Awakening Arte (The Eldest Throne Book 1) Read online

  Once outside, he continued running for a distance, then collapsed onto his knees to catch his breath and take stock of himself. Plumes of vapor escaped his lips while he cast Farsight and watched the retreat of distant, dim orbs that he now realized must be wraiths.

  Shaking his head, he glanced down and made sure both his axe and lantern were undamaged and still full of élan, then glanced at his shoulder. The pain was subsiding at last, but still hurt enough for him to clutch the wound. His raiments hadn’t torn, to his surprise, but his outer robes had holes in them now. Avyleir had given them several sets, so it wasn’t a concern.

  Roun spent a moment kneeling there in the dark, thinking. The night continued to swirl around his sanctuary while cycling through its deceptive sounds and illusions and creeping ever closer as it swallowed the lantern’s diminishing stores of élan.

  Nothing. There had been no stirring of an arte or any change in himself as far as he could tell. No intuiting of his gifts either. What am I missing?

  Roun trembled and let out a sigh as he set his axe down on the moist grass. Damn. I guess I’ll have to go find an actual—wait, something had changed.

  His élan.

  It was almost laughable, because he had spent far more than he gained, but that didn’t matter to him in the slightest at the moment. Roun closed his eyes and looked inward into his viscous spiritual vessel. There. Trickles of foreign élan were being filtered as they moved deeper through his vessel before finally dripping into his pool.

  The sensation was odd and his mind struggled to define it as much as it had struggled making sense of cantrips. It’s almost like I crave different things at once, but this somehow satisfies them all. Roun slowly nodded. That’s what it was like; sitting on a bench after hours of ceaseless running, the first bite’s explosion of flavor on a starving tongue, the soothing crispness of water flowing between parched lips, all in parallel.

  And yet, the elation passed all too quickly and left him with a desire for more.

  Roun rose. It wasn’t much of an answer, but at least he now knew he could harvest élan from wraiths for whatever reason. Maybe Zareus would understand it better than he did, but that could wait; leaving now would be a wasted opportunity. I could hunt a different tunnel… slay a few wraiths and then rotate to another tunnel. Almost like running drills.

  Comparing it to training made his idea seem less stupidly dangerous, so he let the thought sit in his mind and turned back towards the Burrow. Using his perpetual sense of the Eldest Throne’s location as a reference, Roun circled around the hill until he found another tunnel. He pulsed out Farsight and paid attention to the arrival of the first wraiths.

  They didn’t swarm enough to overwhelm him, so his first kill soon became two, then three, and before long he was skillfully maneuvering through the waves of emotionless, scuttling abominations.

  The droplets they fed him still weren’t enough. Roun hungered for more and that need felt like torture; it was as if every bench crumbled after but a moment or two of rest, as if he were being fed through slow trips of an eating knife, as if he suckled water from a cloudy rivulet.

  Roun was pretty sure he’d go insane before long. Breathe. He forced himself to calm down, caged the throbbing desire and aching need, and instead focused on the movements of his axe, because, despite everything, each treat of élan still left him feeling a little more invigorated.

  If Roun was careful to avoid being bitten and clawed by the wraiths and was efficient with his attacks, then he might even walk away in better shape than he arrived. The thought left him feeling purposeful, so he set to the work with grim focus. A sort of routine emerged before long as he lunged and spun through battle; every dead wraith gave him the strength to slaughter another two and they in turn each allowed another two.

  The rhythm continued until he felt alive for the first time since his ascension. No light radiated from him like it had the others, but he could still feel his own surging vitality.

  Roun laughed as he cleaved and chopped, every aspect of his body, from agility to sense of timing, enhanced by a careful cycling of élan. Somewhere in the back of his mind a voice warned that wraiths were nothing and that even mundane humans slew them whenever the need arose, but he didn’t care. The thrill left him feeling worthy—like the hero he was supposed to be.

  The wraith swarm had grown a little thick as he thought this, but he was already pulling back with thoughts of attempting one last tunnel before heading back to Rozaria City. Those thoughts were abruptly cut off by the snap of thick, muscular tentacles shooting out from the darkness. One grabbed his free arm, the other a leg, and the third wrapped around his throat before all three lifted him.

  Roun was then slammed sideways with enough force that the violet wax sprayed off the wall.

  Air rushed out of his lungs and his vision blurred, though it was as much from the tentacles constricting him as from being hammered against the wall—the one around his neck would have snapped it by now if he hadn’t been a Grimoire.

  Roun struggled in the air as a true chimera emerged from the gloom. It burned in his Farsight sense, its spirit brighter than the wraiths swarming around it along the walls, floor, and ceiling. He realized with a start that it was one of the orbs that had vanished the moment he cast Farsight—he had forgotten about them. Idiot. You’re a damn idiot.

