that he thought would soon grow uncomfortable.

“Incredible that you rose to the head of the family in that time,” Lindon said.

Eithan chuckled and adjusted his shimmering red-and-gold collar. “Oh, they couldn't promote me fast enough. Having an Underlord at the head puts them on the same level as the three great clans, so I would improve our standing even if I spent all day drinking peach wine and eating honeydrops. But although I do make a dashing figurehead, I prefer to take more...hands-on control of the family's operations.”

Lindon couldn't help a pang of sympathy for the Arelius family elders. Or “branch heads”—whatever they were called here in the Empire. Trying to prop Eithan up as a puppet leader seemed like trying to saddle a whirlwind.

When the tunnel ended, it didn't open up as broadly as Lindon had expected. Instead of a huge room, he found himself at the juncture between five other tunnels, all similar to the first. The ceiling was barely over his head, and the rock looked as though it had been chewed to a sharp edge. The air here sizzled even more strongly than outside, until it felt like insects crawled over every inch of his exposed skin.

The moment they arrived, footsteps like drumbeats approached, along with a sullen glow the color of live embers. Lindon clenched and unclenched his fists, cycling his madra in preparation for a fight, and kept his mind on the dagger in his pocket.

But what good would any of that do against a dragon?

“Bid welcome,” Eithan announced, “to the last great descendant of Serpent's Grave.”

A massive black shape shouldered its way through the tunnel like a man pushing through a tight doorway. It turned blazing eyes on Lindon: they were inky pools of darkness, those eyes, with a circle of furious red where the iris should be.

The skin of the creature’s reptilian head was cracked and leathery, pure black, and clusters of blazing embers burned on its back.

By the light it carried with it, Lindon saw the creature clearly.

“Is this...is this what a dragon looks like?” Lindon whispered.

“A dragon? No, no, I said it was a descendant of dragons.” Eithan threw out a hand in presentation. “Orthos is clearly a magnificent turtle.”

Lindon had wondered if the shadows were playing tricks on his eyes.

Orthos was a massive black turtle, the peak of his shell rising as high as Lindon's head. He was as long across as a horse but thrice as wide, and his squat body looked heavy enough to sink a ship. The facets of his shell glowed sullen red around the edges, and black smoke rose from him in hazy waves.

He locked eyes with Lindon, growling like an avalanche. Lindon cycled desperately, pulling his dagger into sweaty hands, ready to dive behind the column in the center of the chamber.

Orthos’ mouth dropped open, his jaw gaping so wide it looked unnatural, and smoky red light began to rise up his throat.

“Some days are better than others,” Eithan said, stepping between Lindon and the draconic turtle. “He recognizes me on occasion, and will even guide my servants through the tunnels. But other times...”

Black fire billowed out of the turtle's mouth, filling the walls with oppressive heat and a prickling so sharp it became painful. Lindon's eyes watered, and he pushed himself against the column of stone.

Eithan swiped his hand in a single gesture, blasting the Blackflame madra apart like a gust of wind tearing through a cloud. “Be polite, Orthos. You have a guest.”

The light in the turtle's eyes turned orange, like a living flame, and he roared his defiance. Lindon dropped the halfsilver dagger to the ground in his haste to clap hands over his ears.

And Eithan moved forward, shoving the sacred beast's mouth closed with both hands. The roar cut off with a snap.

“I know it is difficult,” Eithan said, his nose inches away from the turtle’s. “But gather yourself and hear me. A boy has come to train here. He is one of the family.” Orthos struggled, but couldn't escape the implacable grip of the Underlord. “He could help us, do you understand?”

Orthos’ eyes finally moved up to Eithan's, and crimson irises dimmed into a look of helpless confusion.

Finally, the turtle growled once, and Eithan released him. “I'm sorry for getting rough. If this works as I intend, you could both learn from one another.”

“Bond…” the sacred beast said, in a voice like a rumbling volcano.

