Venom's Taste

by Lisa Smedman

  “Maintain your focus,” Tanju snapped. “Concentrate! Clear your mind of stray thoughts.”

  With an effort, Arvin wrenched his mind back to the current moment. He breathed in through the nose, out through the mouth, in through his nose…. Dimly, he was aware of Tanju, seated beside him in the shelter. The psion’s breathing matched his own. Slowly, Arvin’s mind stilled.

  “Better,” Tanju said. “We can begin now.”

  Tanju took a deep breath and began his instruction. “Before he can master a power, a psion must master his own mind,” he told Arvin. “He must explore every corner, every crevice. Especially those that he would rather remain in darkness. He must seek out the desires, fears, and memories that lie in darkness and bring them out into the light, one by one. Until you can prove yourself capable of doing this, it is pointless for me to try to teach you.”

  Arvin nodded, determined to try.

  “In order for you to attempt to gain mastery over your fears, it will be necessary for me to guide you,” Tanju continued. “To do this, I must join my mind with yours.”

  As he realized what Tanju was asking, Arvin’s breath caught. Zelia had already trampled through his mind and left her deadly seed. Did he really want another person crowding in there, too? “Is there any other way?” he asked.

  “Without my guidance, what you’re about to attempt could take a tenday or more to master. It’s your choice.”

  After a few moments, Arvin realized that’s just what he didn’t have: a choice. This might be his only chance to learn more about psionics before…. Shrugging the thought aside, he concentrated and found the breathing pattern again. In through the nose, out through the mouth; in through the nose…. “All right,” he sighed. “Do it. Join.”

  Suddenly, Arvin’s skin felt wet. A thin, slippery coating of ectoplasm coated his body. Then it was gone.

  Good, Tanju said, his words slipping into Arvin’s mind like a whisper. Now we can begin.

  Tanju guided him, instructing Arvin to come up with a mental picture that represented his mind. Some object that Arvin could visualize—a network of roads, perhaps, or a system of streams and rivers down which his thoughts journeyed.

  Arvin considered these examples and decided to visualize his thoughts like a flowing river. It proved to be a mistake. The river swiftly shifted into an image of snakes, slithering through his mind, trying to find each other so they could form a mating ball. Recognizing them as the tendrils of the mind seed, Arvin recoiled, his heart pounding.

  What is it? Tanju asked.

  The mind seed.

  You fear it.

  Yes. Arvin hesitated. Must I … overcome this fear … before you will train me?

  Arvin felt rather than saw Tanju shake his head. This fear is too great, and it is justified. We will choose something else, instead. But first you need to picture your mind—your mind, rather than the portion the mind seed has already claimed. Choose another image, one that has a resonance for you alone.

  Arvin, still struggling to keep his breathing even, considered. What could he picture his mind as that wouldn’t trigger a sharper image from the mind seed? Then it came to him. A net? he ventured. His mind indeed felt like that: a series of strands of thought, knotted together by memory.

  A net that Zelia was trying to unravel.

  Tanju gave a mental nod. A net. Good. Now explore that image. Send your mind ranging over the net and show me what you see.

  Arvin did as instructed. The net he visualized was made up of strands of every fiber he had ever worked with, from coarse hemp twine to silken threads woven from individual magical hairs, from leather cord to rubbery trollgut. A handful of these strands were green and scaly and writhing with life—the strands of the mind seed, gradually snaking their way into the weave. But the center of the net was still intact, still Arvin’s own. The knots that held it together ranged from simple square knots to the most complicated knot he knew how to tie—the triple rose. The latter—a large, multilooped flowering of twine—was at the very center of his imaginary net, lurking like an ornate spider at the middle of its web.

  That one, Tanju said, The largest knot, the memory you’ve tied the tightest. Ease it open, just a little, and look inside.

  Arvin did as instructed, teasing one of the strands back … and saw his mother’s face. She was smiling at him, leaning forward to tie a leather thong around his neck—the one that held the bead he’d worn since that day. “Nine lives,” she said with a wink and tousled his hair.

