Awakening Arte (The Eldest Throne Book 1) Read online

  After their morning training, Sethra, Kamil, Laeshiro, and Roun then shared a midday meal together before their evening lessons with Zareus. They usually spent those lessons practicing artes, but the scribe also sought to equalize them regarding geography, reading script, and mathematics, and also had other Grimoires visit whenever they were available.

  Most were unknown to Roun, but he did meet several of his childhood heroes. The first was Valshura, Grimoire of Raining Blades, whose army of weapons danced through the air as if they had a will of their own. He also met Hally, Grimoire of Springsong, a well-known Grimoire who had embarrassedly also been a secret childhood crush of his despite her being much older; she could grow any plant from her body so long as she had eaten its seed and then controlled her plants through humming or song.

  It was an exhausting life, but to his relief, their training still left them with a fair amount of personal time. The four of them spent most of it together, but sometimes it was just Sethra and him. When they were alone, she usually dragged him off to explore Avyleir Library or bugged him until he agreed to play a card game or warstones with her; it was one of the few instances he could match her with confidence.

  At night, Roun was sometimes so tired that he slept like a mortal. At other times, Zareus instead gave him the sapphire coin. The scribe never insisted that he go to the Burrow, but Roun took it upon himself to go whenever he was given the coin, no matter how tired he was—but was far more careful with hunting wraiths.

  The trips to the Burrow let him pool élan, though it never seemed like enough no matter how full his reserves became. It was almost as if he was missing something else and soon suspected he was; the élan in his spiritual vessel wasn’t enough to stop the aches or the persistence fatigue that plagued him. It wasn’t enough to cultivate his spirit either, for some reason. That might have mattered more to him if not for the fact that he still couldn’t even see it. For now, the élan was usable; it felt like mud rather than ambrosia, and wasn’t good enough to help him grow.

  He gathered it drop by drop anyway, determined to be as much a Grimoire as the others and desperate to not fall behind.

  On any other night, he instead went to the summit to practice with his bloodhawk axe and always found Yhul eager to indulge him, no matter the hour. Some days were harder than others, but it wasn’t an unpleasant life, especially when he thought of his old one.

  Two months blurred by like this before he felt confident enough to attempt Zareus’s suggestion.

  13

  Roun sat cross-legged at the foot of the Burrow. Two élanic lanterns sat on either side of him and his axe rested across his lap. The grassy plains between the hill and Rozaria City had become familiar after spending the last two months passing through them. This spot here, where a wide flat boulder offered him a place to think, had become an outpost for his ventures into the tunnels.

  The Burrow—or rather, the massive hill it occupied—took the form of a hazy map within his mind. There were many tunnel entrances, each one part of a vast network that became less expansive the deeper he went. Roun imagined the hoard itself—something he still had no desire to actually find—was deep beneath the ground and guarded by the hoard queen.

  He hadn’t been able to map the layout of the tunnels thoroughly because of the hoard aspirants, but what he had managed should be enough. Now he was ready to try for one of them.

  The thought left a knot twisting and throbbing in his belly. This was a crossroads; Zareus expected something to happen when he killed the chimera, but even if he was wrong, tonight would still shift Roun’s path.

  He sighed; Grimoires normally hunted chimeras as a pair if not as a full coterie. Honestly, I would love to have Sethra with me right about now… On the other hand, this was kind of a test for him—something he needed to do on his own.

  Roun rose from his rock filled with determination. His outer robes billowed in the chilly night air, and his axe’s edge reflected the lanterns as he looked at it. He again wore a simple festival mask, but removed it and left it here, next to his spare lantern and canteen.

  The liquid darkness waited.

  Stale and flavorless as it was, élan still sloshed within his spiritual vessel. His custom bloodhawk axe fit more confidently in his grip than it ever had before, tempered by the fevered training over the past two months now layered over a lifetime of training from first his father and later Noban.

