by Will Wight
A white forest, long ago. A ring of swords in the snow.
Yerin ran a thumb across one paper-thin scar on the back of her hand, remembering. Her madra dissipated, her Goldsign retreating.
Eithan was smart enough not to crow about his victory. If he had given her so much as a smug look, she’d have peeled his face away. Instead, he spoke as though nothing had happened. “Your foundation is excellent, as I’d expect from a master like yours. But I’m sure you know your advancement is lacking.”
She didn’t even need to nod. Within Lowgold, she could call herself strong. But the gap to Highgold was a chasm. She could barely control her Goldsign, much less the powerful madra that had come with her master’s Remnant. She’d left it mostly alone so far; when she touched that reserve of inherited power, she felt like an infant strapped to the back of a war-trained stallion. She didn’t even like to think of it.
“I’m sure the Sage of the Endless Sword would have had greater insight in regards to sword Paths, but I can offer a few observations of my own.”
She looked from his pristine hair to his expensive, unstained clothes. “You think you’re a sword artist, do you?”
If he said he was, she wasn’t listening to another word from this liar’s mouth.
“I prefer not to use a weapon at all. None of them seem to suit me. But sword Paths are common because they’re very simple.”
She was still trying to figure out if he needed his teeth punched out for that insult when he continued. “You need to push yourself.”
She gave that some measured thought. True, she’d felt something when she fought off three Sandviper soldiers on the slopes of Mount Samara. Not comfortable, exactly, but like she was moving along a familiar road. And it hadn’t been long ago when she’d honed herself to the peak of Jade by engaging in endless battle with the Heaven’s Glory School.
Eithan continued, still leaning against the door that held a begging Lindon. “Advancement along sword Paths is very straightforward at this stage. Immerse yourself in the sword, cycle on the battlefield, and find opponents who will push you to the very edge of life and death. There’s a reason why it’s one of the most common aspects.”
Yerin nodded once. Her teacher had said similar things, but every stage of advancement was different. He’d actually stopped her from fighting when she was Iron, for fear that she’d ruin her foundation for Jade. “You know where I can find any of that in here?”
He grinned and pushed off from the wall. “You’ll need your sword to really practice, so just sit and cycle until I return. We have to make sure you’re in your best condition, don’t we?”
Eithan paused for a moment, then added, “If he dies before I get back, you should know that I am sorry. But some Paths are shorter than others.”
Before she could respond, he hooked a finger under his iron collar and tugged. With a wrenching shriek, the iron split and tore.
He tossed the ruined metal behind him and left, whistling a cheery tune.
Yerin pulled at her own collar, just in case someone had replaced it with a rusted copy, but it remained firm. She could just barely scrape together enough madra to Enforce herself, but not enough to tear metal with her bare hands. She and Eithan should have been on the same level: left with nothing more than the strength of their bodies. They might as well have been Iron.
How had he done it?
Something smacked against the door from the other side, and Yerin stopped fiddling with her collar. She stared at the scripted line of stone, aching for her spiritual sight. Without it, she felt like she had one eye plucked out.
“Lindon?”
Silence for a moment, then something scrambled on the floor. Seconds later, Lindon’s voice came through, ragged and breathless. “Can you open the door? Is Eithan there? How did he close it?”
Yerin sighed. “I’m coming up empty on that count. You’re stuck with a rusty patch, that I can tell you.”
A muffled sound that she couldn’t identify came between her words and his response. “Yerin,” he said, “I’m going to die. I can’t…I can’t do this, I’m running them around in circles, but I don’t have…anything.”
She wasn’t sure that she heard every word, but she got the main thrust of it. She’d said the same things to her master, over and over again, ever since she was a girl.
Yerin sat, leaning her back against the door. “You’ve got no cards left in your hand, you’re staring death in the eyes, and nobody’s there to pull you out. That sound true so far?”
“Yerin, please, it’s coming back.”
