Chapter 2

Tears glistened in Jai Chen's eyes as Jai Long held her hand. “Kral died fighting beside me,” he told her. “He went quickly and courageously. He died a hero.”

“The Underlord…killed him?” his little sister asked. She labored to push her voice out, every breath a fight against the invisible weight on her chest.

Jai Long squeezed her hand a little harder, but restrained himself so as not to hurt her. “A boy he brought with him. Just an Iron.”

Jai Chen's eyes opened wide, and her arms fluttered as though she’d tried to raise them. “An Iron?”

“He struck like a coward. From behind, with a stolen weapon. Even another Highgold couldn't have faced Kral and lived.”

The tears welled up again, and Jai Chen sniffled. “Young master Kral...” She couldn't seem to choke out the rest of the words.

Jai Long smoothed her bedsheets. “I would have told you before, but I've had many preparations to make.”

He reached down, unlatching a scripted case. From within, he produced his surprise: the Ancestor's Spear, a glowing shaft of Forged white madra scratched lightly with lines of script. Jai Chen struggled upwards in bed to get a look, straining to push herself upright.

“From the very top of the Transcendent Ruins,” he told her, as she extended hesitant fingers to touch it. She looked at him for permission, and only rested her hand upon it when he nodded.

“It's warm...”

“It draws madra from others into me,” Jai Long said, and she jerked her hands back. “No no, you can touch it. It only means I’ll become stronger for every clan member I...defeat.”

“Then you’ll avenge young master Kral?” she asked quietly.

He placed the spear back into its case, latching it back, so the precious madra didn't dissipate. The scripts on the spear prevented madra decay, but the Sandviper Soulsmiths couldn't say by how much. It was always best to be careful—if he lost this weapon, there was no replacement.

“I would have avenged him on the spot, if not for the Underlord.” He patted her arm. “But the Arelius family is not entirely without honor. They will allow me to face him in the arena, in one year's time.”

Sadness crept over her face, but it took her a few full breaths before she could speak. “Back to the Empire? But we…we…” He waited patiently as she focused on her breathing. “…we were going to leave. Do…do you…want to go back?”

Only to butcher them, he thought, but he spoke calmly. “The Jai clan has refiners and Soulsmiths. If I break into their vaults, perhaps I could heal you myself. Even if that doesn’t work, I could earn the support of the Naru or the Kotai. Or one of the Schools; they say the pills of the Jade Eyes can even restore the freshly dead.”

Her smile was twisted by pain and bitterness. “You don’t…think we can…leave?”

He patted her arm to buy himself time to think before he answered. “When I'm finished, there will be no one left to follow us.”

The topic had grown much darker than he’d planned, but they talked for an hour afterwards of lighter and happier things: food, gossip, memories of Kral. When her exertions took their toll and she fell asleep, he picked up his case and excused himself.

Leaving her behind him, etched with the scars of his failure. Her body was perfectly healthy, damaged only by years of weakness and isolation. On good days, her smile was so wide and open that it almost made him forget anything was wrong.

Her spirit told the real story.

Despite himself, he swept his spiritual perception over her, lighting her spirit in his mind’s eye. For a moment, he took in the wreckage left by the monster that had rampaged through her soul.

Her madra channels, which should have spread throughout her body in clean, even loops, were twisted and broken. Half of the passages were dim, blocked, and the other half too bright as madra built up in the wrong places. Her core was wrapped in a web of cracks, leaking light like a broken lantern.

Enough madra trickled through her ruined spirit that she could just barely move. Even that much was a miracle, the result of healers working day and night for a week after her accident.

The culprit lay coiled in his core even now, the Remnant’s madra blending with his own as it gradually dissolved, its memories and sensations lurking at the back of his mind. By the time he reached Truegold, he would have digested it completely.

It was the most total, thorough revenge he could imagine.

He had been exiled from the main branch of the Jai clan because the Remnant was from a different Path, and he’d brought his sister along because she had no one left to support her.

The clan could have restored her. It might have cost them some rare materials, but they could have done it. They didn't, because she was of no value to them.

Which had shown him the extent of the clan’s loyalty. Why should he be loyal in return?

He shut the door of his sister's cabin gently, so as not to wake her, nodding to the Lowgold Sandvipers standing guard on either side. These were warriors he'd selected personally, and they knew they answered to him. They would die at their posts.

