Cradle of Sea and Soil Read online

  “Seas and skies aflame,” she cursed and threw down her spear. The halja would be back sooner or later, but for now it’d prowl and wait until it was confident it could kill her.

  And why would it to even appear here, beyond the forest and so very far away from the Primordial Wound?

  Her hands were trembling and the screams were getting uncomfortably close. The Flows of Creation were slick across her skin like falling rain.

  Colibrí took a deep breath.

  That was no coincidence. Peacemaker must have sent them. The thought filled her mind and her tail thrashed in response. Sent. The very idea that halja could be controlled, let alone commanded, scraped against all her warrior lore and everything she knew about halja.

  Another chilling realization was that Peacemaker had found their home. Had he watched from the edge of the forest? Prowled unseen on the beach? Could he somehow be hiding among the Trueborn in Kayuya Village?

  Who—what—was Peacemaker?

  It took a moment to notice that Narune was calling out to her. She frowned and turned, saw the look on his face, and then took another deep breath.

  “I’m fine,” she croaked, then wiped at the blood streaking across her cheek. “Thank you.”

  He thumped her shoulder and gave her a smile. “I almost died of fright for a moment there.” He turned to look behind her, out toward the sea, and Colibrí followed his gaze.

  Kisari’s stormdancer sandals crunched on the grass as she approached, Colibrí’s canoe on the shore further behind the girl. She held a thick length of wood in her arms, dark and smooth.

  Colibrí’s eyes narrowed. Kisari froze, hugging the chunk of wood tighter, and her gaze slipped behind Colibrí toward her son.

  Narune’s touch was light, but he turned her around. A sea breeze cut across them, rustling the distant canopy. They stared at each other and Colibrí almost laughed in spite of everything. No one would ever doubt that Narune shared soil with her—Colibrí least of all. There was so much of her younger self in him, and that left her feeling… conflicted.

  “I’m going to continue on my path to becoming a spiritseer,” he said simply.

  Colibrí rubbed her eyes. She didn’t want to do this now. There were so many other worries crowding her mind and she needed Narune to be an ally against them, not another one of them.

  But that was unfair. He was still young, still her child, still growing and learning. Colibrí sighed. “You gave an oath, Naru. A dark one, yes, but still an oath.”

  “I know.”

  “Eh? And you’re going to break it anyway? Just like that?”

  Her son shook her head. “It’ll probably become the darkest part of my story, but I’ll bear that shame with the same respect I give my glory.” He waved at her, tail flicking. “And before you grow too upset, I already know that you’re an oathbreaker too.”

  She frowned.

  “Cacica Yabisi told me. You gave her an oath that you would return me to the forest, yet here I am.”

  She said nothing for a moment, trapped in the center of a dangerous whirlpool of thoughts. Again she breathed out slowly.

  “So, was I a mistake?” he asked.

  She growled and clutched his chin, nails digging into his flesh, but he didn’t flinch.

  Neither of them said anything, the silence instead filled by the songs of coquí and the crash of waves.

  Colibrí jerked away and hugged herself. “No, Narune. You were not a mistake.” She glanced at Kisari, who looked away. “Don’t ever ask me that again.”

  Her son frowned, “Mother, I’m—”

  “Promise,” she snapped.

  “I’ll never say it again,” he said quietly. Then Narune braced himself and tried to explain his thoughts and his heart.

  Colibrí politely listened to his story, but soon found herself with a growing urge to grab Narune’s shoulders and shake him. She didn’t, though, because she saw that he was terrified—not of her, hopefully, but maybe of failing to make her understand. So Colibrí tried to see things from her son’s perch instead of her own.

  By the end she was forced to admit that her son’s choices weren’t purely wild and reckless, even if she still didn’t agree with them. She could tell there were pieces he’d left out, and she worried about them, but her son appeared to take both the shattered oath he would carry forever and the daunting task of becoming a spiritseer seriously—so she gave him the same respect.

  It also seemed like Sanemoro had more or less agreed to guide him, which both infuriated and relieved her. In all, it wasn’t all flaws and foolishness. The worst of it would be dealing with Yabisi’s wrath if she ever learned what Narune had done, but who was Colibrí to speak against him? She knew how it felt to give so much only to have even more taken away.