Despite Lindon’s encounters with Elder Whisper, it still surprised him to hear a six-foot turtle speak.

Evidently that one word exhausted Orthos’ energy, because his eyelids fluttered and then slid closed. He sank down onto his belly, letting out a breath like a furnace.

“That’s the plan,” Eithan said, patting the leathery head. “As I said, Lindon, this place is rich in aura of fire and destruction. I could teach you the Blackflame Path, and you could cycle here, work hard, and eventually grow into a fine sacred artist.”

“I am eager to learn,” Lindon said. “I know there is no shortcut for work.” Ten months wasn’t much time, but he was resolved to at least try to master sacred arts the orthodox way.

At least until that failed him.

“…instead of all that, I’d like to take a shortcut,” Eithan continued.

Lindon let out a sigh of relief.

“Building up aura in your core takes time. You cycle aura every day, a fraction of that aura is converted to madra, and your core slowly transforms to produce madra of that aspect on its own.” He waved a hand. “Since we have a deadline, I want you to share madra with my friend here.”

“Of course,” Lindon said, thinking of the scales he had Forged for Fisher Gesha. “Allow me a few days to gather some.”

“I like that attitude, but I think you may have misunderstood me. As I said, Orthos is plagued by a buildup of Blackflame madra in his system, ravaging his mind and his body. We bring him purified madra to cleanse his channels, but it’s like sprinkling water on a bonfire. However, if we can link your core with his…” Eithan spread his hands. “He gets relief from the burden of his immense power, and you get a piece of that power for yourself. It’s a win all around.”

Lindon looked to the turtle hesitantly. “Do I just…pour madra into him, or…”

“Even easier than that. There’s a contract that humans can make with sacred beasts, and it functions in a similar manner to a soul oath: two spirits binding themselves to one another. It must be mutual, just like an oath. And it’s typically done while both the contractor and the contracted beast are young, so the child’s madra is pure and the beast’s madra has not yet fully developed.”

Eithan ran his hand over the smoldering shell, evidently not the slightest bit worried about burning himself. “Orthos is almost three hundred years old. Far from a hatchling, even by the standards of his line. If he were to share his power with a child, the child’s body would quite literally explode.”

That image did nothing to soothe Lindon’s misgivings. “But that’s what you want me to do?”

Orthos snorted. His eyelids fluttered, and his shell flared red. Eithan snatched his hand away and took a careful step back.

“There are some risks, to be sure. If Orthos is too far gone to consent, the contract will fail. There’s the chance that it will work at first, but it won’t be enough to save him. In that case, you’ll still have your Blackflame core, but we’ll have to put him down after all. You’ll bond his Remnant at Gold.”

The turtle slowly rose to his feet, and the temperature in the cave rose another few degrees.

Eithan moved between Lindon and Orthos, shaking out his sleeves in preparation to use some technique. “However, if this works as I hope it will, you won’t need his Remnant at all. Instead, when you’re ready to break through to Gold, he will use his power to help you bridge that gap.”

Lindon wanted to walk forward, but the creature’s sheer size, overwhelming heat, and the uncomfortable needle-prickling of destruction aura kept him where he was. “Is this still my choice?”

“Certainly. You have a choice between sharing the power of an ancient dragon-beast or, instead, spending three hours a day in meditative cycling until you can begin to touch the faintest whiff of Blackflame power.”

Lindon marched up and placed his hand on the turtle’s head.

His madra slipped into the sacred beast with no resistance—an advantage of pure madra. Orthos’ madra was black and blood-red twined together, dark and hungry, like a malevolent wildfire. Lindon almost broke contact immediately; the turtle’s spirit was so overwhelming and unrestrained that he was sure it would consume his madra instantly.

Black eyes filled with circles of shining red swiveled up, meeting Lindon.

“It’s not a complicated technique,” Eithan said. “Swear to share your core with him, and to accept his power in return.” After another second, he added, “I’ve found that saying it aloud helps the process. That goes for you, too, Orthos.”

