7. Will to Power I

Kal roamed around the house for anything he could sacrifice that was worth something. But the search proved fruitless, and he had to make do with the remaining silvers Lahrs Sarnasia had—which were around three hundred in total.

The process of creating an aspect was a tricky one. It must never contain any flesh, blood, and bones, apart from its caster. It was an immaterial object, and if other properties like meat, were to be sacrificed, it would turn to the creation of an avatar.

Kal had once attempted to create an avatar, but instead it revealed itself to be a misshapen monster, stricken with disease, smelled of rot, and too stupid to recognize him as its creator. He had to put it down, regrettably. The price was too little. It required more than his flesh and blood—it demanded a fraction of his soul. And if he didn’t know which part of his soul he would sacrifice for its creation, he could die prematurely.

Silver, regrettably, was still the best choice. It was malleable, and he would prefer creating sculptures out of it, but he had to make do. So what he did was construct a rapier using a hundred and fifty silvers.

Since he could bend the aspect at will, he created a retractable blade that would run across his forearm. He designed a fractal pattern for the guard, then for the pommel he’d taken the initials L.S. For Lahrs Sarnasia. It felt wrong putting that name there, but it would have to do.

With that done, Kal changed into leather, then fur jacket, two layers of pants, and heavy boots. He attached the rapier to a leather strap wrapped around his waist and looked for Pria Summerborn.

He found her tending to a white, furry, fat creature. It looked sleepy, and its eyes were hidden by all the fur. She was brushing it when he approached.

She was wearing a jacket as well. She was wearing a chest-guard and an armguard, likely because she brought a longbow with her.

He was impressed. Pria was shorter than him, and women were generally physically weaker, so it surprised him that she could draw the longbow at its full. That came at a risk of snapping too, so her guard was necessary.

He leaned against the wooden pillar. “You’d favor an extra hand.”

“I’ve done it alone, young master,” she looked away. “The weather’s fair, and I’m not a stranger to the forest.”

He had briefed himself on the history of the north from the books he read. He looked around. “Are you? From what I gathered, winter takes no friends but survivors. And there are no soldiers here to keep peace. Only starving men.”

“Young master, do you know how to tend to this muffa?” She patted the creature. “Have you any experience hunting deer, or skinning them?”

He shrugged. “Shouldn’t be too difficult. You can teach me as we hunt.”

He could shoot a bow with a horse, but he had trackers to track beasts, and hunters to hunt them. Looking back, he’d never learned the heart of the hunt.

“There are tracks on the ground where I’ll be following. It will take several hours of patience. Will you be able to hide yourself unseen? Can you see yourself home unaided without a company? Do you know how to read patterns so you don’t find yourself lost?”

He smiled innocently. He noticed she wasn’t as fearful of him as when he first met her, which was an improvement. But what replaced that attitude was somehow a more provocative approach—a puzzle he couldn’t yet solve.

“Do you care about my well-being that much, lady Pria? I never said we’ll be alone. You’ll invite the cultivator as well. She’s no longer bound by the imperial chain, and an adventure’s a good distraction to stave off that sharpness. Or hopefully pivot it somewhere else.”

Kal watched her leave. Then he urgently stepped inside and darted at the door of the cultivator’s room. “Lady Reimallia,” he said. “It’s Lahrs outside. Can we talk?”

He heard a click of a tongue and the door slid open. Her eyes were black. She looked as if she hadn’t gotten enough sleep.

He forgot what he was going to say. “Did you punch yourself black?”

She touched her eyes. “I was meditating. You’ve just rudely interrupted me.”

“Yes, and come evening I’d find your corpse since you look so intent on depriving yourself of sleep. There are easier ways to invite death for tea.”

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“Cultivators don’t need to rest,” she argued. “The masters live with pills and meditate in closed doors for several years at a time. Preferably uninterrupted by disciples who know no better.” She glared at him. “That’s how they achieve the 5th Realm.”

“The fifth realm?”

“How did you become a cultivator? It’s the Spirit Severing Realm. It is when experienced cultivators learn to cut mortal ties to go to the immortal realm.”

Kal was thinking what a droll that explanation was. It wasn’t helpful at all. He was going to have to fish for more information later—or perhaps make some excuse about how he hadn’t learned cultivation the orthodox way.

“What better way to conceal a murder,” he said dully. “When they find the corpse and think he’s gone to a higher realm. Men would be none the wiser. Would you rather have another pillow and a thicker blanket, or do I need a grave dug in your room?”

“Will you be growing spiritual herbs on my grave?” She smiled, which felt like a sneer, but he couldn’t be certain. Then she cleared her throat. “I’ll accept another pillow. And a blanket. Forget I said that, I’m taking the matter to Pria myself. Tell me where she is.”

