035 – Cold

***

I entered the Hall of Discipline and found a horrible sight waiting there for me. Malisent stood next to Fightmaster Putrizio and smiled wickedly. That concerned me, but what horrified me was the giant cauldron next to her. It was made out of dark gray metal and sat on a tripod in the center of the training area. Weird faces, carved in relief, adorned the outer surface of the cauldron while the inside was polished smooth.

“Is someone making soup?”

“Yes,” Malisent said. “And you’re the main ingredient.”

“Mistress Malisent has graciously lent us her cold prison after hearing of your strange condition. She believes a short session inside it could help with your control exercises,” said Putrizio.

“Cold? Prison? I don’t like the sound of that.”

“Magi are a very slippery bunch. They’re hard to keep locked up in normal cages. This artifact saps the magic from whoever is put inside. So even the strongest swordsman cannot escape it. In your case, the cold may give you an insight into how to control your fire.”

“Hop in, Strythe.” Malisent banged on the top of the cauldron. It had a massive lid attached on hinges. A step ladder leaned against the side.

“Is this going to hurt?”

Putrizio said, “It won’t be pleasant, but it’s not exactly painful. Don’t worry. We’ll start with a short session to see how it goes.”

I walked a circle around the gigantic cauldron. Like the eye-titan’s lair, this device had primitive aetheric constructs worked into it. It was basically an array. But since it had no recognizable runes, I couldn’t make a guess at how it worked or what its original purpose had been.

“Where did this thing come from?”

“From our old temple. The crypts housed all types of weird artifacts, most of them thousands of years of old. Some old wizard must have made these things. This one came with us because we captured a Paladin in the battle and wanted to interrogate him elsewhere. We used it as luggage.” Malisent said.

“I’m not so sure about this.” I hesitantly climbed the step ladder. There was no water inside or fire beneath, so I knew they wouldn’t cook me at least.

“Don’t worry. The prison isn’t deadly.”

‘Not deadly’ was a very low bar. I could think of lots of terrible things that wouldn’t kill you, but weren’t much fun to experience.

Putrizio set down an hourglass filled with black sand. “We have a timer for you. Once the sand runs out, we’ll set you free.”

The lid closed over top of me, sealing me inside. A few horizontal slits let in air and gave me a view of a small cross section of the outside world. I could make out the hourglass and the legs of the people outside.

Once the lid closed, the array began functioning. As I had thought earlier, an array in this era could not function without a power source. For this cauldron, the power source was whoever was unfortunate enough to be inside. It forcibly drew mana from the occupant to power itself. As another effect, it diminished their inner fire. I could feel my fire begin to cool.

Malisent’s crazy idea was more or less the same as when Orma bit me. She forced me to experience something so that I could then do it myself. Learning magic was like trying to move newly sprouted limbs. First you have figure out where they are and what they feel like, then you can start to flex those muscles. It was also similar to how Hwilla held onto me, but far more effective. This frightful cauldron actually helped.

I looked out of the slits at the hourglass and about three grains of sand had fallen. It was going to be a long practice session.

“Disciples,” I heard Fightmaster Putrizio say. “Your junior, Strythe, is resting inside this magic cauldron. I want you to watch over him. Once the hourglass runs out, open the lid and let him out.”

“Yes, fightmaster,” they said in unison. I could see legs shuffling past. Putrizio and Malisent exited the Hall of Discipline and left me in the care of the disciples.

I slumped down inside the cauldron. The inner walls were smooth. I closed my eyes and extended a tendril of fire from my hand. I wanted to further examine the aetherics of this array, but the cauldron instantly negated my fire. The tendril dissolved to nothing. From my position, I couldn’t access or examine any of the magic. It made sense that a prison wouldn’t let the prisoner touch the lock.

With nothing to distract me inside the dark bowl, meditating on my inner soul was the only choice. Perhaps the answer all along was to lock myself in a completely dark, silent space.

“Are you in there?” Zambulon shouted. He clanged on the on the side of the cauldron.

I didn’t answer. They would pester me while I was trying to do my exercises otherwise. As I concentrated, their voices sounded faint and indistinct outside. The disciples spoke to each other, but it didn’t bother me as much as it normally did.

With my fire cooling down, I attempted to cycle mana. It spun around inside me. Typically, my fire burned it off quickly, so it was impossible for me to build up a large store. With less flame, the mana accumulated more rapidly. However, in place of the fire, the cauldron stole away its share of my energy. I could feel the mana being sucked out of me.

