1.14 A VIAL TASK
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In the sitting room of Master Willow’s tower, Glim watched in trepidation as the mage approached and handed him the tea. He cried out as the mug seared his hands. An experience he still had not grown accustomed to after all these months.
“It will get easier,” Master Willow said, sitting across from him in his leather chair. Firelight played across the smooth stones of the wall. Glass and metal sparkled from the dimness of the antechamber behind him as he stroked his short beard.
“Why did we start with the tea?” Glim complained. “You haven’t given me time to prepare.”
Master Willow pursed his lips. “Phyrists won’t, either. They tend to take the initiative. But that’s not why. You’ll need that warmth in your hands for what comes next. We’re going to attempt the focusing ritual.”
Glim forgot his pain. The focusing ritual sounded more interesting than listening to his tutor prattle on about arcane lore. Maybe this would be actually useful.
Master Willow leaned back in his chair and relaxed his shoulders. “Do as I do, Glim. Set the tea aside and loosen your body. Sink into your seat like a stone.”
Glim gladly set the hot mug aside and shook his hands in the air to help them cool.
“Not so fast. Relax your shoulders and concentrate on that feeling of warmth in your hands.”
Glim’s thoughts simmered with ire.* Warmth? You call that warmth? I’ll “warm” your face with some of this tea if you’d like.*
“Glim! Relax your shoulders. Take measured breaths and concentrate on that feeling of warmth. It is the exact sensation you must learn to summon within yourself. We create ice by draining heat into ourselves. Those tingles of sensation—”
Pain, Master Willow. You mean pain.
“—indicate the coalescence of essentiæ within yourself. The ability to focus your will is the foundation of plying.”
Glim tried to relax, and tried to pretend he understood. He sighed in exasperation.
“Pick up that mug again, and feel the heat radiating from the clay,” the mage instructed. “Allow that warmth to seep into your hands, your palms, your fingers.”
Glim did as he was told, closing his eyes and concentrating on the barely tolerable heat emanating from the mug. He could feel it spreading through his hands, tingling his skin.
“That’s better,” Master Willow said. “Set the mug aside. Now, I want you to imagine the feeling of sunlight on your skin on a warm summer day.”
Glim’s brow furrowed slightly as he tried to conjure the memory. Slowly, the warmth of the mug seemed to blend with the imagined warmth of the sun’s rays, creating a comforting, enveloping heat. His eyes felt heavy. The combination of warmth from the fire, the tingling in his palms, the comfortable chair, and the imagined sunlight on skin lulled his into something like a waking dream.
“Yes, I can feel it,” he murmured, his eyes still closed.
“Excellent,” Master Willow said. “That warmth, that sensation, is akin to the feeling of focused intent. Just as the sun’s rays can warm your skin, so too can your will be directed and focused.”
Glim listened intently, trying to understand the connection between the physical warmth and the more abstract concept of focused intent.
“When you channel your will to shape your own essentiae, it should feel like that warmth spreading through your body. Concentrate on that feeling. Direct it. Shape it into a single point of focus.”
Glim took a deep breath, his hands tightening around the mug as he attempted to gather the warmth and direct it, as if he were shaping a ball of sunlight between his palms. He felt nothing at first. Only darkness stirred inside himself. Like a storm cloud in a moonless night sky. He pictured dawn blushing the sky with rosy light and taking the edge off the cold. Tingles shimmered in his gut. The sun shone in the noon sky as the tingles moved outward, towards his skin.
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Master Willow spoke again. “That’s just it. Hold that focus in your mind, and don’t let it waver.”
Glim struggled to maintain his concentration, the warmth pulsing and ebbing like a living thing. Gradually, he felt it solidify, becoming a steady, unwavering point of heat.
“Open your eyes, Glim.”
While Glim’s eyes had been closed, Master Willow had leaned forward, holding the silver baton in the space between Glim’s hands. When he opened his eyes, he saw silvery wisps of light writhing between the rod and his palms. He stared at it in fascination, and mounting excitement. White flecks of light danced across Master Willow’s features as his dark eyes bored into Glim’s own, glittering like coals reflecting the first spark of fire. He seemed nearly as captivated as Glim himself, as though this moment was as much a surprise to him.