  Maybe she could soothe Yabisi with time… or ask her to look away as a reward for Colibrí’s efforts against Peacemaker. Besides, as her son had pointed out, they were few, and isolated, making Narune a relatively smaller risk compared to the Halfborn of old.

  “I need you,” Narune said, seemingly reading the hesitation in her face. “You’re the only warrior I know who would be willing to teach me and you have more experience with the screaming storm than I do.”

  “Naru...”

  He raised his hands. “If we can prove what happened to the Halfborn was an accident or something we can ward against, then Kisari and I won’t have to live like this.”

  “And if we prove them right?” Colibrí asked.

  He shrugged. “Then Kisari and I will probably share the same meaningless, lonely days we already would have.” His expression softened and he looked over at the stricken girl. “I’m lucky enough to even have her. I know that, Mother, but...”

  Colibrí laughed, tail curling, and glanced over at the girl. “Well, he’s talking as if you agree with him, but your face tells me otherwise.”

  Kisari glanced between her and Narune, then wet her lips. “I wouldn’t mind staying out of the way, but… Narune is right. Every day we don’t become wild and crazed surprises the Trueborn, and I told him once that we’ll be hated until the day that no longer surprises them.” She shrugged. “I hear the screams now too… and they scare me. I think it would be nice to know whether or not there’s anything we can do about them.”

  What could Colibrí say to that? She knew it was selfish to force them toward her way of thinking, but what drove her was her fear for them. Well, that and the belief that Narune was wrong… Isn’t he? I know how hard the screams are to resist sometimes, and how can anyone learn to control a storm?

  But what if she were wrong? What if she had just given up too easily? Colibrí closed her eyes for a moment and exhaled slowly.

  “Very well, Naru,” she whispered in defeat. She turned and raised a finger before his joy overtook him, then gave him a severe look. “But only if Sanemoro does agree to guide you. I trust his wisdom more than yours or mine and it’s the only way I can be sure you won’t immediately kill yourself with sorcery.”

  Narune nodded.

  “One last thing.” She paused, hesitant, and then grabbed his shoulders. If you can’t find a safe way to study the screaming storm, or you start losing ground against it, or anything happens that even slightly reeks of what might have befallen the old Halfborn… well, I’m not going to ask you to stop. I’m telling you now that we, you and I, will need to stop while we can still make that choice. We have that much responsibility, Narune, no matter how the Trueborn treat us. I want an oath that you’ll do this.

  Narune nodded slowly. I think that’s fair.

  Break this oath, Narune, and you’ll break my heart. You will break me. She moved close and pressed her forehead against his. If you want my help, then that will be my price.

  I hope to never again break an oath, he promised. The ones I give you least of all.

  Chapter 16

  Narune squinted through the faint red light of a coral lantern and examined the chunk of heartwood he had just finish
ed carving. Sanemoro sat cross-legged next to him in the grass, a dark stick of Vanadylan inkstone—made elsewhere now, Sanemoro said—in his hand. Prepared leaves were stacked at his feet, each of them large and flat, their ends bound together with cord.

  Sanemoro was transcribing the first spiritseer manual Narune would need to memorize. It covered a more generalized range of subjects related to the spiritseers rather than guidance on form or techniques, but the foundation manuals that taught sorcery would come next.

  Narune would need to learn how to read lore-marks before any of that, though; he had been planning on becoming a warrior, not a warden, so he only knew war-marks and truth-marks. Spiritseers learned them all. They were mystic warriors, as wise as they were strong. It was what made them the spearhead of the Islandborn.

  Narune frowned. There was a lot to learn, but he refused to cower before any challenge on the path to becoming a spiritseer—even one made out of marks and thoughts.

  “Good, I think,” Sanemoro said with a grunt. The moon was high above them and probably brighter than the lantern. His mother slept; after the escape of the Empty Victory, they had decided to lean on warrior discipline. That meant full war garb and setting a simple watch during both day and night, with shortened periods of sleep for both of them, just as the warriors fighting along the edges of the Primordial Wound did.