As my mana powered up the array, the effects increased. It dampened my fires even more. As my fire died down, so did my sensitivity to the spiritual world. There was some trade off for a mage lowering their flame. Doing so lessened their perception for danger and ability to detect what other swordsmen or monsters were up to. Quieting their soul fire was something they did most often when resting in a safe, private space.

My fire shrank more and more. I tried to focus on the feeling. As it reached its minimum, a bare flicker, it became clear to me why Putrizio described the cold prison as unpleasant. The sensation became harsh and oppressive. While it was a unique feeling to the soul, it could be compared to being trapped in a box of ice. It was awful, numbing, vaguely painful at the extremities, and it made me shiver uncontrollably.

I glanced out of the slit. The hourglass was halfway depleted. The only thing to do was suffer through it.

“Hwilla, now that we’re alone, I’d like to talk to you.”

Oh no. Zambulon and Hwilla sat down to have a conversation right outside my prison. They didn’t know that I could hear them perfectly when they were that close. I’d have to listen to them yammering on while I froze to death in this metal tub.

“What is it, senior disciple?”

“It’s about this silliness between you and Strythe. I’d like to know what’s happened between the two of you?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. That scoundrel isn’t worth my time,” she huffed.

“You know that novices and disciples aren’t allowed to have relationships.”

Why did they choose to have such an awkward conversation by my pot? I didn’t want to listen to them chatting while I shivered inside.

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“I know that,” Hwilla said. “But people break that rule all the time. The novices sneak out to see each other at night. As long as it stays hidden, no one will really punish you for it.”

“I don’t approve of disregarding cult rules,” Zambulon said. “However, that rule states that students aren’t allowed to date each other. It never explicitly says that an officer and a disciple can’t form a romantic bond.”

“What? What are you saying?”

“At the moment, I’m still a Faceless minion, but soon I will be an official swordsman. Once that happens, it would be fine for you and I to see each other romantically,” he said. His voice quavered as he spoke. “You should forget about Strythe, Hwilla. He’s a brain damaged mad man. I would treat you much better than him. No running around with other girls.”

Zambulon, you poor idiot. I wished I had a pair of ear plugs. Eavesdropping on this awkward conversation doubled my torture. Could anything be worse?

“No,” Hwilla said. “Strythe is the one I love. That will never change. Never. I’ve already decided on the names of our children. Two boys and one girl. Struthlo, Hwillo, and Hwilla.”

Her obsession was unbreakable. And why did she name two of our kids after herself and only one after me?

“But you said he wasn’t worth your time. You called him a rotten worm the other day.”

“He is worthless worm. That’s true. But he’s mine. I just have to beat him until he forgets those other women. Then I’ll torture him some more until he loves me. Then I’ll whip him into a better man. But it will work out perfectly in the end.”

The cauldron already froze me, so it was hard to tell how much those words added to my shivering.

“Why waste time on such a man. I’m already all the things you want right now. No torture needed.”

“That’s just love. It’s decided by the gods. A mortal can’t choose who they love and who they don’t.”

It must be supernatural. These people were falling in love all over the place without even being able to see each others faces. Did they just judge by a person’s voice?

“I can’t resist either. I’ve been struck by the god of love’s golden arrow, Hwilla.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t do this…”

“Hwilla, wait!”

I looked out the slit. They had both left the Hall of Discipline. Hwilla ran off and Zambulon chased after her. Yurk had made himself scarce earlier when he saw that the other two were having a serious talk. The last few grains of sand fell into the lower half of the hourglass. My time was up, but no one was present to open the lid and free me from the prison.

I banged on the side of the cauldron.

“Yurk! Yurk, are you out there? Anyone? Hello?”

My fellow disciples all left. And the two careless officers who put me in this thing didn’t bother to stay to the end. They all abandoned me inside this torture pot.

“Gah. You absolute children,” I said through my chattering teeth.

There was no escaping the cold prison. I sat down and kicked my foot against the metal wall over and over in the hopes that someone passing by would hear the thumping. My one hour session would go into indefinite overtime.

***

When the lid opened, blinding light streamed into the magic cauldron. I barely noticed. I had been slipping in and out of consciousness for some time. The punishing magic reduced my waking mind to a delirious state. A hand reached in and pulled me out of the prison. I was as limp as a rag doll.

“What the hell are you doing in there? You should have been let out hours ago.”

Malisent hauled me out of the cauldron and set me down on my back. I splayed out across the training mat on the floor.

“Strythe. Disciple. Can you hear me? Ariman?”

I could hear her, but responding was beyond me. Everything was blurry. It felt very similar to the moment when I first woke up as Strythe on the floor of the collector array. My limbs were weak and rubbery.

