Chapter 30
Bijel Garden
Mags leaned against the cool stone wall of her tower room, her legs aching pleasantly from another long day of training. The night outside had deepened, and a cool breeze drifted through the open window, carrying with it the now familiar scent of the sea.
She felt a haptic tingling as she accessed Yggdrasil and summoned her Attributes. Her vision swam with the familiar, flowing silver script. The numbers shifted and flickered as they adjusted to reflect her progress.
ATTRIBUTES
USER LEVEL: E-2
Physical Attributes:
Strength E-3 increased to E-4 Dexterity E-2 increased to E-3 Endurance E-4 increased to E-5 Vitality E-6
Physical Sub-Level: E-3 increased to E-4
Mental Attributes:
Intelligence E-1 increased to E-2 Reactivity E-2 Perception E-1 Willpower E-2
Mental Sub-Level: E-1
Spiritual Attributes:
Power E-1 Reserves E-0 (Effective Attribute Value: E-3) Versatility E-1 Control E-1
Spiritual Sub-Level: E-1
Her lips curled into a satisfied smile. It had been nearly a month since they had arrived on Rusalka, and already she could feel the difference in herself. The biggest improvement had been in her Physical Attributes, with Strength, Dexterity, and Endurance each climbing by one level. She didn’t need Yggdrasil to tell her that, though—Malacoda’s relentless conditioning had sculpted her body into something tougher, leaner, and far more capable. The stubborn softness that had clung to parts of her body had faded, replaced with tight muscle.
The most drastic difference was the increase in Endurance. Despite being only a single level of improvement, the progress was astounding. A month ago, the training drills had left her gasping for breath, drenched in sweat, and begging for Malacoda to relent and tell her they were done for the day. Now, though, she was able to keep up with the man’s brutal routines, pushing her body to its limits without breaking. In fact, Malacoda had increased the time they spent most days focusing on her combat training and physical conditioning.
It wasn’t long after their arrival at Bijel Garden that Mags successfully completed the Daedalus Orb’s maze. In less than two weeks she had become a master at the task. She was able to navigate the maze both blindfolded and with enough speed to even elicit a whistle of admiration from Malacoda. He had nodded in approval, a wide, crooked smile breaking across his face in a glowing endorsement. “I think it’s time to finally start leaning some magic,” he had said.
“You mean it’s time for you to finally stop shirking your full duties as my tutor?” she added.
Malacoda threw his head back in a laugh. “I’ll need to find a different time to take my midday cat nap.”
Malacoda’s first lesson in Soulsinging was in self-imbuement.
“Now that you can channel aether and have rudimentary control over your aura, we can start with the basic: physical enhancement,” he had said. “Every Soulsinger in the Coalition ranks can do it. In reality, it makes up over ninety percent of Soulsinging. Those with more power—casting spells, etcetera—are actually a very small portion of the overall Soulsinger population.”
“You speak as if running faster than a garuda and being able to lift and throw an entire stagecoach is nothing spectacular,” she retorted flatly. Soulsingers were superhuman, beings who walked Iardyss knowing they were a cut above the ordinary mortals who happened to share the same plane.
Malacoda laughed. “Not every Soulsinger can accomplish those feats, even with an aether-enhanced body.”
He continued. “Aetheric imbuement is the cornerstone of Soulsinging. First, is the ability to imbue oneself. It’s easier because it’s easier to know oneself and have mastery over your body.”
“Like the meditation exercise needed to trigger the Daedalus Orb?”
“Bingo! Soulsinging requires different levels of understanding one’s self. But that’s scholarly bullshit that I’ll leave for Rubicante and the bookworms at Brightwash to enlighten you on. The fact of the matter is, our bodies aren’t that different than the Daedalus Orb. Our souls generate a fine network—like the circulatory system that carries blood through our veins—but for mana and aetheric energy. Imbuing your body is a lot like channeling your aura through that puzzle.”
Mags thought about what he said for a moment. “That sounds easy enough . . . But I’m guessing it’s easier said than done. Otherwise, why would ninety percent of all Soulsingers simply stop there?”
Malacoda tapped a finger on his chin, looking up thoughtfully as though he were actually carefully considering her question. “Well, you’re correct. It’s not that simple. I was just trying to get my point across. But many of those with potential for higher levels of magic choose not to pursue it.”
“Really? Why?”