  With the memory came an emotion—one of overwhelming grief and loss. “Mother,” he moaned aloud. The strands of thought that led to this memory seemed thin, frayed, ready to snap and recoil.

  Tanju gave Arvin’s hand a mental squeeze, steadying him. Go deeper, he urged, As deep as you can. Learn to look upon your mother’s death and not be afraid.

  Arvin shuddered. I can’t, he thought back. Not with you watching.

  But I need to guide—

  No!

  Very well.

  All at once, Arvin felt Tanju withdraw. Relieved, Arvin steadied his breathing and returned to his task. He could do this on his own. He could confront this fear and master it. He loosened the memory knot a little more, forcing himself to revisit the day he’d learned that his mother was dead. Arvin continued reluctantly, like a man probing with his tongue at an aching tooth.

  He remembered the words his uncle had spoken when breaking the news of his mother’s death—how he’d callously answered Arvin’s tearful questions about whether her body would be brought back to the city for cremation. “Are you mad, boy?” his uncle had asked scornfully. “She died of plague. Her body will have to be left where it lies. Nobody would be stupid enough to touch it. Besides, you wouldn’t want to see it. She died of the Mussum plague. She’ll be covered in abscesses.”

  Arvin hadn’t known what an abscess was. He’d imagined his mother’s skin erupting with maggots. That night, he’d had a nightmare—of his mother’s face, her eyes replaced with two fat, white, squirming things.

  It had been more than a tenday before he was able to sleep without the lantern illuminated. Every time his uncle had stormed in and angrily blown it out, Arvin had lain awake in darkness, imagining “abscesses” wiggling under his own skin. He sent his mind deep into that memory, remembering how he had felt to be a small boy lying awake all night long, too terrified to touch his own skin. It was just a nightmare, he told himself. Mother didn’t actually look that way when she died.

  No, she would have looked far worse. According to what Arvin had learned over the years since then, the Mussum plague turned the skin green and covered it in terrible boils.

  He imagined her covered in pockmarks, like the Pox.

  He immediately wrenched his mind away from the image. But after a moment, he forced himself to return to it. His mother was dead—she’d been dead twenty years. By now the marks of plague would be long gone. She’d be a skeleton …

  A skeleton lying alone and forgotten, on the plains outside Mussum….

  Once again, his mind recoiled. He forced it to return to the thought, to make himself acknowledge the fact that his mother was indeed a corpse. Or perhaps, not even that—her body would have been consumed by time and the elements long ago.

  She is dust, he told himself.

  The thought comforted him. In his mind, he held the dust that was his mother close to his heart then extended his hand and let it trickle through his fingers to be borne away by the wind. His mother was at peace.

  And so, he realized with some surprise, was he.

  Tanju must have heard the change in Arvin’s breathing. “Well done,” he said, a hint of awe in his voice. “Perhaps I will be able to teach you something, after all. Are you ready to continue?”

  Arvin gave a satisfied smile. “Yes.”

  “Good. Then, open your eyes.”

  Tanju rose to his feet and gestured for Arvin to do the same. “It’s unlikely that you can learn a form in so short
a space of time as a single morning, but I can introduce you to the concept of psionic combat,” Tanju began. “We will begin with the defenses,” he said. “There are five of them, each designed to counter a specific psionic attack but still useful, to a lesser extent, against the other attack forms. It is useful to picture each as a physical posture. This gives the mind something to visualize as it manifests the defense.

  “The first form is Empty Mind,” Tanju continued. “It is most useful against a psychic crush. It can be visualized like this.” Raising his hands, Tanju held them on either side of his face, palms toward himself. For a moment he stood utterly still, eyes closed and face turned slightly up to the sunlight that shone down on him through gaps in the ceiling above. Then his hands began to move, sweeping through the air in front of his face as if he were washing it clean.

  “The empty mind leaves the opponent with nothing to grip,” Tanju continued. “The mind slips through the fingers of the psychic crush like an eel sliding through the hands of a fisher.”

