Fulcrum of Light (Catalyst Book 2)

by C. J. Aaron

Throughout the moons, his study with Paasek had been more mental than physical, yet excruciatingly taxing nonetheless. For entire sessions, Ryl practiced maintaining focus on a rhythmic, slow and steady breathing. Other days, the skill of mindsight was his sole study. He had lost count of the times he’d begun his search only to have his concentration broken and the process started again. Once the application was perfected, Paasek added combat into the mix. In the midst of attack or defense, the councilor would quiz Ryl on the location of other phrenics within the city. At first, the practice caused momentary pauses as he forced his mind to concentrate on the skill while maintaining focus on the task at hand. His failures were rewarded with bruises and with pain.

  As a result of the tutelage and repeated use, the skill had become second nature; the location and information it provided nearly automatic. With hardly a blink of his eyes he could find any phrenic inside the walls of Vim even as he blocked strikes from Paasek with ease. Ryl could penetrate Paasek’s defenses without distraction from the incoming information. As he progressed, so too did the speed of the training. The pair spun around the room in a coordinated volley of strikes and parries, blocks and counter attacks.

  As his skills advanced, a blindfold was often added to the equation. Though the thought of fighting another phrenic was unheard of, the Outland Horde displayed their own signatures, similar to that of the phrenics. Ryl shuddered at the thought of the inky black voids he’d seen in his vision as the Horde had stalked he and Andr from afar. Paasek, with the help of several other phrenics, would stalk silently around the edges of the room, while Ryl remained in the center. In random succession, they’d dart across the area at him, forcing him to evade their incoming attacks. A delayed reaction on his part was followed by a painful strike to his body.

  There were times that the phrenics seemed to relish the chance to cause a small undue amount of discomfort. Muted chuckles echoed through the training chamber as they struck as a coordinated team, intent on bringing him to the ground. Ryl bit his tongue, taking the abuse in stride. His mind was steadied by the reassurance that all had likely faced training similar to this in their time.

  The implementation of the woodskin was far and away the most painful of the skills to train. He and his phrenic tutor would spar in unarmed combat; Ryl would be permanently on defense. Paasek would launch strikes at varying locations on Ryl’s body with ever-changing speed and intensity. Sometimes the blows would come in rapid succession, others would delay for harrowing moments of anticipation as the more experienced phrenic circled patiently.

  The strength contained in even the lightest of strikes from Paasek was tremendous. The phrenic tutor struck with only a fraction of his power, yet the blows still felt as if his fists were made of stone. Ryl couldn’t imagine the force that accompanied a fully powered strike. He squirmed at the thought of the damage. Images of the ruin of the assassins that had failed their assigned task to end his life in the Erlyn flashed before his eyes. He choked back a wave of nausea. Ryl had thought his skill had been adequate. The bruises were a lingering reminder that he still had much to learn.

  The training of the soulborne wind progressed with the advances in understanding the phrenic mindsight and woodskin. Though the skill was foreign to Paasek he’d set up various tasks and practices allowing Ryl to hone the ability towards perfection. At first, wooden dummies clothed with straw filled apparel were arranged around the room. On commands from his mentor, Ryl launched focused attacks with bursts of wind. Powerful blasts were directed at the chest, throwing the dummies into the air while more narrow, focused beams of wind targeted the arms; knocking loose weapons. A large sweeping motion sent a wave of air into the legs, toppling the helpless dummies.

  For more precision training, Paasek tasked Ryl with blowing out the flame of individual candles set in a single candelabra. The initial results were rough. Droplets of wax splattered the wall behind the small wooden table that had been arranged for him. His precision aiming had seen dramatic improvements yet was still far from anything that could be considered mastery.

  Ryl had gained remarkable control over his skills, though he still felt as if a crucial piece was missing. The persistent lingering doubt riddled his mind, reminding him that there was still much he was incapable of. Still much he had yet to understand.

