by Will Wight
Lindon felt suddenly cheated. “If we can't find it...”
“It's lost to the Jai clan. Not to me. While it would give me great pleasure to see you defeat their heir with the Path they've been desperately hunting for centuries, it would take us at least three months to gain access. That leaves you seven months to go from ignorant initiate to skilled sacred artist, and I...well, let's say that you would have the chance to surprise me.”
Watching the purple blade, Lindon had to wonder. If there was another way to delay Jai Long or put off this confrontation, maybe he could find the time he needed to learn. It was worth considering.
The red man flickered and reset to the middle of the room, his Forged weapon gone. The green man reappeared, once again spinning Jai Long's spear.
Eithan continued for the better part of an hour. He demonstrated the Path of Crawling Shades, which would turn Lindon’s shadow into a symbiotic Remnant of darkness that devoured enemy techniques. He shows off the Path of Twisting Rivers, which used a technique of combined Ruler and Striker disciplines to accelerate Forged water until it sliced through steel.
The Path of the Last Oath was designed for and by Soulsmiths, and relied on Forging basic constructs on the fly and using them like disposable puppets. With its power, Lindon could counteract Jai Long’s shining serpents and bury him beneath the weight of his own improvised minions. The Path of Grasping Sky would allow him to grip Jai Long with a Ruler technique and then crush his windpipe as a Striker.
Lindon was very intrigued by the possibilities—and by the vast emerald wingspan that came with it—until Eithan told him that the Grasping Sky was the Path of the imperial clan.
Lindon preferred not to make more enemies than necessary, so he reluctantly set that Path aside.
Eithan snapped his fingers as though something had occurred to him. “You know, if Paths of the nobility interest you, I do have one last possibility...”
A dull flash, and the red man reappeared. This time, its hands were swallowed by a substance that looked like black fire, or a thick concentration of inky smoke. The black was streaked with scarlet, so that the figure held two handfuls of dark and bloody rolling flame.
That caught Lindon's interest immediately. The fireballs were intimidating, and this fit his image of a sacred artist: conjuring balls of strange-colored fire. His own clan had used purple foxfire for centuries.
“The Blackflame family united this empire, and ruled it until the Naru took over only five decades ago.”
The green man raised his spear, but the red one blasted it apart, a bar of dark fire slicing through emerald flesh. The technique sliced through him like a red-hot blade through snow.
“Their power came from the dragons that originally roamed these lands. It's one part fire to one part pure destruction.”
This time, after the green man died, it came back in seconds. It wove a net of twisting serpents in the air with its spearhead.
Black flames ate through the technique, and then the enemy.
“It's not versatile at all, really. It's a potent, violent Path designed for war. Its chief advantage is that it doesn't demand a great degree of control; the main technique involves spraying fire in the general direction of something you want to destroy. Doesn't require much finesse.”
The green man appeared again, moving to strike the red man in a blink, but it passed through a curtain of black flames and died once more.
“Children of the Blackflame family were deadly threats even at Copper.”
Lindon waited for the hook. He didn't like the rigid nature of the Path much; those techniques were made for blowing things apart, and nothing else. He would prefer something with some subtlety to it, some creativity.
But it did offer him exactly what he was lacking: the ability to break through Jai Long's techniques. And it didn't demand expertise, just a basic competence in Striker techniques.
It appeared to be exactly what he needed.
“There have to be some disadvantages,” he said.
“Oh, of course there are. There's a reason why the family lost the Empire and all but died out: this madra eats away at your body as you use it. Blackflames tended to lose their reason in their later years, or else they ended up twisted husks. Their bodies couldn't keep up with their power.”
Eithan waited expectantly, and Lindon soon caught on. “But mine...”
“The Bloodforged Iron body is tailor-made to resist corrosive breakdown like this, though it will burn through your madra like a bonfire through dry leaves. So you won’t be able to rely on that for long.”
“Didn’t the Blackflame family have bodies like mine?” The resources for Lindon’s Bloodforged Iron body had come from a cave in the Desolate Wilds; he had to assume a rich clan from an empire would have the means to do even better.
“They chose their bodies to maximize combat potential, but you? You just need to survive. A real Blackflame disciple might tear you apart head-to-head, but you won’t lose control of your limbs by the age of sixty. You also have the advantage of a second core, and switching to Blackflame only as needed will minimize the strain. So long as you take the time to cleanse your channels after using Blackflame madra extensively, it shouldn’t eat into your lifespan at all.”
Then it was perfect for him. “Why did you show me those other Paths, if you were going to lead me to this one all along?”
Eithan put on a shocked look. “I am a man of my word. If you decide you want to learn another of these fine Paths, then by all means, I will accept your decision.”
Lindon stood, considering. The Grasping Sky was eliminated because of its political implications, the Crawling Shade because it would make Lindon look too sinister to trust. The Last Oath was purely defensive, which wasn't what he needed to win a duel. Broken Star would take too long to find.
“What about Jade Rivers?” Lindon asked.
“Oh, absolutely! Absolutely. As long as you think you can perfectly master a combination Ruler, Striker, Forger technique in the next ten months. And if you think you can evade a Truegold's attacks while taking five seconds to prepare that technique, yes. A fine choice.”
