Artorian mumbled the words out loud, “How are you alive?”
Chapter Nineteen
“Well I’d say I’m not clever, but I am hardy,” a feminine voice replied from the corner, one of the young clerics who had been injured in the fray.
Apologetic breath inhaled so his words could tumble out in a hush. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry, my dear. I didn’t mean to wake you. Just mumbling to myself.”
There was a moment of silence, but he could hear the woman sit up and hiss, sucking air through her teeth as she pushed through the pain of her injury. He didn’t need to see the cringe to feel it. “I can’t rest with these lumberjacks sawing through forests in their sleep.”
One of the boys snored deeply right in the middle of her mention. She didn’t seem the talkative type, but people don’t sit up and chime in if they didn’t want some company.
“I’m Artorian. Who might you be, my dear?” His sleepy question rasped in the back of his throat.
Her voice sank. “Don’t laugh.”
The aged words promised with sudden clarity, “I will not.”
A small peep winced in her throat, but it continued even as she slightly shrunk away. “Yvessa.”
Artorian rhetorically mumbled, “Why would someone laugh at such a lovely name?”
Yvessa peeped out the reply like it was practice, complete with a fully dejected sigh, “The boys keep telling me it means ‘ugly idiot’ in Elven.”
Artorian thought that wouldn’t do at all and came up with something on the spot. “Are you certain they speak Elven, my dear? That’s not what it means at all.”
With a shift, he rolled away from her, the side of his cheek pressing to a not-as-soft-as-he’d-like pillow. To Artorian’s lack of surprise, Yvessa’s voice brimmed with interest, “D-do you know what it means?”
Her pitch gained the same interested rise that his well-beloved younglings had when learning about something they were interested in. “Oh, I’m just an old fool, my dear. I would have said that it means ‘to bloom out of great drought’. If I spoke Elvish, perhaps I would also tell you that it’s reserved for people able to overcome great difficulty and trial, who not only come out successful—but better than they were. To bloom, as it were. Regardless of the sapped circumstances one found themselves in.”
He shrugged in his cot, lifting his hand to the air to let it drop on the axis of his wrist. “But what do I know?”
Yvessa flushed. She pushed back down under her covers, gritting her teeth to kill the sound of discomfort her injuries caused her. Her voice peeped from under the blanket. “That… that’s a nice thought… Thanks.”
“Do you consider yourself to be in a great drought?” he chimed out, ignoring a bear-like snore from the upper side of the medical tent.
Yvessa’s dull reply sounded somber, “Can that describe my life? It sort of does. I’m always at the end of my rope somewhere. How else would I get wrangled into this mess and end up in a place where there isn’t even a map? Nobody believes in me.”
“I do.” Artorian didn’t indulge her self-loathing. “Also, my dear, I look forward to seeing you bloom.”
She felt like she was missing something here, and scrutiny pulled her through. “You’re not… a cleric. Why are you in the camp? Civilians aren’t allowed to stay overnight in expedition camps.”
Artorian shrugged. “Well, since I believe in you, I suppose I’m nobody.”
Her ire gathered. She could almost feel the warmth of it fill her cheeks. The old man put effort into sitting up and turned to face her. “My dear, I believe in you because even though you’re injured, you’re alone, and it seems like you have no one to rely on… you’re still here in the medical tent, and you’re trying to live. So, something inside of you has decided that it doesn’t want to give up. That you don’t want to quit. That you don’t want to die. Even if you have little to live for, you’re giving yourself the chance to find something worthwhile enough to really hang your coat on.”
Artorian straightened as he spoke. “It’s clear you’re not with the Church because you’re a particularly devout believer, or you would have started reciting scripture already. You’re not here for them. You’re here for you. That you think the situation is to blame is unfortunate, but honestly, it is the wrong question to consider. The situation is irrelevant. What you do and how you choose to do it… is all that matters. Since you have chosen to pick yourself back up from the dirt and keep trying to live…”
The old man pointed at her, determined and certain. “I believe in you, and I believe you can do it. Because there is simply nothing—and I mean nothing—wrong with the idea that it’s alright for you to believe in yourself just for wanting to put one foot in front of the other for one more day. So, if you’re struggling, and you don’t believe what your body is telling you is true. Then, my dear, I will tell you I believe in you. Because I do, and you can do it. If ever you falter in that belief, by the heavens, you come bother me. I will remind you.”