  Ryl smiled at Paasek as he entered the chamber. His cautious eyes assessed the room for signs of any impending attacks. On several occasions, Ryl had been caught off guard; a painful lesson he was determined not to forget. His smile faded into a questioning look as he noted the subtle change in the feeling of the room. There was a distinct air of uncertainty and hesitance.

  Paasek stood stoic with his arms folded across his chest, a stern look written across his face. To his left stood a small table, with a leather pouch the size of his fist resting on its surface. The top was securely cinched shut. To his right, the darkened recesses of the short, dead end tunnel were lit by a single candle burning in a tall, thin holder at its end. Ryl could see the hilt of a small dagger tucked into Paasek's belt, peeking out from behind the edge of his cloak.

  “What’s happening?” Ryl hesitated. He stopped just shy of the center of the earthen floor of the phrenics training circle.

  “I have taught you all that I can, my friend,” Paasek intoned. “The time is past due that you take your place among the phrenics who’ve walked this world.”

  “I still feel there is so much I am missing,” Ryl protested. “That there are missing pieces that have yet to fall into place.”

  Paasek flashed him a sympathetic smile.

  “Fear not, Ryl,” he said. “That is a feeling we have all experienced. It is natural at this point in the process. The skills you’ve exhibited far exceed those phrenic initiates; even most fully awakened phrenics will never achieve them. The raw, uncontrolled power that flows through you now would have driven most to madness, or pushed your body past the bounds of control. It’s a wonder you’ve been able to maintain them.”

  Paasek reached down, scooping up the small pouch from the table. He pivoted to his right, moving into the narrow hallway to his side.

  “Follow me,” he ordered.

  “What happens now?” Ryl asked as he tentatively stepped after the phrenic.

  His body was a mix of emotions. He was hesitant. The fear of the unknown. The uncertainty. The doubt in his readiness slowed his feet. At the same time, he felt the familiar heat, the quickening of the blood as it surged through his veins. With it came the uncontrollable urge to follow.

  Concentrating on placing one foot in front of the other Ryl shadowed the elder phrenic. As he entered the passage, the skin on his left breast, the home of the transference of power began to itch. The itching intensified with every step. He stopped suddenly, clutching at his chest. His skin in the center of the tattoo felt as if it were being twisted in place, stretching and pulling of its own accord. Ryl lifted his shirt, letting out an audible gasp at the sight. The concentric pattern of circular bands in the center of the tattoo were slowly rotating, each in a different direction.

  Paasek reached the end of the hall ahead of his, turning toward Ryl.

  “The transference,” Paasek gaped in wonder. “It’s fascinating to witness. You must work through the pain, Ryl.” He extended his hand toward Ryl, motioning him closer.

  Ryl let his shirt fall as he inhaled a deep, steadying breath. Each footstep was marked with increased pain as the bands on his chest rotated faster.

  “The chamber beyond has but two purposes,” Paasek whispered. His voice resounded in Ryl’s head like thunder. “The first is to break the seals, granting access to the full power of the transference.”

  Paasek removed the small dagger from his belt; the blade, colored crimson red, sparkled in the flickering light of the candle. As if in response to the blade’s presence, the faint, broken outline of a hand began to glow on the face of the wall at the end of the passage.

  “The second purpose is the awakening,” Passed
continued. “Though I’ve read no record of them being done simultaneously.”

  He extended his arm, in his palm was the small pouch from the table.

  “Should I be prepared for anything in particular?” Ryl questioned, his confidence wavering.

  “Inside you will find a small chamber, in the center of which burns an undying flame,” Paasek explained. “The fire requires but two things. The first being the contents of this pouch.”

  Paasek dropped the small bag into Ryl’s hand. The contents were surprisingly heavy for the size.

  “And the second?” Ryl wondered.

  The elder phrenic flipped the small dagger around in his hand offering it handle first to Ryl.

  “Your blood.”

  Chapter 38

  Ryl hesitantly accepted the knife from Paasek. The handle felt hot, as if it had been resting in a fire, yet the touch didn’t burn his skin.

  “I can accompany you no further,” Paasek said.

