~~
The next day, Nephilim decided that it was time his two students trained together. Though they were in... different circumstances, he could explain basic techniques to them together. Which would save him time, let him devote his energies to supporting his more unwell student in his recovery.
So the next day, he woke them both at their usual times and had them eat together. There was plenty of fruit to share, but fruit and vegetables alone would lead to some interesting digestive problems, so he mixed in supplements to their meals, as he did every morning.
When they joined him in the Arboretum, he handed them their individual bowls of porridge. There were significantly more supplements in one bowl than in the other. Maya was smart though. Very smart. She noticed this somehow, maybe seeing the consistency or the texture, and frowned at her bowl.
“Why do we have different breakfasts?”
“I believe that I can answer that one,” said Candle. Candle was his chosen name. He'd said that the man he was had died beneath the Woodsman's idol and that Candle had risen in his place. Nephilim accepted that decision and did not use his real name out of respect.
And the man had earned plenty of respect from Nephilim.
Maya turned to him, curious and interested.
“Alcohol does some terrible things to the body,” Candle said, grave concern covering his now-shaven face. He'd cleaned up well since coming down here, but still looked unwell: his cheeks sagged from years of hopelessness, and his skin was blotchy and pale. “It wracks you, damages and scorches you. In order for me to recover, the damage must be repaired, and it takes a specific diet to encourage that reparation. Nephilim has me on such a diet, hence the glorious and healthy sheen on my breakfast that is not present on yours.”
Maya looked at Candle's bowl, then at her own. She shrugged. “Makes sense.”
Nephilim felt himself relax. Candle had been very clear in the way he wanted to handle things, and Maya had come close to testing those terms. Maybe it hadn't been that good of an idea to bring them together, but time was short and he couldn't risk delay.
Beyond that, breakfast was uneventful. He left Maya and Candle to meditate over their chosen Focal Objects and did his own maintenance, reinvesting his considerable power into the Hive. He had a complex rotation of which Spirits would get attention when, a schedule agreed over the course of... well, over a very long period of time, and it was second nature to him now.
Kneeling down, he focussed. He remained this way for an hour, still and silent, until he was done. Then he stood and gathered his students.
Students... It still seemed odd to have students again. Though he didn't like to think back, teaching was one of the few things he genuinely missed about the time he didn't let himself remember, the secret history.
Maya and Candle stood before him, watching him with hope and intent, with inquisitive natures that were refreshing and endearing. Their causes were different, but their verve for learning was almost identical: both wanted to know how to control Cyrus Force more strongly than they'd ever wanted anything.
It was this verve that gave him confidence that they succeed in–
“Nephilim?” Maya asked, breaking his thought process.
“Sorry,” he replied. “I was miles away.”
Maya frowned slightly, taking a moment to work out what he meant. “Is everything okay?”
Nephilim smiled. “It is. Now, I think it's time that I give you a lesson on how to actually use all of that Cyrus Force that you've been building.”
Maya gave him her own smile. Candle straightened his back.
“First, I need to explain something, one fact which ought not break your perceptions but is vital to this lesson: the Cyrus Force that you have generated, and will continue to generate on a day-to-day basis, does not actually belong to you. It is not yours to command, not directly. What you are really doing is building your Spirit, so the energy–”
“The energy is theirs, not ours,” Maya cut in. Wonder filled her voice, coupled with a faint understanding, as though she'd just gotten how this all fit together.
“Exactly,” Nephilim said, briefly pointing at Maya. “The Cyrus Force belongs to the item you are feeding it to, which gives birth to the Spirit within it. So the Cyrus Force is not yours, in the same way that sap within a tree you water is not yours. If you want to use it, you must borrow it from its true owner.
“Just like sap, you can tease the Cyrus Force out of your Spirit. There is a vein that you can tap, that you can bleed. But there is also a limit to what you can do with that vein: take too much and the tree will die.”
“Spirits can die?” Candle asked.
Nephilim considered this for a moment. He had theories on that matter, but he had to avoid to breaking either of their world views. It was still critical that he protected them: whilst they built their Spirits, they needed the strongest faith possible in their understanding of the world. Any impacts to that could weaken their Spirits, potentially even get them killed.
“Yes,” he finally decided to admit. “All things can die.”
Maya nodded, accepting it at face value. Candle suppressed his horror. Nephilim closed his eyes for a moment, realising that he'd have to placate the man in private later.
“So, how do we get access to the Spirit's Cyrus Force?” Maya asked.
