Hallon sweeps the ramp leading up to the Standing Goat. It’s early, well before first light, and her mind is like a dog gnawing at a bone; restlessly worrying at the edges of what she knows about the Calamity. How is she supposed to help? With these few—and powerless—people around her? Not that the General, Rahima, and Noor don’t have their connections. They do, and they’ve been useful, but they are also so much less than she’s used to.
A longing for Eratosthenes rises within her, and with an effort of will, she sets it and her restless thoughts aside. Instead, she considers the best way to teach Milo the Soft Fist. His training starts today.
Milo was dragged to another world and his life put in jeopardy, all without complaining even once. Instead, he’s offered Hallon his care, working himself to exhaustion to support her while she was injured. That’s enough to earn her respect.
So. Her impulse to say yes—to train Milo in the Soft Fist—it’s the least she can do. But how? That’s the question.
Milo may lack grace and talent, but he’s clever and his spirit is strong. In any case, talent is overrated. Practice will win out in the end. Always. And Milo will be willing to put in the time for practice. She’s sure of it.
Traditionally, the first six months are spent learning how to breathe. The joke is though—what masters don’t tell their students—is that you spend the first sixty years learning how to breathe. It’s just that the latter lessons are disguised by the forms, movements, and exercises.
Milo’s greatest need is to become aware of his body, while doing it in a way that gives his restless brain something to chew on. As Hallon ponders her options, a brown leather ball bounces and rolls to a stop by her feet. The Sanass boy from across the street jogs over. He’s up earlier than usual.
“Sorry,” he says.
His name is Taric, and he’s often in the street playing with his ball. A sweet boy with a brown tattoo, he’s twenty-years old, but acts like he’s seven.
“It’s all right.” Hallon kicks the ball back to him.
“Good kick,” Taric says. “Do you want to see me kick? Want to play?”
“Not right now,” Hallon says. “I have things to do soon.”
“Oh, okay. Another time maybe?”
Hallon shakes her head. “I don’t think so.”
Taric nods. “That’s okay!” He kicks the ball back across the street, just in time for his mother to call him inside.
Mrs. Sanass nods to Hallon before ushering Taric through the door. Hallon waves back, hiding a smile. Mrs. Sanass looks like she’s just woken up, her hair sideways.
###
Milo arrives with dark circles under his eyes. His habit of staying up all night has carried over to this world. Hallon doesn’t question her decision to teach him the Way of the Soft Fist—she means to reward him—but he needs to bring his best to the practice, otherwise it’s disrespectful to the art and its founder. That she won’t tolerate.
It’s just the two of them in the inn’s yard, as the General didn’t want Milo feeling self-conscious with observers present. He’s a thoughtful one, the General. Safi is lucky to have him as a teacher. Milo, on the other hand, is as nervous as a rabbit surrounded by lions.
“Next time,” Hallon says, “get a full night’s sleep. It’ll help you remember the movements—”
“Oh, I know them already. I’ve been reviewing the equations—”
“And,” she says, “more importantly, you’ll be less likely to get hurt. Also, don’t interrupt when I’m teaching. Respecting the art includes respecting its teachers. Okay?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”
“Good,” Hallon says. “Now, sit. I want to talk about the art and where it comes from. It’ll help you understand the reasons behind the movements.” She pauses to organize her thoughts. “In the East, there was a monk named Zhang Sanfeng who practiced the fighting arts of the Shaolin Monasteries. Over the years, he grew restless and went wandering, undergoing many trials and encountering wisdom and foolishness in equal measures. Eventually, he came to an understanding—he never called it enlightenment, but I think it must’ve been something like it—and joined an order of mystics on Wudang Mountain. There, he integrated the Shaolin arts with the mystic arts he’d cultivated in his travels to create the Way of the Soft Fist. The story’s more complicated than what I’m sharing, but that’s the general outline, at least as he told it to me.”
Hallon pauses to add weight to her words. “I want to impress upon you that this is a serious undertaking—a life’s journey. I will do my best as the teacher, but you also have to do your best as the student. If this is a lark or something you’re doing to impress me, then it’s best to stop now.”