Malisent leaned over me with her hands on my neck.

“This isn’t good. You shouldn’t be this weak.”

She climbed on top of me. Her face was close to mine and came into focus. She moved her hands down to my chest, and I felt a surge of warmth. A rush of energy cleared the fog from my mind and my fixed my tunnel vision. I snapped awake from my groggy state. Hwilla had mentioned something about ‘dual cultivation’ where two magi cycle mana between one another. Malisent did something similar to funnel a portion of her mana into me, like an emergency blood transfusion.

She pulled off my skull mask. “You look terrible, Ariman.”

“You’re the one who put me in there, you awful woman,” I coughed. Despite feeling cold, my clothes were soaked with sweat. I limply lifted an arm off the ground and tried to strangle her. She gently batted my hand away.

“You’re right. I should have never trusted Putrizio’s brats with this. I’ll have to have words with them later…”

***

The three disciples stood at attention in front of Fightmaster Putrizio’s desk. I reclined on a bench nearby wearing a blanket like a hooded cloak. My inner fire was cool from my experience in the cold prison. A crew of six workmen hauled away the heavy cauldron on a cart.

“Disciples. Mistress Malisent is taking back her artifact due to your dreadful misuse of it. I cannot blame her for that decision. Be very glad she reclaimed it, otherwise the three of you would be spending time inside so that you could experience it for yourselves,” Putrizio said. The disciples hung their heads as he spoke.

“Never would I have thought that my students would be incapable of following such simple instructions. All you had to do was wait one hour and then open the cauldron’s lid. That’s something a novice could handle. Even a young child could do it. Yet all three of you failed to do so. Strythe was inside for over seven hours. That would be a harrowing experience for an experienced swordsman, so to put a newly enkindled one through that is unconscionable.

“Strythe has done some foolish things lately—running off in the valley, waking up an eye-titan—but he at least has the excuse of being a brain damaged idiot. And those mistakes were made out on assignment, when things can be chaotic and unpredictable, not here in the safety of the Hall of Discipline. The three of you have outdone him in that regard.

“Your job, as senior disciples, is to look out for the well being of your juniors. You have failed in that duty. It’s possible that, because of Strythe’s strange condition, something like this could have seriously injured or even killed him. Think about how much effort the Void Phantoms put into finding and recruiting young sparks. We scour the lands for them. We steal them from their homes. And then think about how much we invest in educating our novices. Sometimes a decade of training or more. All that work and only a few of you make it to this stage. Gaining a disciple is like finding a pearl in a field of oysters. Do you think that we go to all that trouble, just so you can carelessly cook your junior in a pot?

“Apparently you have forgotten your basic duties. I will give you a reminder. The three of you will work every day at the training halls instructing the novices until further notice. Maybe that will refresh your memories.

“Zambulon, Yurk. The two of you have shown a shocking lack of common sense. I can no longer trust you to make sensible decisions when left on your own. Your upcoming field mission to Sandgrave is canceled.”

Zambulon looked up in surprise. He caught himself before saying anything. Protesting now would just make Putrizio angrier.

“Do any of you have anything to say?”

“No, fightmaster,” they said in unison.

“Then gather your things for your stay in the lower training halls. You can move there immediately.”

The three disciples shuffled away from the desk. Naturally, Putrizio’s punishment involved them doing work for him so he could be even lazier. And despite his valid criticism of the students, he did not take a share of the blame himself. Watching over a dangerous artifact should have been responsibility, but he assigned it to these hormone-addled youngsters. Worse, he did not give them a full explanation of what the cauldron was or what it did. This was how things worked in a dysfunctional organization; blame always fell on the underlings.

The disciples walked past me as they exited the hall. Hwilla had a pleading look in her eyes, but said nothing as she passed. Yurk, the man of few words, simply said “Sorry.” When Zambulon walked by me, his eyes flashed with seething hatred.

To the senior disciple, my arrival was the start of all his problems. He was taken to task for going out in the valley without permission. The superior officers were unhappy with him for his showboating against the trolls and provoking the eye-titan. And now he would be punished again. This time he lost a spot in an important mission that could have earned him a promotion. I messed up his chance at graduating to the rank of swordsman.

All that might have been forgotten if he had successfully wooed Hwilla. His happiness there would have banished all other problems. But he would never forgive me for standing between him and his love. That was a deeper instinct: raw jealously.

I couldn’t discount the possibility that Zambulon had intentionally left me in the cauldron in an attempt to kill me. And I couldn’t assume that he wouldn’t make further attempts in the future.

In an evil cult, rivalries often ended in secret murders or open duels.