Cradle: Foundation (Cradle Collected Book 1)

by Will Wight

  “I swear to open my core to you and share my power,” Lindon said, though he was ashamed to hear his voice quaver a little. The hand on Orthos’ head was starting to get uncomfortably hot.

  Orthos’ mouth slid open. Thick, inky flames gathered in the back of his throat, streaked with red like blood.

  Eithan moved forward. Lindon took a step back, half-lifting his hand away from the sacred beast’s head.

  “I swear,” the turtle thundered, in a voice that slammed into Lindon’s ears.

  A stream of pure madra flowed from his strongest core, sucked away beyond his control. Lindon stumbled back, releasing his touch, but the bond between their souls did not break. Orthos drank in his power until the core was almost empty.

  Then a black-and-red river plunged into Lindon, burning through his madra channels like molten iron through his veins. It didn’t hurt nearly as much as he felt it should have; the worst part wasn’t pain, it was the feeling that his spirit was burning up. Crisping and blackening like a leaf in a fire. That he was dying, hollowed out.

  Everything that was Lindon was burning away.

  “Heaven and Earth Purification Wheel!” Eithan shouted.

  Lindon was still staring at his burning core as though at the stump of his own hand. His mind couldn’t process it aside from a sense of numbing horror.

  But Eithan’s words shook him awake.

  He dropped to his knees, picturing the stone wheel, pushing it harder than he ever had before. Now came the pain, scorching his soul in a way that was more than merely physical, but the fire helped him as well as hurt. Every rotation of the wheel drew in more Blackflame madra like a spindle gathering thread.

  He could hardly breathe, but that didn’t bother him now. All his mind, soul, and will was focused on the heavy stone wheel, churning away.

  Either this would work, or the dark fire would burn him to ash.

  ***

  Eithan watched the two of them with hands on his hips. Orthos and Lindon were both screaming, though he doubted either heard it, and tongues of Blackflame madra leaped around the cave, scorching through Lindon’s clothes, leaving grooves in stone. The aura of the place had gone wild, making this cave an oven and steadily devouring anything inside. A Copper who stepped inside this place would have the air scorched from their lungs and their skin crisped and blackened.

  So far, the plan was unfolding beautifully.

  He picked up Lindon’s pack and carried it to the entrance tunnel, where the air was relatively cooler. The books inside wouldn’t have lasted much longer without bursting into flames, and the pack itself would have eventually followed.

  Without turning his head, Eithan watched the boy and the turtle. They would still be a while. Advancing to Jade usually took some time, after all, even if you had help.

  In the meantime, Eithan took the opportunity to flip through Lindon’s possessions.

  He set aside the books, bandages, medical kit, rune-light, emergency rations, extra clothes, inkwell, spare brushes, blank scrolls, needles, thread, scripted fire-starter, sculptor’s chisel, carving-knife, soap, seven purple boundary flags—one broken—and a frying pan, carefully remembering the relative position of each item.

  Eithan had seen everything in here already, from the first moment they met, but he didn’t want Lindon to know he had interfered with anything. That would spoil the surprise.

  Finally, he unearthed what he’d been digging for: the Sylvan Riverseed’s case.

  It was a box of scripted, reinforced glass, big enough to contain a small cat. A river flowed around the edges, guided by a water-aura script that kept it in motion, but the center of the box was filled by a little grassy island. A finger-sized tree rose from one of the hills, life aura flowing through it in a verdant green web.

  Beside the tree stood the Sylvan itself, looking curiously up at Eithan through the lid of its tiny world.

  Sylvan Riverseeds were natural spirits—beings like Remnants, only born of accumulated vital aura rather than the death of a sacred artist. They only formed in places where the aura was both extremely strong and in perfect balance. If the aura slanted toward one aspect or another, a different natural spirit would form.

  Typically, you would find that balance of aura in the heart of a forest, next to a spring or a river. In such a place, air and earth, heat and cold, life and death all coexisted at the same point in roughly equal amounts.

