Awakening Arte (The Eldest Throne Book 1)

by Bernie Anés Paz

  “How could that possibly be an omen?” Roun snapped. “Sounds to me like they just went out of their way to be cruel.”

  “To the Rhalgr clan, spiders symbolize cowardice, inaction, and trickery. Warriors who commit acts such as poisoning food, slaying another after nudging them into drunkenness, or drawing blood while their foe is in the embrace of a lover or asleep earn the title ōgumo—taken from the name of a mythical spider said to weave honor into a trap. That’s what my clan calls me now, because they view my current life as Sothis’s punishment. After all, I’m being forced to become a warrior in the end, but not one that will easily find glory in battle; in other words, a half-warrior to match my halfhearted effort.”

  “Noble clans…” Sethra muttered when he finished. Roun shook his own head in quiet agreement.

  “Like I said, his father is a dramatic idiot.” Kamil huffed at Laeshiro. “You could say that about the whole clan, really.”

  None of them said anything else for a while, leaving their meals to arrive during the silence. Laeshiro and Sethra had ordered platters of roasted fowl spiced with herbs and citrus, as well as skewers of winged plains buffalo seasoned by nothing more than salt. Likewise, Roun and Kamil had ordered a variety of little cakes, pastries, and creamed fruits for them all to sample together.

  Sethra was the first to dive into the meal, to no one’s surprise.

  “Since we’re all telling,” Kamil said after piling food onto his wooden slab. “I’m here because my parents were among the handful of Grimoires that migrated to Rozaria City after it was built. I guess they have a history with our exarch, though they told me we’re originally from the Valkurmese Demesne on the far north side of the world.” Kamil pushed up his spectacles. “I was actually born there, but only because the Hisha clan insisted my mother birthed me at home. We’ve never lived in Valkurm for long, though.”

  “The Hisha clan is made up of miners and smiths, isn’t it?” Sethra asked. “I heard you can’t get weapons better than what they make, but I’ve also heard your clan spends months singing and telling stories to ore veins. Supposedly so the rocks aren’t as depressed when they’re finally dug out.”

  Kamil raised an eyebrow. “My clan is a little fanatical about its craft, yes.”

  “How do your parents feel about you being a Grimoire?” Roun asked.

  “They’re ecstatic,” Kamil answered, though he rolled his eyes. “However, I’ve no intention of just lagging behind them. I’m already stuck with my father’s artes, so the only way I can forge my own path is by being creative.” He tapped the side of his head. “My intellect is about all I have over my parents. Doesn’t run deep in the family.”

  Everyone laughed at that, then Roun offered his own story. “You already know I’m clanless, so I don’t have much to say there. Never knew my mother either, but my father was a mercenary, so I spent most of my childhood traveling between the demesnes.” He shrugged. “We made it here before my father went missing during one of his contracts. I’ve done my best to survive on my own ever since, which mostly means working for the Rozarian Guard as a runner and extra pair of hands.”

  “There’s no shame in that,” Kamil said with a nod. “Sounds like a hard life, yet you made it through anyway, and it sounds like your father was an honorable man despite being clanless. Most become brigands or throw themselves into questionable work.”

  “Anyone capable enough to make a living as a rural mercenary is worthy of respect,” Laeshiro agreed. “It’s also hard to earn trust without the backing of a clan, so a mercenary’s reputation is everything. Most of them tend to be better folk than most.”

  “Enough of that,” Sethra said through a mouthful of food. “Whatever his past, we already know Roun is as worthy as any of us. Since he’s a Grimoire, even Sothis herself agrees.”

  Roun blushed, but Laeshiro laughed and raised his mug of blue-colored drink. Kamil joined in with a grin and his own glass, and, after Laeshiro waggled his eyebrows at them, he and Sethra both joined in with their own laughs and drinks.

  “To our futures as not only Grimoires, but also friends,” Laeshiro said quietly, and the rest of them echoed the words.

