He had, but he was already forgetting the pain: Orthos had taken him another stage higher.
The Patriarch of the Wei clan was only Jade.
Lindon bowed at the waist, speaking with sincerity. “Gratitude, honored Orthos. I am grateful beyond words for the gift of your power, though I am not worthy of even this small fraction.”
Orthos’ pride flared up, and he stood straighter, until his shell almost scraped the low cavern ceiling. “Yes. You will not lack for rewards in my service.”
Eithan patted the turtle’s nose, though Orthos jerked back like an affronted child. “Congratulations on your new subordinate, Orthos. If I may remind you: this clarity of yours will not last for long. If you want Lindon to share this burden with you, you should see to his training yourself.”
The dragon-turtle snorted, and black flames shot from his nostrils. “My memory is dim, but I remember you. You never spoke with proper respect.”
Eithan slipped his hands into the pockets of his outer robe. His grin widened. “Do I owe you respect?”
“I do not fear Underlords,” Orthos said, words underscored by a growl that shook the earth. “Your advancement means nothing before a dragon’s breath.”
Eithan drew himself up. “Sir! If this is an issue of respect, we should settle it like proper citizens of the Blackflame Empire. Let a friendly exchange of techniques decide whether you take the reins of Lindon’s training, or whether I kneel to you as my master.”
Though the Underlord’s smile had been wiped away by an expression of haughty dignity, a playful sparkle remained in his eyes.
Orthos’ satisfaction radiated through their bond, and his eyes glowed bright. “Trial by combat,” he said. “Let it be so.”
The temperature spiked again as Eithan and Orthos faced each other, ready to do battle.
Lindon grabbed his pack and ran.
As the battle broke out behind him, his spirit shook with fear and warning…but that didn’t stop him from digging around in his pack for his box of badges.
It was time to exchange his iron for jade.
Chapter 11
“Vital aura is the power of the world,” Orthos said, limping up the tunnel. His left foreleg wasn’t visibly injured, but the pain he felt at every step flashed through Lindon’s soul. “Even a hatchling understands this.”
Despite the turtle’s injury, Lindon still had to hurry to catch up. Based on his limited Jade perception, he would say Orthos’ power was comparable to a Truegold, and he had speed to match. “Please excuse my ignorance. I am honored to have a teacher with such power and wisdom.”
Orthos’ head rose slightly, pleased and proud. “I have never lowered myself to teach Coppers before, but you have latched yourself onto my soul. I should at least treat you like a descendant. Hm. Vital aura. It builds in everything, over time, and can grant great power.
“A stone is a piece of the earth, and it builds earth aura. An ordinary stone has only a mouthful of aura, but as the centuries pass, it grows stronger and stronger. It will continue absorbing power from the earth until it transforms. If left undisturbed, an ordinary rock will grow into a nugget of Titan’s Bone: all but unbreakable.”
“Forgiveness, but surely all stone should be unbreakable by now, if this is only a function of time.” Lindon reminded himself to ask Eithan about Titan’s Bone.
“Sacred artists have an endless appetite,” Orthos grumbled, scooping up a mouthful of rocks nearby and crunching them like candy. “A vein of vital aura piling up in the ground is a treasure trove for earth artists. They will stop at nothing to harvest it for their own advancement. A single candle-flame might be enough for you to cycle, but for a true expert, such a weak source is useless. They might as well try eating air.”
Orthos lumbered up the path, his emotions growing distant as he drifted into a memory. “Advancement is an endless hunt for greater and greater sources of power. You start by feeding on the aura in candles and campfires, but sooner than you think, you’ll be hunting for dragon hearts and sunreaver stones and sacred flames. Always climbing…”
Back in Sacred Valley, the Wei clan had cycled aura at dawn, when the light from Samara’s ring and sunlight had intermingled, and when dreams still lingered in their minds. Lindon had never thought of aura as something that could be taken away; light and dreams were not stationary objects that could build up vital aura over time.
The explanation made sense. The Transcendent Ruins had drawn in vital aura from miles around, leaving the surroundings dim and washed-out in his Copper sight. Lindon had thought of that process as something like taking in a breath: the Ruins may have inhaled, but that didn’t mean there was any less air outside. Now, he imagined it more like draining a bucket and waiting for rain to fill it back up.
“We cycle aura to trap a portion in our souls, adding to our power,” Orthos continued, returning to the present. “It changes the nature of our madra, and over time, it teaches your core to generate madra of that aspect.”
That much, Lindon understood. “Is there such thing as pure vital aura? With no aspect?”
Orthos rumbled deep in his throat. “There are more aspects of aura than sparks in a wildfire, but they always take some form. Always. Asking for pure aura is like asking for dry water.”
“And Ruler techniques?”
“Madra controls aura, and aura controls nature. Water artists can walk on the ocean, call rain, and so on. Earth artists open doors in stone. Force artists can make a feather hit with the power of a collapsing boulder.”
Lindon thought he understood. The Path of the White Fox could craft an illusion out of madra, but its Ruler technique affected the mind and eyes directly so that the target believed they saw something.
But he was still testing his Blackflame core, running his awareness over it like a child unwilling to release a new toy.
“What use is there for fire aura? Surely you can set things on fire with madra, rather than bothering with a Ruler technique.”
Orthos was quiet for a full minute, chewing on the occasional stone. Lindon was considering how best to apologize when the turtle finally spoke.
“For some Paths, this is true. For ours…” One red-and-black eye swiveled to meet Lindon’s gaze. “Imagine you have finished a battle. Your breath has driven your enemies before you, and now their corpses lie smoldering on the field. Smoke and flames rise in testament to your power, and courage has left your foes. They flee. You know you cannot catch them all.”
A dark, twisted root stuck out from the wall. Suddenly Orthos snapped at it, tearing a length of wood the size of Lindon’s arm out of the stone.
He spat it onto the floor, where it burst into smoky, black-streaked flames.
“They trip over the burning bodies of their comrades as they run,” Orthos said, “but there is no flight from your fury.”
He turned to glare at the floor.
And in a great explosion of heat, the root burst into flames. Lindon had to take a step back; the fire reached the ceiling and filled the tunnel for an instant. It was the healthy orange of a natural flame, not the dark stain of Blackflame, though it was spotted with the odd blotch of black or red.
The fire roared for a second, lapping up the walls as though looking for something else to consume, and then died in an instant.
Of the arm-length root, there was nothing left but ash.
“We called it the Void Dragon’s Dance,” Orthos said, crushing the ash beneath his paw. “In one moment, the flames devour everything on the battlefield, leaving only smoke and dust.”