66. Permanence
Chapter 66
Permanence
20 th Day of the Blood Moon
West of the Firnin Mountains – Winter, Year 3081 After Doom
Rist sat in a crater almost a hundred feet in diameter, its centre about six feet into the ground. Judging by the moss and small patches of vegetation that sprouted from every crack, the crater was far older than Rist himself. He had no idea what had created it, but whatever it was, it was large.
“Focus, Rist.” Garramon sat before him, legs folded, arms resting on his knees. The Spark thrummed in the air as both mages held themselves open, threads weaving about them.
Channelling was the act of intentionally drawing as much of the Spark into your body as you were capable of and holding it there while continuously drawing on more. Pushing yourself to your limits, and then past them. It was not a particularly safe thing to do. Neither was it safe for anything within a stone’s throw – which was why they sat in the crater.
“Your mind is elsewhere.”
“I’m trying to decide what formed this crater. Do you know?”
“Rist, I need you to focus. Vastly more people die trying to earn the title of Arcarian than those who do not. If you don’t channel, if you don’t push yourself and learn your strength, you will die in your trial. And if you push yourself now without focus, you will burn the Spark from your veins.”
“Apologies, Brother.” Rist shifted, his arse numb from sitting on the rock. He ran his tongue across his teeth. “What is the point?”
Garramon rolled his eyes and sighed. “Of what?”
His voice held that tone he used when he’d run out of patience.
“I see the point in channelling. In carefully testing your limits in a controlled environment?—”
“The Spark cannot be controlled, Rist. We are conduits, wielders. But the Spark is raw, untamed power. We do not control it, we direct it. This environment is not safe and controlled. With the kind of power you are calling upon, one slip of the mind could lead to death. You need to respect the Spark.”
Rist pursed his lips, nodding. The truth was, he had been distracted since Neera had said she loved him. That moment was a uniquely singular thing in his life. And as soon as he’d had a second to think – for his thoughts to percolate and his mind to settle – all he’d wanted to do was tell Calen and Dann. He had so much to tell them. So much… Throughout his life, nothing had ever felt real until he’d told Dann and Calen. He sighed. “I see the point in pushing my limits. But why would I duel an Arcarian and risk death, simply to earn a title?”
“You do not have to, though now I do not believe Fane would be too pleased if you refused.” Garramon let out a sigh to match Rist’s. “You have a strength within you, Rist. I have known it since the moment I first laid eyes on you. How deep that strength goes, we will soon find out. But the title of Arcarian is a thing written in legend. To even offer you the opportunity to bear its weight, Fane does you a great honour. You ask why you should risk death to earn a simple title?”
Rist shrugged. “It seems unnecessary.”
Garramon smiled at that. “I cannot tell you why you should do it. That is a choice you must make yourself. But I can tell you why I did it. I did it to become something greater than what I am. It was part ambition, part hubris, part longing. I did it to be remembered long after my body has withered. To be named amongst the most powerful mages to have ever lived. To have the name Garramon Kalinim entered into the Book of Arcaria. To tell you anything otherwise would be a lie. Whether we admit it or not, all living things seek permanence in one way or another, a way to leave our mark on the world before we die. For me, becoming an Arcarian was part of that. I am part of something that has stood for thousands of years. And I’m not going to lie to you and say it wouldn’t give me great pride to watch you do the same. As difficult as it is for you to believe, there are things that transcend logic. Things deep within our hearts that demand to be answered. The question you must ask yourself, Rist, is what is your permanence? What is the mark you wish to leave on this world?”
Rist only stared back. It was not a question he had ever asked himself.
“Close your eyes and listen to my voice.”
Rist did as instructed, the Spark flowing through him.
“Take a deep breath in, and let the darkness flood around you. See the elemental strands in your mind.”
Rist sat in complete darkness, the black emptiness of his mind washing over him like the liquid from the Well of Arnen. But in that darkness, light burst into existence.
The elemental strand of Fire was the first to come to life in his mind, pulsing with a deep red light, twisting and coiling in the blackness like a snake. Spirit followed, pulsing with a faint white light that reminded Rist of dawn clouds illuminated by the rays of the rising sun. As the two strands coiled around one another, Water and Earth came to life like kindling catching ablaze. The strand of Water was a bright blue, while Earth shifted from brown to green, in constant motion. Air was the last to take form. It held no light, but the space around it rippled, the light of the other strands seeming to warp in its presence.
“Call to them.” Garramon’s voice echoed in Rist’s mind as though in a bottomless cavern.
Just as Rist had done every other time Garramon had brought him to channel, he pulled on threads of each strand, each no thicker than a grain of rice, and pulled them through his body.
The threads moved like meandering streams, whirling through the emptiness, the light gleaming in bends and turns. In the darkness of his mind, the threads wove a tapestry around him.
“Now take more.”
Rist did as instructed and pulled deeper from the Spark, allowing each thread to thicken, the energy pulsing in his veins.