  “Now play us some damn music, Laeshiro,” Sethra demanded after swallowing all of a skewer’s contents in less than a heartbeat. “We haven’t forgotten, if that was what you were hoping for.”

  Laeshiro gave her a seated bow, then positioned his lute and himself. His fingers moved across the strings, producing sweet notes, and those soon became a recognizable melody—Between Dusk and Dawn. It was a slow, haunting song that surged over time until it at last raced towards its furious climax.

  Roun stared as the large Grimoire closed his eyes and lost himself in the music. Others soon rose from their tables or glanced over, and folk were coming out of the eatery’s stone building itself to join them at the patio.

  When the song came to its abrupt end and left the air haunted by its notes, the crowd that had gathered throughout it burst into cheers and applause, shocking Laeshiro from his trance and coloring his face. When Roun and the others were again alone, the Rhalgr clansman grinned sheepishly, shrugged, and then set his lute down.

  Roun, Kamil, and Sethra grinned back, then they all enjoyed their meal in earnest, pausing only to tease each other and laugh—freed, for the moment, of all their worries.

  20

  Roun gave Sethra a sidelong glance, but she was pacing across his room without looking at him. Their holiday the day before had been an enjoyable diversion, but now that it had passed, all Sethra could think about was the Burrow.

  He understood her eagerness; this was a step above their usual training and a chance for her to test herself. The latter probably meant even more to her, considering she was from a warrior clan.

  Roun was looking forward to fighting alongside her, and hadn’t intended to dawdle, but then again, she wasn’t the one about to do something so… strange.

  “Why did you wait until now to try this, anyway?” Sethra asked him impatiently as she paused before his window. The Throne was less than an hour away from slumbering, and dim enough already that he had activated his room’s lamp. “Should have tried it out the same day Zareus gave it to you.”

  He sighed. “Sethra, I had just learned that my parents stole me from the Canton of Dawn. That’s enough to keep me awake in thought for the rest of my life—I mean, there had to be a reason my mother gave me to Yorin and told him to leave, right? I don’t even know if he’s my actual father anymore; there might be some Grimoire out there that’s gone through the same struggles with his arte. Does he know I exist? Does he care? What happened to him?” If there isn’t, would that be better or worse? If not, how did they know I would awaken? Roun shook his head and sighed again. “Exarch Kuro promised to help me find answers, but I’m not sure I even want them anymore. Being clanless is not something I’d wish on anyone, but at least it’s something I can understand.” He frowned unhappily at the armoire Zareus had placed in his room. “Besides, what they want me to do with the raiments is a little weird.”

  “We already know your arte is weird,” Sethra rebutted, hands falling to her hips. “This though sounds useful, so stop worrying and hurry it up!”

  Roun rolled his eyes, but reached into the armoire and brushed his fingers against the coarse cloth of the raiments Kuro had given him; he had left them unused until now.

  A tingle rippled through his fingertips, but he wasn’t sure what that meant. Zareus had suggested that he allow his instincts to guide him through the process, as this supposedly neared the limits of what they knew about his arte.

  Father entrusted this to Kuro. Yorin had always been a practical man; he never would have fussed over a uniform, no matter how important it might be. Something you trusted your life to, on the other hand? Father always did say that you could spit on a warrior and walk away with at worst a few bruises, but spit on their weapon and honor would demand they never let you walk again at all.

  He
hesitated, but then closed his eyes and pressed his entire palm against the outer robe of his raiments. His breathing slowed as he probed with Farsight. The raiments shone with the same dull glow as artificial sources of élan, but he didn’t sense enough of it anywhere to indicate a deep obsidian source. The entire set of clothing instead seemed to itself somehow be a vessel.

  Sethra gasped, and when Roun opened his eyes, he saw that black color traced his veins. Strands of inky sludge poured out from them, twining and merging until his entire right arm was covered. The tendrils of inky substance didn’t stop there, however, and continued beyond his slickened fingers towards the raiments.

