Chapter 37

Tutors V

The weeks following Mags’ return from the Leshi Forest passed in a steady rhythm of lessons and rituals. Under the twilight skies of Bijel Garden, her training with Malacoda sharpened both body and mind. As her strength grew, so did her understanding of Soulsinging. She still spent her mornings practicing with the Daedalus Orb over her breakfast. The Daedalus Orb felt more responsive in her hands, its intricate patterns familiar. She knew the maze well. In fact, she knew the Orb’s maze so well she should occasionally describe some of the more interesting traps it contained to Calcabrina simply describing it with word. The other young woman’s eyes would always glaze over after a minute or so.

She hadn’t yet attuned to the Pocket. For some reason she could not explain, the metallic sphere resisted her aura. It mentally felt like her aura was running through water. Malacoda told her to keep trying and even if it took longer, she would eventually attune to the item.

One day, word swept through Bijel Garden that Skithbladnir and the rest of the Ghost Hounds had returned, anchoring off the misted shores of Rusalka. The massive airship loomed on the distant horizon, its pale sails gleaming under moonlight like the bones of ancient leviathans.

From the ship came Rubicante, on the back of one of the small turtle-like skyfin. Mags and the others greeted him at the top of the stairs leading up to Bijel Garden. The Shambalan man took them in with his bronze-yellow eyes. Those eyes, like two coins, eventually landed on Mags.

“I hope you’ve grown much since we last spoke,” he said. A polite, placid expression was painted on his gray-skinned face.

Mags gave him a wide grin in response. “Just you wait and see!”

Mags had missed her tea sessions with him—those late-night talks by lantern light where they’d delve into philosophical ideas and the mysteries of the Aethereal Sea, and where he often left her with more questions than answers.

During their first lesson after his return, Rubicante led her to the temple, where the sprawling branches of the giant Sanguine Tree reached towards the heavens, casting a shadowed canopy across angular stone structure that made up the inside of the temple. The air felt thick with the scent of damp earth and the water streaming from the ceiling along the outer walls seemed additionally loud. Mags noticed at once that the temple’s resident ravens were nowhere to be seen. She cocked her head.

“Are we even allowed to be here?” she asked, glancing at the temple’s walls, covered in the flowing script.

Rubicante chuckled, pouring two cups of tea from a delicate porcelain pot. “I have the Shrine Maiden’s permission. She believes the tree’s roots reach far enough to cradle any conversation of significance. As such, it’s a wonderful place for introspection. And, not to mention, this is one of my favorite places on Rusalka. I would be a fool to not take advantage of spending as much time here as I can.”

They sat in silence for a moment beneath the great Sanguine Tree, the dappled light and dark-red leaves swirling above them. In the darkness of the temple, Rubicante became nothing more than a silhouette empowered with his voice. Occasionally, he would be cast in the scattered moonlight when he reached to refill his cup of tea.

Mags lifted her tea and inhaled its earthy aroma, as Rubicante began to speak.

“Now,” he murmured, “where did we last leave off.”

“The Aethereal Sea, and the nature of aether,” she responded.

“Ah, yes…” Rubicante took a careful sip of his own tea. “Please, do me a favor and hand me that glass of water on the tray there.” Mags grabbed the tall glass, which was about halfway filled with water. “Yes, this may do.” Rubicante said, as he grabbed the pestle he had used to grind the tea leaves.

He continued. “This glass is the world, both the physical realm we live in, and the metaphysical realm, which we know as the Aethereal Sea. The water is the aether. The power source for Soulsinging. This pestle is the Soulsinger, reaching into the Aethereal Sea to pull the aether.” He placed the pestle into the glass, and Mags watched as the water level in the glass rose higher. “Aether is drawn into the physical realm, filling space previously unoccupied by aether.”

“But then it is channeled when we use magic, and turned into aura,” she said.

“Yes, and what happens to aura?”

Mags thought about the question for a moment before speaking. “It’s either used, becoming a part of a Spell or Skill, or will dissipate over time if generated by a Soulsinger, but not used. It can’t be held in the body for an indefinite period of time, like mana can be.”