Milo quirks his head and mutters, “Mmm…better not to ask.” Louder, he says, “Yes, I’ll continue.”
Hallon takes a breath. She’d accounted for Milo’s eccentricities when she agreed to teach him. “All right then…the Way of the Soft Fist is organized around Eight Circles, each of which has eight forms, and those forms are then made up of 72 movements. Each movement includes both an external and internal component. In your case, we’ll start with the external and work our way in. Once you’re ready to practice with internal power, I’ll introduce the spirit centers and how to cultivate inner energy. There are other power frameworks, but we’ll stick to the one associated with the Soft Fist so as not to confuse things.” Hallon checks to make sure Milo is listening. “This is deep water,” she says. “Be prepared to spend the rest of your life swimming in it.”
And yet, every ocean must have a shore, so she introduces him to the First Circle’s most basic stance, Breathing the World. She gets Milo to stand with his knees bent, his shoulder blades relaxed down his back, and palms open and receptive. In essence, the stance is meant for standing meditation, but in Milo, there’s tension where there shouldn’t be and no tension where there should. He is so unconnected to his body. Maybe it will be better if he moves?
“You said that you know the First Circle. Show me the first form.”
Milo starts, and his memory is good. He moves through the 72 movements, but there’s something fundamentally wrong. There’s no life or grace in them. He trips over himself, as if he’s surprised to find his own body in the way.
“No, no. The hand there is meant to harmonize with the attack; to pull it in like the ocean draws in the tide and then send it crashing back out. The wave breaks as you raise and drop your center. The movement is called Waves Against the Shore.” She demonstrates it for him.
“Like this?” Milo asks. He emulates the attack, but it’s as empty as before, like he’s playacting.
“No, nothing like.” She repeats the movement, and the two of them move through Waves Against the Shore again and again and several agains more. And still after all that, he repeats the movements exactly the same; wrong every time. Is he playing a prank on her? That doesn’t sound like the Milo she knows. “What are you doing? Why aren’t you listening?”
“I’m copying the equations perfectly, but they’re not working,” Milo says, frustrated.
Hallon reminds herself to be gentle. The boy is genuinely trying, which means that something is getting in the way of his learning. “It’s like your clothes don’t fit,” Hallon says, thinking. “Like they’re too tight on you.”
“These pants and shirt are brand new.” Milo says.
“Not your real clothes—the idea of clothes,” Hallon says.
“I don’t even know what that means,” Milo says.
The hairs on the back of Hallon’s neck rise. Her belly flutters with the sense of—a thought, an idea, an insight struggling to free itself. “Milo,” she says carefully, “come to Breathing the World.”
Milo complies, and the stance is just as bad as when they’d begun.
“Now, the First Circle up until Waves Against the Shore,” Hallon says.
Milo goes through the movements as instructed.
“Do Waves Against the Shore again.”
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Milo steps forward and back, his arm rising to draw in the opponent before pushing them back out and dropping them to the ground. Each motion is technically correct. Why then does it feel so wrong?
“Breathing the World,” Hallon says, taking him back to the beginning. “First Circle.” She watches, not making any judgments, just watching. “Again, but this time, lengthen the step at Waves Against the Shore and sink your center more. Again. Don’t forget to sink your center. Again. Sink your center. Again. Milo, sink your hells-be-damned center!”
“I can’t!” Milo drops out of the Circle and stomps away, his face red.
Hallon closes her eyes and reins in the frustration that spilled out onto Milo. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed. You’re just starting. I have to remember you’re just starting.”
“The equations are so interesting, but I’m useless at putting them into practice. That’s always been my problem. Ask me to build something—anything at all—and I can do it. But this?” Milo sighs. “I’m sorry I’m so useless.”
“You’re not useless. Any art takes time. Time and practice.”
“The equations.” Milo’s voice catches. “When you move, they glow. I don’t know how else to describe them. The equations just glow. Each symbol and notation is perfect, just what they need to be. No more, no less.” He hides his face. “I know that doesn’t make any sense.”
“But it does,” Hallon says. “That’s the way it should feel—strong and effortless at the same time, like the universe is flowing through your limbs. But you have to train to get to that point. You have to put your whole heart into it. That’s the secret to doing anything well.”
