Glade’s father had told him many stories about serving as a Redmarine, but Glade had been very young.
Only one stuck with him now, and it was about the battle of Port Fallerton, where his father had lost his leg.
The marines were packed into tight ranks like a palisade wall. The fife and drum played a cheery tune, and the marines set off, marching slowly across the fields at a waiting brigade of bluecoats. They had to keep straight faces, even as those around them started to collapse.
Dead or maimed, of course. A musket shot would do that to a mortal.
When they reached an effective range, they stopped and pointed their muskets, and the line infantry battle truly began.
Glade’s father hadn’t lasted long. It was only one or two volleys before a half-inch wide musket shot blasted clean through his leg.
But the marines couldn’t run away or back down, and they couldn’t even show fear, no matter how scared they might have been.
They had to have been terrified.
His father had made a sacrifice, and that couldn’t be wasted.
Glade had a duty too.
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Each sip of the fruit elixir made Glade’s body shudder. The first time it happened, he started convulsing and nearly fell over, before Nathariel commanded him to take control and use the new cycling technique.
And as soon as he started to integrate the elixir, he noticed the effects of the extra life aspect that had seeped into the liquid. His enhanced body, which had previously only felt like a layer on top, started to bleed down and reach into his muscles, properly integrating with them and becoming something more physical.
It was becoming a part of him.
So, for the next few days, he drank fruit elixirs—even the name of it felt odd, like something from a fancy party that he’d never have been invited to until he was an elder of the Order.
When he was an eighth of the way through the Master’s Mate stage, he sensed tendrils of pink-orange power pushing through his muscles, like a net binding them to his Arcara channels and transmitting his power directly out into it.
He stood up, and this time, his limbs didn’t feel so out of control. He stood up like he normally could. He walked around the slope of roots, hands in his pockets, just basking in the normalness of his movement.
Until he realized that he’d planted his foot down hard enough to crack the wood.
Not completely normal, and not fully in control.
He walked back to Nathariel and Pels, who both seemed content to watch curiously. When he stopped in front of them, he nodded, and said, “It feels a lot…better, now.”
He had been using a proper cycling technique during the Quartermaster stage, of course, pushing his Arcara and mana out of his channels and preparing his muscles for the enhanced body, but such a transition was impossible to prepare for, and especially for someone with minor spirit potential.
Only now did he feel prepared. Or…post-pared, as it were.
He shook his head. Postpared wasn’t a word—an Order of Balance disciple shouldn’t think like that. Informal, improper.
Nathariel clapped him on the shoulder and let out a laugh. “Aye, then we need to take your training up a few notches. Your body is ready for it. We’ll push you to Master, past this little intermediary stage. If we’re going to get you to Captain in time, we’ll still need to pick up the pace.”
Glade gulped. Not even God-heirs were supposed to go this fast. Not even the Mediator…
Then he remembered Wren.
Like him, her spirit potential had been weak, but she had elixirs and the backing of a powerful family. But he had assumed she was decades, even centuries, old. Perhaps that was still true, but he began to wonder.
“Can…can I take it?” he asked. He glanced at Pels.
“Oh, don’t look at me, boy,” Pels said. “Until you and Vayra showed up in Tavelle, I’d never seen a God-heir, let alone a Mediator.”
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“No, your body cannot take it,” Nathariel said bluntly. “There is a reason most God-heirs go so slow, and it’s not always that they don’t have the resources. Pumping your body full of elixirs so quickly is going to leave lasting damage, and there are very few ways to fix it.”
“I mean…right now, though, can I take it? Or will I tear myself apart before the tournament?”
“That much is up to you,” Nathariel said. “Are you strong-willed enough to hold yourself together, or will you burst apart? I sincerely hope it’s the former, but we’ll find out.”
Pels ran over to Nathariel and tugged on his shoulder. “Now, you have a responsibility to train him—”
“I’ve done all I can for him, but this is up to him.” Nathariel shrugged Pels’ hand off and kept walking. He jumped off the current root and onto a lower, gnarled platform. “He has a cycling technique to prepare his channels, he has an integration technique. But does he have the willpower to hold it together, to maintain it overnight, and to simply not fall apart under the spiritual strain? I can’t teach that.”
Pels and Glade scrambled along the roots after the Admiral. From here, they had a vantage over the entire orchard, and a view out beyond the greenhouse. He couldn’t see the Harmony anymore, but a few other ships had arrived along the canal by now.