  The chimera filled the entire tunnel with its bulk, then let out a ripple of high-pitched sounds that knifed into his ears.

  Almost as if it were laughing in agreement.

  11

  The chimera was a bit more than twice Roun’s height, and it reminded him of a rotund mantis with a black and violet exoskeleton. Large compound eyes reflected his lantern’s light as its head rotated and twisted like an owl’s.

  The three tentacles holding him aloft emerged from the ends of what would have been the grasping forelegs of a mantis, though here they were large, ovular bulbs that appeared subtly—and eerily—artificial. The bulbs seemed capable of splitting like crab pincers; it was from inside one of them that the tentacles emerged. The chimera’s other bulb clanged as it snapped open and closed, hinting that the pincers were powerful enough to be dangerous.

  Not that it mattered, since it was looking like the tentacles alone would kill him.

  Terror overwhelmed him as the monster let out chittering noises and more wraiths filled the tunnel, but he reflexively swallowed the emotion and took a calming breath. He pressed his feet against the wall, ignored the pain and dizziness, and forced as much élan as possible into his strength before chopping down with his bloodhawk axe.

  The weapon lodged deep into a tendril, its script fluttered awake and flashed amber for a heartbeat, and then it did what it had been made to do.

  Shimmering script anchored the weapon in place while lines of liquid gold flowed through the axehead. The streams continued to swirl around the haft until it reached the far end—and ichor gushed out into the air. Every wraith paused to stare up at the fluid as it arced over them.

  The chimera flinched and shook its tendrils in confused panic. Roun felt them loosen ever so slightly and used the élan still cycling through his body to rip the one around his throat free. Sweet air rushed into his lungs as he tried to tear his other arm away with enhanced strength.

  The chimera simply let him go—and by let him go, he meant it flung him onto the ground. Pain rippled through him, but he ignored it and instead sprang to his feet in time to catch a wraith pouncing. He spun with empowered speed and balance and used his arms to shove the wraith by him before letting out a sharp whistle.

  Roun didn’t know if it would work as it had for his father, so it relieved him to see the bloodhawk axe tremble for a heartbeat in response. It burst out from the flailing tendril and, script still shimmering, spun through the air towards him. The thought of it shredding his hand apart made him hesitate, but the axe curved around his back and orbited him.

  The tunnel was small enough that the weapon sent violet g
unk and soil crumbling down from the walls, but Roun still didn’t want to risk reaching for it, so he instead locked his gaze on the wraiths and chimera.

  Wraiths continued to scuttle forward without a sound while the chimera’s second bulbous appendage opened and revealed another trio of tentacles. Élan leaked from one tentacle from the first pincer, but the wound soon sealed closed.

  Roun didn’t even spare the time to consider his options; he knew he was facing certain death.

  Inspiration struck him as he turned to flee, however, and, thinking of the ichor his axe had spilled into the air, he tore open the chamber of the lantern at his waist and ripped out the two glowing obsidian orbs. The brightening script was in the lantern itself, so they immediately dimmed and allowed darkness to spill inward.

  He glanced back and threw the cylinders over a shoulder. Most of the wraiths tracked the movement of the orbs; the chimera lashed out at both of them with the same tentacles that would have easily caught Roun. It didn’t sound happy to find them lifeless.

  That was just a guess, though—Roun was already sprinting down the tunnel.

  The chimera’s chittering closed in on him, revealing that the damn thing was fast. Roun pulsed Farsight towards it in time to be warned of the approaching tentacles.

  One slapped Roun on the back of the head, but he used the momentum to throw himself into a clumsy roll. Another tentacle whipped against the ground to the side of him while the third landed against his back mid-roll, so it failed at wrapping around him. He lost his balance as he came up and just barely caught himself on the wall without losing too much speed.

  He could sense the scuttling wraiths drawing nearer too, so he pumped élan into his legs and sense of balance and took off at a full sprint. The tunnel’s entrance wasn’t far—he’d at least been careful about going too deep—so he soon broke out into the cold open air as the back of his neck pricked. Roun whirled around and stumbled.

  He fell backwards down the slope of the hill, but not before gasping at the sight awaiting him. The chimera filled the tunnel’s entrance and was so close that it could snatch him if it tried. Instead, the chimera’s unfathomable gaze bore into him as he fell, then it crept back into the darkness and vanished from Farsight.

  Roun rolled and skidded all the way down the hill. He shielded his head, but the speed at which he descended was still enough that stones and the rough slope made him waste élan.