Though that loyalty might soon be tested, judging by the green banner flying over the Sandviper camp. Jai Long gripped his case more tightly and looked to one of the guards.

“He’s back?”

“His bats landed only minutes ago,” the guard confirmed. He exchanged glances with his partner, and Jai Long knew their thoughts as clearly as if they’d spoken aloud.

Would the Sandviper chief blame Jai Long for his son’s death?

Jai Long found the newly returned group of Sandvipers clustered around a repurposed stable, a cluster of filthy, fur-clad men and women he could smell halfway down the street. They had been in the Wilds for months, too far to respond to the call of the Transcendent Ruins, and now they had arrived to find the heir to their sect murdered.

Days ago, Jai Long had ordered this stable cleared out and cleaned, prepared to host Sandviper Kral’s body. The corpse was preserved by rare medicines, waiting for a mourning father.

The Sandvipers parted to allow Jai Long to pass, though their Goldsigns were not so courteous. The miniature sandviper Remnants on their arms coiled and hissed, reflecting their hosts’ anger.

Jai Long pushed open the door and slipped inside, holding his polished spear-case. He was already primed to tear the Ancestor’s Spear free in an instant; Gokren was a Truegold, and more than capable of killing Jai Long if he reacted poorly. The weapon might be the difference between defeat and survival.

Gokren, chief of the Sandvipers, was a wiry man with slicked-back gray hair and a pair of short, one-handed spears crossed on his back. He wore furs from chin to toe, with the shed skin of some great snake wrapped around his neck like a scarf.

He was not a tall man, and Jai Long was used to him standing with his spine rigidly straight, looking down an upraised chin as though everyone else stood beneath him.

Now he’d collapsed on the floor like a child, sobbing. He gripped his head in both hands, nails driven into his scalp. His reptilian Goldsign let out a long, crooning cry.

Jai Long let the door slide shut behind him, unaccountably disturbed. Somehow, he had pictured a man of Gokren’s power and dignity standing over his son’s body with arms folded, demanding recompense from those responsible. Maybe a single tear would roll down his face, or his commanding voice would catch for an instant, as a brief acknowledgement of human grief.

He had never expected Gokren to weep as though an enemy had torn out his own heart.

Jai Long had pushed his feelings aside in favor of action, but now his own grief stirred from where it had settled. Gokren had crumpled at the base of a long table, on which a pile of mismatched furs rested. One of those furs had been flipped back, revealing a pale face and a curtain of dark hair that spilled over the edge of the table.

Sandviper Kral had been the first one to welcome Jai Long when he and his sister had been exiled to the Wilds. He had been the only one to look Jai Long in the eyes instead of staring at the crimson bandages wrapping his face, the only one to visit Jai Chen and tell her stories of the outside world. He was the only one who tried to give two exiles a home.

And there he was, cold on a table.

Because of a spoiled Underlord’s whim and the tricks of his pet Iron.

When the anger slipped its bonds and burned through him, hot and hungry, Jai Long’s hand tightened on his spear-case until the scripted wood creaked and threatened to crack.

Gokren must have heard, because he turned toward Jai Long for the first time, eyes red and face soaked in tears. His voice scraped out wet and raw: “Tell me. Please.”

Jai Long wasn’t sure he’d ever heard the Sandviper chief make a request of anyone.

“It was the Arelius Underlord,” Jai Long said. Gokren stared blankly at the floor, so that Jai Long wasn’t sure if he’d heard. He continued the story anyway. “He approached us in disguise, slipping into the Ruins as a worker. Once inside, he freed himself and his followers, leading them to the prize. He beat us to it by minutes, and we would have surrendered the prize to him if he had only told us his name.

“While I fought his disciple, he distracted Kral so that an Iron child could stab him in the back with some kind of hidden weapon. We believe it was developed by the Fisher Soulsmiths, but an Underlord could have any number of tricks.”

Jai Long watched Gokren for any reaction, keeping his perception open in case the Truegold prepared an attack out of rage. But Gokren only sat there, watching the ground.

“I would have killed him if the Underlord hadn’t revealed himself,” Jai Long said. It sounded like an excuse, but it was only the truth. “But he has no affection for the Iron. He allowed me to take a prize from the Ruins, and he gave me a year. At the end of that time, I will meet his Iron in a duel, and he will not interfere.”

“…where are they now?” Gokren asked.