He watched Candle for a moment longer, weighing up the impact this revelation had had on the man. Hopefully, it wouldn't be too great. “Well,” he started, getting back to the lesson, “first of all you need to build a very close relationship with them. I don't think either of you have had troubles with that.”
Maya looked sidelong at Candle, gauging him. He seemed to relax at the mention of his new Spirit, which Maya couldn't help but nod slightly at.
“The next thing you need to do is build a connection between you that will allow the easy transfer of the energy. It will be different for both of you due to the... elements of your Spirits. It can only work through co-operation. The theory is the same as when you're fortifying your Spirit: Cyrus Force goes from them to you in much the same way as it goes from you to them. Between you, you must work out how to make the exchange.”
Candle nodded. “That makes sense.”
“It's like a road, then,” Maya said.
“Or an open window,” Candle replied.
Maya smiled. “That works too.”
“Be careful. Don't affect one another's views too much.”
Maya's brow twitched. “But we agreed...”
“What if you hadn't?” Nephilim asked. “It's probably best if you don't discuss matters of Cyrus Force together. Safer all round.”
“Okay,” Candle replied.
Maya eyed Nephilim, her mouth twitching occasionally into a snarl.
“Maya?”
“Okay,” she said, her voice cold.
“Good. Now, separate and speak with your Spirits. Work out how you're going to do this and come back to show me later in the day.”
Maya frowned. “You brought us together just for that?”
“It is easier than explaining it twice. I do have other things to do that aren't teaching you.”
“Really? Such as?”
Nephilim hardened, not appreciating her deprecating tone. “None of your business,” he grunted. Then, to avoid another flare up with her, he added “I wasn't just sat down here eating apples before you came along.”
“He was busy being the Woodsman,” Candle added, a faint smile gracing his sallow face.
“And that seemed to entail very little, based on what you told me,” Maya joked.
“Ah,” replied Candle, “but have you forgotten the woodcuts on the Axe's roof?”
Maya's smile faded. “No, but they were just myths.”
A silence passed between them.
“Weren't they?” Maya asked.
“I don't know what you're talking about,” Nephilim said with a smile. He did, but it was nice to wind Maya up a little.
/> “They were lies though, right?”
Candle shrugged. “Of course they were.”
Maya looked from Candle to Nephilim. All she received were two po-faced expressions.
“You're gits, do you know that?” she said, angry and amused.
Nephilim and Candle laughed. After a moment, Maya joined in too. And Nephilim, for just a moment, forgot about everything else that had happened and was happening now.
38
When something happened in Aureu, witnesses have to write reports about it. In no less than a thousand words, they must describe in great detail what happened, when it happened, who was there and why they, as a witness or participant, had acted as they had. All of this was catalogued, filed, and recorded to feed the divine workings of the Bureau, the great administrative arm of the Solaric Council.
If an incident was deemed important enough, the witness had to deliver a verbal report to a Head Cleric first. Avoiding swift and brutal justice, or gaining praise rested on the back of such reports. Many people faced the wroth of the Clerics based on their wording. Any disparities between their verbal report and the written one would be questioned ruthlessly: consistency was almost more important than accuracy.
Because Chain had helped refugees fleeing the Disciples, people who had witnessed the fall of the Western Front, not even a Head Cleric was enough. Let alone that one of them was Scar's grandson with the temporary authority of a Shield-General. Chain and Snow had been pulled out of the Bureau's hierarchy altogether.
Which was why she was in the Guardian's office, the most secure and powerful room in Geos, beside Snow. Her head was bowed as she breathed in the incense that filled the room. And the Guardian himself eyed them having heard their accounts.
His office was wide and long enough to hold every Lord in Aureu if needs be. And that must have happened often. Great windows poured light in. The walls were white; the floors varnished wood. Behind her were rows and rows of benches and before her the Guardian leaned on his wide desk.
When Chain had last met him, the Guardian had been friendly and calm. But now...
“Do you really mean that, Snow? All of them? Every single Shield? None survived?” He banged his hand against his desk. Papers fell to the ground with a pathetic susurrus.
“I believe so, sire,” Snow said, “but, if any did survive, it was by abandoning their duties. Bless, the Captain who died of hypothermia, told me he'd executed a Mariner for fleeing before I got to the docks. The Disciples cut through the Shields as though they weren't there, sire, so most probably didn't even get the chance to turn coward.”
Snow had greatly impressed Chain. He was hard and determined in a quiet but zealous way. She wondered how much of this was him and how much those abominations had forced into him.