  This spirit looked like a featureless puppet about three inches high, its body the vivid blue of a sunlit lake. It raised a hand to him, and its head split into a wide mouth, like a baby chick begging for food.

  Other Sylvans were better suited for different purposes, but Riverseeds were gentle and flexible. They could work with power of virtually any aspect, supplementing and supporting other forces.

  Which made them excellent raw materials. They were so malleable that a skilled craftsman could make a Riverseed into a guardian, a weapon, a guide, an elixir, a power source, a drudge, or—in some cultures—a very expensive cocktail.

  It was fortunate that Fisher Gesha had never noticed Lindon feeding his pet. There wasn’t much a Soulsmith couldn’t do with a Sylvan Riverseed.

  Not the rarest treasure, a Sylvan. But valuable. He had used elixirs made from Riverseed power to help Orthos, though such measures were only temporary. Only a long-standing contract could slowly mitigate the damage that centuries of Blackflame madra had done to his spirit.

  Over the weeks since Eithan had adopted Lindon, he’d considered many possible options for the spirit. In the end, he settled on the simplest possible result: he’d leave the Sylvan as it was. Its own pure, gentle powers would balance the corrosive, deadly Blackflame perfectly. No alteration needed.

  But perhaps a bit of…enhancement was in order.

  If the Sylvan had grown a little faster, Eithan wouldn’t need to act at all. But Lindon’s scales weren’t the most nourishing food.

  Eithan ran his thumbs along the glass, tripping a hidden catch and popping open the lid. The Sylvan ran around in circles at the sight, excited, making plopping noises like the drip of water into a pond.

  Extending one finger, Eithan conjured a spark of soulfire.

  The gray-white flame was half-transparent, like the memory of a flame rather than a flame itself. Unlike a natural blaze, it was perfectly round, spinning slowly and throwing off the occasional flare like a dull, tiny sun.

  This was only a fragment of the writhing, spectral gray mass of soulfire that hovered in his spirit, just a few inches above his core. Other Underlords would weave as much soulfire as they could afford, hoarding it against an emergency, but Eithan counted on his ability to make more at a moment’s notice. Thanks to the sense provided by his bloodline, he could always find more fuel.

  Heat surged against his back, reminding him that time was still ticking on, so without any further hesitation, he flicked the spark into the Riverseed.

  Soulfire sunk into the Sylvan’s body, and a deeper blue color spread like dye. In an instant, it went from a bright, sunny blue-green to the deep sapphire of the open ocean. The spirit surged and stretched, inflated by the influx of power, growing until its head would scrape the bottom of the glass case’s lid. Its hands split into fingers, long blue hair grew from its scalp, and its body flowed into more human curves.

  After only a second, the Riverseed panicked.

  It flailed its arms, staring at horror at its new fingers. That sight drove it to the far end of the case, jumping into the flowing river. Realizing it was now too big to submerge entirely, it scampered back and huddled under its tree instead.

  Eithan chuckled. The enhancement of soulfire was painless and harmless. It could be a bit disconcerting, but in the end, it was nothing but a benefit.

  But it did require a certain amount of power for the changes to stabilize. With that in mind, he Forged a scale himself: identical in size to Lindon’s, it was a vivid blue-white, and anyone with the least skill in perception could sense its power an
d density. In the Blackflame Empire, they would call this a superior-grade scale, and it would be worth about ten thousand of Lindon’s.

  Eithan created it in an instant, letting it drop into the case.

  Even huddled under the tree, the Sylvan snapped at food. Its mouth opened wide, and it swallowed the scale in a second, which quickly broke down into nourishing energy.

  The transformation surged forward again, the spirit growing even more defined. When the details finally settled, Eithan was somewhat surprised to see what stood there: it was very clearly a tiny woman in a flowing dress, all seemingly formed from azure liquid.

  It wasn’t unusual for more advanced spirits to start taking on humanoid forms, but Eithan had expected it to look more like him. Evidently Lindon had a strong impression that the spirit was female, which had influenced its shape.

  She peered up at him with what had been a featureless face a moment before. With one finger, she brushed what looked like hair out of her new-formed eyes and gave him a sharp grin.