“I swear to open my core to you and share my power,” Lindon said, though he was ashamed to hear his voice quaver a little. The hand on Orthos’ head was starting to get uncomfortably hot.

Orthos’ mouth slid open. Thick, inky flames gathered in the back of his throat, streaked with red like blood.

Eithan moved forward. Lindon took a step back, half-lifting his hand away from the sacred beast’s head.

“I swear,” the turtle thundered, in a voice that slammed into Lindon’s ears.

A stream of pure madra flowed from his strongest core, sucked away beyond his control. Lindon stumbled back, releasing his touch, but the bond between their souls did not break. Orthos drank in his power until the core was almost empty.

Then a black-and-red river plunged into Lindon, burning through his madra channels like molten iron through his veins. It didn’t hurt nearly as much as he felt it should have; the worst part wasn’t pain, it was the feeling that his spirit was burning up. Crisping and blackening like a leaf in a fire. That he was dying, hollowed out.

Everything that was Lindon was burning away.

“Heaven and Earth Purification Wheel!” Eithan shouted.

Lindon was still staring at his burning core as though at the stump of his own hand. His mind couldn’t process it aside from a sense of numbing horror.

But Eithan’s words shook him awake.

He dropped to his knees, picturing the stone wheel, pushing it harder than he ever had before. Now came the pain, scorching his soul in a way that was more than merely physical, but the fire helped him as well as hurt. Every rotation of the wheel drew in more Blackflame madra like a spindle gathering thread.

He could hardly breathe, but that didn’t bother him now. All his mind, soul, and will was focused on the heavy stone wheel, churning away.

Either this would work, or the dark fire would burn him to ash.

***

Eithan watched the two of them with hands on his hips. Orthos and Lindon were both screaming, though he doubted either heard it, and tongues of Blackflame madra leaped around the cave, scorching through Lindon’s clothes, leaving grooves in stone. The aura of the place had gone wild, making this cave an oven and steadily devouring anything inside. A Copper who stepped inside this place would have the air scorched from their lungs and their skin crisped and blackened.

So far, the plan was unfolding beautifully.

He picked up Lindon’s pack and carried it to the entrance tunnel, where the air was relatively cooler. The books inside wouldn’t have lasted much longer without bursting into flames, and the pack itself would have eventually followed.

Without turning his head, Eithan watched the boy and the turtle. They would still be a while. Advancing to Jade usually took some time, after all, even if you had help.

In the meantime, Eithan took the opportunity to flip through Lindon’s possessions.

He set aside the books, bandages, medical kit, rune-light, emergency rations, extra clothes, inkwell, spare brushes, blank scrolls, needles, thread, scripted fire-starter, sculptor’s chisel, carving-knife, soap, seven purple boundary flags—one broken—and a frying pan, carefully remembering the relative position of each item.

Eithan had seen everything in here already, from the first moment they met, but he didn’t want Lindon to know he had interfered with anything. That would spoil the surprise.

Finally, he unearthed what he’d been digging for: the Sylvan Riverseed’s case.

It was a box of scripted, reinforced glass, big enough to contain a small cat. A river flowed around the edges, guided by a water-aura script that kept it in motion, but the center of the box was filled by a little grassy island. A finger-sized tree rose from one of the hills, life aura flowing through it in a verdant green web.

Beside the tree stood the Sylvan itself, looking curiously up at Eithan through the lid of its tiny world.

Sylvan Riverseeds were natural spirits—beings like Remnants, only born of accumulated vital aura rather than the death of a sacred artist. They only formed in places where the aura was both extremely strong and in perfect balance. If the aura slanted toward one aspect or another, a different natural spirit would form.

Typically, you would find that balance of aura in the heart of a forest, next to a spring or a river. In such a place, air and earth, heat and cold, life and death all coexisted at the same point in roughly equal amounts.