  He thought it would envelop them, but instead the garments themselves seemed to leak the same substance out from the chaotic lines woven into the material. The raiments melted and merged with his arm more than his arm consumed them, but, either way, they soon vanished into sludge.

  A moment later, he blinked and stared at his hand as the inky fluid retreated into his blackened veins and those too faded.

  “Well?” Sethra asked breathlessly.

  “I… can sense the raiments in my vessel.”

  “Try your axe,” Sethra suggested.

  He nodded and took his bloodhawk axe when she offered it to him. It had the same odd texture as his raiments and likewise had the same venous markings, but, unlike the raiments, the axe kept its shape—and this time it was from his chest that the liquid tendrils emerged, almost as if his arte somehow understood that what he sought to consume was a bit more unwieldy.

  Roun frowned as both he and Sethra stared at the pulsating lump pressing out against his vest. He wasn’t wearing his outer robe, so with a shrug he pulled the sleeveless vest over his head and looked down at the lattice of black lines across his flesh.

  Sethra shook her head as one of her eyebrows raised. “Never going to get used to that. At least Fane’s marks look pretty.”

  “They also blow up,” Roun muttered as he brought his axe over.

  The tendrils stretched out to latch onto the axe and pulled it into his chest, which soon became an undulating sea of black.

  It looked far more unnerving than it felt.

  “Well,” Sethra said after they were silent for a moment. “That was something.”

  The axe and raiments sort of floated there in the nothingness of his vessel, just like the hoard aspirant’s spirit had done before being caged. The knowledge that something physical was drifting through his imagined spiritual space made his head hurt.

  “No problems so far,” he finally said. He glanced awkwardly over at her. “Could you, uh, turn around?”

  She frowned at him for a moment before blushing and whirling to face the wall. Roun undressed the rest of the way down to his undergarments before closing his eyes again.

  Reversing the process was a lot easier; he was aware of the raiments, or possibly the élan that seemed to form their skeleton. When he focused on them, they began moving towards the ‘edge’ of his vessel.

  He had worn Avyleir’s raiments during every waking moment for months now and had also bled and sweated in them; the memory of their fit was etched deep. The conjured raiments strove to match those memories.

  Roun’s veins itched and the sludge gushed out, warm and thick, and became the border between cloth and flesh as his raiments manifested.

  It took barely five heartbeats, but when it was done, he wore his entire raiment set, mask included. Well, ‘wear’ wasn’t the right word—his arte very much still had a hold over them, because there were roots that plunged back into his vessel to drink élan.

  The vest itself was fused to his skin, as were his mask, boots, and gloves, but he could recall them back into his vessel with a thought. His outer robes and pants weren’t completely fused to him, but they were still linked to the rest of his raiments. Despite all that, when he glanced at himself—when he touched his chest—it all seemed like regular, mundane cloth.

  When I glance at myself? He laughed, and at that Sethra abashedly looked over her shoulder, then turned around the rest of the way to stare. The mask had as much a presence on his face as it should, but he could breathe, smell, and see through it—or not, if he chose, and all it took was a thought.

  There was a moment when he dismissed ever bothering to blind himself, but he remembered Farsight was capable of feeding him information as well, and considered whether it might be better to subdue his physical senses on occasion. Something worth testing.

  “You look like something that stepped right out of a myth,” Sethra breathed.

  He laughed as he examined his hand. “The villain, maybe.”

  “Without a doubt,” she agreed, laughing herself. “Try your pincer?”

  Roun did as she asked and was pleased to see that his raiments themselves liquified and transformed across his left arm, fusing seamlessly with the bulbous pincer. “Now I won’t need to take off my outer robes.”

  “Too bad,” Sethra said. She gave him a wide grin. “Having to tear off your robes every time you fought would have been very dramatic.”

  Roun rolled his eyes as he probed for his bloodhawk axe. It responded like his raiments, but he found fewer places to create an ‘opening’ to his spiritual vessel. He chose his chest again and watched the haft of his axe protrude out from his liquified chest. The axe emerged slowly, but Roun wanted to make sure it wouldn't harm him if he needed the weapon more quickly, so he tugged on it.