Milo looks back towards Hallon, and there’s a flicker of a smile, the real one that comes out so rarely. “I’m a troublesome student, aren’t I?”
Hallon smiles back. “No more so than I was. Are you ready to try again?”
“Yes, I suppose.”
“Good. Now, let’s go back to Breathing the World and just stay there.”
Milo steps into the stance, wiping away a stray tear.
“Soft, natural breathing,” she says.
Milo breathes, but it already looks strange. Like the movements don’t belong to him. Like they belong to someone else. The insight pops like a bubble, spreading through Hallon. He’s trying to breathe like me. Somehow that’s my breathing, but in his body. “Milo, do me a favor.”
His eyes are closed. “Yes?”
“Stand normally. Yes, that’s right. Now, step into Breathing the World—no wait for me to finish—step into the stance but forget about how I do it.”
Milo opens his eyes. “What? But without the equations, how will I know if I’m doing it correctly?”
Hallon feels herself grin. “That’s exactly right. I want you to do it wrong.”
He struggles with the idea, but Hallon doesn’t say anything else, letting Milo come to it on his own.
His Breathing the World isn’t comfortable at all. His center is off, and he holds too much weight over his right foot, causing his shoulders to tilt. Slowly, though, his breathing steadies, and he remembers to spread his weight evenly. Piece by piece, he brings himself into alignment. The stance isn’t perfect—she wouldn’t expect it to be after only one morning’s worth of training—but it’s a respectable attempt.
“How does that feel?” she asks.
“I don’t know. Good?” He frowns. “But the numbers are wrong.”
“How so?”
“The equations are different. They’re similar to yours, but the variables have different values—” Milo’s eyes widen. “The clothes don’t fit,” he says, whispering. “I’ve been a dunce, misapplying the equations all this time.” He moves then, really moves—through the whole of the First Circle—all eight forms—and for a moment, just a moment, the movements look right and pure and glorious.
Milo finishes back in Breathing the World and looks at Hallon in surprise. “I—” he says and faints dead away.
###
Rahima tilts Milo’s head towards the light, so that she can watch his pupils dilate. The inn’s regulars stand around waiting for her prognosis. The common room is otherwise empty in the lull between breakfast and lunch. These observations are dim, in the background of Milo’s thoughts, as the calculations overwhelming his mind continue to unfold, unfold, unfold. He knew better than to try to replace the variables in 4,608 equations at once, but the temptation was too great.
The equations take shape as the pace of calculations slow. They form themselves into anatomical charts with Hallon’s commentary listed as footnotes, but as the equations evolve, they move back through time, becoming paintings and sketches—Victorian, Renaissance, Medieval, Dark Age, Byzantine, and Greek before settling into an iconography and script that Milo doesn’t recognize.
The illustrations bundle themselves into scrolls made of papyrus and take their place among hundreds of others in a stone room lined with wooden shelves. The air is dry to protect them from moisture, the floor swept clean, with not a single grain of sand to be seen. Somehow, Milo understands that this is a library, and the room is one of many. There are tens of thousands of scrolls within its walls.
Milo licks his lips and picks one up, but the scroll hops out of his hand, executing a perfect Butterfly’s Landing. He grabs at it, but the scroll slips away before bonking him on the head. The others snicker on their shelves. Milo reaches for a different scroll, but it twists from his grasp and flips him onto his back. The movement is a throw from the First Circle called Bridging Heaven and Earth.
They’re children yet, a woman’s voice says, laughing, and need room to grow.
“What did you say?” Milo asks.
“I said it doesn’t look like a concussion. Just exhaustion, and you should be in bed resting instead of training.”
Milo blinks and forces himself to focus on Rahima. “I thought you said something about children.” He finds Hallon nearby. “Was it you? I’d like to know where the scrolls went.”
Rahima checks his forehead. “He doesn’t have a fever.”
“I’m fine,” Milo says. “Was it a dream? It must’ve been. Anyway, please don’t worry. The calculations overwhelmed me, that’s all.” And he really is fine. He’d just made a novice mistake by trying to use Hallon’s variables. The calculations have to start from him—his torso, his limbs, his breathing, and all the rest. Anything else would always produce mistakes.
