Only a second had passed, and Jai Long stood in a pool of blood, bodies, and dissipating white madra. One woman lifted her skirts as she passed, though she was well clear of the blood, and gave him a disapproving look. A worker in the restaurant shouted at him for the smell. The old woman outside the tailor’s shouted, “And no more than they deserved, sir!”
Traffic didn’t stop.
The Arelius workers gave relieved sighs and rose to their feet, but they looked as though he’d saved them from a loudly barking dog.
“Will you be dealing with the Remnants, honored Highgold?” one of the Arelius street-sweepers asked. “Or should we have a crew dispose of them?”
Jai Long pulled some scripted paper seals from his pocket, which he’d prepared for exactly this occasion. He hardly had to stretch out his perception to feel the sources of toxic madra moving toward him: the Sandvipers, here to help him capture the Remnants for later consumption.
“I have men coming,” he said, and the servants bowed as they backed up a few steps. One of them had produced scrub-brushes and a bucket; they were already planning to clean the street as soon as he left.
Someone shouted something about the Skysworn, but the white Stellar Spear Remnants had already begun to rise. They each looked different, but they were all thin and bony and looked as though they were sketched on the world in vivid starlight.
He slapped seals on them before they had entirely left their bodies, and by this time, the fur-clad Sandvipers had found their way to the street. They bound the Remnants in scripts and carried them off, taking them three streets over to a wagon they had prepared for exactly this purpose.
As soon as they started walking, the Arelius family closed back in to clean up the mess.
Fate was strange. In ambushing the Jai clan tonight, Jai Long might have done Eithan Arelius a favor.
He started to laugh—the serpentine Remnant had left him with a disturbing laugh, cold and high, like crashing metal.
Around him, the Sandvipers carrying the script-bound Remnants shuddered, but he pretended not to notice.
Yerin dodged the black scissors racing for her face, cycling madra to her limbs to Enforce her speed as much as she could. She still almost took a slash across the cheek, but avoided it, feeling the sharp aura gathered around the blade as it slid past her.
Eithan had overextended for the thrust, leaning onto his right foot to drive the scissors at her. His left arm was tucked behind the small of his back, into the dark blue outer robe that fluttered in the breeze behind him, and he still wore that small, smug smile.
She returned a thrust of her own, punishing his extension, driving the blade at his ribs.
He flared with power as his madra surged, and he vanished. She cut nothing but air. She spun to face him behind her; he hadn’t veiled his presence, so she could feel him just as she would feel a bonfire. Simple trick to spin and keep the pressure on.
A thought that wasn’t her own floated out from her core: she was making a mistake.
She shouldn’t turn and waste that critical instant moving her body; instead, she should channel the Endless Sword through her Goldsign and whip it behind her, covering her movement and giving her enough time to turn.
Without waiting for her permission, her Goldsign obeyed the voice.
The steel-silver arm dangling over her shoulder whipped backwards on its own instinct, against her instructions. It strained to reach Eithan, stealing some of her madra to slash at the air, but she had already begun to turn. Her motion pulled the blade out of line even as it tugged her off-balance.
When she righted herself, she stared down the tip of black scissors.
“It's hard enough to quiet one mind,” Eithan noted, spinning his scissors around one finger. “All but impossible if you have to work with two.”
She ground her teeth, slamming her sword back into its sheath with too much force. Her unwelcome guest squirmed in her core, probing her self-control, looking to use her anger as a crack. It was getting stronger these days; if she didn’t advance soon enough, she’d be the voice in the back of its head.
“Two would be sugar and peaches. I'm juggling three.”
Eithan flipped his hair over one shoulder. “That’s two more than you have to. Your Remnant is not your counselor, it is your resource. You should strip it down and use it for parts.”
He didn't understand. He couldn't, even if he knew what this parasite around her waist really was. It made sure she understood what it wanted, though it didn’t use words. It wanted to be used.
Better than anybody else, Yerin could tell when something in her head was trying to talk to her.
And her master’s Remnant, sealed away in her core, felt the same. He had something to say, so it was on her to listen.
Eithan might know sacred arts up and down. Maybe his advice would be right, for a regular Lowgold with a regular Remnant. But he didn’t know what it felt like to carry somebody else’s soul around with her.
Unless he wore her skin for a day, he couldn't know.
“What have you learned today?” Eithan asked.
“Shouldn’t turn when the enemy gets behind me. Should have sent an Endless Sword over my shoulder to keep the pressure on, but I tripped over my own feet trying to turn.”
That was the lesson her master was trying to teach her: he’d sent her a message telling her what to do, but she’d been slow to listen.
“Hmm.” Eithan flipped his scissors into the air and caught them, all while watching her. “You know, sword artists don't tend to be the philosophical types. Some sacred artists can think their way through bottlenecks and roadblocks in their advancements, but those on sword Paths...they tend to prefer fighting through their problems.”
“That's a truth,” she muttered.
“Well then, how fortunate for you that you have a teacher who is willing to engage all your preferences and whims.” He glanced up at the sun. “We should be right on time, actually. How would you like to take your frustration out on an endless parade of artificial enemies?”
“I think you'll have to race me there.”
He began walking across the sandy courtyard where they'd been practicing, still spinning the scissors, and Yerin followed him.
“I've taken the liberty of restoring and preparing the three ancient Trials of the Blackflame family. I think you'll find them...invigorating.”
Yerin didn't ask him any questions—he wouldn't tell her anything he didn't want her to know, and anyway, she'd see about these Trials for herself soon enough. But she was curious.
Lindon had been gone for three days, learning to cycle this new Path. Eithan’s description had been impressive enough that she wanted to see it with her own eyes, but she had her doubts.
On the one side, Lindon was finding it hard enough to progress on his own Path. Giving him more to practice was just packing more weight onto an overburdened mule.
On top of that, she'd never trusted fire artists. They never met a problem without trying to burn their way out, which struck her as...crude, if that was the word. Simple. A sword was precise and controlled, but fire just burned everything.
There was another side, though: the Blackflame family had been richer than a nest of dragons. Wouldn't surprise her if they'd left something shiny behind.
They arrived at the base of the black mountain, where a circular hole in the rock was blocked by a copper door and a reddish haze. Golden sand blew against the stone, whipping against her exposed skin.