She continued. “That’s how you advance. When you can’t count on anybody else, that’s when you know if you’ve got what it takes. It’s painful, it’s bloody, and it’s hard. You can take shortcuts if you’ve got a fortune to burn on elixirs and treasures, but if you don’t…”
Another scuffle came from behind her, and Lindon didn’t respond. He may have been fighting, but she continued talking as though he could hear. “The sacred arts are a game, and your life is the only thing you’ve got to bet. You want to move up? This is what up looks like.”
Silence was her only response.
She sat against the door, remembering all the times she’d stared death in the eyes. It had started when she was a young girl, before she’d met her master, and she was sure the heavens would strike her dead for her sins. That had lasted for…longer than she cared to recall.
Lindon didn’t deserve anything like that, but here he was anyway. The longer the silence stretched, the more certain she became that he was dead. She couldn’t say she hadn’t seen it coming; if you bet on the longest odds, you were going to lose more than you won.
But she waited in the endless dark of the Ruins, only the flickering light of the script on the wall for company, straining her ears as time slid by.
When she finally caught a sound, it almost deafened her. The explosion was like a cross between a wolf’s howl and the crack of a firework, and it came with a green flash from the gaps around the door.
She was on her feet in a second, slapping the heel of her hand against the door and demanding to know what was happening.
For the first minutes, she heard only scrapes and grunts from the other side, like a man dragging something heavy across the ground. After an age, footsteps.
“Forgive me,” Lindon said, his voice strained and tight. “I was begging like a coward, and I made you listen. I am ashamed.”
“Everything steady in there, Lindon?” she asked, straining her ears as though she could hear an injury. “All your pieces still on?’
This time, she thought she heard a faint note of pride. “Sacred beasts are still beasts, after all. I crushed them under a rock. Their Remnants were the tricky part, but I tossed a scale between them and they fought for it until one died. Had to tear the dead one’s tail off and use the stinger to finish off the other, but that’s nothing to a sacred artist, right?”
“Just one more day,” Yerin said, letting out a deep breath and relaxing against the door again. “Don’t know why you’re crowing about it. Any day where I haven’t beaten a Remnant to death with its own limb is a holiday.”
He gave a weak laugh. “Forgiveness. I let my head get too big.” He hesitated, and then added, “If you could find a way to open the door, I would still be grateful.”
For a second, she thought it was a heaven-sent miracle: at his words, the door actually started to grind open.
“I had every faith in you!” Eithan called from only a few feet down the hall, and Yerin staggered to her feet. She hadn’t felt him approach at all. She knew it was the collar’s effect, but it was still unnerving, as though he’d popped out of nowhere.
Eithan removed his hand from the script, smiling broadly. The Thousand-Mile Cloud floated behind him, sullen and red, with Lindon’s pack seated comfortably on top of it. Two packs, in fact: his big one, bulging with all the knickknacks he carried around, and the smaller one he’d planned on filling with scales s
tolen from the Sandvipers.
And beneath it, peeking out from the edge of the cloud, her sheathed sword.
“If you can get out anytime you want,” Yerin said, “let’s leave. This place is like a graveyard stuffed into a cave.”
“Why leave?” Eithan asked. “Everything we need is right here.”
The door had opened completely by then, revealing Lindon standing stunned at the bottom of the stairs. He was leaning with one hand on the wall, displaying a collection of scrapes and bruises, but the corpse of a Sandviper Remnant lay sprawled on the stairs behind him. He held a bright green stinger as long as his arm in one hand, hilt wrapped in cloth so he didn’t have to touch the toxic madra directly. He’d torn off one of his sleeves to provide the fabric.
Truth was, he actually looked like a real sacred artist. With his sharp eyes, broad shoulders, and the severed Remnant arm bleeding sparks of essence, he looked like a Jade ready to advance to Lowgold. It was a much better look on him than how she’d found him, all clean and cringing and weak.
Eithan tossed the two packs to Lindon, who had to drop his improvised weapon to catch them. He stumbled back a few steps, almost falling onto the stairs.
