by A Van Wyck
Justin smiled. “I want you to remember that. Everyone has their own talents. Do you remember your Book of Kellonians?”
Sure that he’d be able to remember some of it, he nodded hesitantly.
“Do you remember the story of the Three Hands from the first chapter?”
“Yes.” That was an easy one.
“Some hands are made for spades,” the keeper paraphrased. “Some hands are made for swords. Still others are made for scepters. Without every one of the three, all would fall.”
He nodded. He knew the story.
“What I’m trying to tell you, Marco, is that if it turns out streaming isn’t for you, then it just means there is something else waiting for you.”
He nodded but only because the keeper seemed to expect it. This wouldn’t be like numbers. No matter his natural talents, he’d train at this until he was as good as the keeper.
“Are you ready for this?” the priest asked in all seriousness.
Suddenly plagued by doubts, he swallowed hard. But nodded.
“Alright, then. Tell me,” the priest launched into the lesson with a businesslike air, “what drives the body?”
He leaned back, surprised. They had all gotten rudimentary training in healing. Bandaging and salving for the most part. So he had at least a vague idea of how the body functioned. But he didn’t think the keeper would be satisfied by any answer he could give.
“Muscles and tendons move the limbs?” he tried tentatively.
“Yes. How?”
“Um…”
It was suddenly very hot. This was not starting out so well.
“By sort of… bunching up and relaxing by turn?”
“Muscles are just pieces of meat, Marco. How do pieces of meat know how to do that?"
This was much, much deeper than they’d ever gone in Introductory Healing. He cast around frantically for an answer, his thoughts bouncing off the walls of his skull. He could think of nothing. The silence stretched.
“Give me your hand,” the keeper demanded, not unkindly.
He stretched out his arm automatically. Justin’s ink stained fingers gripped it.
“How did you do that?” Justin asked him.
“Do what?” he countered, not understanding why the keeper would prolong his humiliation like this and disappointed in his inability to last even the first few questions into the lesson with some modicum of dignity.
“You reached out your arm and gave me your hand. How did you do it?”
“It’s my arm,” he said. “It does what I tell it.”
“Still, it’s only a piece of meat.”
Being somewhat attached to his arm, he thought this was going a bit far.
“A piece of meat is dead,” he defended it. “My arm is alive.”
“Alright,” Justin prompted, still holding Marco's hand in a warm grip, “so how does that make it different from a leg of lamb?”
“It’s attached to me. It’s got blood running through it, skin all over it…”
“Skin and blood keep it alive, yes–” Justin brandished the hand, shaking it so the fingers flopped like eels, “but what makes it alive?”
He bit his lip, frantic thoughts battering away at the question like a bird at a pane of glass and making about as much headway.
“I don't know,” he whispered. Those simple words almost choked him.
“No one really does,” the keeper shrugged offhandedly.
He stared in incredulous relief at the benign smile creasing the keeper’s face. He felt himself stupidly returning it.
“Some,” the priest went on, “have theories that lean towards clumsy philosophy. Even we, who devote our lives to Helia, do not completely comprehend the mystery that is life. We have made a few interesting discoveries along the way though…”
“Ow!” he yelped, trying to jerk his hand from the keeper's firm grasp. He stared in horror at the long, delicate needle protruding from the flesh between his thumb and forefinger.
He couldn't believe it. He was too shocked to feel pain. Justin had stabbed him! With a needle!
“Father… you… you…”
“Stuck a pin in your hand?” Justin supplied.
Too stunned for words, he nodded.
“Relax,” Justin said. “It’s something they do in the Jade Isles. I managed to procure an instructional scroll on the subject a few years back. Despite what you think, it will help you relax. I could have just pinched that pressure point, off course, but I find this gets a more… immediate reaction.”
“Wha…?” he managed, staring, aghast, at the needle protruding from his flesh.
“Let me ask you this, Marco, and consider carefully before you answer. At which point did you try to jerk your hand away? Before or after you felt the pain?”
Finding it difficult to think with the needle staring at him, he closed his eyes.
“After?” he tried uncertainly. It wouldn’t make any sense the other way around.
“You don’t sound very sure,” Justin challenged. “I thought it was your arm. Did you or did you not tell it to move?”
He had no answer. Of course it was his arm. But the keeper wouldn’t be asking the question if the obvious answer were the right one.
“But,” he tried to reason it out, “if I jerked my hand away before I felt the pain, isn’t that just… instinct?” He opened his eyes.
“Excellent point,” Justin complimented, with a glimmer of a smile. “All life instinctively acts to protect itself. This is a very important truth.” The smile dwindled. “Before we go any further, you must learn to accept and respect this concept.”
“Er…” he had no idea what to say to that.
“Life,” Justin said, seeing the confusion writ on his face, “is energy. Streaming is the manipulation of that energy. But life is also a force of nature. It does not need to be told what to do, it simply does. And it will resent you forcing it to do that which it is not intended to do. Streaming is always a struggle. As long as you’re struggling, you know you are doing it right.”