He’d tried to jump to mastery without working through the steps beforehand, the same as with the staff. Well, once is a mistake. Twice is foolishness. Milo tries not to be a fool, but it’s hard sometimes. There’s too much information to track and not enough hours in the day to process it all.
He realizes that Rahima is talking. “—if he resists, we’ll tie him to the bed. Number 301 is empty right now.”
“I can’t stay,” Milo says, interrupting. “I promised to meet Mr. Groud this afternoon.”
The numbers around Rahima hesitate. “Well, if it’s Mr. Groud. But let’s get some food and water into you first. Can you stand?”
Milo does, but his equations are in flux and he stumbles.
“No, no,” Rahima says. “I can’t let you out in this condition. Take him upstairs.”
“But Mr. Groud—”
“We’ll let him know you’re sick,” Rahima says. “He’ll understand.”
“But—” A tremor shakes the Standing Goat. Milo looks around, confused. “Was that me? I can’t tell.”
“An earthquake,” the General says. “A small one.”
“Let’s take an offering to the sanctuary,” Safi says, “just in case.”
“An excellent idea,” the General says.
“Oh—” The rest of Milo’s words disappear when he sees Eratosthenes stream in from outside, his coat in tatters. There are red streaks clawed across his face. His eyes burn, and Milo feels like his mind will catch fire if he looks too deeply into them.
It’s started. The shadows are moving.
Milo’s theory is that his madness makes use of his intuition; that it takes the countless minute details too small to notice and gives them an outlet through his hallucinations. It explains how the dragon is so often right about things that Milo shouldn’t have any conscious knowledge of. But in none of the models does Eratosthenes ever appear as anything but impeccably dressed. He can’t help himself. He asks, “What’s happened?”
“It’s the Below,” Safi says. “Many of the old ruins aren’t stable, and the smallest quake can cause them to collapse. There’s a chance that there were Hidden hurt by the earthquake.”
A siren sounds outside, echoing between the buildings. The Prime Minister was just assassinated. He was visiting Brickside, and his motorcade was ambushed by the Silent. Eratosthenes leaps into the air, transforming from human to dragon as he flies through the inn’s walls. Somehow, he takes Milo’s vision with him, speeding across the tops of the buildings to a smoking black car surrounded by bodies and a gun battle between soldiers and Silent.
Milo, we can’t wait. You have to tell Hallon about this. About me. I’m pleading with you. Please!
I can’t! She’ll think I’m crazy.
Trust her. Trust her to trust you. She needs to know.
No! She’ll just run away and leave me behind. Milo pushes at Eratosthenes, and his vision snaps back to his body. Somewhere along the way, he’d fallen over. “I don’t know what just happened,” he says.
“You’re worrying me.” Rahima probes his skull with her fingers. “Have you experienced any dizziness or pain lately? Any weakness in your limbs?”
“No.”
“What about phantom sounds, strange colors or sights?”
Milo purses his lips. “No. Nothing new.”
Rahima frowns. “Why do I have the feeling you’re not telling me everything?”
“I don’t know,” Milo says. “I have a hard time understanding how other people know what they know.”
A truck rumbles past the inn. “People are running to get indoors,” Hallon says from the window. “An Army transport just pulled up in front of Mr. Calloun’s place.”
The General heads for the door. “I will see what I can find out.”
Rahima is still focused on Milo. “Nothing seems to be wrong with you, but I won’t know for sure until we run some tests. Don’t worry about staying here, I’ll make an exception since there’s a lockdown in place. Which, by the way, is what the siren means. You’re stuck here until it lifts, so you might as well get some rest.”
The General comes back. “The troops outside don’t know anything, just that they were mobilized. The situation may be more serious than it seems.”
A popping sound comes from outside, followed by a handful more. Safi and the General rush to bar the windows and the doors.
“That’s gun fire,” Hallon says.
Rahima turns to Wahid. “Inventory our supplies. Let me know how long we can stay holed up. When the fighting dies down, we’ll try to find out what happened.”