He seized that silver power, spreading the aura into a blade the width of an axe. He activated the aura, and it shone silver.
Like this, he could slice through a tree with no more effort than cutting tofu. And there was nothing Eithan could do about it: he had no authority over sword madra, and no way to stop a blade.
The Jai Patriarch had burned through too much of his madra too quickly, but this would end it. He thrust his spear with all his strength, though the aura-empowered blade would slice through Eithan’s body even if a child pushed it.
Eithan dropped the broom, which fell so slowly it seemed to hang in the air, and reached into the pocket of his outer robe.
Jai Daishou watched everything as though it played out for him at half speed: the silver blade of aura sliced through strands of yellow hair, piercing the silk threads of Eithan’s robe. The Arelius Underlord was leaning back, away from the strike, but not fast enough.
His hand emerged from the pocket. The silver blade drew blood from Eithan’s cheek, spilling red droplets that drifted lazily up.
Eithan sliced open the back of his hand as he slid it in front of his face, holding what he’d drawn from his pocket as though it were a talisman that could ward off the spear’s approach.
As Eithan held it into the path of the silver blade, Jai Daishou saw what it was: a pair of black scissors.
Ordinary scissors with long blades, of the sort a tailor might use to cut fabric. He sensed nothing unusual about them whatsoever—they weren’t even made of goldsteel. Just, as far as he could tell, iron.
He had to assume they had been washed in soulfire, which would make them stronger and allow them to conduct madra and aura more efficiently, but there was only so much an Underlord’s blessing could do to mundane materials.
The aura crashed into the scissors and, instead of slicing them in half, split like a wave running against the rocks.
Jai Daishou was so committed to his attack that he could only watch in horror as the blade of silver light split around the scissors, dispersing, spraying immaterial aura light to either side of Eithan’s face. A few more blond hairs fell to the ground, but no more blood spilled.
The spearhead reached the black blade, and Eithan gripped his scissors in both hands, shoving Jai Daishou’s full-power strike to one side.
As the Jai Patriarch staggered, the Arelius bent over, breathing heavily, scooping up his broom. “Close one,” he said, between ragged breaths.
He straightened with a tailor’s scissors in one hand and a janitor’s broom in the other, standing over the lord of a warrior clan whose spear had failed.
Jai Daishou wondered when someone would wake him from this nightmare. Even using soulfire, it was impossible to Enforce ordinary iron to that degree using pure madra. Impossible. It would empty Jai Daishou’s core three times over.
“Tell me how,” he demanded, looking up at his rival.
Then black scissors met his throat, and the pain blasted away his Enforcer technique. Time staggered back into focus.
Eithan considered a moment. “I’ll tell your Remnant,” he said.
Lindon found Eithan sprawled out on his back at the edge of a cliff. Yellow hair fanned out behind him, his blue robe looked like he’d fed it to a gang of dogs, and he was bleeding from half a dozen wounds that Lindon could see. Just out of reach of his outstretched hands lay a broom and a pair of scissors.
“Are you hurt?” Lindon asked, sliding his pack down to pull out the bandages. It almost slipped out of his grip—one of the straps had been burned halfway through by a tongue of Blackflame.
Eithan cracked one eye, though he might have tried to open both; one was gummed shut by a mass of blood. “I am taking a break and enjoying the brisk night air. You look like you were beaten with clubs while climbing through an erupting volcano.”
Orthos was still picking his way through the debris between the two cliffs, his frustration echoing through the contract, but neither he nor Eithan seemed to expect another attack.
Lindon extended his perception and felt a handful of very alarming spirits on the slopes above him. “They aren’t going to attack us, are they?” he asked.
Eithan barked out a laugh, then winced. “Oh, that’s…that’s tender. No, after the show I gave them, they wouldn’t come near me if I had a spear through my chest and was begging for death. Couldn’t say if any Skysworn were watching us, but I suspect my ranking among Underlords is about to be adjusted.”
A feather’s weight lifted from Lindon’s head, and the Sylvan Riverseed hopped to his shoulder, sliding down his arm, ocean-blue hair drifting behind her. She jumped off his hand, landing on Eithan’s chest.
The Underlord raised an eyebrow. “Why, hello there.”
She walked up to kneel on his forehead, looking down curiously. Then she rubbed his head with one hand, whistling like a flute in a way that Lindon suspected was meant to be comforting.
“Your power can’t help me,” Eithan said, flinching as he sat up. The Riverseed scurried up to sit on top of his head, still making a sympathetic face. “Madra doesn’t get any more pure or gentle than mine.” He looked to Lindon as though something had just occurred to him. “Speaking of which, I see you’re making good use of my cycling technique. Reliable, isn’t it? No fun to practice, but there are always tradeoffs.”
“Yes,” Lindon agreed immediately, “I couldn’t be more grateful. Without…” The implications of Eithan’s statement caught up to him a second later. “…ah, pardon, but when you say ‘your’ cycling technique…”
“I mean mine,” Eithan said cheerily. “The one I’m using right now. It was in the family library, but everybody else can supplement their cores by cycling aura. Focusing on capacity is inefficient, unless—as you’ve experienced—you can’t add to your power with vital aura. Pure madra Paths aren’t as rare as everyone seems to think they are.”
“You…” Lindon began to express suspicion, but there was a more polite way to confirm. He extended his perception, scanning Eithan’s spirit. This time, the fog that usually covered Eithan’s core was lifted.
And he felt a pool of pure blue-white power, just like his own.
“I didn’t pick you up because of your impeccable fashion sense,” Eithan said, touching two fingers to the corner of his blood-stuck eye. “Hm. I think this is swelling. Anyway, a pure core is one of two ways in which we are similar, so I thought I might be able to provide you with some unique guidance. And that you might help me as well, in the long run.”
Lindon was sure he was supposed to ask, but he played his role anyway. “What’s the second way?”
“You left it back in the Trials after you advanced to Gold,” Eithan said. “It happens. Advancement can play havoc with the memory, especially when the process is traumatic. It should be lying in the dirt, but it followed you. Now it’s in your right pocket.”
Lindon reached into his pocket, knowing what he would find, and withdrew Suriel’s marble. The ball of pure glass sat on his palm, its sapphire flame steady, casting blue light over him.
“Do you know what this is?” Lindon asked, and he wasn’t sure if he was afraid or excited.
“I wasn’t sure at first,” Eithan said, reaching into his own pocket. “Not everything that blocks my senses is from the heavens.” He pulled out his own glass marble the size of a thumbnail. “And yours looks somewhat different from mine.”
Inside the hollow shell was a ball of perfectly round darkness. It looked endlessly deep, like a bottomless hole suspended in glass.
Eithan held it up to one eye, inspecting it. “Maybe they’re like coins,” he mused. “This could be the celestial equivalent of tossing a scale to a servant.”