  Roun didn’t have an arte to pair with his martial skills, but he held close the knowledge his bestiaries and father had given him; it’d have to be enough.

  He tied one of the two lanterns to his sash, leaving the other shuttered on the grass, then climbed the side of the hill, found the tunnel he was looking for, and entered the Burrow.

  Rather than cast Farsight outward, he instead held its influence close around him, partially blinding himself—and hopefully also preventing the hoard aspirants from sensing him. They themselves had given him the idea.

  His experiments over the past two months proved it at least gave wraiths a harder time. Unsurprisingly, the first one he stumbled across seemed to react to the sudden touch of his light more than anything else.

  Roun swung his axe down as it turned with cold apathy, and the wraith melted into sizzling sludge. Others faced him in unison, and he knew more would soon scuttle through the tunnels. Roun had never found the courage to remain long enough to see if a hoard aspirant would also follow, but he supposed he’d find out now.

  Black sludge splattered across the ground as he advanced and wraiths died; it was tedious work because he was trying to preserve élan.

  Warmth coursed through his body as he pushed himself harder, axe swinging and chopping at the soundless wraiths in rhythm with his breaths. The numbers in the tunnels had thinned by a good amount already, so he didn’t think he’d have any problems with the swarm as long as he paced himself.

  Here it is. He reached the junction and slammed an elbow into a leaping wraith. His axe came down on it hard enough that it cracked the violet wax covering the floor. After it melted away, he untied the lantern from his sash and set it down at the divide.

  Roun then reached out with Farsight to ensure his touch didn’t reach too deep into the Burrow.

  Nothing much had changed. He could sense wraiths moving through the tunnels near him. There was also a brighter spirit nearby, and as he watched, it winked out. Good. He hoped for a bright stroke of Fate in that only one approached.

  Roun decided the left tunnel was the likeliest one it would use, blinded himself once more, and moved towards the right. His plan wasn’t complicated, but those were the ones that survived the longest.

  A series of touches and swipes across the axehead kept the lighting script within his axe from activating, then settled down to wait. A wraith soon stumbled by him while looking towards the lantern, forcing him to awaken his bloodhawk axe—that only needed a quick touch—and slay it.

  It felt like a scream in the silence every time he killed a wraith, but Roun didn’t think it mattered. Artificial sources of élan only distracted some chimeras because they were too stupid to tell the difference between a spirit and a lantern. The difference was obvious to his Farsight, so he assumed artificial élan appeared more potent to chimeras, or maybe they were more sensitive. Either way, Roun was betting on it; he couldn’t risk being caught by surprise again, let alone allow the chimera to strike first from the solid darkness of the Burrow.

  The hoard aspirant apparently decided it didn’t care about his gambles. It arrived without a sound and crushed the lantern in a pincer, dousing the tunnel in night before Roun’s mind could even register its presence.

  Primed as he was for the ambush, Roun still reawakened his axe and sprang forward like an idiot.

  The night retreated from his weapon’s glow, but the light also drew the attention of the chimera; it swung an arm without even turning.

  Roun clumsily ducked underneath and sprinted forward. The hoard aspirant was already rep
ositioning with graceful agility, but he still swung with all the élan-empowered strength he could muster at one of its front mantis-like legs.

  The axe’s edge sliced the flesh open in a gush of gold and black ichor. Another strike and another splattering of ichor, then a third before Roun decided against risking another. The wound was already healing, but the cry that pierced his ears suggested chimeras experienced pain as intimately as Grimoires did.

  He faced the hoard aspirant as it whirled. It tried to lunge forward but staggered when its savaged leg scraped across the floor. Instead, it opened one of its pincers and sent out a trio of tentacles from within.

  Roun cycled élan through his body and rushed forward. His pool wouldn’t last long, but he hoped it wouldn’t need to.