“Most magic beyond aetheric imbuement is combat-focused, and out there in the great big world, most people—surprisingly—like to avoid fighting or anything that could cause severe bodily harm. Self-imbuement is generally useful, and offers a significant advantage for a military’s soldiers who are capable of it. Once you master the basics of self-imbuement, you’re then capable of imbuing objects.”
“Artificery.”
Malacoda snapped and pointed a finger at her, winking. “Exactly! Artificers are perhaps the most useful and widely applicable Soulsingers. All of the aethertec out there? It’s all built on principles of aetheric imbuement.”
That makes a lot of sense, actually, she thought. She wondered what choice she would have made if things had been different. If she was capable of Soulsinging without having consumed the Angel’s egg. Would she have chosen a comfortable, quiet life of an Artificer? She thought so. She thought of Cagna and Dragnazzo. The Ghost Hounds’ Artificers seemed to enjoy their craft.
“And then there’s probably the most important reason so many choose to stop their growth in Soulsinging,” Malacoda said. His smile faded.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
“And what is that?” Mags asked, snapping her attention back to him.
“The aether rot.”
image [https://i.imgur.com/7P7JEZo.png]
While Mags’ body had adjusted to the increasing intensity of Malacoda’s physical training, she couldn’t say the same for her lessons with Libicocco.
Her Intelligence Attribute had also increased a level, which she had initially chalked up to her mastery of the Daedalus Orb. But now, she wasn’t so sure.
With Rubicante traveling with Skithbladnir, Libicocco took it upon herself to fill Mags’ additional capacity. The reading assignments became grueling and at each lesson, the bespectacled woman expected Mags to practically deliver a dissertation on whatever subject she had read the previous night. More than once, she had fallen asleep reading the assigned tomes in bed and had received Libicocco’s wrath the following day when she showed up unprepared.
Mags resolved to avoid that in the future. Reading in bed, she learned, was a surefire way to wake up with a stiff neck and half a chapter left unread (and gods forbid if she got drool on the pages!). She would stick to completing her reading at her desk going forward.
Libicocco’s recent focus had been on the Second Uruth War.
Mags was only somewhat familiar with the conflict before she had begun her readings on the subject. There were always whispers of old grudges between the Grand Duchy of Olendar and Broceliande, their neighbors to the north.
Uruth, the disputed region at the heart of the war, sat like a wedge between Broceliande and Olendar. The two nations had always squabbled over who had true claim to the region. The delicate balance of the two superpowers in Uruth had only ever been upset twice, but the resulting bloodshed was significant.
“It is rare that conflict between one of the Thirteen Crowns erupts to this level,” Libicocco explained. “The Second Uruth War is also the latest major conflict, and our best examples of modern warfare and capabilities.” The Thirteen Crowns was a reference to the thirteen sovereign nations that had a seat on the Chained Council, which was ultimately pledged in fealty to the Ravaelian Empire.
“What was the inciting incident for the Second Uruth War?” Libicocco asked.
“Broceliande wanted more control throughout the southern portions of the region, because of the religious significance of several sites in the Morduin faith. Olendar, similarly, staked the importance of Uruth’s capital city, Tragusa, as a pilgrimage destination for followers of the Zircunwit, the major religion of Olendar.”
Libicocco remained silent, which Mags had learned was sign that she had not yet responded with sufficient detail, or had completely missed the mark.
Mags cleared her throat and pressed forward. “Additionally, Olendar claimed control of the area due to the culture ties between the Uruth and Olenish people. In Olendar’s mind, the people of Uruth are Olenish, and should therefore be governed by Olenish people.”
Libicocco nodded but still didn’t speak up.
Mags racked her brain, thinking about what details she could have been missing. Oh, that’s it, I haven’t even answered the question! She almost smacked her forehead with the palm of her hand at the realization. “The inciting incident . . . er . . .” She knew this! She tried to sort through the various facts and figures that swam in her head on the subject. “Some local governor died—passed away—and Olendar claimed that his successor was not legitimately elected. That the man was a Broceli puppet. So, they deposed him and put someone else in the position. And, well . . . Broceliande didn’t quite like that, now did they?”
Libicocco smiled. “And the governor’s name?”
“I don’t have a clue!”
Libicocco sighed.
She went on to explain the finer details. By the end of the day, they had covered all of the major points of the war. The war had ended ten years prior. Queen Ermetrude Ovetha of Broceliande had been assassinated before peace talks brokered by the Crown Coalition could truly take root. A hasty treaty followed. Olendar feared the wrath of Broceliande with the Coalition Forces behind them. The result: the delicate balance of power reinstituted—Broceliande taking control of several financial centers previously controlled by the Olenish. A hollow half-victory at best.
