“We'll do whatever we can to help you, of course,” Lindon said, knowing that he could never help an Underlord do anything.
“You made a mess out of something,” Yerin said, her tone absolutely confident.
Eithan pointed to Lindon. “I will take you up on that offer, don't worry.” Lindon's heart sank.
Now Eithan pointed to Yerin. “That's an uncharitable way to put it, but I can’t say you’re wrong. You know, I do wish I could tell the future. There are sacred artists out there who can, to varying degrees. It would make planning so much easier. And I don't expect you to understand this, but seeing everything makes surprises so much worse. You always feel as though you should have seen them coming.”
He sighed, flipping his hair over his shoulder. “That's enough of my problems, so let’s talk about our problems. The Jai clan has all but declared war on our family.”
“All but?” Yerin repeated. “Is it war, or no war?”
“If they declared it openly, the Emperor’s forces would cripple the aggressor in a day. But the Skysworn stay out of the petty squabbles between clans. As long as the Jai pretend that’s what’s happening, the Emperor will stay clear.”
Lindon had seen similar situations back in Sacred Valley, as the Wei clashed along the border with the Li, and the Kazan raided them both. He saw the problem immediately.
“They’ll claim Jai Long.”
Eithan nodded to him. “He and his sister were exiled here so that they could serve the main family without being underfoot and embarrassing. Has to do with his wrapped-up face.” Eithan waved a hand vaguely around his own head. “They still won’t take him back, but once the duel is over, they can pretend he was one of them all along. He wins? They take credit. He dies? We killed a Jai Highgold, and they’ll use it as an excuse for open war.”
He sighed. “And I thought all I’d have to do was write a letter…”
There was an obvious solution here, but Lindon proposed it carefully. “Not to overstep my bounds, but the situation has changed. Couldn't you tell the Jai clan that you changed your mind?”
Eithan braced one foot on the star-filled lantern and leaned forward. “One's word is the currency of the powerful. Reputation and honor are all that prevent us from slaughtering each other, and keep us operating with some degree of civility. What stops an Underlord from killing everyone weaker? Their reputation. What shields their family from reprisals and attacks? Their reputation. Many experts value their good name more than their life.”
A dark pall settled over Lindon. Eithan wouldn’t change his mind about the duel, then. That had been one of Lindon’s final hopes.
“Besides, I still have a use for your victory,” he said. “Jai Long’s defeat will give me leverage, whether the clan claims him or not, so I would still prefer you fight. However, there is another option...” Lindon’s dead hope flickered to life again. “...I can allow you to leave the family. Your actions would not reflect on my word if you weren't a subject of the Arelius.”
Lindon turned to Yerin, who wore a troubled expression but said nothing. Would she come with him, if he left? She might, if he asked her, but would that be fair to her? He didn't know much about the Arelius family, but he knew they represented both a risk and an opportunity. Yerin could grow there, with the support of a well-connected clan.
For his part, anywhere outside of Sacred Valley was a land of limitless opportunity. The Fishers could advance him past Iron. He had other roads he could take.
But he'd be giving up the chance to be trained personally by an Underlord.
Eithan met his eyes, speaking earnestly. “I'll be as clear as I can: the Arelius family employs hundreds of thousands of people, and their livelihoods will be impacted by the results of this duel. If you stay, I will do whatever I have to so that you win. Even if it kills you.”
Lindon leaned against a wooden dummy for support. “Killing me…to win. I see. How likely is that to happen, exactly?”
Eithan's smile broadened. “It's my last resort. I have every confidence that I can raise you to victory without destroying your future. I can't say you will enjoy the process, though. And I will catch you every time you try and run away.”
Yerin still hadn't said anything since Eithan entered the room. She stood with one hand on her sword and one on the blood-red rope around her waist, as though considering her options.
“If you don't mind,” Lindon said, “I'd like some time to consider.”
Eithan straightened, brushing wrinkles out of his turquoise robe. “Perfectly understandable, but I'm afraid we're running short of time as it is. We're leaving at dawn. If you would like to join us, look around the Fisher territory for a tall building with blue clouds surrounding the foundation and Arelius banners hanging from the walls. That is our vehicle out of here, so if it's still there, so are we.”
He executed a small, shallow bow in Lindon's direction and then started to walk off. Over his shoulder, he called, “I don't like to make decisions for others, Lindon...but I hope to see you in the morning.”
The door swung shut behind him, but it fell into Yerin's hand. She hitched up her red belt as though to distract herself.
She still looked troubled, even as she spoke. “In the sacred arts, you don’t want the clear path. You want the rocky one. The strongest aren't the ones who climb the highest mountains, but the ones who choose to do it one-handed and blindfolded.”
She hesitated as though to add something else before shaking her head. “But it’s a short distance between ‘rocky’ and ‘looking for suicide.’ I don't know what you should do. I...I don't know.”
Then she left too.
Lindon blinked sleep from bleary eyes, sitting up on the barn floor. The touch of sunlight streaming through the wooden slats warmed him, bright and cheery. He started to cycle his sluggish madra, prodding his body into waking and his mind into thought.
Last night, he'd stayed up after Eithan left, trying to clear his mind and make the right decision. He'd known what the best answer was: to stick with the Arelius family. But that didn’t make the decision easier.
If he stayed, the Fishers could take him to Truegold.
Truegold. Would that really be his limit?
When he had walked among the Eight-Man Empire, Suriel had said that even ten thousand Gold sacred artists couldn't scratch their armor. How far above Truegold were they?
How far above them was Suriel?
He’d pulled Suriel’s marble out of his pocket, and the sight of the steady blue candle-flame inside the glass orb had made up his mind. He'd activated the course, matching his newfound determination against the eighteen animated wooden dummies.
When he joined Eithan and the Arelius family at dawn, he wanted to do it after squeezing out every second of practice he could. Maybe he could produce a miracle, defeat the course, and join Eithan and Yerin with pride.
The dummies had knocked him flat, but he'd gotten up again and again. Eventually he'd stopped to cycle, but meditation had turned to sleep...
Sunlight streamed in through the walls.
He jumped to his feet, the unfamiliar power of his Iron body launching him two feet in the air before he landed.
He was late.
He'd missed them.
Lindon stormed through the door, hoping against hope that they'd decided to wait a few hours for him.
The instant he opened a crack, air blasted him in the face, shoving the door all the way open and slamming it against the frame. The wind was almost strong enough to push him off his feet, Iron body or no, and the light was blinding.
He had to throw up his arm against the all-present light, which surrounded him as though he’d been tossed into the sun.