The Guardian sat. His brow furrowed, and much of the power and cool Chain had seen in the Space returned. How much weight hung around those shoulders? Hundreds of thousands of lives were tied to his soul. Chain offered a small prayer to Sol to grant him the wisdom and clarity to not feel that burden.
Thick windows and thick walls kept the hubbub of the Chamber from the room. The gentle scratching of a Head Cleric's quill was the only sound to be heard as the Guardian thought. The Guardian reminded Chain of her father in that moment: quiet, contemplative, in control. She also thought of Wasp, who she often found sitting on the end of the bed during the night, thinking.
“We'll raise a Militia in the morning.” The Guardian's expression didn't change, as though he were speaking his thoughts. “Pane, work on the fine details, but bring every Shield and Contegon into Sol's Haven, regardless of their leave or whether they are at Rest. Contegon, Shield-General, you are dismissed.”
The Head Cleric coughed.
A look of confusion crossed the Guardian's face and then realisation filled his eyes. “Literally in your case, Snow: you're a civilian again.”
With his rank demolished, Snow cracked. “No, wait, sire, I can help. I'm an excellent tactician and–”
“And Chain,” the Guardian continued, ignoring Snow, “well done. You were kept back for a reason, it seems. You'll be called in the morning, put to good use.”
Chain acquiesced, overjoyed. It was impossible for her to suppress a smile, even when the Guardian shooed them with a wave. “Pane, how long to collect and arm a force of around four thousand?”
“That... that will take some time, sire...” the Head Cleric replied.
The Guardian coughed. “Get me a drink, wine or something, and explain why.”
Standing, Chain led Snow from the Chamber. Neither talked as they trekked through deep varnished corridors and past crowds of nervous Clerics and Lords. Rumour had already passed around Geos' leaders, and they were panicking and planning, talking and trembling. None paid attention to a Contegon and a boy, not even to ask them to write a report.
That, Chain decided, would surely come after the Disciples had been repelled.
Outside, it was Snow who broke their silence. The Chamber stood behind them, looming like a mountain, as he leant against a pillar and let his head droop against his chest. “You're in contact with Sol, right?”
“Not exactly.” Chain leant against the opposite pillar and fiddled with her dull brown hair. In her limited experience, people only asked such things when they had an agenda.
“What do you mean? It wasn't a maybe question, Contegon.”
“If you don't think it was a maybe question, then you don't understand what you ask. As a Contegon, my actions are more likely to be guided by Sol than anyone else's. We've been chosen. He guided the thoughts and judgements of our teachers and the Contegons who accept us into the Academy. So we are not truly in contact with Sol, but he is in contact with us.”
“Every single one of you?” he asked.
An image of Ward, her face calm as she told Chain what to say, entered her mind. “Every single one of us. Even if we do the wrong things, it's part of a perfect design.” Chain shook her head. “Anyway, why do you ask?”
“I wanted to know why he saw fit to punish me for... for mistakes I've made.”
Chain blinked. She had not expected that. “He does not punish you for mistakes. You're... well, you're not being punished. I know you think you should be helping, that you have a tactical mind that is going to waste or some such, but you are still very young. What do you know of real battle?”
Snow looked at Chain, a much older look than he should have been capable of. “When my father appeared, covered in Scar's blood and Sol only knows who else's, and a part of me died with one final hug... Do you know which part of me died, Contegon?”
Chain was unable to hold his gaze. “Your innocence.”
Snow paused, wondering if she meant the right thing. “In a way, yes. That's as good a word as any. So you cannot say I know nothing of battle when I've seen more death than you, Contegon Justicar. To me, Sol's design is less than perfect. Strike me if you will, but there's nothing perfect about any of this.”
She gritted her teeth. “I'd go if I were you, boy. Your pain makes you blaspheme. Once I can forgive you for. But I can only hear so much before I must punish you.” Even as she warned him, she couldn't hold his gaze.
Footsteps echoed straight away, slow and purposeful. Snow didn't flee: he had just chosen to leave it there. Chain watched him walk away, almost felt he had a good point... which made her feel ashamed of herself. That he could be so bright but get things so tangled, so wrong... if only he truly understood Sol...
On an impulse, she asked “Snow?”
The boy stopped, his hands in his pockets, but didn't turn. That was the most she could expect of him. “No part of you ever dies. An amputee still feels the ghost of his hand. Don't deny yourself the possibility of recovering what you've lost.”
He looked up, the crown of his hair staring into Chain like an angry eye, and shook his head. With no reply, he walked on, leaving Chain to wonder what he saw up there: did he, like Maya, see only light for the e
yes, and not light of the heart?
She hoped not.