His arms crossed in defiance. “Cultivation problem? Keep trying. Keep living. You can do it! Severe injury? Recover. Get up. Keep living. You can do it!”
This was the moment where it felt right to address a source of her instability. “Your name is delightful, and it is filled with wondrous meaning. Someone gives you a hard time about it? You punch them in the face, and you tell them how you feel about that. Every single time those big, dumb boys try to pry their claws into you, you just remember this one thing, young lady. What you do and how you choose to do it is all that matters.”
With dramatic flair he flung his blanket around himself like a cape, which made Yvessa snort with an unknowing, little, dumbfounded smile. “I…”
She didn’t have the words. Pride burst from her chest due to the encouragement. Only then did she notice her fingers had clamped into her pillow. She’d been glued to the words of support for her with the same necessity as the gift of cool water in a hot desert. “Are you sure it’s okay I come bother you?”
“Anytime,” mused a very confident and welcoming response. “Even in the middle of the night, where the stars are the only companions willing to let us be at peace.”
Another bear-esque snore tore through the tent as one of the priests rolled over. That elicited a small giggle from both of them. They hadn’t bothered to whisper their conversation, but it hadn’t woken anyone further. “Thank you, Elder.”
Artorian winced and felt a slimy crawl nestle up his spine. “Ut-tut-tut. Please don’t call me that.”
A chuckle left Yvessa, figuring he didn’t like to be reminded that he was old. Then her mind sparked, and she frowned. “Why did you mumble what you did? Before, I mean. The…”
She didn’t really want to say it. The old man remained firm, nodding with his eyes closed. From what she could tell, he’d accepted it, but that didn’t make it any more pleasant. “Are you a cultivator, my dear?”
“F-rank four. Like most of the other new people, we’ve only been cultivating for a few months.” She listed things off on her fingers. “In order. Beast Core, cheap Memory Stone for the basic spiral, learn how to pray and sing to draw in Essence, basic combat, and off into a squad for live training. I just didn’t think it would be out here. I overheard half the superiors say the mission is ‘special’, others that it’s a complete chore, and the last few that this whole thing is a complete waste of time and gold. I’m pretty torn about being here.”
Artorian had a decent grasp of her situation and explanation. A Beast Core seemed to be a name for a tool that extracted corruption. Given the name, it likely had some unpleasant side effects… ones he could not survive. A Memory Stone he was very familiar with. You just press the stone to your forehead, and the knowledge contained within would become yours, as if you’d gone through the events yourself. Expensive things. He’d seen them in the old days but had never touched one.
A spiral was the Essence technique for refining, although he was still stuck on why it needed to be
a spiral and found this an excellent moment to ask. “Actually, do you happen to know why it needs to be a spiral?”
Yvessa was dumbstruck. “It… refines the… Essence stuff. I thought it was just because it worked. I heard once that even if you know how to move and shape Essence, it just does nothing if it doesn’t match some kind of stable pattern, or worse, it does something unexpected.”
“Oh, you mean… Well, it actually looks like a spiral.” Sparks of clarity had struck late. She drew something in the air, but Artorian squinted so hard that Yvessa figured he could not see it. Having found something to do, she stumbled her way out of the cot and hobbled over on one foot. Then drew it into the blanket fabric. “Like this.”
She mimicked the spiral that she had inside of her. It was a small, frail little thing, but it was great to have. “It spins in a direction, and the faster it spins, the better it is. However, keeping that up is tiring, and I’m terrible at close control like that. I’m good with my hands. Building houses and chopping wood all day? No problem. You need a precision cabinet? Can do. But so much of cultivating is being able to think of the right thing, imagine the particular movement, and then apply it with your head. It gives me incredible headaches. If I don’t have a specific set of steps outlined in front of me… I’m just stuck.”