  Ryl looked at the phrenic, who smiled with a nod of his head.

  “What you experience inside will be an intimately personal event,” he whispered. “No phrenic will ever ask for details, nor are any to be given. When you are ready, place your hand on the wall and the pathway will open before you. You need not carry your weapons inside.”

  Ryl froze a moment before he removed the customized holster Deyalou had created, handing it with the Leaves to Paasek.

  The phrenic placed his hand on Ryl’s shoulder, the weight of his stony arm pushing him down. With a gentle squeeze and a nod of his head, he strode from the narrow hallway. Ryl listened for the sound of his footfall as they crossed the training grounds, continuing up the stairs until they faded away into silence.

  He was alone.

  The hand on the wall pulsed with a dull red glow, shining momentarily before fading back to the smoothed grey stone of the wall. Ryl closed his eyes, focusing on his breathing, calming his fraying nerves. The pain in his chest was tremendous, yet the call from his blood, driving him forward, overpowered the agony. The call from within was deafening; he could feel the voices urging him onward. He carefully tucked the blade of the knife into his belt, before extending his right hand toward the wall.

  He paused. His hand hovered a fingers width from the wall. The glowing outline on the stone burned bright, lighting the corridor with an intense red glow. Snaking tendrils of red vapor crept from the wall wrapping around Ryl’s hand. He resisted as the vapor tugged against him. The pull became overpowering, reeling his palm toward the mark on the stone. His resistance was insignificant, his strength immaterial compared to the magnetic attraction. Ryl's eyes were glued to the point of impact, watching with wary anticipation as his hand crept closer.

  As his palm contacted the glowing mark on the wall, his body was flooded with an overwhelming sense of relief and clarity. The burning sensation from his chest had intensified as he felt the rings rotating with terrifying speed. The pain was inconsequential to the calm that now coursed through his body.

  The glowing tendrils surrounding his hand released their hold, wisping away into nothingness like smoke escaping a dying fire. The glowing handprint on the wall faded out; the pull drawing him to the stone vanished. Ryl removed his hand from the cold rock of the wall.

  For a moment there was nothing.

  Only a hint of pain remained in his chest as it peaked over the salve that his blood provided. With a deafening groan and the grating of stone on stone, the wall before him shook. A cloud of dirt and dust released from its edges as its motion disturbed untold cycles of accumulation. The massive slab of rock withdrew into the wall on his right, revealing the chamber within.

  True to its description, the opening beyond was lit by the light of a single, wide flame, burning out of a shallow depression in the floor. The air forced out through the opening door was warm, yet did not smell of smoke. Ryl cautiously stepped beyond the receding stone door, his feet finding the earthen floor of the chamber with a muffled crunch of loose dirt.

  Compared to the marvels of architecture present throughout Vim, the chamber he stepped into was drab. The walls and ceiling were rough, glistening with moisture; more natural in appearance than fabricated by hand. The room was small, spanning less than five meters across.

  There was another groan from the wall behind him. He whipped around just in time to see the stone slab of a door slam into place with a deafening thud. The fire dimmed in response as the doorway closed. Ryl threw himself against the door in an involuntary response to the sight. His heart rate surged as he pushed against the rock with all his might. The stone gave no hint of moving.

  Ryl put his head against the warm slick wall. He could hear the rapid cadence of his heart beating in his ears. He could feel the reverberations rippling through the floor, as the fire danced along to the beat.

  The pain in his chest surged as his blood abruptly cooled. He fell to his knees, clutching his chest, the pouch rolling to the ground in front of him. Ryl squinted his eyes working through the pain as he crawled forward to collect the offering. With a grunt, he snatched the small bag, rising first to his knees then hobbling to his feet.

  With hands shaking from the pain, he struggled to open the pouch. A potent waft of complex aromas filled the room as the bag revealed its contents. The orange, powdery mixture inside smelled of earth, spice and a piney scent that reminded him of the forest. He shook his hand, jostling the contents, still in shock at the heft of the powder inside.