  “Or a rat slipping out of the coils of a snake,” Arvin said as a memory came to him—one of Zelia’s, not his own. Of coiling her thoughts around the mind of a priest who had threatened her, of squeezing his mind until it was limp. When she was finished with him, the priest had been unable to understand even the simplest of symbols for several days. The snake-headed staff that was in his hand had seemed no more than a carved piece of wood—

  Arvin shuddered. “Zelia knows the psychic crush attack,” he told Tanju.

  The psion lowered his hands. “I suspected that she would. Empty Mind is also the most useful defense against a mind thrust—the attack I used to render you helpless—and against insinuation.”

  “What’s insinuation?” Arvin asked.

  “An attack form that forces tendrils of destructive energy into the opponent’s mind,” Tanju answered, raising a hand and wiggling his fingers. “They worm their way in deep and sap the mind’s vitality—and with it, the body’s strength. If the insinuation is repeated enough times, the opponent will be debilitated to the point where he cannot lift himself off the floor, let alone mount an attack.”

  Tanju settled into a stance like that of a bare-handed brawler, feet firmly on the ground and hands balled into fists. “The second defense form is Shield, which can be visualized like this.” He raised his left arm to forehead level, as if shielding his face from a blow and lifted his left leg, twisting it so his shin was parallel with the ground. He stood like this for a moment, perfectly balanced on one foot. Then he spun in place—whipping his body around to present the shield to imaginary opponents closing in from all sides.

  “Shield is most useful against a mental lash,” he told Arvin, returning to an easy standing position. “The lash cracks harmlessly against it and is unable to tear apart the energies that bind mind and body together. Without the shield, the opponent would become weak and unsteady, unable to coordinate his limbs.”

  Once again a memory bubbled unbidden to the surface of Arvin’s mind. Zelia lashed out again and again with her mind, reveling in each strike. It was better than sinking your teeth into flesh—better because the mental lash didn’t use up its venom, but could go on and on—

  Arvin shuddered. “Zelia knows that attack, too.”

  Tanju nodded. “The third form, Fortress, is also an effective defense against a mental lash,” he continued. “Visualize a tower, erected by your own will.” He dropped into a wide, crouching stance and raised his hands to head level, bending his elbows at right angles. His hands were stiff, fingers tight together, palms facing inward toward his head.

  After a moment, he relaxed. “The Barrier form is similar,” he continued, “but circular. Like so.” Leaning to the side, he lifted his left leg until it was parallel with the floor, presenting the sole of his foot to Arvin. He drew his hands in tight against his chest, palms facing outward, then suddenly spun in a circle. Returning to an easy balance, he stood on both feet again. “Think of it as a wall. An impenetrable barrier constructed from determination, and strong as stone.”

  Arvin nodded, trying to imagine what that would feel like. It might be a second skin, perhaps, one with the toughness of scale mail. One that could be quickly donned then shed as soon as it had—

  No. He was thinking like Zelia again. He massaged his temples, trying to ignore the ache that throbbed through his mind. He hissed angrily, wishing it would just go away.

  Tanju paused, a wary look on his face.

  “I’m fine,” Arvin reassured him, lowering his hand. “Please go on. What is the fifth form? Did you save the best defense for last?”

  Tanju’s lips quirked into a brief smile. “The fifth form is known as the Tower of Iron Will. It can be used not only to protect oneself, but also one’s allies—providing they are standing close by.”

  “Show me,” Arvin said.

  Tanju held his right hand out in front of him, palm up and fingers curled. “The will,” he pronounced, staring at it. Then he clenched his fist. Slowly, he raised it above his head, turning his face to stare up at it as his hand ascended. He extended his left hand to the side, as if reaching for the hand of a companion, then clenched it, as well. “Walled inside the tower, the will can weather the stormy blasts of the opponent’s mental attack. Imagine it as a secure place, as a home.”

  Arvin imagined his workshop, hidden at the top of the tower in his warehouse. It had been secure, safe …

  Until Zelia had breached it. She hadn’t come in with the fury of a storm, but instead had slithered in, silent as a snake. Any psionic attack she mounted would likely be the same, sneaky—and intimate.