Yvessa *tsked* her tongue. “There are clever people in the world. I’m not one of them. It took the Head Cleric a full month of support just for me to understand how to properly hold the spiral and keep it going as I slept. He repeated the word ‘aptitude’ so many times. I don’t know what it means, but I know he thinks I don’t have it. It’s… hard to believe in myself when everyone gives me such a rough time. All the time.”
Artorian scooted over so the young woman could sit. He was a little surprised that she did, but then again, Tychus had been like this too. His heart pained at the thought of the boy, and his jaw grit together as he momentarily held his chest and bent forwards. “Oh, the pains of being old.”
Yvessa frowned and watched but wouldn’t know how to help if she wasn’t told. A few moments later, Artorian was breathing deep and waved it off. “What’s holding your cultivation back, my dear?”
Yvessa looked conflicted—as this was a Church secret—but decided that it was better to get this off her chest. “Time, I think? See, the Church has a bunch of limitations for cultivators, and we ourselves have some limitations too. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but the majority of us are celestial-based. It’s dangerous to cultivate when the Essence isn’t abundant because you’ll draw in more corruption than anything else. All your time will go to spinning your spiral faster to prevent it from getting in while still getting some Essence out of it. We can only cultivate during main prayer, which happens shortly before high noon.”
“We all begin our chants while under the early-noon sunlight, and when we feel it brighten as our prayers receive attention, we can then actively pull Essence since there’s enough of it for us to do so. A little past the point where the sun stops being at the highest point it can be in the sky, the added brightness and cultivation time ends.” Her words bitterly drooped. “Even if we keep chanting. So, we have a very set slot of time where we can try to make any progress. Any tasks we might have must be completed beforehand, so we tend to be punished with tasks that take a lot of time. That badly bottlenecks us. Even if you’re like Jin, who is the Head Cleric’s favorite young priest. He always gets prime time for cultivating. Each daily chant only gathers so much Essence, which can only take us so far.”
“We’re limited by amount, and honestly, we need so, so much more. We’ve been told that when we reach higher ranks in the Church, we will be ‘blessed’ with knowledge on new chants that let us cultivate for longer and under more favorable conditions. If you exceed and get written permission, you can even get signed on to take a trip to a dungeon for one day.”
“One single day in a dungeon can mean weeks of progress for a cultivator. The Essence density in them is just… wow. You really feel the difference between being out here and in there. It’s such a rush.” Yvessa was breathing much heavier than Artorian was comfortable with, his hand cautiously pressing to her shoulder.
“My dear? Come back.”
“Huh?” She snapped out of it. “Oh. Sorry. I was only in a dungeon for two hours, but I get cravings now. They pulled our corruption out, gave us the technique, and in that dungeon, I jumped from F-rank-zero all the way to F-rank four. In two hours. Now I’m out here, and after months, I’m still at F-rank four. I’m close to five, but I don’t know the breakthrough details. All I know is ‘have enough Essence in your Center’ and you’ll reach a new rank, but to me, that’s a lie. There’s always something new I need to do in order to actually progress. If it’s not some new chant, then it’s to ‘make my Chi threads finer’.”
She mimed in mockery, then sighed with resignation. “I do what I’m told. Dishonorable discharge from the Church is ugly. They’re just rumors, but I heard that they strip you of the chants you know when you leave, if you were really bad. Especially in the Choir, which is our particular branch of the Church. Chants not only affect our growth but our overall fighting ability. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a Choir war host in action, but every cultivator matches the chant of every other. Each voice added to the whole increases the power and ability of each person whose voice is involved, through some kind of celestial or aural sympathy.”
“Not having chants means you can’t draw celestial Essence anymore, and if that’s your only Affinity channel, you die slowly and painfully. Everything needs the correct Essence to live and keep living, and if it didn’t have it, then it just doesn’t.”
Artorian was looking at Yvessa with wide, twinkling eyes. She leaned away from him with concern, her voice hesitant. “…What?”
The old man settled back where he was, a broad smile on his face. “My dear, I believe you may have just saved my life.”
