Uncrowned (Cradle Book 7)

by Will Wight

  He hadn’t finished talking, it turned out. “In our fight, you avoided straining your channels.” She had, but only to the degree that any sacred artist did. More durable madra channels would allow her to put more power into her techniques and use them more often.

  “Now you won’t have to,” he said, his voice now tinged with amusement. “You’re the one who beat me. You’d better win.”

  ~~~

  Lindon’s prize looked like a heart cast in dark gray metal. It was so detailed that he half-expected it to start pumping blood.

  [Do you think it’s a threat?] Dross asked.

  “Upon examination of your last several rounds,” Veris Arelius’ disembodied voice said, “we’ve determined that you rely on your Iron body for healing, but that isn’t its primary purpose. It’s far better suited to fighting off venom and disease.”

  [They have been watching you, haven’t they?]

  “House Arelius,” Lindon said. “I’m sure they’ve been watching everyone.”

  “This Divine Treasure was crafted by our Soulsmiths from the cores and blood essences of a hundred Lord-level Remnants. Take it into your spirit, and it will supplement your Iron body. Every bit of madra you funnel into your Bloodforged Iron body will be a hundred times more efficient, and it should enhance the regenerative effect of your body tenfold. Incidentally, it will strengthen your lifeline as well, though that is more of a byproduct.”

  With every word, Lindon’s expectations grew until they were sky-high.

  “This is a reward for your hard work so far,” Veris continued, “but we also consider this an investment. House Arelius needs allies now more than ever, and we hope we can count on your loyalty.”

  Lindon ran his spiritual sense through the Heart, letting Dross get a good feel.

  “It looks like our debt to the Arelius family is getting deeper and deeper,” Lindon said aloud.

  [Absolutely right,] Dross agreed, [except it is your debt. I know that’s what you meant; I just want to be clear.]

  ~~~

  Sophara bowed as she finished listening to Reigan Shen’s voice, holding a bottled elixir of her own.

  The Monarch of House Shen had made a deal with her divine ancestor. She did not know the details, did not need to question the arrangements of Monarchs, but she knew that she had his support.

  Which explained the royal prize he had bestowed upon her.

  Advancement elixirs for Truegolds and lower were common sights in powerful families. There were no elixirs that would give enough insight to raise a Truegold to Underlord. There were, however, elixirs to help Lords advance. They were obscenely rare, even for Monarchs.

  Sophara cradled in both hands a transparent glass vial with a thread of shining, pure silver liquid twisting in the center. It circled in on itself, winding in an endless loop.

  The Gate of Heaven elixir was extremely volatile and difficult to refine, even for the world’s greatest refiners. The ingredients and conditions for its creation were closely guarded secrets, and Sophara had heard that it even required attention from Sages.

  Now she was seeing it with her own eyes: an elixir that smoothed the road from Underlord to Archlord.