“Give me your hand again,” the priest said. Startled, he looked down. He’d been so absorbed he hadn’t even noticed when Justin had removed the needle and his hand had crept back to the safety of his lap, trying to stay beneath notice. At the priest’s request the hand in question flew to hide beneath his knee.
“Don’t worry,” the keeper smiled. “No more pins, I promise.”
Hesitantly, he handed the appendage over, putting it at Justin's mercy again. But the priest only turned it over, exposing the untanned palm. Speaking slowly, the keeper traced a line up the arm from wrist to elbow with one callused, ink speckled finger.
“Once you’ve been streaming for a long time,” the keeper said, eyes narrowing intently, “you can almost see the lines of energy.”
He found himself staring at his own arm in awe.
“But not quite,” the keeper looked up abruptly, coming out of his reverie.
The spell broke.
“It is frustrating,” the keeper continued, “searching for something you cannot see but know is there, if only you knew where to look. But we have found some – by accident as much as by study. This one,” the priest indicated the path he had traced on Marco's arm, “is relatively small. Its energy all but expended, it travels now back to its source,” the keeper reached forward to tap two fingers against his chest, above his heart, “to be revitalized and begin its cycle again. That makes it a safe specimen for today’s study.”
“Safe?” he blurted then ducked his head, cursing his own impatience. He should just shut up and let the keeper get on with it. But the priest continued easily, taking the question in stride.
“We cannot know for certain how many different methods, how many different species of magic exist in the world today. The world is a big place, after all. We know, for instance, that we are not the only ones to possess the truth of life-lines. The Jade Isles have developed an entire system around life-line manipulation uti
lizing pins.”
The keeper brandished the needle from a moment ago and he flinched, nervously eyeing his hand the keeper still held.
“A fascinating technique,” the keeper continued, focused on the pin, “completely external, arbitrary manipulation without any magical aid.”
Noting Marco’s dubious expression – after all he’d experienced that fascinating practice first hand and not been too enamored of it – the keeper explained.
“If you interrupt this life-line here,” the keeper indicated, making him grit his teeth as the needle hovered close, “you force it to find an alternative route. That affects all the life-lines around it. This specific re-harmonizing of the lines has proven to stimulate a state of calm. Useful for getting a student to stop fidgeting and pay attention.”
He smiled sheepishly.
“The point is that this,” the keeper indicated his fading needle mark, “is a fairly simple manipulation. The pin technique works because it does not require the life-line to do anything contrary to its own nature. Like a river, it merely seeks the path of least resistance.”
The keeper looked at him expectantly.
“And that’s not what we’re going to be doing?” he asked apprehensively.
“No.” The priest infused the one word with such quiet vehemence it made his throat run dry. “Our studies,” Justin continued, reaching beneath the cushion, “will be focused on redirecting the energies of the lifelines…” the keeper held up a candle, staring intently at the unlit wick, “…outward.” A thin wisp of smoke curled from the wick. A faint ember glowed to life, then burgeoned into a tiny flame. Justin looked past the burning candle to smile at his slack jaw and disbelieving eyes.
“How?” he breathed, awe kindled in him like a second candle flame.
“With proper aptitude and training,” Justin said, reclaiming a businesslike tone, “the energy of a life-line may be extended beyond the body. All living things have what you may call a reservoir – a reserve of energy that is its life force. You take from your own vitality when you stream. Can you see how this could be dangerous?”
Wondering if he did, he nodded.
“The reservoir runs out fairly quickly. You see, the further you force life’s energy to deviate from its natural course, the harder it resists the imposition. The streaming becomes increasingly difficult and you have to expend even more energy to bend it to your will. Changing the course of the life-line in your arm cost me nothing but a pin and a little regret. Lighting the candle though...”
The priest slowly shook his head. “If I were a mouse, or a small bird, I’d be dead.”
“It could kill you?” he exploded, horrified.
“Not easily,” the keeper reassured him with a smile. “I have quite a bit more energy than your average mouse. With proper training, you can learn to perform some quite astonishing feats, like cooling a glass of water on a hot day. Or stiffening a sheet of parchment until you can shave with it.” Apparently realizing that neither of these applications of streaming would appeal to his young student for some years yet, the keeper held the burning candle up again.
“Or…”
The candle sputtered, tortured flame leaping and writhing until... He gasped. The outline of a butterfly, painted by the brushing flames, slowly batted tiny wings. He suppressed the urge to applaud, clapping his hands together only once before managing to keep them pressed together but the keeper made a seated bow all the same.
“Parlor tricks,” the priest equivocated, the tiny flame returning to its natural form. “But a necessary stepping stone on your way to learning higher disciplines. Like shaping crystals in the Temple kojo’vitrum. Or the healing that uses those crystals. Or joining, for when crystals aren’t enough. Once you’ve learned to join with other streamers, adding your energy to a common reservoir, even greater workings become possible, such as–”
“The senso’norus?” he interjected in his excitement and was immediately sorry when all expression fled the keeper’s face mid-sentence. The sudden silence seemed to have physical weight. He wished his cushion could swallow him up.