“The Fishers are keeping their borders tight, but they should have left days ago,” Jai Long said. His information was sadly lacking, but he was confident in his conclusion. The Arelius Underlord had no reason to linger in the Desolate Wilds an hour longer than he had to.

“An Iron,” Gokren mumbled. He pressed one hand against his eyes. “My son…an Iron. They left him no pride when they killed him.”

For his sister, Jai Long had played up Kral’s death in battle to make it seem as though he had met a respectable end. That wouldn’t work for Gokren, so Jai Long stayed quiet.

Gokren took a moment to master himself, then rose. He cast one last glance at Kral’s body, brushing hair away from the pale forehead.

“I know you will avenge him,” Gokren said quietly. Jai Long had come in here expecting a battle, but there was no fight in this man. At least not directed at him. “In a year, you will take back his honor, and I must only endure.”

Gokren straightened, and a shadow of the Sandviper chief’s poise returned. “But I know you will not spend this time idly. What is your plan?”

Jai Long hadn’t been sure how to approach this topic. He had feared that Gokren might learn about the Ancestor’s Spear from one of the Sandvipers and decide to take it away. He wasn’t worried about that possibility anymore.

Placing the long wooden case on the floor, Jai Long flipped it open and revealed the shining white weapon.

Gokren clenched and unclenched his fists, watching the spear. Minutes rolled by as he stared, the acid-green Sandviper on his arm hissing every now and then.

“You’re going back to your clan?”

Jai Long said nothing, which was answer enough.

“Will Jai Daishou stop you?”

The Underlord Patriarch of the Jai clan was a legend; with his own hands, he had built the Jai from a remote clan in the wilderness to an Imperial power. If he acted, Jai Long’s dreams of revenge would melt like snow in the summer sun.

“To him, propriety is the highest virtue,” Jai Long said, bitterness in the words. If the Patriarch had been the slightest bit flexible, Jai Long and his sister would still belong to the head family. “Every step must be taken in its proper order, and he will defend that order to the death. He will not act until his Highgolds, Truegolds, elites, and Elders have all fallen.”

Green light dripped from Gokren’s body, half-Forged madra from the Path of the Sandviper, but he didn’t seem to notice. “They will feed themselves to you, one by one.”

“And by the time Jai Daishou reveals himself, I will be more than his match.” The Underlord had once groomed Jai Long to be his replacement, after all. The Ancestor’s Spear would allow him to close the gap on his own.

But Chief Gokren shook his head. “The gulf between Gold and Lord is wider than you imagine. It requires a certain insight that I’ve never gained.” He flexed his hand into a claw. “If it was only a matter of power, I would have broken through long ago. But you may not need to face him. Rumor says he is dying; is this true?”

Reflexively, Jai Long remained quiet. Those were clan matters, and not to be spoken of before outsiders.

That thought was replaced by disgust in an instant. Years away from the main Jai clan, and Jai Long was still keeping their secrets. How deep their poison sinks.

“Unless they’ve discovered a miracle cure, he won’t live five more years.”

“You only have to avoid him for one. By the time you kill the Iron, you’ll have gutted the Jai clan. Then you retreat west, back here, and we’ll hide you until the Underlord dies.”

Jai Long searched for words, but none came. At best, he had expected the Sandviper chief to berate him for leaving. He’d even come prepared for a fight.

He’d never dared to hope that Gokren would break a long-standing alliance for him. He was tempted to tell the grieving father to reconsider, that he was risking the future of his sect for personal vengeance.

But the truth was, Jai Long needed every ally he could get.

The Sandviper crossed the room and grabbed Jai Long by both shoulders. His grip was painfully tight, his eyes fevered. Jai Long had to suppress the instinct that told him to break the hold and escape.

“You were a brother to my son,” Gokren said. “Your enemies are mine.”

Jai Long’s eyes welled up, but he pressed fists together and bowed.

Gokren squeezed his arms one more time and then released. “Unless they’ve fled already, some of those enemies are right here in camp. Let’s see if you can’t test out that new spear.”

He threw the stable doors wide open, and the Sandvipers at the entrance straightened in respect. These were the veterans of their sect, the oldest and most loyal warriors. Kral’s death would stain them all. They simmered with suppressed anger, eager for a chance to vent their pain and shame.

“We march with Jai Long against his clan,” Gokren announced, tearing one of his short spears free. “Sandvipers! We hunt.”

Jai Long was prepared for hateful looks cast his way, for words of hesitation and blame, for the Sandvipers to turn their anger on him.