  She had already been on the verge of becoming an Overlady. Now she could advance whenever she wanted.

  ~~~

  Lindon's Void Dragon's Dance fell on Sophara, tearing at her with winds of fire and destruction.

  She pushed through the red-and-black cyclone as though through a stiff breeze. He dropped the Ruler technique as quickly as he could—he had practiced for this, trained himself to switch techniques instantly.

  He was still a moment too slow. While the dragon's breath formed on his fingers, Sophara had closed the gaps with quick, fluid movements, her feet glowing orange. Golden madra gushed from her hands, flowing into his chest from only a moment away.

  He held up his shield and tried to trigger the binding, but her power was too strong. The shield melted, its technique failing. Lindon's flying sword, Wavedancer, was too far away to recall in time.

  The fire madra seared him, and her claws were already at his throat.

  The vision shimmered and vanished.

  Lindon opened his eyes. He sat in a cycling position next to an artificial waterfall in his personal training room, and though he hadn't moved a step, sweat streamed down his face. His breath came in ugly rasps.

  The more intense his training with Dross, the more it took from him.

  [A new record!] Dross cried. [You lasted twenty-one seconds that time! This is progress!]

  Only eighteen tries, and he had exhausted every tactic he knew. He had at least managed to go from dying immediately to holding his own for a few breaths of time, but that wasn't as much progress as Dross pretended.

  Birds chirped and flew from a tree planted in one corner of the room toward a bed of flowers all the way at the other. Most of the room was empty space, but evidently the Ninecloud Court believed in decorating everything.

  He spoke aloud as he toweled sweat from his head and neck. “Gratitude, but even if I manage to win, I will have only beaten your version of Sophara. The real one will be stronger.”

  [Yes, she almost certainly has more in reserve than she's shown, just as you do. Yes, she is the strongest competitor in this tournament. Yes, she will have gotten her own prize after the third round that will surely make her even stronger. Yes, she will be preparing for this match against you while you are preparing against her.]

  Lindon waited for more, but Dross was quiet.

  “But...” Lindon began.

  [But what? That was all true.]

  Lindon passed his spiritual perception through his body, feeling the glittering motes of ruby sand that now permeated his flesh. The Iron Heart had integrated seamlessly with his Iron body, but he still wasn't sure what that meant.

  “I haven't noticed much increased healing in the simulations,” Lindon said.

  [I've never seen an Iron Heart in action, have I? How am I supposed to know what it can do for you?]

  “We should test it.”

  The door opened just as he spoke, and Yerin strolled into the room. Her long hair streaming behind her like a black banner and the sword at her waist made her look like a warrior from a painting. Her silver sword-arms had been withdrawn, but she still looked ready for battle at any second.

  “What are we testing?” she asked, walking up to Lindon. He hurriedly stood to meet her.

  “My Iron Heart. It's finished bonding with my Iron body, but Dross can't show me what it can do, because we haven't tested it yet.”

  [You have perfect timing!] Dross said to Yerin. [You can cut him for me! I only wish I could do it myself.]

  “Sure,” Yerin said casually, gripping her sword. “A big cut or a bunch of little ones?”

  Lindon had to slow this down before it went too far. “Hold on! I'm not the only one with a match coming up. Are you going to be all right against Mercy?”

  Yerin frowned, glaring a hole in the wall.

  “That...Monarch.” She was obviously afraid that saying his name would draw his attention, which Lindon thought was wisely cautious. “He did this to us on purpose. Makes me not want to dance to his song.”

  Lindon fervently agreed, but he stayed silent to encourage her to keep talking.

  “But this is a fresh chance,” she continued. “How often do you get to sharpen yourself against a friend without hurting them? My master used to say that you never really knew someone until you crossed swords with them, and I'm starting to take his meaning.”

  “Apologies; I don't understand. I've never fought you outside of training, but that doesn't mean we don't know each other.”

  Yerin looked up to the ceiling, visibly searching for the right words. “I’d say...I know the you I see, but how did that prince Kiro see you? How did Harmony see you in Ghostwater?”

  [Last,] Dross said. [Harmony saw him last.]

  “We have to blunt our swords when we're training. Nothing
wrong with that—I'm not trying to take off your ear, and I don't want dragon's breath in my eyes. But it means that we never get to use that last little bit, you know?”