“Ah, yes,” the priest said at last. “The Battle Choir. A group of brothers and sisters working as one, coordinating their efforts by use of war chants. Using as their focus one of Ire’s Irises…”
Justin trailed off, seemingly lost in thought.
He sat uncomfortably as the silence stretched.
The battle choirs were veteran monks of the Temple, widely acclaimed for their service in war. They used the wagon drawn Irises – complex devices of crystals and mirrors forged in secret in the bowels of the Temple – to direct lances of holy fire against the enemies of the Empire. Epic tales were told of their exploits and individual members had, in centuries past, achieved near legendary status and even met the Emperor himself as reward for their heroics. He did not know why mention of them had upset the keeper. He kept his eyes downward until the keeper spoke again.
“A good example of joining, to be sure,” the priest mused, voice far away. “Just not a very constructive one.”
Shocked, he spoke hesitantly, not wanting to contradict the keeper but also wanting to defend the senso’norus. “But… they fight for the Empire and the freedom of the faith...”
“Freedom of the faith,” the priest mused and made to go on but abruptly shook his head. “Where was I?”
“Um…” he scrambled for the last thing he’d understood, “not dying like a mouse?”
The keeper nodded agreement.
“We talk about the energy of life as being a harmony, and it is. But the word harmony is misleading. Life’s energy is also a delicate balance of vast, potentially dangerous forces. What we’re doing is taking liberties with that balance. We push against the pressure of the natural world but we must be very careful to maintain its integrity. Its equilibrium. It pushes back, you see. Accidentally tip the scales the wrong way and you may find yourself fighting for your life against a candle.” The keeper brandished the taper in question like a knife. “An incautious streamer can turn himself into a smoking crater in mere moments.”
Seeing his horror struck expression, the keeper smiled.
“Don’t worry, that’s why I’m here. You’ll be absolutely safe.”
He nodded jerkily but didn’t feel any safer. He had to swallow twice before speaking.
“What happens when your reservoir runs out?”
“Good question,” the keeper approved. “The longer you hold a thread of energy, the harder it will fight to return to its natural state. The streaming becomes more difficult and you will feel yourself getting weaker. Remember what we said? All life fights for its own survival and your life force will resist its own depletion. If you hold it too long, you will be lucky to faint – ending the streaming before that energy runs out.”
“And if you don’t faint?”
Not releasing him from a grave gaze, the keeper raised the lit taper between them and puffed once. The puny flame was snuffed out.
He watched with round eyes as the sad streamer of smoke curled into nothingness. Suddenly the whole idea of streaming seemed ludicrous.
“Can’t you just replenish your… your reservoir from a crystal?”
The keeper shook his head sadly.
“It is true that streamers can store energy in crystals. Once stored, that energy is forever out of reach. The act of transferring it changes it too radically. I could no more use energy I’d placed in a crystal than I could use your energy. Only the seepage can be used. Crystals leak, you see. They bleed their energy away into the ether. How fast depends on the quality of the crystal. A clever streamer can create a ward or seal for a crystal to power – if the right spells are known – but can draw no power from the crystal itself.”
He found himself staring at the lifeless candle and scrounged his courage.
“So you pluck one of your own life-lines out of your body and touch it to the candle?” It sounded somehow… unsanitary.
The keep
er laughed good-naturedly, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple! You see, magic needs order and structure to function. The river can’t grind the flour on its own, it needs the waterwheel and the millstone and all the other complicated structures in between. That is why energy is so at home in the crystalline structure, why wards involve such intricate diagrams and why spell hymns demand such exquisite vocal control.”
The priest treated him to a delighted smile, void of any commiseration.
“It will take weeks of work for you simply to comprehend your own life-lines. Months more to learn how to bend them to your will. Longer still before you are able to mould them into any useful forms,” the keeper indicated the dead taper with a flick of his eyes. “And that is just the practical side of things. The reading and study required is… extensive. Much more than anything that’s been required of you so far.”
His hopes sank like a holed galley.
Nothing was ever in the here and now with the priests. Everything was always some obscure distance or discipline away.
“This is sounding more and more like numbers,” he grumbled.
“You didn’t think it would be easy, did you?” the keeper chuckled.
“I had hoped…”
The priest smiled. “Don’t worry,” he assuaged, “we have time.”
“Now, lesson one, close your eyes and breathe with me…”
It was still day when he left Justin's apartments. Funny, he felt as if it should be night outside. Justin had set him a series of exercises to be practiced whenever he had time. They were incredibly stupid. The kind of things he’d already covered in Intermediate Meditation. A lot of it was just breathing techniques and self induced trances. Again.
But the keeper had said to do them and so he would do them. Religiously. He didn’t know how he’d muddled through the rest of the lecture. What had seemed difficult before had grown into a definite impossibility. The keeper had taken his inability in stride, cautioning him not to expect too much too soon and saying it would take weeks before it became clear whether he could even learn to stream or not. But he knew he should have done better.