“It seems you possess a modicum of talent after all,” Master Willow said, his voice tinged with appreciation. “Remember this feeling. It gets easier as you go. With practice, this sensation will become second nature, and you will be able to wield your essentiæ like an extension of your very being.”
Glim tuned him out. He watched the silver light swirl. From himself. He’d conjured this.
Watching the light made it falter. He thought of the sunlight moving between his hands and the light steadied. Hardly daring to breathe, he allowed the dream state to overcome him once more. He felt tired, ever more grateful for the support of the leather cushion beneath him.
Master Willow snatched the rod away. The silver swirls vanished. Glim blinked at the sudden dimness in the room. The glint faded from his tutor’s eyes.
“I can see it is time to practice the restoration ritual. Snap out of it! You need to bring the essentiæ back into yourself or you’ll be drained. I need you to think of a happy memory. What is the best thing that’s happened to you recently?”
Glim’s mind felt thick and groggy. What had happened recently? Something. He’d been dancing and teasing father.
In a rush, Glim thought back to the stepping drill. He recalled the moment he’d fooled his father into over committing his reach. He heard the footfall in his mind as father had been forced to catch his balance, and smiled.
Glim’s fatigue wavered. He felt more alert. He jerked in his chair, as if catching himself in the act of napping just before sleep overtook him.
“Yes,” his tutor said. “Feel your wits coming back? Your essentiæ have redistributed themselves to the places you pulled them from. This is what balance feels like. You mustn’t drift too far from this state. The more the essentiæ lull you, the more danger you’re in. Drain is no laughing matter. It blunts your will and tires your body. If you ignore those warnings, it will do more than redirect your essentiæ. They will rewrite your very essence. They might steal a memory or two. Or age your ears until you can no longer hear properly. Perhaps stop your fingernails from growing. Which might not seem like much, until it happens to you.”
Glim felt an icy trickle move through him. The elation he’d felt just moments ago at watching the essentiæ respond to his focus seemed like a distant memory. The fog of fatigue had crept up so quickly. How could he walk this line?
Master Willow sighed, but not in exasperation. It almost sounded like sympathy.
“You have neither focus nor awareness right now. You are not in command of your own essentiæ. They are in command of you. They will wreak havoc if you’re not careful. I forbid you to practice the focusing ritual unless I am there with you. Otherwise you might falter, and succumb as you nearly did just now. Do you understand?”
Glim tried to shove down the surge of panic. “Yes, Master Willow. I will not summon essentiæ without you.”
“Over time, your focus and awareness will grow. Much like I imagine your reflexes do in sword training. You didn’t start out swinging a sword with confidence.”
“I still don’t.”
“Precisely my point. This is but the first step on a long road. We’re going to hone your focus. I can’t say it’s the most interesting journey. It’s quite tedious, in fact. Best get used to the idea.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, it is time to do something else entirely. Let your body and spirit settle some. Come with me.”
He led Glim through a doorway to a stairway that led down. Glim followed him into a room with racks of wooden crates. The mage took one and carried it to a nearby table. He handed Glim a scrap of well-worn linen from a large clay jar.
“Have a seat.”
Glim sat across from him, curious about what the crate held. Master Willow pulled out a large glass vial, whose mouth opened just wide enough for Glim’s hand to fit. Brownish streaks of dried goo gave the glass a sickly appearance.
Glim sniffed the flask and wrinkled his nose. He knew that rotted scent. Muscheron chicane.
Ugh. He recoiled, holding the vial at arm’s length.
“Get used to it. Your next task is to clean these vials. Clean them until they sparkle, and you can see through them as though they weren’t there at all. Put the dirty rags here,” he pointed to a bin beneath the table. “Let me know when you’ve run out of clean ones.”
“How many vials do I need to clean?” Glim asked.
Master Willow swept his hand, indicating the racks of crates that ran nearly wall-to-wall.
Glim groaned.
“Best get started,” Master Willow said, whistling to himself as he walked back up the stairs.