  Narune nodded and glanced down at the hilt. He had split the heartwood in half, one for the hilt of the Flowing Blade, the other for the Gourd that would encase it and to which he would attach a belt. Though he wasn’t as good at whittling as his mother was, it had been easy enough.

  The hilt was a cylinder the thickness of a spear shaft, both ends flared, and it almost fit his hand perfectly; but it was still naked, bared wood.

  He eyed the rectangular opening at the top, maybe a little more than half the length of his pointing finger and as thin as a spearhead.

  Sanemoro coughed and nodded. “Next comes the blood.” He handed Narune a mender’s knife, fresh from a sizzling bowl of fluid. It was part of mender lore, so he didn’t know what it actually did, but he did know it came from a reptile known as an arnje, and that menders coated a lot of their tools with it.

  Narune took the knife and waved it in the air until it dried, then ran it along the back of his hand. Blood welled free. He flipped the knife, then grabbed his unfinished hilt and rolled the heartwood along the wound. It soaked up his blood and seemed to grew warmer, but that might have been his imagination.

  Doing this attuned the weapon to his spirit and would keep the Blade from being capable of hurting him.

  The cut eventually scabbed, but the wood somehow felt sated, so he didn’t make another. Licking his lips, he glanced over at Sanemoro. All it would take was a thought to bring his Blade to life…

  “Next,” Sanemoro began with a patient smile, “You will adorn the Flowing Blade with the dignity and respect it deserves.”

  They worked together to finish his Blade according to tradition, a process Sanemoro had seen many times before. They smeared the heartwood in an adhesive paste and then stretched stingray skin around the hilt. Next, Narune prepared the cord wrapping, dyed black like the skin, but both were darker than the color of the wood.

  Narune worked the cord into a crisscross pattern, his breath slowed by awe; the favors Sanemoro must have called on for such lavish materials probably weren’t small. Narune would finish by setting a tiny seashell and half a nutshell Kisari had helped him pick out onto the base of the hilt; symbols of sea and soil in respect to the land. Someday, when he had earned the right to be called an adept—or judged himself there, he supposed—Narune would add a trophy matching the color of his Flow.

  A notch later, Narune was left with a completed Flowing Blade.

  Narune held it above the weak light of the lantern where it was instead outlined by the moon’s glow. He stared at it wide-eyed.

  Sanemoro gently grabbed his wrist and forced his arm down. “Recite the lore of the Flows. I want to see that you have it memorized.”

  Narune had said them a dozen times today already, but he felt no annoyance. Sanemoro was being careful, doubling back again and again to ensure that Narune understood everything he needed to understand. Sanemoro might even be a stricter parent than a spiritseer adept would have been, but with things as stormy as they were, it was better to be cautious.

  Narune rose to his feet, the feel of his Blade in his hand somehow comforting, and began to pace. His tail twitched in the air as he thought with care. “Wherever the Flows of Creation pass, be it flesh, spirit, or mind, there is existence.”

  “And where Creation is absent?” Sanemoro slowly stood beside him, his face looking younger and a little fiendish in the red light of the lantern.

  “The Abyssal Void. Blankness waiting for Creation, like the space between the stars, or the moments between thoughts.”

  “And where Creation has failed?”

  Narune frowned and turned to face the sage. “Stillness. It clogs the Flows, stops the motions and cycles of Creation, and spawns the halja. It spreads on its own like rot, but an opposed Flow can also create Stillness.”

  Sanemoro nodded and pointedly looked at him. “Do you understand what that means?”

  “If a spiritseer refuses or resists the nature of their Flow,” Narune began quietly as he glanced down at his weapon, “then they will create knots of Stillness throughout their body until they break apart into dust.”

  “Very good, Narune.” Sanemoro smiled and nodded. He moved across the ground, sandaled feet crunching on a few dead leaves carried from the forest by winds, and placed a hand on Narune’s shoulder. “Well, here it is, eh? The first thing a spiritseer learns is how to Channel their Flow, but it is also the last thing they master. It should feel instinctual because of your Blade—like holding a jar filled with water and being able to sense it sloshing around. Tilt that jar until your power spills free.”