Once again, he saw how deeply he had misunderstood his allies.

They roared in agreement with their leader’s words, their sandviper Goldsigns shrieking to the heavens. They clapped him on the back as they passed him, whispered words of encouragement, or pressed their foreheads against his for an instant before rushing off to battle. Not an instant of hesitation, not a word of blame.

With a new family at his side, Jai Long marched to destroy his old one.

***

Lindon had to spend one more night in the woods, scripting their camp against Remnants and dreadbeasts and curling up in a crude tent only yards away from Fisher Gesha’s. After the day’s attack, he had woken with every cracking twig and gust of wind, groping for his launcher construct.

But dawn broke without event, so he and Gesha returned to the Five Factions Alliance camp with the rising sun. He read as they walked, committing simple scripts to memory.

“Put that away and listen to me,” Gesha ordered as they approached the camp walls. “You are no longer a Copper with one friend and no enemies. You should learn to conduct yourself as a member of a great family, hm?”

Lindon opened his pack and slid Soulsmithing for Coppers inside, resting it between the Sylvan Riverseed's glass case and the advanced notes he'd stolen from the ancient Soulsmith's foundry. “I await your instruction.”

Her mouth tightened and guilt flashed across her face. “I did not teach you well before Eithan Arelius took you in.” He started to disagree—a polite fiction, because she really had been a terrible teacher before the past few days—but she cut him off. “It’s true, and I’m not afraid of the truth. You were never my disciple before the Underlord picked you up, no matter what I told you. But I could never treat a member of the Arelius family so disrespectfully as to ignore them.”

“Gratitude. Your instruction is appreciated, but I have no voice in the Arelius family. Nothing you say to me will reflect on them.”

That wasn't entirely true, and they both knew it; before he was attached to Eithan Arelius, Gesha could have cut his head off in broad daylight and the passersby would have simply stepped around his bleeding trunk. Now, she'd have to answer to an Underlord.

But Eithan didn’t have time to listen to Lindon’s petty complaints. Lindon wasn’t some spoiled noble’s son with a doting father; in fact, he wouldn’t be surprised if the Underlord cast him out of the family on a whim.

Gesha sighed. “This is a lesson for you, as you travel into the wider world. Reputation is a sacred artist's greatest treasure. If the Underlord hears that I have disrespected you, he will take that to mean that I do not respect him. You see? The powerful have no mercy for those who step on their reputations.”

Their conversation stopped as they passed through the entrance of the guarded wooden wall and into the Alliance camp, walking down hard-packed dirt roads past buildings that had been hurriedly tossed together from raw lumber and bare stone.

They had a few moments before they were alone again, so Lindon had some time to think. Gesha was trying not to say it out loud, but Eithan frightened her. She was terrified that something Lindon said might lead to her execution.

Lindon knew that Fisher Gesha was a Highgold who could twist him into a knot without ever touching him, but she was still a four-foot-tall old woman who could have been his grandmother. His heart softened when he saw her careful and afraid. “I won't carry news back to him, I swear it,” Lindon said. “He won't hear anything from me.”

She gave him a grateful look, clearly relieved that she hadn’t had to spell it out. Then she gave a brief chuckle. “He's an Arelius,” she said dryly. “If the rumors are true, then he'll hear about it regardless.”

Lindon laughed along, but she seemed half-serious.

That made him consider her fears again. If Eithan was really that dangerous, maybe he should reconsider accepting his invitation.

Then again, this could be the one area where he had more experience than Fisher Gesha.

Eithan may be an Underlord, with a level of power Lindon could scarcely imagine, but he’d seen Suriel with his own eyes. He wasn’t sure how far she ranked above an Underlord, but he was certain Eithan couldn’t hold a candle to her.

“He hasn't descended from the heavens,” Lindon said, smiling slightly. “He can't see everything.”

“Not everything,” Eithan said.

Lindon stumbled back, bumping into a wooden wall at the side of the street. More gracefully, Fisher Gesha hopped down from her spider-construct and sunk to her knees, pressing her forehead against the ground.

All around them, sacred artists of all ages dropped to the dirt as well. At first, only a few had caught sight of Eithan, but more and more people noticed. In only a breath, the sparse crowd of perhaps two dozen people had all fallen to their knees with heads bowed. Only Lindon and Eithan remained standing.