  Then she straightened up, all of four inches tall, and bowed at the waist.

  Eithan inclined his head graciously in return, and shut the lid.

  ***

  Orthos’ spirit felt like a boulder stopping up a volcano: a heavy, steady presence restraining boundless fury. Lindon could feel him even with his eyes shut, could point to the turtle in complete darkness.

  But then, he could feel everything now.

  His body was like a rag that had been squeezed dry, but his spirit soared. Orthos’ presence blazed next to him, and the power of the cave surrounded them both like a warm blanket. Pinpoints of energy dotted the caverns for at least a few dozen yards before his perception faded out. Some of those points felt dangerous, even hostile, but some were calm, or else so alien that he couldn’t read them at all. He found that he could tell which of the points were stronger and which weaker, just as he could tell which stars were brighter than others.

  All of them, it seemed, were weaker than Lindon.

  Eithan stood at the entrance to the chamber—Lindon couldn’t see him, but he could feel him, a steady presence that was strangely blurred. For the first time, he couldn’t tell whether the power behind that blur was strong or weak.

  Lindon focused on that presence, and his perception flowed out, like a finger he’d reached into the distance. He couldn’t hear or see anything this way, not like the Arelius family apparently could, but all the powers of madra and aura were clear to him.

  He placed that finger of awareness on Eithan, and the Underlord laughed. Lindon’s eyes snapped open; Eithan was standing over him, much closer than Lindon had expected.

  “How are you enjoying Jade?” Eithan asked, reaching out a hand to help him stand.

  “This is Jade…” Lindon checked his cores. Sure enough, one of his cores was no longer the bright blue of its twin, but a ball of black flames shot through with the occasional flash of red. The Blackflame core rotated slowly without his direction, grinding in rhythm with his breath.

  “Barely,” Orthos grumbled. The bright circles of red in his black eyes were fixed on Lindon, and a new emotion soaked into Lindon from their bond: arrogance. The turtle took a bite out of the rock as though it were made of cheese, speaking through a mouthful of gravel. “You almost burst under my power.”

  He had, but he was already forgetting the pain: Orthos had taken him another stage higher.

  The Patriarch of the Wei clan was only Jade.

  Lindon bowed at the waist, speaking with sincerity. “Gratitude, honored Orthos. I am grateful beyond words for the gift of your power, though I am not worthy of even this small fraction.”

  Orthos’ pride flared up, and he stood straighter, until his shell almost scraped the low cavern ceiling. “Yes. You will not lack for rewards in my service.”

  Eithan patted the turtle’s nose, though Orthos jerked back like an affronted child. “Congratulations on your new subordinate, Orthos. If I may remind you: this clarity of yours will not last for long. If you want Lindon to share this burden with you, you should see to his training yourself.”

  The dragon-turtle snorted, and black flames shot from his nostrils. “My memory is dim, but I remember you. You never spoke with proper respect.”

  Eithan slipped his hands into the pockets of his outer robe. His grin widened. “Do I owe you respect?”

  “I do not fear Underlords,” Orthos said, words underscored by a growl that shook the earth. “Your advancement means nothing before a dragon’s breath.”

  Eithan drew himself up. “Sir! If this is an issue of respect, we should settle it like proper citizens of the Blackflame Empire. Let a friendly exchange of techniques decide whether you take the reins of Lindon’s training, or whether I kneel to you as my master.”

  Though the Underlord’s smile had been wiped away by an expression of haughty dignity, a playful sparkle remained in his eyes.

  Orthos’ satisfaction radiated through their bond, and his eyes glowed bright. “Trial by combat,” he said. “Let it be so.”

  The temperature spiked again as Eithan and Orthos faced each other, ready to do battle.

  Lindon grabbed his pack and ran.

  As the battle broke out behind him, his spirit shook with fear and warning…but that didn’t stop him from digging around in his pack for his box of badges.

  It was time to exchange his iron for jade.

  Chapter 11

  “Vital aura is the power of the world,” Orthos said, limping up the tunnel. His left foreleg wasn’t visibly injured, but the pain he felt at every step flashed through Lindon’s soul. “Even a hatchling understands this.”

