“At least earth,” Lindon said. The color reminded him of earth aura, so he went with his instincts. “Maybe force? Some wind? If you could take a look with your drudge, we could know for sure.”
“Not for sure. A drudge only checks for what you tell it to check for. There is no substitute for experience. Now then, what would you do with this binding?”
A construct, essentially, was a puppet with a single technique embedded in it. The binding was the technique. Scripts could tweak the specifics, but the bulk of a construct’s abilities were determined by the power of the dead matter in its shell and the binding at its heart.
Lindon reached into his pack and slid out a book Gesha had given him only three nights before: The Combination of Spirits. It was written by hand, rather than printed by construct like most of the books from Sacred Valley, but he found the observations of ancient Soulsmith teachers fascinating. “I haven’t had time to study in depth, but I had some inspiration. You see, here it mentions a Striker construct that won’t activate until a certain amount of time passes. You could put one circle on an arrowhead—”
“Launcher,” Fisher Gesha interrupted. “You think my question did not have a correct answer, hm? It does. The correct answer is: a basic launcher construct.”
Lindon hesitated. “I’m sure that would work, but the binding serves the same basic purpose already.” A launcher construct was little more than a container with a Striker binding in it.
As far as constructs went, launchers were boring. Nothing of what they did amplified or enhanced the binding’s technique in any way. In Lindon’s opinion, you might as well just keep a Striker binding in a script-sealed box and take it out when you needed it.
Gesha reached into the pocket of her outer robe and pulled out a second book: Soulsmithing for Coppers. On its cover was a picture of a smiling tree holding hands with a friendly-looking Remnant.
“You forgot one of your new books, hm? Lucky I grabbed it before we left.”
She tossed it to him, and he forced a smile. “Thank you for correcting my careless oversight, Fisher Gesha.”
“Mm. You’ll find instructions for a launcher inside.”
Lindon peeled open the book, flipping past overly large illustrations of children putting simple constructs together. It was a grating reminder that he had first Forged madra only a few weeks before.
Technically he supposed he was at the level of these children, but he was pushing himself in every other aspect of his sacred arts. Why did he have to start from the beginning only here, as a Soulsmith?
But Gesha’s stern gaze did not relent, so he sighed and walked back over to her trunk, removing the claw of an earth-Remnant, which still twitched with life if he held it too close to the ground. It would serve as the ideal body for this weapon.
With a goldsteel scalpel, he split it open, placing the binding within.
He ran his spirit over the loose construction, letting his power drift into the dead matter. With focus and a few deep breaths, he took control of the Remnant pieces.
The claw began to shine again, like it had when it was part of a Remnant. Lindon felt when his spirit filled the dead matter and the binding equally, empowering them both.
Then he fused them together.
The claw shrunk, compressed, and reshaped itself slightly. The binding melded into the substance of the claw, sealed inside so it was all one piece.
And that was all.
Now it was a shining yellow rod tipped with claws, which would launch a blast of rock-hard energy when provided with madra. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but it counted as a success nonetheless.
All the Soulsmiths in Sacred Valley had been Forgers because the process of creating a construct was similar to Forging: you take control of power and give it form. Lindon could have re-formed the dead matter to look more like a sword, or a box, or most anything else, but he hadn’t bothered. It was just a launcher.
More than Forging ability, Lindon had learned, crafting a construct required compatibility. The power of the Soulsmith soaked into the power of the construct, and some aspects of madra did not blend well. In those cases, the Soulsmithing process could result in a useless product, or a deadly mistake.
Pure madra was compatible with everything, but it was also weak. It added nothing. Fisher Gesha’s madra was attractive—as in, it literally pulled objects together—and that meant she could fuse dead matter to bindings with no trouble at all, and her madra was still compatible with most everything. There were a few powers she couldn’t re-Forge without danger, but she had a drudge to identify exactly when those were present.
Pure madra wasn’t the best for any given construct—it weakened the original power of the madra like water added to wine. But it did technically work with anything.
Lindon would take any advantage he could get.
Back in Sacred Valley, every Forger thought they knew something about Soulsmithing, because making a construct was fairly easy. But making one safe? One that performed as intended every time, and lasted for as long as possible?
You had to measure the dead matter and the binding precisely to avoid unexpected interaction, handle the materials correctly, dissect the Remnant properly, and know how to customize and tweak the functions with scripts afterward.
Unless you were making a launcher.
Gesha nodded approvingly. “You move quickly, and with confidence. This is good. Only another week or two, and we will take further steps.”
He tried to keep most of the disappointment out of his voice as he said, “A week?”
Gesha’s hand struck like a hawk taking a mouse, slapping him on the back of the head. This time, it really stung. “Keep your eyes on the present, not the future, hm?” Her spider legs shuffled, turning her back on him.
“Your instruction has been invaluable, honored Fisher,” Lindon said, although in truth she hadn’t taught him much at all before the last few days. It seemed that his endorsement from Eithan had promoted him from ‘servant’ to ‘student.’ “I bow to your wisdom.”
She reached over her shoulder, resting a hand on the hilt of her hook. Like all the members of the Fisher sect, she carried a giant bladed fishhook as a weapon, sharp on the inside. Hers was plated with goldsteel, and he’d personally seen her dissect all sorts of Remnants with it.
“You wish to run before you can stand up straight,” Gesha said firmly. “You do not travel any Path by skipping steps.”
He had skipped every step he could, and ever since leaving Sacred Valley, he had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams.
But he didn’t say that out loud.
“The honored Fisher is wise.”
“Mm. You are blind.”
“Yes, Fisher Gesha.”
“Oh, you know this?”
“Yes, Fisher Gesha.”
“That is strange to me. A man who knows he is blind would be very careful of his surroundings, lest he be taken by surprise.”
Something grabbed Lindon’s ankle and pulled him off balance.
Before his Iron body, slamming his chin against the hard-packed earth would have blinded him with pain, and perhaps lost him a tooth. Now, he only felt pressure hitting his jaw, and he instantly twisted to see what had snared him.
A line of purple madra stuck to his ankle like spider’s silk, stretching back to a figure of purple light lurking in the trees. Like all Remnants, it looked like a collection of brush-strokes, as though someone had painted it into existence. This one was tall and sunken, with inhumanly long limbs and the gaping face of a fish. Its thin, webbed fingers were tipped in claws, and its blank purple eyes were fixed on Lindon.
His heart hammered, and he had to focus to keep his breath even and steady so that his madra didn’t slip out of control. Not long ago, he would have panicked at this sudden attack.