The two disciples glanced at Lindon more out of curiosity than pity, he was sure. Then they climbed into the carriage behind their master.
Lindon had tied his bulky pack to the roof before he noticed what they were missing: a driver.
“Hurry yourself, Unsouled,” the elder called from inside the carriage. “I have business to attend to at the school.”
Without a word of dissent, Lindon clambered up onto the driver's seat behind the oxen. Even this was cushioned, though the only carriages he'd ever ridden in the Wei clan had undressed boards for the driver. He was grateful for the comfort, and for the lack of company.
With an instant of concentration, he sent a drop of madra into the reins. A line of script ran down the inside of the leather straps, carrying his power down and into the ox-Remnants. They bellowed like a couple of thunderstorms, transparent forms rippling with light, and they began to pull.
After that, the trip was easy. At first, Lindon was concerned that he might have to ask Elder Whitehall for directions, but he discovered that the path toward Samara was clear and wide. They rode for hours as the sun rose, the terrain sprouted hills, and the purple-leafed orus trees gave way to foliage of mundane green.
Mount Samara's halo faded and dimmed as they approached, eventually vanishing for the day. The mountain's slopes were sparse, sprinkled with the occasional copse of twisted trees or the spot of color from a flying Remnant. The mountain loomed over them as noon broke, like a wall taking up half the horizon.
The road terminated at the base of the mountain, transforming into a dirt path that twisted upward in a series of hatchbacks. Lindon hesitated as he saw the trail, but the oxen didn't, hauling their way up the mountain with dogged determination.
Within seconds, Elder Whitehall must have sensed the change. “Halt!” he called, and Lindon had no choice but to urge the Remnants to stop their advance on a steep slope. They supported the carriage as though their hooves had been nailed to the side of the mountain.
The childlike elder hopped out of the carriage, his disciples following like chaperones. But when they reached the ground, they bowed to Elder Whitehall, saluting with their fists pressed together.
Lindon left the driver’s seat and did likewise. There was no sense in disrespecting an elder before even arriving at the school.
Whitehall paid them no attention, walking to their right, skirting the edge of the mountain. “The three of you will walk a different path up the mountain. This is the first test of any disciple in the Heaven’s Glory School.”
Lindon was somewhat surprised to learn that the other two were in the same category as he was. They were both older, but only by a year or two, and very little set them apart. One was as tall as Lindon, with brown hair a shade darker than his mother’s, the other shorter with black hair. Otherwise, they were wholly unremarkable.
Unremarkable except for the iron badges on their chests. Every glance they shot at Lindon’s wooden badge poked a needle in his pride.
He only had to bear with it. They would never make it past Jade; they were almost to the end of their Path. His was just beginning.
A number of boulders dotted the landscape where part of the mountain must have slid down years before, and each step of Elder Whitehall’s took him from one boulder to another. The Iron disciples followed him without difficulty, but Lindon strained his body to the limit just to keep up. More than once, he came teetering within an inch of falling off the rock and smashing his head, and he was sure he wouldn’t receive the best of medical care from the Heaven’s Glory School.
They arrived in less than an hour, with the elder and the other two disciples as fresh as if they’d simply stepped outside. Lindon’s clothes were caked with sweat, each breath heaving, his spirit fuzzy and weak from the madra he’d drawn to support his failing limbs.
Whitehall and the other two were looking up the mountain, and though it pained him to even turn his neck, he followed their gazes.
Into the slopes of Mount Samara there was a staircase. Rather than the rough gray-brown stone that surrounded him, these stairs were polished and white. It was so wide that a hundred men could march up side by side, and it appeared to progress up the mountain in a straight line. Beyond a few hundred steps, Lindon could see no further.
After that, the path was obscured by clouds of light. Shapes moved within the light, shadows with twisted antlers and gaping jaws. Even the two Iron disciples eyed the cloud with apprehension.
“Behold the Trial of Glorious Ascension,” Whitehall said proudly. Lindon had to admire whichever ancient leader of the Heaven’s Glory School came up with the name. It was only a staircase with some Remnant formations on it, but they had left such a proud and lofty title.
“Within that cloud are a few of the spirit-aspect and mind-aspect Remnants our school has tamed over the generations,” Whitehall continued. “They will test your resolve, your determination, and the solid foundations of your spirit. With each step you climb, the Trial will become heavier. Past a certain point, retreat is impossible. If you have no confidence, you may give up your title as a Heaven’s Glory disciple and return to your home. I will tell you that one in three disciples who challenges this Trial either dies or has their spirit broken, unable to practice the sacred arts again.”
The boy stared directly at Lindon. “I expect that statistic is especially appropriate today. Would any of you like to withdraw?”
All three of them looked at Lindon, but he maintained an open and honest expression, as though he didn’t realize what they expected of him.
After a minute of silence, the elder dismissed Lindon, turning to the other two. “If you reach the top, you will have passed, and will be considered a disciple of the Heaven’s Glory School. If you reach the top before sundown, however, then we will consider you to have a bright future. In that case, you will be allowed to select one item from the school’s Lesser Treasure Hall for your personal use. There are weapons, training supplements, elixirs, constructs…even some elders cannot choose freely from the hall. Use whatever means you have at your disposal, and do not take this Trial lightly.”
The other two disciples straightened up, and the short one’s eyes lit up. But Lindon’s heart blazed. Even the Wei clan’s treasure hall was enough to stir his imagination and longing, but the Heaven’s Glory hall had to be an unknown number of times greater.
Now he had to reach the top before sunset. Only…
He glanced up at the cloud, where a pair of silhouettes clashed with each other in a silent, distant battle. Shadow-liquid sprayed in the air. That was a test designed for promising young Irons and genius Coppers. There was no way he could survive.
So he had to find a different way.
Elder Whitehall jumped at the staircase, skipping six steps at a time. “When I reach the cloud, you may begin. I’ll see those of you who survive at the peak.”
In seconds, he vanished into the light. The two Iron disciples exchanged a few brief words with each other and then ran after, not sparing Lindon a glance. That suited him, as he had immediately left.
Chapter 13
Lindon wasn’t insane. No matter how resolved or determined he was, there was no way someone at the Foundation stage of advancement would survive a trip through the Trial of Glorious Ascension. He’d barely been able to withstand the illusions created by his sister’s madra, much less an all-out attack from a mind Remnant. But he still had to make it to the top of the mountain before the sun set, and it was already early afternoon.