  With a sigh, Ryl took a staggered step forward, the heat from the flame growing more intense. Holding his shaking hand out above the fire, Ryl turned over the pouch, emptying its contents. As the mixture made contact with the fire, the greedy flames leaped up the column of powder. Ryl released his hold on the bag, falling back a step, shielding his face and eyes as the plume of fire reached the ceiling.

  For a moment the heat was stifling—Ryl felt as if he was burning alive—and the flare of light blinding. The heat and pain quickly subsided, yet his vision still suffered. He blinked his eyes, rubbing them with the base of his palms, working to correct his vision.

  A thick layer of smoke covered the ceiling of the chamber; the clouds within churned with the turmoil of a storm. Ryl watched as the dense wall of seething grey sank toward the floor. He pulled up on the collar of his shirt, covering his nose as the veil descended over his head. The thickened air was oppressive, and the haze burned his eyes. He gagged as the smoke found its way into his lungs. Ryl doubled over, hacking as the cloud replaced the oxygen in the chamber. The coughing fit only served to suck more of the pungent smoke into his lungs.

  Thankfully the layer of smoke passed quickly, though Ryl remained hunched over with his hands on his knees. He savored the clean air above as he watched the cloud reach the floor through tearing eyes. The thick grey mass dissolved as it touched the earth. Fleeing tendrils of smoke vanished as they rose from the ground.

  His lungs sucked in breath after breath of the fresh air. Though the smoke had cleared, the fog in his head remained. He felt dizzy, and his legs felt weak, tingling from loss of feeling. The sensation rapidly worked upward from the lower extremities of his body. Ryl panicked as the touch, or lack thereof, grew in his fingertips.

  There was one more task that needed completion.

  Ryl’s right hand fumbled as it withdrew the blood-red dagger from his waistband. He squeezed his fist around the blade’s handle until his knuckles went white. With all the concentration he could muster he closed his left fist around the thin blade. He squeezed it shut for a moment before wrenching the burning knife from his hand.

  The razor’s edge of the blade cut a thin line across his palm. The skin on either side of the incision splayed open for a moment before the blood pooled in its crease. He held his clenched fist out over the fire—a thin stream of blood rushed toward the waiting flame.

  The fire erupted as the first drop of falling blood ignited. A wave of energy surged outward forcing him off his feet, throwing him ba
ckward into the wall behind. The room exploded into a blinding white light.

  Ryl no longer felt his body. The tingle, the pins and needles that had started in his legs and arms had vanished. The agonizing twisting and stretching of the skin on his chest had faded along with his senses.

  Surrounding him was an aura of pure white.

  His vision was limited to the arc of his eyes. He had no sense of direction. No understanding of up nor of down. He had no sense of temperature, neither heat nor cold. There was no sound.

  For a moment he remained motionless.

  Slowly, his sense of self returned. The feeling started with his head, moving down his spine as it spread throughout his body. Still there was no pain from the slash in his hand, there was no hint of agony from the torquing skin on his chest. With his head now mobile he rotated it from side to side, surveying the surrounding scene.

  Up. Down. Left. Right

  In every direction, all was a wash of white.

  With his senses restored, Ryl looked at his body. He was naked. His eyes traveled to the tattoo on his chest. The rings rotated with a dizzying speed. The perfectly depicted lines coalesced into a blur. Yet still he felt nothing.

  He placed his right hand on his chest, covering the swirling tattoo. There was no hint of motion, only the steady beat of his racing heart.

  Ryl called on the mindsight.

  His body rejected the attempt.

  Ryl waved his hand, projecting the soulborne wind outward in a lazy arc.

  There was no wind save for the gentle wake from his arm’s movement.

  His body felt whole, yet somehow, deep inside he felt incomplete. The alexen, the power that surged through his veins was gone. He felt more exposed by the absence of the familiar feeling than he did with the absence of clothing. The sensation had been a constant companion the entirety of his life. The cavity left in its place was shocking. He felt as if a monumental void had opened in his body, as if a great piece of him was missing.