by Dante King
The ash spirit shifted its form like a cloud of insects when I punched, only to regather as a solid form behind me. I whirled around around and cracked it in the side with a roundhouse kick, but it faded into nothingness again before materializing to my left. My every attack was absorbed, and I started to wonder whether I’d ever land a blow.
I continued my futile attacks as a thought entered my mind. I recalled the core inside the corpses of the two spirits that had created this one. Could this one also have a core? I decided to test my theory by aiming a punch where the spirit’s heart should have been. My fist plunged into its chest, and my hand collided with something hard. The ash spirit pummelled my stomach with blows, and I gritted my teeth as I opened my hand and grabbed onto the object inside its chest. The ash spirit screamed as I ripped my hand free of its body.
The elemental creature faded like sand in the wind as I raised the magical core high into the air. Then, as suddenly as feeling its first touch, the core shattered in my hands.
The ash around me burst apart, like a smoke cloud scattered on the wind. I fell to the ground and panted for breath.
The world faded around me, and I found myself sitting in the Ember Cavern with the sword in my lap, untouched by ash.
“Clever boy,” Nydarth said. “Now, open the path.”
I took a breath and let it fill my chest. It tasted of smoke and of loss.
The ash core beat in time with my heart as power ran out from its center and filled the sunburst channel across the front of my body. The rush of Vigor lifted me up and made me forget my weariness and my pains. A sweet surge of nothingness, both soothing and refreshing.
Then, the air was full of lights that cascaded around me like rain from a clear sky. My body thrummed with excitement, my every nerve tingled, and my every sense was on edge.
The ash path was mine.
Chapter Nineteen
That winter was like a femme fatale—icy cold, stunningly beautiful, and carrying the constant threat of death. Snow fell in great swathes across the mountain, pastures, and wilderness alike. Some days, the wind screamed in out of the north and howled around the guild house like a furious beast as the shutters and rooftops trembled. On other days, the snow fell slow and silent from a still sky before it piled up on treetops and battlements. The whole world became a featureless white expanse.
Only one place seemed untouched by winter—the exposed plateau in front of the Radiant Dragon Guild. There, the eternally burning pillar of fire melted away any traces of frost, ice, or snow. Flakes falling around it evaporated in an instant, vanishing like a rabbit up the sleeve of a stage magician. During the heavy downfalls, it was surrounded by a constant hiss of snow becoming steam.
Throughout, I kept training alongside my fellow initiates. The masters were relentless in their pursuit of excellence and showed no mercy for how the others shivered or struggled to get out of bed with our breath frosting in the dark, dormitory air. I was the only one who didn’t complain. I had mastered a combination element, and I wielded a legendary sword. Much like the flaming pillar on the plateau, the harsh conditions couldn’t extinguish my spirit.
Throughout that time, our movements were restricted to the guild house and its immediate environment. There were no more trips to the Ember Cavern or even to the slopes around it, where initiates might be tempted to go looking for stray fire beasts. As the initiates’ frustration mounted, they protested at the limits imposed upon them, limits to their power as well as their freedom. If they couldn’t go to the cavern, how could they get more cores and so increase their Augmenting power?
I couldn’t help but share their concerns. But rather than complain, I devoted myself to perfecting the techniques I already possessed.
After enduring a month of grumbling, Master Xilarion addressed the whole guild. “I have deliberately chosen to keep you from monster hunting,” he announced from the podium at the front of the great hall. As always, he stood straight with shoulders squared, his hands clasped behind his back as he looked out across a throng of frustrated faces. “I have done so to teach you two lessons—one in conservation and one in the nature of your own skills.
“Our resources are not infinite. The Ember Cavern is like a tree, and we are the foresters who tend it. Every time we take a piece, we diminish it a little and so make it weaker. If we trim away its buds and branches carefully, selectively, then we encourage it to grow back stronger, and so our tree grows. But if we cut too hard, too hastily, then we risk forever damaging our most vital resource. We drew heavily from the cavern this autumn; now, we must give its fires time to rest and regrow.
“For you, farming beast cores is important in improving your Vigor and accessing new arts and techniques. But it is not the only way, nor often the best. Now that you have pathways within you and the fire to fuel them, the way to improve yourselves is to exercise those pathways, refine them, make them stronger. Improve on what you already have. Once that is done, you will again be given the chance to gain something new.”
Xilarion’s talk of improving ourselves struck a chord with me. I had always striven to be the best that I could at any task I was given. Now, I was being challenged to improve the skills I had been learning at the guild, and I was determined to do well. I had already been into the cavern more than most of my classmates, and I’d taken more steps than anyone toward perfecting and enhancing my skills. But I could always get better.
I knuckled down and focused on physical training on the plateau, or Augmenting practice in the great hall and the dojo. I had always taken good care of my body, but the relentless regime of the Radiant Dragon Guild was making me stronger, faster, and more agile than I had ever been. I’d never had much body fat, but now, the striations on my muscles were visible beneath a thin layer of skin. Meditation during fighting became like second nature. I could easily divorce my mind from a fight, as though I watched from outside my body.