Lindon rubbed his forehead and gave in. “The Path of Black Flame, is it?”
“Since the only family ever to use it was the Blackflames, that's what we commonly call it. Either the Blackflame Path or the Path of Black,” he exaggerated the pause, “Flame. We like our names simple here.”
“Is that family going to come after me for using it?”
“Who cares what they think? They're dead. Mostly.”
“…mostly?”
“And I doubt the Imperial clan will be incredibly happy about us demonstrating the powers of their predecessor in public, so we're left with that little problem, but that's a minor detail. It isn't illegal to practice the Blackflame Path, unlike the Path of Grasping Sky.”
“That was illegal?”
“There are only a few places to harvest Blackflame aura in the entire Empire, but to our spectacular good fortune, the Path was created right here in Serpent's Grave!”
Lindon looked around the room. “We can practice here?”
“Not in this exact spot, no. What you're looking for is a location that naturally flows with the aura you'd like to practice. In this case, something that resonates with both fire and destruction. Destruction is one of the most difficult aspects of aura to find and cultivate, but fortunately for us, dragons radiate just as much of that as they do heat.”
Seeing the bones of a dragon was one thing, but Eithan seemed to be implying something entirely different.
“Pardon, but it sounds like we’re going to see a real dragon.” It was like learning he was about to feed a lion by hand: a unique experience, but far more terrifying than anything else.
“There's a cave in this very city where the Arelius family has sealed a descendant of the ancient dragons, and that cave is filled with such madra! What luck!”
Lindon finally caught on. “By chance, do
es that cave happen to be Underground Chamber Number Three?”
Eithan beamed and clapped him on the back. “By now, my servants should have the seals undone and a medical team standing by. After you!”
Chapter 10
Sand blew in waves against a cliff of black stone. A cave mouth opened into the mountain, rough and round, as though it had been chewed into the rock by a worm twice the height of a man. A script encircling the entrance shone scarlet, and though there was no door, a red haze rippled in the air—visible even without Lindon's Copper sight.
“There's a door deeper in, though the servants will have opened that for us,” Eithan explained as they approached. A huge stone had been rolled away from the entry, resting now to the side. “We don't want to hold it open for long. You can never be too careful when you're trying to prevent deadly beasts from escaping.”
Lindon gripped the straps of his pack tighter, feeling the weight of his halfsilver dagger in his pocket.
Half a dozen sacred artists in various uniforms dropped to their knees as Eithan approached, all of them wearing the colors of the Arelius family. One servant stood apart, outside the haze of the entryway, bowing at the waist.
“The scriptors have undone the prime seals,” he said. “Two stand ready to repair the script in the event of a breach, and three of the servants before you are trained healers with madra of blood and life. They lived through the fall of the Blackflames, and they should be able to counteract the Path’s powers if you make it outside.”
“Exemplary work as always, One-Thirteen,” Eithan said, pulling out his iron scissors to snip a stray thread from the servant's outer robe. “Keep it up, and soon I’ll have to start using your name. Do you have any—”
He was interrupted by a deep, bass roar that rumbled up from underground. It resonated in Lindon's chest, and he thought he could feel the sand beneath his shoes shaking.
He slipped one hand into his pocket for Suriel's marble, rolling its smooth, warm surface between his fingers.
“Agitated today, is he?” Eithan asked.
“His handlers say that company soothes him,” One-Thirteen responded, with a nervous glance behind him. “It seems they haven't had any volunteers since Lady Nakali lost her leg.”
“Ah, well, I can't say I blame them. Though the Soulsmiths made her a fine prosthetic, didn't they?”
“No expense was spared, I’m told, although surely she misses her flesh and blood.”
“Well, at least she can roast meat on her kneecap now. That should be some comfort.” The roar came again, and this time the cave mouth darkened with a red, smoky light. Eithan sighed. “I'm back now, so I’ll do my best to relax him. If all goes according to plan, I may have a permanent solution for you.”
The servant turned to regard the entry, but Lindon got the impression he was trying to look anywhere but at Eithan. “Underlord, if you don't mind, the handlers wanted me to remind you of the…merciful solution. He has rendered us great service, and it seems honorable to grant him rest. Please pardon my disrespect.”
Eithan rolled his shoulders and placed his palm against one of the runes on the side of the doorway. A ripple of almost-visible madra, and the light of the script died. “In this instance, One-Thirteen, I would rather extend grace than mercy.”
The haze in the entrance dissipated, and wind billowed out of the tunnel. The air outside had a slight chill to it—though there was no snow in Serpent's Grave, winter was almost upon them—but the breath of the cave felt like it was blowing from the door of a lit oven.
Servants bowed them inside, and as soon as Lindon and Eithan had passed the entrance, the field generated by the script sprang up behind them.
They walked down a long stone tunnel, its sides and floor scraped rough by the passing of ages.
“Who are we going to see?” Lindon asked, because asking what they were going to see felt somehow rude.
“We are going to meet Orthos, one of the family's oldest and most stalwart allies.” Eithan spoke with a wistful sadness, though his smile lingered. “Long before my time as Patriarch, Orthos served as a liaison between the Arelius and the imperial Blackflame family. Only ten years ago, he overused his power defending us from attack.”