  She shrugged. “There's something honest about going all-out. Now that we don't have to worry about killing each other, I get to see everything Mercy's got. And I get to show her everything I can do.”

  Yerin stood with perfect confidence, her master's sword at her waist, wearing a sacred artist's robe that was the duplicate of the one Lindon had first seen her in. But he saw now how different she had become. These robes were new, not tattered at the edges—her control had grown.

  Her skin was smooth, the scars gone. The rope-belt of Forged blood madra she had once worn was missing, integrated into her spirit. Her hair hung past her shoulders, and her face had been sculpted anew during her advancement to Underlord. She looked more mature, a worthy competitor in the Uncrowned King tournament.

  She was beautiful.

  Her dark eyes turned back to him, and he jerked his gaze away, afraid to be caught staring.

  “What about you?” she asked. “What if you had to fight one of us?”

  Lindon still shivered when he imagined Naian's razor steel pushing through his guts. It had only been a few days. He saw the hole he'd burned through his opponents on the island. And not just on the island, either. Ekeri the gold dragon had been speared through by his dragon's breath and had eventually died.

  Could he picture doing the same to Yerin, even if she would be resurrected by a Monarch immediately? Could he slice her in half with a bar of burning madra? Could he bash her skull in with his shield?

  “I'm glad I don't have to,” Lindon finally said.

  “This isn't the last round. If we all make it, you'll have to fight at least one of us in the top eight.”

  He shifted uncomfortably. “I will do it. But I don't have to be happy about it.”

  “What's not to be happy about? We could all make it into the top eight of the Uncrowned King tournament!” She hesitated. “Uh...three of the four of us.”

  That left a silence in the room. No matter whether Yerin or Mercy won, one of their journeys would end with the next round.

  He didn’t want to think about it, so instead he walked up and squared his shoulders against the wall. “Let’s test the Iron Heart. Yerin, if you could just give me a little cut on the arm so I can see the difference. It used to take me...what, a minute or two to close up a small cut?”

  [Three to four minutes,] Dross responded. [But the circumstances varied. If you intentionally cycled madra to your Iron body, it would be faster, and if you had more injuries it would be slower.]

  “Okay, then. Three minutes is the time to beat. Yerin?”

  Yerin drew her sword, leaning forward, her madra spinning. “Get ready!”

  He held out his left arm and waited.

  Yerin's fingers opened and closed on the hilt of her sword. The aura around the weapon stirred...and died again. She clenched her jaw.

  “...apologies, is something wrong?”

  “No!” She snapped, and her cheeks had begun to color. “I'm just...it feels strange just cutting you while you're standing there. Maybe if we were sparring...”

  Lindon stared blankly at her. Dross manifested over his shoulder to add his one-eyed stare to Lindon's.

  “We train against each other all the time,” Lindon said. “You've cut me many times.”

  Although not often, now that Lindon thought about it. It was usually when she used the Endless Sword and it spilled out of her control.

  “I know that! But that's a fight, that's different.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought so.”

  He wanted to be flattered by her concern, but he was only baffled. He had never expected this out of Yerin. What had brought this on?

  “Shut up and just...I'll do it, okay? Hold still.” She took a deep breath, and then her sword rang like a bell. A small one.

  His arm stung, and a razor-thin cut traced a red line about an inch long across his forearm. Blood began to bead at the end, and Lindon could feel his Iron body drawing pure madra from him immediately. He and Dross watched it intently.

  After only a second or two, the end of the wound began to close up.

  A single drop of blood ran down the side of his arm, and by the time it reached the other side, the injury had already closed.

  [Four seconds!] Dross exclaimed. [That's a new record!]

  “It took more madra than usual,” Lindon noted, but he was as excited as Dross was.

  Yerin's ears were still tinged red, but she played it cool, adjusting her grip on the sword. “Another?”

  “A few more this time, please,” Lindon held out his arm again.

  “You don't want to wait for that one to heal first?” It was mostly restored, but the line of skin was still a tender scarlet, like a fresh scrape.

  “Oh, that's not worth worrying about. Three would be perfect.”

  Yerin didn't look happy, but she did as requested. The three cuts healed just as quickly as the first had.

  [I'd like to see a deeper cut, but why don't we try out a different kind of injury first?]