My understanding of the world I now lived in grew with each passing day, so that I seldom had to seek explanations during conversations with my classmates. My fire Augmentation was some of the best in the class, and I prided myself on being able to show my tutors unexpected new variations on Flame Shield, Untamed Torch, and Fire Empowerment, the last of which let me increase existing flames thanks to the power of the daji cores. The Burning Wheel was my crowning jewel, and I never practiced it while other initiates were around. It was an ace up my sleeve, a secret technique that would give me an edge in the rumored tournament.
I also possessed the ash pathway now, but figuring out exactly how to combine my wood and fire techniques into abilities of this new element was difficult. Every evening, after a short rest to start digesting my dinner, I returned to the dojo or, if that was occupied, to one of the outdoor training spaces, where I braved the snow and icy wind so that I could practice unobserved. There, I worked on my ash Augmenting.
As those winter months passed, I mastered three different uses of my new-found power.
I practiced using Flame Shield to burn the wood from Plank Pillar, and then, I mastered the technique of taking those ashes and covering my body in a thin film. The ash pathway inside me allowed me to manipulate the reduced remnants of wood into an armor that fire could not penetrate. It was almost invisible except for adding a dull gray sheen to my clothing and skin. I called this ability Fire Immunity.
But such protection came at a huge cost in Vigor. Though I Augmented myself before stretching my hand into a fire or asked Kegohr to strike me with magical flames, I could never sustain the immunity for more than a few minutes. After that time, the ash-like layer covering me cracked open and fell to the ground.
Next came Ash Cloud. I created it by molding together the channels for Stinging Palm and Untamed Torch. Instead of launching a volley of wooden thorns from my palms, this new technique summoned a cloud of ash particles. If I used the technique on an enemy, it became a suffocating fog that left them choking and made it hard for them to see. If I could deprive an
opponent of oxygen for long enough, then I could take them out of the fight without even trading blows.
Rather than simply combining my existing wood and fire techniques, I sought to further my ash prowess. This mission to grow stronger in the combination element led to the discovery of Compress Ash. The more advanced technique let me compact ash particles down into a solid with metal-like hardness. I spent hours trying out different approaches. First, I started with a formless lump no bigger than a button before I built up to larger and more refined pieces. By the time the snows melted and the first spring flowers poked their heads from the frost-hardened ground, I could incinerate my Stinging Palm into ashes and create a knife. The weapons I produced were brittle and ill-fitted for combat, but molding objects in what seemed like telekinesis was thrilling.
One morning much like the dozens of others since I’d returned from the Ember Cavern, I prepared for a day full of training. I put on a sandal and reached for the other when I saw that someone had slipped a piece of paper into one of my sandals.
All around, other initiates were rising from their beds and grumbling about the early start that came to them every day. With no one paying attention, I slid the note into a pouch for later.
That day started with an extended meditation, followed by a run through the newly thawed woods. It was lunchtime before I had a moment to myself to read the note.
“Meet me tonight,” it said. “Shrine a mile down the valley road. An hour after sunset.”
I turned the note over and looked for any clue as to who had written it. The neat penmanship was unfamiliar, the paper a scrap carefully cut off some larger sheet. But whether it came from a man or a woman, initiate or master, or even some servant or outsider, I couldn’t tell. There was only one way to find out, so I decided I’d meet with the mysterious messenger.
Dusk was already falling when we finished our lessons for the day. While my fellow initiates went to enjoy a rare moment of relaxation before dinner, I slid out of a side gate, skirted around the edge of the plateau, and headed into the darkness down the road into town.
As I walked, I considered who I might be meeting. Most of my secret encounters since reaching the guild had been with Faryn or Vesma, and the memories of those occasions left me hoping for more. Slipping me a note would have been a novel approach for either woman, and a little odd given that they had opportunities to talk with me directly. But perhaps one of them had wanted to add some mystery to our proceedings, to spice things up a little.
At the other end of the spectrum, this could be the work of someone who wanted to hurt me. There were subtler ways to lure me into an ambush, but I made no secret of my curiosity about the world, and the direct approach was sure to get me to the right place at the right time. That was why I’d come out with the Sundered Heart Sword strapped across my back. Nydarth only spoke from the weapon when she had something to teach me, but the blade itself was even sharper and better balanced than the one I had brought from the Unwashed Temple. If there was trouble, I would be ready for it.
After walking for most of a mile, I started looking around for the promised shrine. It soon became obvious—a small, square building set back a dozen yards from the road, timber-built with a roof of clay tiles. Two steps led up from the path to a pillared porch on which two figures stood in loose robes, arms by their sides, swords at their backs. Between them, lamplight spilled out of the doorway to the shrine.
Not a clandestine hook-up then. I stretched my arms and checked my own sword before approaching.
As I set my foot on the first step, the guards moved to block the entrance. One was a man, and the other a woman, their hair tied tightly back, their movements swift and graceful. Flames leaped from their hands as they raised them, and the fires illuminated angular, haughty faces as close to identical as brother and sister could be. The flames also lit up the red eagle emblems on the left breasts of their green robes.
Now, at least, I had some idea of who I was here to meet. These two belonged to Clan Wysaro.