“I will tell you when to stop.”
Rist drew a long breath and continued to pull harder. The drain itched at the back of his mind as the Spark burned in his veins.
His jaw began to tremble, and he clenched his hands into fists so tight his nails pressed into the skin of his palms.
“Good, Rist. Slowly.”
Rist could feel Garramon probing at the edges of his consciousness with threads of Spirit.
“More.”
Rist drew a sharp breath, and with it a surge of power swept along the threads and burned in his veins. The crackle of lightning swept over his skin.
“Hold,” Garramon whispered.
“No, I can go deeper.”
“Rist, hold .”
Garramon’s voice faded, drowned out by the thrum of the Spark. Rist felt as though his blood itself was on fire, but it was tantalising, intoxicating. The Spark wanted him to draw deeper, to pull harder. It called to him, and he answered.
Garramon’s words had awakened something in him.
“What is your permanence? What is the mark you wish to leave on this world?”
Rist had never been good at anything in particular. He loved reading, but was that a skill? He didn’t think so. Not compared to the way Dann could hunt and use a bow, or the way nothing scared him, the way he was fearless. Not compared to how Calen wielded a blade, the way he always chose the right words, or the way he could just do anything. Besides the bow, anything Calen set his mind to he excelled at. Rist had actually found that quite frustrating as they’d grown up. Rist had never been like either of them. But with the Spark, he had found that thing, that one thing in which he truly excelled.
This was his.
The Spark was his permanence, his mark on the world. If he could draw on enough of it, he could make a true difference in this war. He could become an Arcarian. He could be remembered for something worthwhile. But most of all, he could matter. He wanted to matter.
Rist continued to open himself and draw harder and harder until the threads that spun around him were thick as his forearms, the air itself seeming to ripple and burn. He lost sense of his body, his mind pulling away and losing itself in the Spark.
The threads continued to spin in the darkness until they were as thick as the elemental strands themselves, creating a sphere of variegated light that whipped about him like the winds of a storm. The pain slowly ebbed and was replaced by an almost euphoric burning that swept through him. He felt as though he could shape the world itself with his will alone.
And then, in an instant, everything was gone, and he snapped his eyes open while his lungs chased after air. He slumped forwards, deep aches setting into his bones and joints. He shivered, the warmth pulled from his body. He’d never felt so weak in his life.
Garramon sat before him, just as he had been, frowning.
Rist’s vision blurred, and the world went dark.
When Rist awoke, he was wrapped in a thick woollen blanket and the sun was setting, red-hued golden light spilling over the Lodhar Mountains in the west.
Garramon sat opposite him, drinking from a small metal flask, a book in one hand: The Essence of Life and Death , by Mona Shikart . Rist knew the title. It was a book he’d seen in the emperor’s chamber. But this one was new, recently copied and bound.
Rist propped himself up on his elbows, still weak, a slight shiver still holding his bones. “What… what did you do? How long have I been asleep?”
“I warded you before you killed us both.” Garramon flicked his gaze up from the book, his mouth a thin line as he examined Rist. He slid a strip of black steel into the book’s pages, closed it over, then leaned forwards and offered Rist the flask. “You’ve been out a few hours. The march has been long, and I didn’t fancy carrying you back to camp. You’ve put on quite a bit of muscle since we first met.”
Rist grunted as he accepted the offer and slumped onto his left elbow. One sniff and he knew the liquid within was whiskey. He’d never forget that smell. Rist took a swig, the warmth washing through him almost immediately, then handed the flask back.
“You were reckless and more than a little stupid,” Garramon said, pursing his lips. “Do that when I’m not here to stop you, and you will die.”
Rist narrowed his eyes at Garramon, then noticed the black char marks across the broken earth at the man’s back. All about the crater, new gashes had been carved into the rock.
The Exarch took a swig of the whiskey and leaned closer to the fire. “You must walk slowly in this. The Spark is like a drug. It is intoxicating and euphoric and, if left unchecked, viciously corrupting, because all power corrupts. I know what it feels like the first time you truly reach beyond what you thought possible, the first time the Spark truly floods your veins. Once you reach that point, it is a more potent show of strength to resist the temptation than to lean into it. The Spark craves to be used. It will consume you and everything in its path to be so. Do you understand?”
It took all the strength Rist could muster to pull himself into a seated position. He tucked the blanket tighter around himself, welcoming the warmth from the fire. He stared into the flames. “It was like nothing I’ve ever felt… like my veins were on fire and my very soul burned… and yet, I felt like a god.”
“You wouldn’t have felt much like a god when your eyes burned out of their sockets. And when drawing as deeply as you were, The Saviour likely would have welcomed you home.”
Rist pulled in a long, drawn-out breath, sighing as the flames flickered before him. At any other time, the idea of dying would have shaken him to his core, but at that moment his mind was all haze and fog. “At least it would be quick.”