  When no pain or alarm thundered through him, he pulled more forcibly. The axe came out without any difficulty, spraying thick ink that dissipated midair.

  Sethra circled around him. “You’ve got menacing down so perfectly that it might as well be a part of your arte.”

  “Well, this side of my arte is definitely… unique.” Roun frowned.

  “Most artes are like that,” Sethra mused, drawing him from his thoughts. “What was the word Zareus used? Uh…”

  “Multifaceted.”

  “Right, multifaceted. It’s up to us to turn the quirks of our artes into clever techniques so that someday our disciples will hone those and discover even more clever techniques to pass on.” She brightened, then clapped her hands together and rubbed them. “Speaking of which, now it’s time for the real test!”

  “Which is?”

  “The doubt in your voice pains me, Roun. I only want to take you to the absolute peak of your potential. That’s just how good of a friend I am.” She moved over to his desk, grabbed a metal meal box, and held it out to him.

  “What?” he asked in confusion. “I’m not hungry right now. Besides, I thought we were going to bring them along for later?”

  “We are!” she said with a glimmer in her eyes. “The box is élanic. Well, it has a script and an élanic orb in it, at least. It’s a very expensive meal box.”

  Dread filled Roun. “What does the script do?”

  “It channels élan through the box, which should mean...”

  “Sethra, I’m not a pantry.” He paused, then added, “And I don’t want to become one.”

  “Come on! It’d be really useful to know if you could store anything élanic inside yourself, and we need to see how things fare while they’re in your vessel. Imagine being able to store secret messages, or extra weapons and medicine, or—”

  “Food?”

  “Food saves lives.” Sethra gave him an indignant look. “No one’s at their full potential when their belly isn’t also full. Any warrior will tell you that.”

  “And yet somehow I get the feeling that it’s mostly a Velle clan motto.” He took the box anyway, and, after a moment of hesitation, shrugged and reached out to it with his senses.

  The meal box seemed no different than his axe—he could feel the élan being flooded through the box, and it was sealed well, so all he got was the sense of the box itself and nothing inside. Roun consumed it through his chest; this time, the tendrils emerged from his raiments. He followed it with his axe after dismissing the transformation of his left arm.


  The meal box floated through his spiritual vessel, just like the axe did. Interesting... He could tell how much élan they had left, but also sensed they were keeping themselves full by consuming small amounts from his vessel.

  Roun wasn’t sure what would happen if they ever ran out while inside his vessel, but he vowed to never find out.

  “Well?” Sethra asked eagerly.

  “It’s there,” he muttered. “We’ll see what happens later.”

  She clapped her hands. “Then let’s go work up an appetite!”

  Roun withdrew his mask back into his vessel and nodded his readiness after gathering the rest of his gear. Sethra grabbed her staff and the same festival mask he had worn on his prior trips and followed him out through Avyleir Library.

  21

  It was quiet outside and most of the library’s élanic lampposts were shimmering in response to the dying light of the Throne.

  Showing their coins let them leave the Avyleir Library without issue. Once outside, they donned their masks and curved around towards the west in silence. It was almost fully dark by the time they reached the city gate; the Throne already slumbered despite dusk’s lingering colors.

  Their coins again earned them passage, but not before the gate guard cried out in surprise at his approach. He couldn’t blame her, knowing how his mask looked. They walked out into the night, activated the élanic lanterns on their sashes, and made their way towards the Burrow.

  Roun led the way while Sethra followed beside him as he trudged through the tall grass and around shrubs, but she eventually ended up pressing close enough that their elbows started bumping. He ignored it out of politeness, though it didn’t take long before she sighed and moved away.

  “Sorry,” she muttered as he came to a pause. “I’m just… not used to this. My family is old-fashioned, so my mother always had us in bed before nightfall.”