Rubicante smiled. “Yes, very well said. Aura is almost a one-to-one ratio with the amount of aether channeled. Some aether is inefficiently lost or burned away in the physical processes involved in a Soulsinger channeling it. The aura is eventually used, taking a different form of energy. That energy, when expended, turns back into aether, returning to the Aethereal Sea until it can be recycled back into the physical realm.” Rubicante removed the pestle from the glass, and the water in the cup returned to its previous level.

“Aether,” Rubicante said, “is always balanced between the two realms.”

“Almost always balanced,” she corrected. She instantly noticed the twinkle in his eyes.

“What do you mean?” he asked, clearly happy with her line of thinking.

“You said it yourself, some aether is inefficiently lost in the process of being channeled. It never makes it to the part of being used in the Spell or Skill, and therefore being transferred to its original form of energy and returned to the Aethereal Sea.”

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“Precisely. Anything else?”

“What about miasma? It’s thought to be aether in the physical realm that has become corrupted somehow. How does it return to the Aethereal Sea?”

“Typically, it must be converted back to aether through the power of a Guide.”

Mags took another sip of her tea. She let the bitter flavor settle over her tongue. “And is that conversion one hundred percent efficient?”

Moonlight crossed Rubicante’s face and she saw that his smile had grown wider. “No, it is not.”

“Well, there you have it. A second way that less aether goes back than came out of the Sea originally. But it has to balance back out somehow?. . .”

She let the silence linger for a second. It was Rubicante’s turn to provide some answers.

“Somnyx. It is a unique form of matter that exists in both realms. It is an energy source called the essence of dreams—a representation of pure, unadulterated potential. Somnyx will fill the gaps in the Aethereal Sea, generating more aether and restoring the balance.”

“Is Somnyx lost when it does that?”

“No. It’s not quite understood and that very question still keeps many scholars up at night.”

“And miasma,” she said. “If aether can be corrupted in the physical realm, can it be corrupted in the Aethereal Sea?”

Rubicante’s face grew somber, his gaze distant. “Yes, though no one knows the exact nature of it, there is a darkness that lurks beneath the surface of the Aethereal Sea. When a Soulsinger goes to draw power from the Sea, they will inevitably draw in some of that darkness.”

She thought of the Bonesinger in the forest, his fury, the red haze in his eyes. “Aether rot,” she muttered. “That’s what they called it.”

“Aether rot,” he repeated softly. “Yes, I heard of your and Calcabrina’s confrontation in the Leshi. The Bonesinger you encountered had been corrupted past any chance of redemption. Aether rot overtakes a Soulsinger when they tap too deeply into the Aethereal Sea, willingly or otherwise. It is different for each Soulsinger, coloring the madness with the nature of their power.”

She stared into her tea, letting his words settle. “He . . . he was stuck in his Bonesinger form, you know? Completely overwhelmed by bloodlust. He even attacked his own ally, the one who was there to help him. He wasn’t . . . he wasn’t a person anymore.”

Rubicante nodded, his fingers tracing the rim of his teacup. “That’s the nature of Soulsinging, Mags. It’s a deeply personal magic. A Bonesinger—especially a Shifter—draws upon their own essence. The form they take comes from some aspect of themselves, a part of their identity. So, when rot sets in, it corrupts that very core. They lose their identity in the madness of the rot.”

Mags shivered. “And what about other kinds of Soulsingers?”

“A fair question,” Rubicante replied, studying her with his steady gaze. “Each type suffers their own unique brand of madness. For Evokers, the madness aligns with the elemental Root they’re attuned to. Fire-aligned Evokers, for instance, often go mad in fiery rages, burning everything around them.”

“And Conjurers?”

“They risk losing control of their minds to the very Shedim they command” Rubicante replied. “A Conjurer might become one with the beings they summon, forgetting where their soul ends and another begins. They lose their freedom, seemingly bound to the very creatures they claimed to master. And Forgers . . . well, their madness is the cruelest of all. They become lost in a single, all-consuming memory. A memory typically carrying an emotional significance. Whatever emotion is driven by the memory, it consumes and changes the Forger in the madness.”