  Despite the turtle’s injury, Lindon still had to hurry to catch up. Based on his limited Jade perception, he would say Orthos’ power was comparable to a Truegold, and he had speed to match. “Please excuse my ignorance. I am honored to have a teacher with such power and wisdom.”

  Orthos’ head rose slightly, pleased and proud. “I have never lowered myself to teach Coppers before, but you have latched yourself onto my soul. I should at least treat you like a descendant. Hm. Vital aura. It builds in everything, over time, and can grant great power.

  “A stone is a piece of the earth, and it builds earth aura. An ordinary stone has only a mouthful of aura, but as the centuries pass, it grows stronger and stronger. It will continue absorbing power from the earth until it transforms. If left undisturbed, an ordinary rock will grow into a nugget of Titan’s Bone: all but unbreakable.”

  “Forgiveness, but surely all stone should be unbreakable by now, if this is only a function of time.” Lindon reminded himself to ask Eithan about Titan’s Bone.

  “Sacred artists have an endless appetite,” Orthos grumbled, scooping up a mouthful of rocks nearby and crunching them like candy. “A vein of vital aura piling up in the ground is a treasure trove for earth artists. They will stop at nothing to harvest it for their own advancement. A single candle-flame might be enough for you to cycle, but for a true expert, such a weak source is useless. They might as well try eating air.”

  Orthos lumbered up the path, his emotions growing distant as he drifted into a memory. “Advancement is an endless hunt for greater and greater sources of power. You start by feeding on the aura in candles and campfires, but sooner than you think, you’ll be hunting for dragon hearts and sunreaver stones and sacred flames. Always climbing…”

  Back in Sacred Valley, the Wei clan had cycled aura at dawn, when the light from Samara’s ring and sunlight had intermingled, and when dreams still lingered in their minds. Lindon had never thought of aura as something that could be taken away; light and dreams were not stationary objects that could build up vital aura over time.

  The explanation made sense. The Transcendent Ruins had drawn in vital aura from miles around, leaving the surroundings dim and washed-out in his Copper sight. Lindon had thought of that process as something like taking in a breath: the Ruins may have inhaled, but that didn’t mean there was any les
s air outside. Now, he imagined it more like draining a bucket and waiting for rain to fill it back up.

  “We cycle aura to trap a portion in our souls, adding to our power,” Orthos continued, returning to the present. “It changes the nature of our madra, and over time, it teaches your core to generate madra of that aspect.”

  That much, Lindon understood. “Is there such thing as pure vital aura? With no aspect?”

  Orthos rumbled deep in his throat. “There are more aspects of aura than sparks in a wildfire, but they always take some form. Always. Asking for pure aura is like asking for dry water.”

  “And Ruler techniques?”

  “Madra controls aura, and aura controls nature. Water artists can walk on the ocean, call rain, and so on. Earth artists open doors in stone. Force artists can make a feather hit with the power of a collapsing boulder.”

  Lindon thought he understood. The Path of the White Fox could craft an illusion out of madra, but its Ruler technique affected the mind and eyes directly so that the target believed they saw something.

  But he was still testing his Blackflame core, running his awareness over it like a child unwilling to release a new toy.

  “What use is there for fire aura? Surely you can set things on fire with madra, rather than bothering with a Ruler technique.”

  Orthos was quiet for a full minute, chewing on the occasional stone. Lindon was considering how best to apologize when the turtle finally spoke.

  “For some Paths, this is true. For ours…” One red-and-black eye swiveled to meet Lindon’s gaze. “Imagine you have finished a battle. Your breath has driven your enemies before you, and now their corpses lie smoldering on the field. Smoke and flames rise in testament to your power, and courage has left your foes. They flee. You know you cannot catch them all.”

  A dark, twisted root stuck out from the wall. Suddenly Orthos snapped at it, tearing a length of wood the size of Lindon’s arm out of the stone.

  He spat it onto the floor, where it burst into smoky, black-streaked flames.