The air thickened within the bowl, and Ciras felt as if the entire weight of the mountain were pressing in on him. He couldn’t breathe, which ignited fire in his lungs. That fiery sensation flooded into his back, along the line of his cut. He could feel it mending, then the fire died. In its place came the itch of jaedun, like the familiar itch of a healing cut. The faster he recognized it, the easier he could invoke it.
In this fight he’d not consciously done that, but his panic had opened the way to jaedun. He’d known from Moraven Tolo that discipline would lead him to that path, but the utter lack of it had truly opened the new doorway. What he had done stood outside discipline, and yet magic had served him.
He would have allowed himself to keep thinking that, save for running over that last series of moves in his mind. While what he had done was of no single discipline, it was in keeping with all of them. The Nine Forms had been shaped to pit advantage against weakness. They demanded control of his body, a sense of balance, of speed and power, all mixed to avoid the enemies’ cuts while delivering maximum damage. He had recognized his own weakness, and had acted to avoid the enemy while exploiting his weakness.
I doubt what I did will ever enter a form, but it did work; just as refusing to show the bandit a form he recognized served to defeat him. Perhaps the route to jaedun lay in recognition of the principles underlying all the disciplines.
The green globe evaporated and Pravak, with his warrior knot mended, sat up. He snapped his left ankle back together and wrapped the severed tentacle around it to hold it in place. He then stood and limped over to Ciras. The metal mask creaked as the grim visage shifted to one more friendly, then solidified that way.
“I almost wish I could feel pain again so I could remember this duel more precisely.” He laughed lightly, then reached a hand back and tugged on his knot. “You needn’t have severed it. I would have surrendered once I was on my back.”
Ciras shook his head. “I would not dishonor you by letting you surrender.”
“You truly are Yirxan reborn. They were wise who let you keep his sword.”
“And I am in their debt.” Ciras bowed. “If you will permit me to leave, I shall clean this blade and then myself.”
“Of course. You and your servant will be summoned in three hours.” Pravak nodded. “Your coming is a good omen.”
Ciras smiled, bowed, then exited the circle. He walked to a small corridor and stopped before a circular opening. From a small square hole in the wall he drew a slender rectangle of a white metal that Borosan had identified as a silver-thaumston alloy, which, to the best of his knowledge, could not be created by anything short of sorcery. As he handled the metal slip, sigils incised themselves on its surface. He recognized them as the designation for his suite, smiled, stepped into a small spherical chamber paneled entirely with silver. He slid the metal key into a narrow slot and thought of the living quarters he had been assigned high in one of the towers. Behind him, a curved metal panel slid down, sealing the sphere, and his flesh tingled as magic washed over him.
Then the panel slid up again, admitting Ciras to the chambers he shared with Borosan. Because he bore a vanyesh sword, the citizens of Tolwreen had accepted him as something special-though exactly what neither he nor Borosan could determine. Every test he’d worked through, which ran the gamut from endurance and intelligence to combat, had ended with promises that he was one step closer to having mysteries revealed to him. And he certainly had been trained, for each opponent he’d faced and defeated became his mentor in preparation for the next test.
Borosan looked up from the table in the middle of the central living chamber and stretched. “You were victorious?”
Ciras nodded. “I wish my master were here. I believe I have found the way to jaedun.”
The inventor smiled. “Very good. It is, isn’t it? I would have expected you to seem happier about it.”
The swordsman nodded, crossing the room to a nook where he stored oil and cleaning cloths. “I have dreamed of this since I first began my training, but it almost seems like an afterthought. The path proves so simple that I think I would have grasped it from the start if someone explained it to me.”
“It could be none of them understand it as you do.” Borosan’s mismatched eyes narrowed. “But that’s not the whole of your discomfort, is it?”
“No.” He sat and began to polish the blade. “I wonder if the instructions and the tests were not meant to push me to jaedun. Your speculation that the filaments leading up to the mountain must be bringing the wild magic down has to be correct. I don’t think any of the vanyesh can survive outside this atmosphere unless they venture out wrapped in thaumston mud.”
“Then it’s good they don’t go far.” Borosan held up one of the keys. Light reflected from its surface, revealing etched letters. “These keys pick up impressions of us, and when we think of a place to go, the magic knows if we are allowed or not. I still don’t know if the balls move, or if we are sent to an identical ball in the location we wish to reach, but that is how we get around. With the special keys, however, the location and permission are etched on them.”
Ciras nodded. “It’s the only way we can get to places we can’t recall in our minds.”
“Right, but here’s the trick.” He let the card in his hand waver back and forth. “Each of my thanatons has a difference engine that I give a simple set of instructions. On this blank, I’ve inscribed far more instructions than a difference engine can deal with. If I replace the engine with a dozen of these cards, even writing big, I can create a creature hundreds of times smarter than they already are.”
The swordsman frowned. “If the vanyesh knew this, they could create thanatons, which could replace the wildmen and might even be capable of complex work.”
“Like building more thanatons.” Borosan set the key down. “Luckily, since I am your servant, I escape notice.”
“Not tonight you won’t.” Ciras wiped the sword clean and rested the blade on the rack. “Tonight all will be revealed to us. Just a couple of hours from now.”
“Is that good or bad?”
Ciras shook his head. “I don’t know. I’m not sure I want to find out.”
An hour before the appointed time, wildmen appeared and helped them dress. They’d brought formal robes of golden silk, trimmed with wide red hems and sashes. Ciras’ had the crest of a sleeping tiger embroidered in red because that had been Jogot Yirxan’s crest, but it was surrounded by a flaming circle in honor of his being from Tirat. Borosan’s robe had the Naleni dragon for decoration, but very small since he was only a servant.
Borosan shook his head, for the sleeves of his robe were easily two feet too long, and the hem was long enough that it had a three-foot train. “No one has worn robes of this style since the Empire fell.”
“They are designed so you must move slowly in them. It makes formal affairs stately, and prevents anyone from rushing forward to kill the Emperor.”
The wildmen also brought with them special keys, etched with sigils neither man could decipher. The two visitors shuffled their way into the sphere, pulled their robes in after them, then inserted their keys into the wall slots. Though neither felt any motion, they exchanged glances. Normally journeys were over in the blink of an eye, but this one took almost a minute.
When the door slid open again, they found themselves in a wide tunnel with a ceiling hidden in darkness. At the far end, they saw another opening glowing a soft gold. They began to walk toward it, and Ciras relished the fact that his robe prevented him from moving too swiftly. His sense of dread grew as he approached their goal.