Chapter Twenty
Tibbins waited in front of the Head Cleric’s tent, ready with the report of the first week. What a week it had been. In fact, Tibbins was convinced that this was entirely the reason why he was being made to wait so long. The heavy cloth flap of the tent swung away, and Keeper Irene hurriedly passed him. The Acolyte snapped to a salute. He still firmly believed that the entire ‘saluting’ affair was awkward for one following the path of the priest, but as this expedition was classed under ‘military’, he had to abide by the rank and file rules.
“Enter.” Tarrean faced away from the opening, nimble fingers closing the last few buttons on the top of his uniform. It used to be odd to see him out of the ornate armor that was ever so boasted about, but it had received a prime spot against the tent wall, fully fitted on an armor rack meant for human-like display. The mood in the tent fell before Tarrean ever turned to face the Acolyte. “Tell me you have some… sane news, for a change?”
Tarrean cringed as he could feel the flat lipped reply plastered on the Acolyte’s face without glancing. There had been a week of this, but based on the old man’s condition, it likely would only last for a few weeks more. “No, sir.”
Finally, the Head Cleric turned and sat down on his comfy, new stool. He picked up the deteriorated mug with the world Elder on it, observing it as one would a polished skull. “Do you know what I saw yesterday, Tibbins?”
The Acolyte closed his eyes and drew a needed breath. “I have a suspicion of it, sir.”
“Take a seat, Acolyte.” Tarrean put the cup down and folded his hands.
“Yesterday, the camp was roused not to the morning routine but to the clamor of an old man running about with only his pants on, pulling fluff and feathers out from a pillow, throwing it into the air, and baying ‘it worked, it worked!’ Then he bent over backwards to madly cackle.”
“When one of the guards returned from hunting the raiders, he approached Artorian to assist. The guard was taken by the lapels as the old man beamed the biggest smile he’d ever seen and ecstatically
exclaimed, ‘It fits inside. See? It fits inside! The fluff can compress. It can compress!’ while wildly waving the pillow around and stuffing the feathers back into the torn cloth… with what I can only describe as manic glee.”
He paused to let Tibbins sweat. “Well, yes, sir, but I’m sure it’s under control now.”
“Is it, Tibbins? Is it?” Tarrean spoke, voice volume rising. “Then certainly, you can explain what happened during prayer today?”
The Head Cleric’s leer bored into the Acolyte, who thought it was getting rather warm. “Well, it wasn’t so bad, sir. None were harmed. He merely walked up in the middle of our chant, and–”
*Bampf*. Tarrean filled in with a fist slam to the table. “Threw. Off. His. Robe.”
“He disrobed in the middle of our congregation. Prayer was halted because everyone was choking on their words. Not even mentioning that arms-up pose he did like he was about to hug the abyss-blessed sun!”
Tibbins quickly tried to salvage this. “He did seem… happy about the praising, sir.”
The Head Cleric just about threw his papers. “I’m sure he was, Acolyte! The smile was huge, and everyone for leagues saw those awful scars. I had to assure the congregation that I would personally tend to those egregious wounds. I was going to slam down brimstone scripture on that old fool’s head, but for reasons beyond my abyss-confounded control, my troops ‘like’ the man.”
Tarrean was fuming and squeezed the bridge of his nose. “They are sneaking him food. I know they are. I understand that. What I don’t understand is how he ended up with three dozen of our pillows! I went to the medical tent this morning, and an entire corner next to the only window flap—which might I mention is open against protocol—is covered port to stern in pillows.”
“Several containers of water stand nearby, and chairs from the longhouse have mysteriously made their way over to the medical tent. Which is now no longer the medical tent, as the majority of occupants have recovered and the herbal medicines moved. It is now the tent my troops go to on their time off!” Tarrean was strangling his arm bracer out of confounded vexation. “I see them entering with sour, downtrodden looks. I hear the laughter, and then they leave filled with merriment. I am dying to kick that old man out of the tent and out of my camp, but I can’t do so without losing face with my entire expedition squad. What do they do in there?”
Axiom Page 15