Eithan waved a hand. “Defending them from attack. Had I been here...Ah, as I was saying, Orthos’ own madra overwhelmed his mind. He gave too much of himself for the sake of protecting my family. The branch heads spent a fortune trying to restore him, to their credit, but it was eventually decided to end his misery.”
Another roar shook the stone around them, and a ruddy light welled up from deeper in the twisting corridor. This time, Lindon thought he heard pain in it.
“I arrived around that time, and I countermanded the order. I can't say they were wrong for trying to spare him years of suffering, and some within the family think I'm cruel even now to keep him alive. But if there's a chance to restore him, we owe it to him to try until we can try no longer.” His voice turned grim. “I've ended lives to avert suffering before, and sometimes it is inevitable. But it's never a decision to make lightly.”
Lindon was still curious about Orthos, but a different question took priority. “If you’ll allow me a rude question, I have wondered for some time now: are you not from the Blackflame Empire?”
“Not entirely,” Eithan responded easily. “I spent most of my childhood in Blackflame City, as I believe I’ve told you before, but I was born half a world away. The Arelius family is a wide tree, my young adopted brother, with many roots. I've only returned to the Blackflame branch for…six, almost seven years now.”
The tunnel was starting to even out, with the red glow becoming slightly brighter. The air seemed to buzz against Lindon's skin, with a slight tingling vibration that he thought would soon grow uncomfortable.
“Incredible that you rose to the head of the family in that time,” Lindon said.
Eithan chuckled and adjusted his shimmering red-and-gold collar. “Oh, they couldn't promote me fast enough. Having an Underlord at the head puts them on the same level as the three great clans, so I would improve our standing even if I spent all day drinking peach wine and eating honeydrops. But although I do make a dashing figurehead, I prefer to take more...hands-on control of the family's operations.”
Lindon couldn't help a pang of sympathy for the Arelius family elders. Or “branch heads”—whatever they were called here in the Empire. Trying to prop Eithan up as a puppet leader seemed like trying to saddle a whirlwind.
When the tunnel ended, it didn't open up as broadly as Lindon had expected. Instead of a huge room, he found himself at the juncture between five other tunnels, all similar to the first. The ceiling was barely over his head, and the rock looked as though it had been chewed to a sharp edge. The air here sizzled even more strongly than outside, until it felt like insects crawled over every inch of his exposed skin.
The moment they arrived, footsteps like drumbeats approached, along with a sullen glow the color of live embers. Lindon clenched and unclenched his fists, cycling his madra in preparation for a fight, and kept his mind on the dagger in his pocket.
But what good would any of that do against a dragon?
“Bid welcome,” Eithan announced, “to the last great descendant of Serpent's Grave.”
A massive black shape shouldered its way through the tunnel like a man pushing through a tight doorway. It turned blazing eyes on Lindon: they were inky pools of darkness, those eyes, with a circle of furious red where the iris should be.
The skin of the creature’s reptilian head was cracked and leathery, pure black, and clusters of blazing embers burned on its back.
By the light it carried with it, Lindon saw the creature clearly.
“Is this...is this what a dragon looks like?” Lindon whispered.
“A dragon? No, no, I said it was a descendant of dragons.” Eithan threw out a hand in presentation. “Orthos is clearly a magnificent turtle.”
Lindon had wondered if the shad
ows were playing tricks on his eyes.
Orthos was a massive black turtle, the peak of his shell rising as high as Lindon's head. He was as long across as a horse but thrice as wide, and his squat body looked heavy enough to sink a ship. The facets of his shell glowed sullen red around the edges, and black smoke rose from him in hazy waves.
He locked eyes with Lindon, growling like an avalanche. Lindon cycled desperately, pulling his dagger into sweaty hands, ready to dive behind the column in the center of the chamber.
Orthos’ mouth dropped open, his jaw gaping so wide it looked unnatural, and smoky red light began to rise up his throat.
“Some days are better than others,” Eithan said, stepping between Lindon and the draconic turtle. “He recognizes me on occasion, and will even guide my servants through the tunnels. But other times...”
Black fire billowed out of the turtle's mouth, filling the walls with oppressive heat and a prickling so sharp it became painful. Lindon's eyes watered, and he pushed himself against the column of stone.
Eithan swiped his hand in a single gesture, blasting the Blackflame madra apart like a gust of wind tearing through a cloud. “Be polite, Orthos. You have a guest.”
The light in the turtle's eyes turned orange, like a living flame, and he roared his defiance. Lindon dropped the halfsilver dagger to the ground in his haste to clap hands over his ears.
And Eithan moved forward, shoving the sacred beast's mouth closed with both hands. The roar cut off with a snap.
“I know it is difficult,” Eithan said, his nose inches away from the turtle’s. “But gather yourself and hear me. A boy has come to train here. He is one of the family.” Orthos struggled, but couldn't escape the implacable grip of the Underlord. “He could help us, do you understand?”
Orthos’ eyes finally moved up to Eithan's, and crimson irises dimmed into a look of helpless confusion.