This was the Fisher section of the Alliance encampment, so most of the people were Fishers or their allies, but it was still disturbing to see all these people recognize Eithan on sight. Only a few days ago, Eithan had pushed through a bustling crowd a hundred times this size without interruption.

For his part, Eithan stood in the center of the road as though he’d waited there all along, though he certainly hadn’t been there a moment before. His yellow hair fell past his shoulders, and his smile was broad and cheery. He kept his eyes on Lindon and Gesha, as though the strangers didn’t exist. Today, he wore a teal outer robe embroidered with golden fish leaping and playing among the waves.

“Your unworthy servant greets the Underlord,” Gesha said, and there was a murmur of agreement through the crowd.

“Underlord,” Lindon said, hurriedly sketching a bow of his own. “Forgive me, I was...startled.”

Eithan brushed that away with a gesture. “There will be no forgiveness. To the blood pits with you!”

Gesha trembled on her knees, and Lindon laughed awkwardly.

The Underlord looked at them, gauging their reactions, and eventually shrugged. “Not every joke is appreciated in its time. Tell me, Soulsmith Gesha, would you mind if I borrowed my little brother here? Feel free to say no, although of course I will have your corpse mounted on a flagpole for the slightest defiance.”

“The will of the Underlord be done,” Gesha said from the ground, her face still in the dirt. Her shaking had grown more noticeable.

None of the strangers dared to make a single sound.

Lindon passed a hand over his face. With lowered voice, he said, “Please, Underlord.”

Eithan's eyes widened. “Am I to be condemned because she takes things too...no, fine, all right.” He knelt at Fisher Gesha's side and spoke in a much gentler voice. “I beg your pardon, Soulsmith. Please rise and address me face-to-face.” He raised his voice. “All of you, on your feet and on your way.”

With the speed of Gold sacred artists, the crowd vanished. It was as though the breeze had blown them all away.

Gesha rose, but she did not face him.

“On my word as an Underlord, you will not be punished for anything you say here or have said today,” Eithan said impatiently. “Now follow my instructions, Highgold.”

Finally she let out a breath and met his eyes. “Thank you for your mercy, honored Underlord. Tell me how I might serve you.”

Eithan looked to Lindon. “You see how much faster it is when I just tell them what to do? It's infuriating. I don't want to phrase everything as a command for the rest of my life.”

“It sounds hard on you, Underlord,” Lindon said carefully.

“Yes, the endless subservience and instant obedience wear on me. But if you call me anything other than 'Eithan' again, I'll have you sleep in a cave full of bats.” He stroked his chin for a moment, considering. “You could call me 'brother' instead, if you preferred. Yes, that would be—”

“Thank you, Eithan,” Lindon cut in.

“Hmmm. Well, as I was saying: Fisher Gesha, I must borrow your pupil for an hour or six. I'll return him to you in one or more pieces.”

“As you will, Underlord.”

“And I had something to ask you as well.” Eithan drew himself up and addressed the old Soulsmith with full authority. “You will not be punished for any decision you make here, on my word and the honor of my family. We depart for one of my homes in the Empire very soon, perhaps today. I would be honored to have you accompany Lindon as his Soulsmith tutor, but you are free to decline and stay with your sect. There will be no repercussions of any—”

“I decline,” Gesha said instantly. She didn't even look at Lindon. He hadn't expected any different, but it still stung.

Eithan clapped his hands. “A firm decision! Wonderful. Then, good-bye!”

He extended an arm to shepherd Lindon and turned as though to continue walking down the road, but Gesha had already scurried away. A wooden door slammed shut; Lindon wondered if she’d escaped into a random nearby building.

“For a woman her age, she really is spry. Good for her. Not everyone keeps up with their physical exercises as they get older, and a healthy spirit lives in a healthy body.”

Lindon adjusted his pack, hitching it up on his shoulders. “I’d like a chance to bathe before I continue my training, if you don’t mind. I’ve been in the forest for three days, and water is scarce.”

Eithan turned to him with an expression of obvious disappointment. “Do you think you’ll be able to defeat a Truegold in a year with such halfhearted resolve? How much valuable training time do you plan to waste on baths?”

Lindon bowed hurriedly. “Forgiveness, please, I spoke out of turn.”

“No, I was pulling your strings again. But you really shouldn’t waste soap on yourself yet, you filthy mud-caked animal. After a day of this training, you’ll be covered in sweat. And probably some blood.”

Eithan considered for another moment as they walked. “In fact, it would be best to expect the blood.”