This spirit looked like a featureless puppet about three inches high, its body the vivid blue of a sunlit lake. It raised a hand to him, and its head split into a wide mouth, like a baby chick begging for food.

Other Sylvans were better suited for different purposes, but Riverseeds were gentle and flexible. They could work with power of virtually any aspect, supplementing and supporting other forces.

Which made them excellent raw materials. They were so malleable that a skilled craftsman could make a Riverseed into a guardian, a weapon, a guide, an elixir, a power source, a drudge, or—in some cultures—a very expensive cocktail.

It was fortunate that Fisher Gesha had never noticed Lindon feeding his pet. There wasn’t much a Soulsmith couldn’t do with a Sylvan Riverseed.

Not the rarest treasure, a Sylvan. But valuable. He had used elixirs made from Riverseed power to help Orthos, though such measures were only temporary. Only a long-standing contract could slowly mitigate the damage that centuries of Blackflame madra had done to his spirit.

Over the weeks since Eithan had adopted Lindon, he’d considered many possible options for the spirit. In the end, he settled on the simplest possible result: he’d leave the Sylvan as it was. Its own pure, gentle powers would balance the corrosive, deadly Blackflame perfectly. No alteration needed.

But perhaps a bit of…enhancement was in order.

If the Sylvan had grown a little faster, Eithan wouldn’t need to act at all. But Lindon’s scales weren’t the most nourishing food.

Eithan ran his thumbs along the glass, tripping a hidden catch and popping open the lid. The Sylvan ran around in circles at the sight, excited, making plopping noises like the drip of water into a pond.

Extending one finger, Eithan conjured a spark of soulfire.

The gray-white flame was half-transparent, like the memory of a flame rather than a flame itself. Unlike a natural blaze, it was perfectly round, spinning slowly and throwing off the occasional flare like a dull, tiny sun.

This was only a fragment of the writhing, spectral gray mass of soulfire that hovered in his spirit, just a few inches above his core. Other Underlords would weave as much soulfire as they could afford, hoarding it against an emergency, but Eithan counted on his ability to make more at a moment’s notice. Thanks to the sense provided by his bloodline, he could always find more fuel.

Heat surged against his back, reminding him that time was still ticking on, so without any further hesitation, he flicked the spark into the Riverseed.

Soulfire sunk into the Sylvan’s body, and a deeper blue color spread like dye. In an instant, it went from a bright, sunny blue-green to the deep sapphire of the open ocean. The spirit surged and stretched, inflated by the influx of power, growing until its head would scrape the bottom of the glass case’s lid. Its hands split into fingers, long blue hair grew from its scalp, and its body flowed into more human curves.

After only a second, the Riverseed panicked.

It flailed its arms, staring at horror at its new fingers. That sight drove it to the far end of the case, jumping into the flowing river. Realizing it was now too big to submerge entirely, it scampered back and huddled under its tree instead.

Eithan chuckled. The enhancement of soulfire was painless and harmless. It could be a bit disconcerting, but in the end, it was nothing but a benefit.

But it did require a certain amount of power for the changes to stabilize. With that in mind, he Forged a scale himself: identical in size to Lindon’s, it was a vivid blue-white, and anyone with the least skill in perception could sense its power and density. In the Blackflame Empire, they would call this a superior-grade scale, and it would be worth about ten thousand of Lindon’s.

Eithan created it in an instant, letting it drop into the case.

Even huddled under the tree, the Sylvan snapped at food. Its mouth opened wide, and it swallowed the scale in a second, which quickly broke down into nourishing energy.

The transformation surged forward again, the spirit growing even more defined. When the details finally settled, Eithan was somewhat surprised to see what stood there: it was very clearly a tiny woman in a flowing dress, all seemingly formed from azure liquid.

It wasn’t unusual for more advanced spirits to start taking on humanoid forms, but Eithan had expected it to look more like him. Evidently Lindon had a strong impression that the spirit was female, which had influenced its shape.