“Make sure to take notes,” Eithan said, pointing to the pack. “Wear your parasite ring and keep your breathing straight. I put some scales in there for you, but I’m keeping the cloud.” He patted the construct with one hand. “I need a bed.”
Then he slapped the wall, and the door started sliding shut again.
Lindon lunged forward, but Eithan had already thrust his palm forward. He struck Lindon in the chest, sending him tumbling backwards.
When the door slammed closed, Lindon screamed wordlessly from the other side.
Eithan brushed his sleeves, smiling at Yerin as though he’d heard nothing. “That should keep him occupied for a few weeks. Now, I believe I mentioned something about you needing an opponent.”
He tossed her sheathed sword to her and drew a weapon of his own: a pair of wrought iron fabric scissors.
“Best weapon I could find,” he said apologetically, snipping them open and closed. “Now, if you’re ready, let’s begin.”
***
Jai Long was having Fisher problems.
Kral's father, the chief of the Sandviper sect, still hadn't returned from his hunt. He'd sent word that he was alive and well, but that was little comfort to Jai Long, because the chief's absence meant that Kral was in charge.
And Kral took responsibility in one way: by leaving it to Jai Long.
So it was that he found himself standing next to the First Fisher, Ragahn, waiting for the old man to say something.
They stood in the shade of an old tree—its leaves were half blackened by the rot of the dreadbeasts, like so much in the Desolate Wilds, but it provided a relief from the sun nonetheless.
Ragahn, the leader of the Fisher sect, looked like a beggar who had chosen that spot to plead for coins. His gray hair hung loose, his feet were bare, his robe brown and stained, and his Fisher's hook—the blade longer than his arm and sharp on the inside—was made of rust-patched iron, dangling carelessly from his belt. He held a net over one shoulder, packed tight with severed dreadbeast parts. They were fresh, still dripping blood, and the stench was almost painful.
But Jai Long stood there, his expression covered by the strips of cloth that masked his Goldsign. He peered out through the gap in the red mask, resisting the temptation to cover the silence.
The First Fisher had come to him before dawn, almost exactly two weeks after Jai Long had sent Gesha's recruits into the mines. He'd assumed that was what the visit was about, but the old man had never said. He simply grunted, indicated that Jai Long should follow him outside, and then left.
For the next hour, they'd stood underneath a tree, as the bloody pieces in the Fisher's net slowly dried.
Jai Long wondered if this patience was perhaps the secret of Ragahn's advancement. The beggar chief was one of the few Truegolds in the entire Wilds, which meant that he'd gained complete control over the Remnant in his core. His Goldsign was very subtle; a stranger may not even notice the webs between his fingers.
Once, Truegold had seemed like the pinnacle of achievement. He'd worked himself half to death to get closer, eventually achieving Highgold himself, only to discover that his particular Goldsign would never go away. His face would remain hideous no matter how far he advanced.
Now, he had other reasons to work. The Jai clan wouldn't take his sister back anymore, and she had no one else. To create a home for her, even Truegold wouldn't be enough.
Finally, the First Fisher spoke. “Have you finished your map?”
Jai Long didn't dare to twitch to betray his support. He responded with bland confidence. “My miners keep their eyes open.”
Ragahn adjusted his grip on the net. “You have. So why aren't you holding the spear?”
He was right. Jai Long had finished the map over a week ago, but they still didn't understand the script running throughout the Ruins, so he couldn't access the chambers he needed to open the top of the pyramid. The spear should be inside, though he had no independent confirmation of that. If it wasn't, he was going to have some harsh questions to answer when Kral's father returned.
It was frustrating, because Jai Long may have been able to force his way in with a more varied toolset. He had access only to artists on the Path of the Sandviper, as well as his own Path of the Stellar Spear. Neither of them were suited for scouting or breaking seals.
But Fishers adopted a peculiar twist on the aspect of force. In some way that Jai Long didn't understand, they could draw objects in like fishermen pulling on invisible lines. They might have some way to open the doors without manipulating the script.
If the First Fisher was here to strike some sort of bargain, then a little honesty might be in order.