  His axe split a tentacle open in a spray of ichor while he allowed the second to grasp his free arm and pinned the third beneath a foot. He grasped the wriggling tentacle himself using the same trapped arm and challenged the chimera, strength to strength, while slashing at the escaping tendril beneath his foot.

  The chimera let out piercing chittering sounds and stumbled again as he yanked. Roun sucked in a breath, chopped at the tentacle holding his arm until it snapped free, then clove through a wraith that lunged into his path as he advanced.

  The chimera raised its other pincer to meet him, holding it close to his body while the other pincer withdrew its tentacles.

  Roun’s axe met it eagerly—and then, to his complete surprise, the axe recoiled away without leaving so much as a mark.

  He stood there and stared. The hardness of its pincers wasn’t a complete surprise; many chimeras had carapace or other similar protections, but he had failed to understand just how powerful those protections were.

  Unnerved, he struck again and again, only to find the chimera’s pincer an unbreakable defense. The moment its wounded tentacles retreated, it slammed the pincer into him and sent him tumbling back. The hoard aspirant didn’t waste the opening; it went on the offensive, sending out a new trio of tendrils to grasp Roun around the waist and legs—and then started whipping him against the ground and walls.

  Ron struggled to free himself while bracing against the pain and disorientation. Somehow, he kept a hold of his axe.

  The chimera eventually paused and raised its other pincer, which was now snapping open and closed. An insane idea came to him, but he risked it anyway now that he knew his axe was useless against the pincers. Roun willed the script of his axe awake and threw it.

  The axe spun in a sharp arc and slammed into the monster’s torso. Roun gathered as much élan as he could and used it to enhance his strength, then reached up with both arms right when the two halves of the chimera’s pincer closed in on him.

  Roun’s arms burned in protest as his fingers dug in and he held the halves apart; for a moment he was sure his bones would snap despite his partial immortality.

  The chimera appeared puzzled at first; it half chittered and half screamed as his bloodhawk axe’s script sucked out ichor and sprayed it into the air, drawing the creeping, waiting wraiths to watch. Roun clenched his teeth as the hoard aspirant became increasingly frantic while trying to crush him—anchored as he was, it would either need to stop trying to break him in two or release the tentacles holding him.

  It was too dull to understand that, however, so instead it flailed around and fought against his grip, then began slamming itself against the walls of a tunnel that was already barely larger than it was to get at the axe. Chips of dirt and violet wax fluttered into the air, and wraiths burst apart in droves beneath the rampage of the chimera.

  It battered Roun along with them, and his reserves of élan diminished at an alarming rate every time he was slammed against a wall or was forced to fight back against the chimera’s strength.

  Its tentacles finally loosened and withdrew, allowing Roun to drop as it jerked its pincer away. They regarded each other for an intense moment, the chimera chittering nonstop while Roun’s thudding heart kept pace.

  Fear now saturated the hoard aspirant, and he could sense it in the most acute way possible. The aroma clogged his nostrils and his ears caught its succulent undertones within every screech and chitter. That would have been strange on its own, but Roun could also sense the hoard aspirant’s fear rippling across his skin. His mouth watered as his focus shifted away from the encroaching silhouettes of wraiths and back towards the hoard aspirant.

  The chimera’s very spirit quivered deep within a place beyond bone and flesh. Everything seemed to slow to a crawl as he realized that this was his arte—a spiritual hunger with the means to satisfy itself.

  A wraith lunged and sank its teeth into his leg, sending exquisite agony through him. Roun shuddered, then splattered the wraith with a fist and whistled as he limped forward.

  His bloodhawk axe burst free, careened off the waxy wall, and spun toward him moments before the chimera lunged with both pincers, seemingly not caring that one still had tentacles protruding. The snapping appendages filled the tunnel with their noise, joined along with the chimera’s high-pitched screech. It didn’t stop even when the quick opening and closing of its pincers sheared off its own tentacle—but Roun noticed and knew what it meant.