She peered up at him with what had been a featureless face a moment before. With one finger, she brushed what looked like hair out of her new-formed eyes and gave him a sharp grin.

Then she straightened up, all of four inches tall, and bowed at the waist.

Eithan inclined his head graciously in return, and shut the lid.

***

Orthos’ spirit felt like a boulder stopping up a volcano: a heavy, steady presence restraining boundless fury. Lindon could feel him even with his eyes shut, could point to the turtle in complete darkness.

But then, he could feel everything now.

His body was like a rag that had been squeezed dry, but his spirit soared. Orthos’ presence blazed next to him, and the power of the cave surrounded them both like a warm blanket. Pinpoints of energy dotted the caverns for at least a few dozen yards before his perception faded out. Some of those points felt dangerous, even hostile, but some were calm, or else so alien that he couldn’t read them at all. He found that he could tell which of the points were stronger and which weaker, just as he could tell which stars were brighter than others.

All of them, it seemed, were weaker than Lindon.

Eithan stood at the entrance to the chamber—Lindon couldn’t see him, but he could feel him, a steady presence that was strangely blurred. For the first time, he couldn’t tell whether the power behind that blur was strong or weak.

Lindon focused on that presence, and his perception flowed out, like a finger he’d reached into the distance. He couldn’t hear or see anything this way, not like the Arelius family apparently could, but all the powers of madra and aura were clear to him.

He placed that finger of awareness on Eithan, and the Underlord laughed. Lindon’s eyes snapped open; Eithan was standing over him, much closer than Lindon had expected.

“How are you enjoying Jade?” Eithan asked, reaching out a hand to help him stand.

“This is Jade…” Lindon checked his cores. Sure enough, one of his cores was no longer the bright blue of its twin, but a ball of black flames shot through with the occasional flash of red. The Blackflame core rotated slowly without his direction, grinding in rhythm with his breath.

“Barely,” Orthos grumbled. The bright circles of red in his black eyes were fixed on Lindon, and a new emotion soaked into Lindon from their bond: arrogance. The turtle took a bite out of the rock as though it were made of cheese, speaking through a mouthful of gravel. “You almost burst under my power.”

He had, but he was already forgetting the pain: Orthos had taken him another stage higher.

The Patriarch of the Wei clan was only Jade.

Lindon bowed at the waist, speaking with sincerity. “Gratitude, honored Orthos. I am grateful beyond words for the gift of your power, though I am not worthy of even this small fraction.”

Orthos’ pride flared up, and he stood straighter, until his shell almost scraped the low cavern ceiling. “Yes. You will not lack for rewards in my service.”

Eithan patted the turtle’s nose, though Orthos jerked back like an affronted child. “Congratulations on your new subordinate, Orthos. If I may remind you: this clarity of yours will not last for long. If you want Lindon to share this burden with you, you should see to his training yourself.”

The dragon-turtle snorted, and black flames shot from his nostrils. “My memory is dim, but I remember you. You never spoke with proper respect.”

Eithan slipped his hands into the pockets of his outer robe. His grin widened. “Do I owe you respect?”

“I do not fear Underlords,” Orthos said, words underscored by a growl that shook the earth. “Your advancement means nothing before a dragon’s breath.”

Eithan drew himself up. “Sir! If this is an issue of respect, we should settle it like proper citizens of the Blackflame Empire. Let a friendly exchange of techniques decide whether you take the reins of Lindon’s training, or whether I kneel to you as my master.”

Though the Underlord’s smile had been wiped away by an expression of haughty dignity, a playful sparkle remained in his eyes.

Orthos’ satisfaction radiated through their bond, and his eyes glowed bright. “Trial by combat,” he said. “Let it be so.”

The temperature spiked again as Eithan and Orthos faced each other, ready to do battle.

Lindon grabbed his pack and ran.

As the battle broke out behind him, his spirit shook with fear and warning…but that didn’t stop him from digging around in his pack for his box of badges.

It was time to exchange his iron for jade.