“The script has slowed our progress,” Jai Long allowed. “I'm confident that we will make our way inside, given enough time.”
“Time,” Ragahn repeated, as though chewing on the word. “The Arelius family is almost here. I've seen the black crescent banners myself. Three days, no more.”
Jai Long would hardly have met with an enemy without a weapon in his hand, and his knuckles whitened around his spear's shaft. He'd hoped for a little more time. Unless something changed, he wouldn't be able to break the script in three days.
He was about to bend his own pride far enough to ask for help when the First Fisher spoke. “I'll buy your map.”
“You want to pay for it?”
“It's useless to you. May as well make a profit. I'll take it, clean out the Ruins before the Underlord gets here.”
Leaving nothing for Jai Long, much less the Sandvipers.
The First Fisher would no doubt pay well for the map. He was one of the richest individuals in the Wilds, despite his appearance, and he had his reputation to consider. If he shorted a sect like the Sandvipers, none of the other factions would deal with him.
But that would require Jai Long to admit defeat.
“I would be happy to share whatever bounty we find inside the Ruins with anyone who participates in its retrieval. If you would like to lend me your abilities, I will distribute rewards on merit.”
Ragahn chuckled deep in his chest, as though trying to rid himself of a cough. “The bones of the earth will bend before a sacred artist's pride.”
He heaved the net of severed dreadbeast limbs off his shoulder and dropped it next to the tree trunk, turning to Jai Long. He spread empty, webbed hands in a show of peace. “We'll compete with honor, to save face for our sects.”
“You can't call that a competition,” Jai Long said, contempt in his voice. “The other factions will never stand for it.” Ragahn was a Truegold, with the power to do whatever he wished, and Jai Long couldn’t stop him. But honor and fear for the Fisher reputation should keep the old man from pushing a mere Highgold around.
The First Fisher slowly shook his head. “You question m
y honor again, boy, and you're taking your life in your hands.”
Jai Long carefully did not shiver.
“No, I happen to have a disciple. He's Highgold himself, like you are, and he's more than happy to stand for a traditional duel. Aren't you, Lokk?”
He raised his voice on the last word, and Lokk of the Fishers stepped out of the trees a hundred yards away. He raised a hand in greeting, then dashed toward them, covering the distance with impressive speed. Jai Long had met the man before; he was early in his second decade and had already reached Highgold, which made him a peer with Kral and Jai Long.
He was short but thin, with disproportionately long arms and a pair of steel Fisher's hooks on his back. He and his sister were the only two Fishers who used a pair of hooks in battle, as far as Jai Long knew.
He wondered if the man had been waiting in the woods for over an hour, just in case his name was called. With a man like the First Fisher as his master, he probably did a lot of waiting.
Lokk bowed over his fists to Ragahn. “The disciple greets his master,” he said, then bowed again to Jai Long. “We could settle this debate by exchanging pointers, as fellow travelers on the path of sacred arts.”
This move of the First Fisher's didn't surprise Jai Long. Sects and Schools dueled one another as often as clans did, for any and all reasons: for pride, for trading rights, to settle disputes, to avoid wholesale slaughter. The faction capable of raising the best disciple was considered to be the strongest, and the strongest got what they wanted.
He had no problem with the logic, but Ragahn was trying to get him to draw his weapon. If he did...well, it was rare to emerge from a duel unscathed. And since Jai Long was currently the de facto leader of the Sandviper sect, any wound on his part would result in a weakening of the Sandvipers as a whole. Win or lose, the First Fisher would get what he wanted. And if Jai Long refused, his reputation would take a hit that might be more fatal than a physical wound. Even the Sandvipers would turn on a coward.
Fortunately, Jai Long had planned ahead. He gestured, and a watching Sandviper relayed his signal.
Kral emerged from a nearby building, standing tall and proud. His fine furs were as rich and dark as his hair, and his sandviper Goldsign twisted around his arm. He covered the distance between them in seconds, arriving before Ragahn in a gust of wind.