  He sprang forward and reached for the whirling bloodhawk axe. The handle slammed into his palm and he used the momentum to twist while guzzling élan from his pool.

  The pincers overreached, but the lowered end of one caught him across the skull. He felt a deep gouge open, ichor gushed free, and his body wrenched élan away from him to heal it.

  A snarl escaped his lips as he swung his weapon. The axe sank into the plumper abdomen of the mantis-like chimera and sliced through meat.

  Roun dragged his axe across as the chimera screamed in pain and fear, more animal than monster for this brief moment. It staggered like a drunkard and tried to reach for him.

  His arte had already filled him with the instinct needed for what was next and that instinct took over long before his mind realized anything was even happening; Roun felt the veins along his left arm grow itchy and hot.

  When he let go of his axe and tore back the sleeve of his outer robe, he saw they were oozing a thick black substance that terrifyingly reminded him of the sludge chimeras secreted to make wraiths. It soon covered his arm, turning it into an inky, undulating caricature with little tentacles of its own squirming upwards.

  Without understanding why, Roun thrust the arm into the chimera. His arm passed the boundary of flesh and reached all the way through the chimera’s vessel until it reached the glowing orb nestled there.

  The hoard aspirant’s body trembled down to the ground. All it had left was its will to live, a literal, desperate force that fought against Roun as he tried to rip the spirit free.

  Roun didn’t hesitate to fight back, half driven by his arte’s instinct and half by the hunger thundering through him; he tugged until his arm ached and the chimera’s terror set his nerves afire with a sense of deep thrill.

  Their battle raged on for what felt like an eternity, but he knew it had only lasted as long as the chimera’s last few heartbeats—the spirit tore free with a gush of ichor and the unphysical and abstract sat within his hand as surely as the most glorious gemstone.

  A vague awareness warned him that the wraiths could kill him during his few seconds of distraction, but they backed away when he looked. There didn’t seem to be any genuine fear—or anything else—but they eerily mimed it anyway, as if he were the monster instead.

  It occurred to him he might be.

  Roun frowned as his fist closed around the spirit, but the black ink around his arm launched tendrils upwards and forced it down into the sludge of his palm instead. The orb vanished by the time his hand finished closing into a fist and he got the impression that it was drifting through his own vessel now. A glob of élan had also entered alongside it and was being filtered into his reserves.

  A few counts later, the inky stuff covering his arm sizzled and dissipated. Rou
n stared at his mundane arm for a while before glancing over at the lifeless hoard aspirant. Black and gold ichor still oozed free from its wounds.

  Breathe. Roun gulped air to calm himself and forced the whirlwind within his mind to quiet. Whatever had happened, he knew that now was not the time to think about it.

  So Roun moved forward and almost apologetically reached for the haft of his axe, which was still buried in the chimera. It took a few good pulls, which toppled the chimera’s corpse onto its side. Roun glanced around at the motionless wraiths, tuned into his persistent sense of the Throne to orient himself, then backed away towards the Burrow’s entrance.

  None of the wraiths followed. Roun somehow knew they were still staring long after the light of his axe retreated, dousing them once again in darkness.

  14

  The hoard aspirant’s spirit drifted through Roun’s vessel; it was an odd sensation, because the vessel wasn’t a physical place. He knew where it was the same way he could touch both his hands together in the dark, but couldn’t explain one any more than the other.

  Roun didn’t know how to feel about what had happened. On one hand, the idea of devouring a spirit disgusted him. It didn’t matter that it had belonged to a chimera. The pleasant fullness and relief unwillingly flowing through him rejected that disgust.

  They left him with conflicted thoughts as he stepped out from the Burrow’s tunnel.

  The air was warmer outside and grew warmer still as he retreated from the thicker night that made up the Burrow. He returned to his little rock of an outpost, activated the lantern he had left behind, and dropped his axe onto the grass before taking a deep, long drink of the lukewarm water. He swished some of the water in his mouth and spat.