Mags swallowed, a chill prickling her skin. “Is madness the fate for all Soulsingers, eventually?”

Rubicante reached across the tray and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Many times, it is. But remember—knowledge, preparation, and restraint are as much your tools as any spell or weapon. Soulsinging isn’t just power; it’s a path of understanding, an intimacy with the forces around and within you. And as long as you remember that, you’ll have the strength to remain yourself.”

image [https://i.imgur.com/7P7JEZo.png]

The large room was lit with the warm, steady glow of mana-infused sconces. Mags sat cross-legged on the woven mat, her posture straight and attentive as she focused on Libicocco’s instructions. Across from her, the dark skinned woman wore her usual look of studious intensity, her round glasses perched precariously on the edge of her nose, but Mags could tell that her teacher was pleased with her progress. Beside Libicocco, Rubicante sat with a steaming cup of tea, his eyes half-lidded as he listened to their exchange, a small, encouraging smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Mags felt an uncharacteristic swell of confidence. The past weeks had felt like breaking through fog—new concepts and bodies of knowledge becoming clearer and sharper under Libicocco’s rigorous instruction. Mags was now confident that she could write persuasive essays on a variety of topics, from the philosophy of mathematics to ancient imperial history. She was sure it would be a skill that would save her life while at Brightwash Academy. It isn’t fireballs being hurled at my head I’ll need to worry about, it’s whether I’ll remember the line of succession of House Lorenz, or some nonsense!

Setting her jaw, Mags leaned forward. “Coco, I’ve been meaning to ask.” She searched for the right words, then plunged ahead. “How exactly does doing well at Brightwash help me assassinate the Emperor? I get that achieving the title of Dux per Par is essential, that it earns me a guaranteed audience with him. But. . . ” She glanced at Rubicante, who watched her intently now. “What’s my role in this plan exactly? What does having the Angel’s egg do that makes the plan work?”

Libicocco’s expression didn’t change, but she exchanged a look with Rubicante before giving a single, measured nod. She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and folded her hands. “First, I told you to not call me Coco. It’s ‘Libicocco’ or ‘Teacher.’ Second, that,” she began, her voice gentle yet precise, “is a very good question, Magdalena.”

She took a breath, as if carefully choosing her words. “The Emperor is surrounded by a complex and highly sophisticated series of wards. They are ancient protections—whether established through his own Soulsinging abilities or by a network of other Soulsingers in his service, we cannot be entirely sure. However, these wards are . . . indiscriminate. They repel, neutralize, or even negate the effects of almost any Soulsinger’s influence, rendering it nearly impossible for anyone of our kind to harm him, or even so much as touch him.”

Mags felt a prickle of cold run down her spine, despite the warmth of the room. “And I’m not a Soulsinger,” she murmured, almost to herself.

“Precisely,” Libicocco replied, her gaze intense. “At least not a traditional one by any means. You have a dull soul, Mags. You’ve never undergone an ignition, but have access to high power potential due to the Egg, and in that, you are unique. Not only that, but the Angel’s egg, the artifact you carry within your core, produces a distinctive ‘signature’ unlike any known Soulsinger, or anyone without a dull soul. We have reason to believe it’s a signature that slips past the Emperor’s wards—one that essentially renders you invisible to his magical protections.”

The reality of it sank in slowly. Mags clenched her fists, feeling the weight of the responsibility settle in her chest. She was to be the knife hidden in plain sight, the unseen threat. But it wasn’t lost on her that “invisible” didn’t mean “invulnerable.”

Libicocco continued, “There are, of course, other obstacles. Physical barriers, arcane defenses, his guards, and the Emperor himself.” Her gaze grew steely. “He’s known to be the most powerful Soulsinger alive. But he’s old. Very old. We think, beyond these protections, mighty as they may be, that he is vulnerable. Ruling for centuries has taken their toll on him.”

Mags nodded, though her mind whirled with questions. “And, with my mastery of all of the important dates in Ravaelian history, I may be able to get beyond his defenses, past his cadre of other Soulsingers, and bore him to death!”

Libicocco cleared her throats, face darkening in anger at the joke. Rubicante guffawed.