Mags left Libicocco’s room with her head spinning with the avalanche of names, dates, and political intricacies.
image [https://i.imgur.com/7P7JEZo.png]
Mags lay in bed, unable to sleep, staring at another unfamiliar ceiling in a place she could never really call home, tracing invisible patterns in the darkness with her thoughts. She glanced over at Calcabrina, who was snoring softly in the bed across from her.
She turned over, trying to settle into the scratchy wool of her blanket, but sleep remained elusive.
In the month they had been at Bijel Garden, Calcabrina had become something of a mystery. She was always elsewhere, the two never crossing paths during the day. And by the time Mags returned to their room following her lessons, Calcabrina would already be sound asleep.
She thought of Calcabrina’s reaction, subtle as it may have been, when she witnessed the Shrine’s priestesses. It had been recognition, sure—but there was also something else there. There’s something there in her history with this place, Mags thought. Something she’s not telling me.
Calcabrina had become her closest friend amongst the Ghost Hounds. She wanted to talk to her, to ask her about this place and why it seemed to have such a hold of her. The curiosity gnawed at her stomach like a hunger. For a moment, she considered slipping out of her bed, crossing the small space between them and waking Calcabrina.
No. Calcabrina hadn’t volunteered anything so far. Why would she now? Whatever scars this place held to the girl, she was keeping them to herself. And it wasn’t like Mags had been any more open about her own scars.
She swallowed hard as the memories of Solstice flickered at the edges of her thoughts, cold and sharp. The tide of hungry Maldrath flooding the streets and overwhelming innocent people. The mind-shattering visages of the two Angels as the sky tore apart. The guilt. Why am I still here? She couldn’t save them . . . not a single one.
Mags blinked and realized her cheeks were wet with tears. She had been so preoccupied with the tasks before her, she hadn’t really stopped to think and remember everyone she lost that night. Another pang of guilt stabbed at her chest. I buried them all beneath a haze of studying and training.
No one had asked her to bare her scars to them. She couldn’t expect Calcabrina to be any different.
With a sigh, she let the idea slip away, and finally, sleep began to creep in. Her mind drifted, and soon she found herself in a dream—standing before a great tree with leaves of red and gold. Two ravens perched on its branches, their blind white eyes fixed on her, unblinking. They were watching, waiting.
image [https://i.imgur.com/7P7JEZo.png]
The morning light streamed through the narrow window of her room, casting pale slants of sunlight across the stone floor. Mags blinked once, twice, groggy from the strange dream. She had slept later than usual. For the first time in weeks, she had the luxury of a day free from her lessons with Malacoda and Libicocco. Today would be a day for rest, her instructors had informed her the previous morning.
She sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Calcabrina was already gone, as usual. A distant song, haunting and beautiful, drifted through the window. She made her way to the window and peered outside. Below, a procession of the blindfolded priestesses, each dressed in plain white dresses moved in slow, deliberate steps in two neat rows. A few of the priestesses held thuribles, the white smoke drifted up towards the towers, carrying with it the scent of pine and citrus. Together, they sang—a hymn that echoed through the air.
We draw their bones from ruin’s dawn
as last light’s bloom will dim.
For in the Shadow’s place at last,
we sing the Dead God’s Hymn.
In night’s cold shroud our lips still sing
of ancient walls of light
from which, we pray, will shield us from
the evil Serpent’s bite.
The souls of fallen victims will
come save us from these chains,
and in the branches shall be spilt
blood from a dead god’s veins.
Of blood shall fire rise from the well
and burn the sacred tree.
The fire’s fury will spread and
from once was one, now three.
From the ashes, He will take flight
and all that was is Him.
For all will know the Serpent’s bite,
when we sing this Dead God’s Hymn.
Mags watched them for a moment, captivated by the sight.
The archway they passed through stood tall and ancient, worn by time but still imposing. Mags had never ventured beyond it at Calcabrina’s insistence that it was sacred ground.
What’s out there? she wondered, her eyes following the procession as they disappeared through the archway and into a thicket of Sanguine Trees. She had never been one to follow rules for the sake of following rules. And Lady Celestine did say we have our leave to all of Bijel Garden.
With that thought, it was decided. Mags grabbed her slippers and a thin felt wool felt jacket that she had acquired in Perun and was off to explore beyond the archway.