  “That's what I was thinking,” Lindon agreed. He had already cast his mind forward to the fight with Sophara. If he could heal this quickly, he might actually be able to take a hit or two from her Flowing Flame madra, which would be invaluable. This could be his chance, and he was eager to discover his limits.

  He squared his stance, looking to Yerin. “Punch me as hard as you can, if you don't mind.”

  Yerin slammed the sword into her sheath. “I need a break,” she said shortly.

  “Oh, of course. Apologies.” She had only used the Endless Sword a few times, but she had her own match to prepare for. He couldn't selfishly monopolize her time.

  “What about your Diamond Veins?” Lindon asked. He had been jealous of her elixir—it felt like he was always being held back by his madra channels.

  Still facing away from him, she rolled her neck, loosening up. “I can take bigger swings with my techniques than ever before. It’s not too soon, either. Now I can work on hitting harder.”

  “Do you need to? Your Path whittles them down, and then you finish them by hand.” No Path could do everything. The Path of Black Flame needed to be able to punch through strong defenses, but the Path of the Endless Sword didn’t. At least as far as he could see.

  Yerin fished around in her pocket and tossed a dream tablet over her shoulder. Lindon caught it out of the air and activated it immediately.

  The Sword Sage is a wiry man with messy hair, half-lidded eyes that make it look like he’s falling asleep, and tattered black robes. Six sword-arms hang limp from his back, and he draws his white sword back. He’s about to step forward in a lunge.

  He faces an animated mountain of steel and stone, a human-shaped armored puppet-construct taller than ten men. The earth aura and force madra radiating from the construct project the idea of invincibility.

  The tip of the Sage’s white blade shines like a silver star as he pulls it back. Lindon has an instant to sense incredibly concentrated aura, madra, and soulfire gathering to a point.

  In one smooth move, he stabs forward and unleashes his technique.

  A silver-white Forged sword pierces perfectly through the construct. It is there and gone like a strike of lightning, but it erases a column through the center of the massive puppet.

  The Sage turns, sheathes his sword, and yawns as piles of metal and stone crash to the ground behind him.

  Lindon pulled himself out of the dream, breathing deeply. Yerin noticed.

  “You see me doing that?” she asked.

  “I can’t imagine how anyone does that.” It was beautiful, the synchronized blend of spiritual movements. No waste at all. And the Forged sword was so perfect that it was more beautiful than his Archlord Wavedancer; it was as though he had created the ideal sword from madra and aura.

  Yerin extended all six sword-arms, fle
xing them in the air. “Well, that’s the target I have to hit.”

  Lindon hefted the tablet. “He was higher than an Underlord when he did this. You have time.”

  “Tell me the last time you listened to someone who told you to take your time.”

  That struck home. It was disturbing to look at himself from the outside. From his perspective, Yerin did have time, and rushing things could hurt her. He wanted her to take it one step at a time.

  But he could relate to the urgency she felt, and it would be hypocritical to suggest someone else slow down.

  Instead, he manifested Dross.

  The one-eyed purple spirit appeared above his palm, blinking in the light. [Hey! I was watching your embarrassing memories!]

  “Can you simulate something for Yerin?” Lindon would have to ask about the embarrassing memories later.

  Dross stretched his mouth into an expression of extreme discomfort. [Eeeehhh…thanks to Charity’s madra, I probably could, but you can’t imagine the headache. And it won’t last very long. Also, I don’t want to.]

  “Gratitude,” Lindon said. “Can you model the Sword Sage’s technique we just watched?”

  Yerin straightened up, eyes wide, and scurried closer. She looked to Dross with expectation.

  [I speak straight into your mind and still you won’t listen to me.]

  “Please, Dross,” Yerin said earnestly. “This could give me new wings.”

  Dross hissed through his teeth, glaring at her and then at Lindon. A moment later, their surroundings vanished.

  It was as though Lindon, Yerin, and Dross stood on darkness and were surrounded by endless black. The Sword Sage appeared a moment later, lifelike, holding his sword back.

  Yerin reached out. “Seeing him with my own eyes again…” Before she touched him, she lowered her hand. Her lips twisted. “That’s a knife to the gut.”

  Power gathered on the tip of the Sage’s blade, then he stepped forward to drive the light forward.

  “Hold,” Lindon commanded, and Dross froze the scene. He groaned as he did so, as though to emphasize how much effort it had taken.