More God-heirs. The fallen wedge of glass would funnel them all onto this side of the greenhouse, and soon, there would be competition.
Glade picked up his pace, catching up with Pels and Nathariel.
As they ran, Pels said to Nathariel, “But you don’t have to push him so hard!”
“We need to get him to Captain in a few months,” Nathariel said calmly. “I gave the Mediator a tight schedule, and his will be even tighter. He needs to hit Lieutenant within the next few weeks, or he will run out of time to navigate through the Lieutenant stages.”
“It is alright,” Glade whispered to Pels. “I will do my best, and if it is too much, then I will have done my duty.”
Pels narrowed his eyes. “What happens when a spirit breaks?”
Nathariel didn’t answer until they were back on solid, dirt-covered ground, tromping through the orchard of smaller trees. “If it breaks at the low stages? Before Lieutenant? Not much. He will never be able to use magic again, for certain, and his lungs might ache in the morning.”
“And after?” Pels demanded, marching up to Nathariel’s side. “What happens if his spirit breaks after that? What happens if he can’t win the tournament and beat out century-old God-heirs who have been striving for this their entire life, eh? What happens if Vayra can’t take out the toughest opponents and clear the way for him?”
“His core will shatter and his channels will shred,” Nathariel said. He kept his gaze straight forwards, piercing through the trees with a disconnected intent. “They will have become so intertwined with his physical body that he will be a cripple. It will hurt to move a muscle, and he may never walk again.”
Glade shut his eyes, and his stomach sank. He had expected something like that.
A Redmarine in a battle-line would march slowly in formation towards a waiting wall of enemy soldiers. His father had done that, and so would he. He imagined himself in a blood-red coat, holding a musket on his shoulder…
“It’s—it is alright, Captain,” Glade said. “I understand the risks. For the Kingdom of Velaydia, I must at least try.”
Pels delivered a slow nod, then a sigh. “If you’re willing, not much else I can say. But don’t forget, boy, you have people who care about you now.” He raised a finger. “And they’re not Order sycophants who will applaud your sacrifice as glorious martyrdom.”
“Pels, don’t misunderstand me,” Nathariel said. “I know what it’s like to damage your spirit. I will never advance beyond Admiral. In my youth, I stumbled across a wealth of elixirs, and thought they’d make me a legend. It did push me higher than I thought I would ever climb, but I pushed myself too hard and fast, and though I stopped before my spirit collapsed, I did permanent damage. I know exactly what I’m doing to Glade.”
“But—”
“But unlike me, he has a way out.”
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After one day of scouring the forests, following Nathariel, Glade had clued in that the Admiral was looking for something.
“Talock built these facilities to raise up God-heirs quickly, I figure,” Nathariel had explained. “And to that end, I also suspect he had mental enhancement facilities.”
“Mental enhancements?” Glade had asked.
“God-heirs need to sleep, too, until they learn a technique to keep themselves awake for extended periods. But there are elixirs that can act as ‘bottled sleep’, essentially. It’ll give you some spiritual energy, plus we won’t have to take breaks at night.”
After two more days, they found another pair of wells. One carried a base elixir with a potent spiritual energy, perfect for raw power. It shone gold, and Glade thought he could make out little flecks of pollen in it.
“That golden one is what they were making on the other side,” Nathariel said. “It’s what Vayra has access to, and lots of it.” He peered down into the well and crossed his arms. “We aren’t so lucky. The water table here has been significantly lowered, and this well has almost run dry. Lots of thirsty plants.”
The other well, however, didn’t seem to interact with the groundwater at all. Its walls were cobblestone, and only thin white roots draped dorn from above—not from the side. These roots, however, didn’t absorb anything. Droplets of glimmering lavender liquid trickled out of their tips and poured into the well, creating a murky, brownish-purple solution that looked like the last thing Glade would ever want to drink.
Again, he shut his eyes and imagined himself in a red coat. If he could march to his death, he could drink this.
“Extract from the leaves of…” Nathariel turned in a circle, holding his finger out. The wells had been hidden in the middle of an erratic orchard. Trees surrounded them, casting shade over both the wells and blocking his sight. “There.” He stopped and pointed at a tree-sized with deep lavender leaves. “The kausisia tree. It used to be known for its mind-altering properties—and mind-altering in a good way. Like coffee, but ten times as powerful, and with the ability to truly rest you, making it no different than sleeping.”
Beaming, Nathariel pointed back to the bottom of the well. “We’ve got a vat of it. Let's make use of it, and make some progress.”