“She’s left. To the forest. Alone, to check the snares and hunt deer.”

“What?” She looked shocked. “And you didn’t think it wise to tell me earlier. When did she leave?”

“Just now. I was hoping to invite you and catch up to her—“

“—She’s a fool. Reckless. Vain. Dungfoot, potstain, mortal. You’re no better. You know how frail mortals are!” She returned to the room, slid open the wardrobe and started putting on her boots and a fur jacket. She glared at him. “Couldn’t you have convinced her to take company?”

“I did,” he said defensively. “But she won’t have it.” She walked past him and headed straight for the door. He followed. “I thought you’d be disinterested in going. She is just a mere mortal.”

“See to your own affairs, cultivator, and I’ll keep to mine.”

He shrugged, wondering what happened between them. Then as they left the house, he brightened up. He would be able to ask her about cultivation in general. “It’ll be an adventure,” he said, when they settled for a jog. “I’m excited.”

“I’ll live to hope that you regret those words.”

“It’s all a matter of perspective.”

It wasn’t difficult, following the tracks of the muffa and Pria Summerborn. She walked slowly, perhaps due to that creature, but they had paced comfortably after seeing her as a dot in the distance.

The wind howled gently through the tall trees. The muffa left deep tracks on the snow, so they only needed to follow it. The cultivator had a sharp tongue, that was true enough. Though rather than a tiger, she felt more like a wounded cat who would pounce at a shred of kindness. He decided to broach the conversation gently.

“How long have you been cultivating?” He asked.

Huffs of cold escaped her lips. She always covered her baldness with a thick drape of cloth. “Long enough,” she said.

“Do you have any preference for food? It’ll help if we have the capacity to cook it.”

“Anything goes as long as it fills my belly.”

“Not very picky. I like that.” He squirmed. “I rather like chicken and fish myself,” he said. “Roasted. Stuffed with turnips and onions, swimming with chicken sauce and a generous portion of salt, bread, and mushroom soup…”

Well. It had been a race, and his brother had always beat him to it. Know your place, little Kal, that demanding tone. Or my avatars will drag you to the kennels and feed you to the dogs.

Kal served him the finest of wines and entertained him while his avatars watched. And then, the very next day, he lost his beard. The avatars swore they saw nothing, and father suffered a stomach injury for laughing too much.

He continued, salivating. “…and fish burned to black—I’d be the first to take all the fat and make no room for others.”

The cultivator spoke. “You forget a slave to bed while she cleanses your throat with wine.” She was incensed, for some reason.

He looked at her, thinking about how to approach this. “Within the span of a day, I’ve treated you like a guest. You have been given a room, small-clothes and privacy as befits your status.” He paused. “Whatever food we have, the servant will see to it. Have seen to it—”

“She has a name, cultivator. Or have you forgotten?”

“Lady Pria Summerborn,” he kept his attention ahead. “My point stands. I offer you bread, and you bite the hand. I don’t think I’ve done anything severe to warrant your displeasure.”

They caught up to Pria, who glanced at them and didn’t stop. Reimallia Mars pursed her lips. At the very least, Pria was tact, and she was quite amusing to speak with. This cultivator was a wall of spikes no cavalry would ever romance.

The trees were several dozens of meters high. It towered over them and shadowed their every step. Snow was still thick here.

“The vagabonds and monsters out here,” Kal said, glancing around. “We can’t repel them. Not the Fortson brothers, and I doubt they’ll be the last of our visitors. We live in a wooden mansion, in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by darkness.”

Reimallia scowled. “I know that.”

“You act like all this is none of your concern. We’re trapped in a cage and nowhere to go. The sooner you realize that, the longer we live. I need companions, Lady Wei. I need allies, and I’d rather live pocketless than dead with a sack of gold.”

She looked at him then, in silence. For a moment, none of them uttered a word to each other. Reimallia Mars seemed to measure his words.

“Or would you rather return to the city?” He asked.

That seemed to be the deciding point for her. Reimallia avoided him and walked closer to the servant. “Cultivators…” she said. She stopped. “Do you smell that?”

The muffa halted in its steps, and even Pria sniffed, rubbing her nose. “It’s close,” she said.

“I don’t smell anything,” Kal said.

“It-um.” Reimallia was confused. She studied Pria with rapt attention. “What does it smell like?”

Pria shut her eyes, inhaled slowly, and then breathed out. “Chicken,” she said. The wind rustled and whipped around them. “It smells like chicken.”

There was a boom, and the barks of a tree were torn off.

Two white-feathered creatures clung to the tree. They didn’t have beaks, but sharp rows of teeth. They were half as tall as Kal, but they could tower him if they stood, and their claws could easily claw him with a swipe.

Reimallia stood agape. “What’s—that?”

Kal strode forward, drawing his blade. “Dinner.”