  From the brief taste he’d just had of her memories of psionic combat, Arvin knew which attack form was Zelia’s favorite. It was the one that allowed her to wrap herself around her opponents mentally and savor their agonies face to face, or rather, mind to mind.

  The psychic crush.

  “Empty Mind,” he told Tanju. “That’s the form I want to learn.”

  Tanju inclined his head. “An interesting choice. Let us see if you are capable of learning it.”

  They worked together for some time, Arvin slowly learning how to “empty” his mind and at the same time maintain his focus and awareness. Under Tanju’s guidance, he began by using the motions that Tanju had, “washing” his face with his hands as he visualized himself erasing his features. Slowly, he learned to imagine replacing his face—himself—with vacant space, hiding his mind from sight in shifting clouds of mist. He felt himself getting closer, closer … and a tingling began in his throat. Suddenly the shelter was filled with a low, droning noise—the same deep, bass tone that had accompanied his manifestation of the distract power. Arvin laughed out loud, realizing he’d done it—and was surprised to hear his laughter overlapping the droning noise. Abruptly, the droning stopped.

  “I did it!” Arvin exclaimed. Then he noticed the expression on Tanju’s face. The psion was nodding, as if in encouragement, but there was a wary look in his eyes.

  “You learn remarkably fast,” Tanju said, “quicker than any pupil I’ve ever taught—quicker than you should. Under the guidance of the right master….”

  Arvin waited for Tanju to finish the thought, but instead the psion turned and picked up the trollgut rope. “That’s enough for now,” he said, undoing the buckles of his backpack. “I must be going. What is the rope’s command word?”

  Arvin frowned. “But we only just—”

  Tanju stared at him, the rope in his hands. “The command word?”

  The lesson was definitely over. Sighing, Arvin told him.

  As Tanju tucked the coil of rope into his pack, Arvin saw a glint inside the pack—a shiny surface that reflected the sunlight. It was the three finger-length quartz crystals—one a smoky gray, one clear, and one rosy—bound together with silver wire.

  “That’s a crystal capacitor, isn’t it?” Arvin asked, pulling the words from Zelia’s memories. As he stared at it, his upper lip lifted
disdainfully, baring his teeth. The human who had tutored Zelia had used one of those to augment his abilities. It had allowed him to continue manifesting psionic powers long after his own internal supply of energy was depleted. Over time, the crystal capacitor had become a crutch—one that gave the tutor a false sense of security. It had been easy, once that crutch was kicked away, to defeat him….

  Arvin shook his head to clear it and realized that Tanju was staring warily at him.

  “My mother carried a crystal with her,” Arvin said. “Until … recently I didn’t realize what it was.”

  “A single crystal?” Tanju asked, buckling his pack shut.

  Arvin nodded, remembering. “An amethyst.”

  “How large was it?”

  Arvin held his hands about three palm’s widths apart.

  “A dorje, then,” Tanju said. “And not a power stone.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  Tanju rebuckled his backpack. “A dorje is like a wizard’s wand. It contains a single power, and enough psionic energy to manifest that power up to fifty times. A power stone can contain more than one power—I’ve heard of some with as many as six inside them. But each power can be manifested only once.”

  “So a dorje is more valuable,” Arvin guessed.

  Tanju shook his head. “A dorje can hold only low-level powers,” he said. “A power stone, on the other hand, can hold powers that could normally be manifested only by a master psion. Using a power stone, however, is dangerous. If the psion makes the slightest error during the manifestation, the result can be brain burn.”

  Arvin nodded. Whatever brain burn was, it didn’t sound healthy.

  “A power stone is smaller than a dorje, then?” he asked.

  “Typically, about half the length of a finger,” Tanju answered, slinging his backpack over one shoulder.

  Arvin thought of the lapis lazuli in his pocket, wondering if it might be a variant on a power stone. If so, perhaps it would allow him to do more than merely manifest a sending. “How do you know what powers a stone contains?”