Garramon laughed. “If you kill yourself drawing this deeply from the Spark, I can promise you two things. One, it will be the most painful, horrendous experience of your life. Two, it will not be quick.”
Rist lifted his gaze from the fire, and Garramon sat forwards, pulling his knees to his chest.
“In all the centuries I’ve seen, I’ve watched thirty-seven mages kill themselves by drawing too heavily from the Spark when attempting to control power like you are. Twenty-four of those mages did so while channelling in preparation for the trial of an Arcarian.”
“The others?”
Garramon glanced at the flames. “The others did so as a last resort, attempting to turn the tides of battles already lost. The years following the fall of The Order were the darkest years since the Blodvar.” He continued to stare into the fire for a while longer before looking back at Rist. “When the Spark kills, it boils your blood from the inside. Your skin cooks, blistering and crackling, before sloughing off your bones. Some mages die within minutes, but I’ve seen others live for hours… I cannot imagine a worse death.”
Every hair on Rist’s body pricked at the horror of a death like that.
“You need to understand the depth of the risk you take when you push yourself to the limits you are currently trying to reach.”
Rist nodded slowly.
“That said, I’m proud of you. The kind of power you drew… very few people can hold power like that.” He paused a moment and gave Rist a soft, acknowledging smile. “It’s about time we head back. Supper will be ready, and Taya will want to go through the plan.”
They left the fire burn and climbed from the crater. Some three hundred feet down the side of the rocky slope of the crater’s southern edge, crimson banners bearing the black lion flapped in the winter breeze, tent canopies spreading in all directions. And there, looming over everything, were the broad peaks of the Firnin Mountains. By the reports, the rebels had forged their stronghold within.
That word - ‘rebels’ – still felt strange in his mind. Rist held no desire to kill a single man or woman within that mountain. Those he’d killed in Berona still haunted his sleep.
“What will you do if the next order is to march south?” a voice whispered in his mind. “What will you do then?”
There was nothing in the world that would make Rist draw a blade against his home. Nothing.
“But what will you do?” the voice whispered.
Coren Valmar stood at the edge of the cliff, the light of the bleeding moon tainting everything it touched. She drew a long breath in through her nose as she looked down at the hundreds of lanterns below. She had always known the Lorians would come eventually. But she had not expected them so soon, not while the Uraks and the elves threatened their cities.
“The attack in Berona.” Farwen clasped her hands behind her back, staring out into the night. “They believe it was us.”
“Mmh.” Ever since they’d heard of the attack on Berona, Coren and the others had done everything they could to discover who had been behind it. But none of their networks had heard a thing. Whoever had carried it out had gone to pains to place the blame at their feet. And that alone was a reason to find out who it had been.
But first, they had an army to deal with.
“Forty thousand,” Farwen said. “The scouts indicate that Primarch Andelar Touran himself has travelled with the army, along with the Lorian Supreme Commander and the Blackwatch.”
Those were not good odds on any night.
Farwen turned to Coren and stared into her eyes. The elf didn’t need to speak aloud. Coren knew the question she asked with the stare. “Have we received reports of the Dragonguard?”
Farwen shook her head. “Last we’ve heard is that Lyina and Karakes laid waste to an Urak force near Harken’s Ride. Voranur and Seleraine have watched over Elkenrim since the Elves of Lynalion took Catagan. Helios was last spotted flying north, but that was two days ago. With the delays in reports, it’s difficult to pin a location on him.”
“Have the Angan reach out to Aeson in Aravell. Tell him that we need the Draleid, and that we need him now. We have a day or so. Even with their advantage, Taya Tambrel will take her time and scout the mountains. She is not the type to rush where no rush is needed. If we can break this Lorian army here, we will have a clear path to the Burnt Lands and to Aravell. But we can’t do it alone.”
“I will see it done.” The elf made to leave but hesitated for just a moment. Their gazes met, but nothing further was said, and at last Farwen went in search of the Angan.
Alone, Coren let out a long sigh. Aeson had asked her and Farwen to travel to Aravell almost two weeks past. They had intended to do so, but there had been too much chaos with the elves and the Uraks running rampant. Coren and Farwen were the heart of the rebellion in the North. They couldn’t simply leave every soul in Tarhelm and beyond to fend for themselves. That was not the way of the Draleid.
“Never forget, to be a Draleid is not simply a privilege. You must always rise, so that others rise with you. You must be the beacon they look to.”
Her master’s last words had been the creed Coren had lived by for centuries. These people had given everything to the rebellion, given their homes, their lives, their futures. They had placed their trust in Coren, and she could not abandon them when they needed her most, when they looked to her for guidance. Especially not for the sentencing of traitors. Their resolution was not worth the lives of men and women who had given everything.
Coren stared up at the crimson moon. The same moon that had marred the sky the night her world had died. The last time she had ever laid eyes on her old master.
A rumble sounded in the back of her mind.
Soon. I promise.