  Narune licked his lips, then stepped away from the sage. He took a stance, holding the hilt in both hands, and pointed it outward. His arms were trembling. The first step to wielding sorcery.

  He closed his eyes. The Flows of Creation were there, stronger than the screaming storm, which felt distant. He could feel the Flows along his skin like faint beads of sweat. Narune took a deep breath and wondered what to do next.

  After a while, he noticed the Flows of Creation drawn to him in a way they hadn’t been before. No, not to him, but his Flowing Blade. He just needed to open the way. So he slowed his breathing and focused, imagining the now warm Blade as unobstructed.

  The Flows of Creation rushed into him so suddenly that Narune jolted in shock, but he was so terrified of making a mistake that he swallowed his own fear instead of stopping.

  Tingling power flooded him, emerging from his heart, crossing all over his body, and then oozing out toward the Flowing Blade.

  The Blade woke.

  Narune’s eyes snapped open as Sanemoro let out a cry of joy. Liquid color spilled from the end of the hilt, swirling and spreading as if trapped within an invisible container. The substance looked a little like ritual paint, oily and thick, even though it moved like water.

  It took only a heartbeat for the Blade to finish forming. It looked like a very large knife, but thin and long and ever slightly curved.

  The Blade was a shifting black color, like the deepest shadows of the forest. Mouth hanging open, Narune turned the Blade. The weapon weighed no more than before, but there was a kind of pressure originating from the end of hilt that increased whenever he moved it.

  “The Carrion Flow,” Sanemoro said with a nod as he eyed the weapon. He didn’t sound surprised. “Well, that is its formal lore-name. During battle, Blackflow, which is the war-mark name, will do.”

  Narune frowned. “You knew?”

  “I expected it.” The sage waved a hand dismissively. “Remember when I told you that you favored none of the Flows? Well, when that happens…”

  “You end up b
ound to the Carrion Flow?” Narune guessed.

  “No, it just ends up being a bit of a gamble. Any of the Flows could bind themselves to you, and because this gamble is the only way for a spiritseer to end up with the Carrion Flow, it tends to be incredibly rare.” Sanemoro shrugged. “But, for some reason, Halfborn spiritseers are always bound to the Carrion Flow. Which is not so terrible a thing, as it is the Flow of death and decay, the bottom curve of the cycles of Creation, and what all the other Flows eventually become when they age. Because of this, the Carrion Flow is also the fountainhead that allows life to remain forever in motion—such as when the dead are returned to the forest, or when a predator takes the life of its prey in order to sustain itself and grow stronger.”

  Narune glanced back down at his Blade. “Is it a powerful Flow?”

  “Of course, Narune,” Sanemoro said with a laugh. “All the Flows are; do not ever make the mistake of thinking otherwise. They are simply different.” Sanemoro waggled a finger at him. “But the Carrion Flow courses the most slowly, so it is also the closest to becoming Stillness. You will need to be more careful than other spiritseers.”

  Narune grinned and made a motion with the Blade. A tail of black, like a brushstroke the length of two arms, followed the tip of his weapon and dissipated into nothingness at its end. “This doesn’t seem so hard to me.”

  “Be wary of that thought. It may seem easy now, but as your power grows, so will the price. Blackflow will course through you with increasing intensity over time, etching a path through the soil of your flesh and stirring together with the waters of your spirit. Eventually, you will become one of its infinite paths and then there will be no going back. You will be bound to the Carrion Flow forever and will need to tirelessly Channel it at all times. This is the reason for the Ritual of Fang and Feather; a spiritseer must always choose survival over surrender no matter how difficult that choice might be.”

  Narune nodded. “I’ll remember your words.”

  “Yes, you will, because I will make sure of it. Now, this is all nothing; what a novice accomplishes in a fraction of a day. What follows is the true work. Wielding your Blade and Channeling the Carrion Flow together without thought. I am no warrior myself, but I have watched spiritseers train, and the training manuals are clear enough, so...”