I closed my eyes, felt for the channels within me, and let a trickle of Vigor flow. I could sense the power radiating from these two, more than I had seen in almost any fire Augmenter. If this turned nasty, then I would need to act fast to get out alive.
“Please tell the representative of Clan Wysaro that Ethan Murphy lo Pashat is here to see them,” I said.
“I am no representative,” a stern voice announced from within. “I am Clan Wysaro.”
The guards stepped aside and allowed me entrance to the shrine. For a moment, I considered walking away, going back to the temple, and telling Xilarion what had happened. Just knowing Clan Wysaro was sniffing around the guild could be useful to him. But then, I would never know why I had been invited here.
I walked through the doorway and into a small room thick with pungent incense. A shrine against the far wall held a statue of a local goddess, craggy and angular as the mountain she inhabited, surrounded by the symbols of the elements. I didn’t know her name since I’d never visited the shrine; she was just one of hundreds worshipped by the populace. Two fresh pots of incense sticks had been lit to either side of her, offerings to encourage her blessing upon an endeavor. There was a wooden stool against the wall to the left, and another to the right, offering rest to weary travelers, a gift from the goddess’ followers to those who took the time to pray.
The seat on the left was empty. The other held the man who had summoned me here.
I had only seen Jiven Wysaro once before, but I recognized him instantly. Dark hair and a beard flecked with gray fell across long, green robes embroidered with a red eagle. Up close, I could see how incredibly intricate that embroidery was, just as I could make out the creases at the corners of his eyes. Time had been good to Lord Wysaro, letting him keep his health and Vigor, but no one could hold back age forever.
I took the empty seat before he had a chance to offer it. For a long moment, the two of us sat staring at each other by the light of an oil lamp.
“You invited me,” I said at last. “Why don’t you talk first?”
“People usually show me more respect than this,” Wysaro said.
“People normally tell me what they want before calling me out into the night.”
“Those people aren’t the heads of mighty clans.”
“You don’t know who I mixed with before I came to this place,” I said, trying hard not to let him intimidate me.
“Hm.” Wysaro stroked his beard. “Perhaps we’re getting off on the wrong foot. Why don’t you tell me about your time since you came to ‘this place.’ How are you finding the Radiant Dragon Guild?”
“I like it. I’m learning a lot.” I kept the answer vague. I didn’t know why Jiven had placed particular emphasis on ‘this place,’ but it sounded like he knew I’d come from afar. I’d told everyone except my close friends that I’d been raised by Tolin in the Unwashed Temple, and few had objected to the story because almost no one visited the caretaker or his residence.
“You’ve met my son, Hamon?” Jiven asked.
“I can’t think who else would have told you about me.”
“I have many people inside the guild, Ethan Murphy. Some of them might surprise you.”
“Imagine me suitably impressed, if that’s what you’re after.”
“Who said I was after anything?”
“You did.” I held up the note.
Lord Wysaro narrowed his eyes. His gaze seemed to flit around me as it took in my face, my hands, my torso, even the wall behind me.
“You’re a smart man, Ethan Murphy. Does that help you to Augment?”
“It helps with everything.”
“And how are your powers progressing?”
I reached out a hand toward the altar, where the burning of offerings had left a pile of ashes in a small, clay dish. But I stopped myself before I even touched them. Tempting as it was to show off, I stood no chance of intimidating this man. He had been an Augmenter for decades, had fostered
a small army of Augmenters around him. All I would achieve would be to show him the limits of my power.
“I’ve learned some useful tricks,” I said, sitting back. “But there’s always more to learn.”
“Indeed, there is. And some skills are better learned outside the confines of a guild. How would you like to come and work for me?”
I blinked and almost let my mouth hang open. If I’d made a hundred guesses at where this conversation was going, that never would have made the list.
“You want me as a guard?” I asked.
“Nothing so lowly,” he replied. “Talent is rewarded with status in Clan Wysaro.”
“I already have a clan.”
Wysaro snorted. “Dress up however you like, but you’re no more a Pashat than I am. And that wrinkled old hermit Tolin isn’t the only one who can offer adoption.”
Wysaro’s whole attitude irked me. His disregard for my mentor. His attempts to put me in my place. The way he kept glancing past my shoulder, as if there was something more interesting there.
And maybe there was. The hilt of the Sundered Heart Sword was currently visible from over my shoulder, and I figured he was glancing at the weapon. If Wysaro knew about its true power, then maybe that was his real aim here. Had I been invited because of who I was or for what I carried?
I wanted to storm out, but I was a professional, and I had long ago learned to hide my feelings for the sake of a mission. Whatever Wysaro’s real aim was, I would gain nothing by flat out rejecting him, and a direct challenge was unlikely to reveal the truth. I needed time to think, to gather information, and to talk with people who understood this world better. In short, I needed to get back to my friends.
“I’ll think about your offer,” I said as I rose to my feet. “And about what it would take to make joining the Wysaro worth my while.”
I hoped that last detail might convince him that I really was interested, not just fobbing him off.
“Very well.” Lord Wysaro gave the curtest of nods, as befitted a clan leader facing a lowly initiate. “I look forward to our next encounter.”