  He eventually tumbled across the foot of the hill, skidded a short distance through the grass, and then lay there. Something shifted into view and nearly stopped his heart before he realized it was his bloodhawk axe.

  Roun panted as he watched the weapon orbit above him. Its script flickered once, twice, and then died. The axe tumbled to the ground and night closed in.

  He shut his eyes and swallowed the curses on his tongue; there was no one to blame other than himself, after all, and escaping with both his axe and his life was already a bright stroke of Fate.

  The night was thick around him when Roun began patting along the ground for the weapon. He shivered and felt wisps of vapor escaping his mouth, but ignored it along with the indistinct sounds and the unknowable presence that seemed to hover just above the back of his neck.

  He found his bloodhawk axe, decided against Imbuing it to preserve élan, and began the long trek back to Rozaria City by using his sense of the Throne as a reference. Farsight helped guide his footsteps, but it was exhausting to do much more while making his way across the open hills and plains. Since he didn’t want to draw attention to himself, Roun instead kept his cantrip close and focused his mind on other thoughts to help guard against the night’s subtle manipulations.

  That was a hoard aspirant. Aside from the name, he also recalled that they did indeed guard a hoard, though it would contain whatever random things the chimeras had stolen. That could be anything, even corpses or trees.

  Roun had assumed guarding their hoard would keep them deeper within the Burrow. And that ignorance almost cost me my life. I didn’t even think about those vanishing spirits, either. He had always believed himself knowledgeable about chimeras thanks to his father, but what he had just learned was that he didn’t know enough. Well, and that he lacked practical experience.

  Not exactly something to be ashamed of. Most people hoped to never even see a chimera, though that was up to Fate; no one understood why or how otherwise-normal animals suffered umbral awakenings. Night obviously had something to do with it, but scholars seemed confident about little else.

  It didn’t help that the night was its own mystery; truly deep darkness like the Nightwall swallowed humans, plants, and animals while waxing, but for some reason, only plants and animals reappeared when it waned. Sure, the plants and animals were usually different and the local geography was left rearranged, but that didn’t change the fact that no human or artificial structure—one exception aside, he supposed—had ever washed ashore from the abyss.

  Lesser night wasn’t much better, though it took longer to do harm. It mostly tried to inject fear the same way a serpent used venom, which then somehow let the night manipulate humans into fleeing away from nearby sources of light or anywhere they considered a sanctuary.

  Being exposed to long stretches of night over enough days allowed it to carve deeper. Beyond the body and into the mind, then beyond the mind and into the spirit, with each stage becoming increasingly resistant to the healing warmth of daylight.

  At the end the night left behind what might as well be a fleshy statue numbed across body, mind, and spirit. The Imperial Libraries ensured every settlement had élanic light and even firelight could ward against night, so it was a rare occurrence, but it happened; Roun had watched his father offer death’s peace to the afflicted more than once.

  He sighed and adjusted his outer robes, then propped his axe against a thigh so he could rub his hands together. His ascended body seemed to handle little things like heat and discomfort better, but he was drenched in sweat and the chill was as much spiritual as it was physical.

  After a moment, he shook his head and continued onward. He eventually made it back to the city a few hours before dawn.

  His approach startled a patrol of Guardsmen and left him with a strong pang of nostalgia, but it wasn’t Noban—Roun still made a mental note to seek him out when he had some spare time. The Guardsmen forced a lantern on him before ushering him towards the city’s great walls, and at the gate he found the same captain. The look she gave him this time was much more familiar, but his raiments and his mask, which he had retrieved before setting off, again spared him from a lecture.

  She waved him towards the warrior standing watch at the postern door.

  Roun passed through and made his way back through the sovereign city, groaning as he rose higher and higher up the hill. Avyleir Library had its own wall and protectors, but the same pair stood watch over the tiny east gate and waved him through. Once inside, he removed his mask and frowned up at the library that was like a smaller city. The central complex loomed with the grandness of a palace while the master librarian’s tower crowned it at the center and soared above all else.

  Beyond the central complex, on the far west side, spanned three towers and before him were another three, each arrayed so that they and their support buildings faced the center of the library and together formed an oval.

  Librarians, scribes, and aides were already shuffling through the glow cast by many élanic lamps.

  Roun walked the rest of the way to the Blue Moon Tower, which took up the southeastern corner. He debated between heading to the baths or heading to bed—and even considered sleeping in the heated bathwater with a smile—but instead went to see if Zareus was in his workshop.

  He hoped to find an excuse to save his report for later, but Fate wasn’t so kind; the scribe was hacking away at a fresh slab of chimera meat when Roun descended.

  “Where do you keep getting chimera flesh from?” Roun blurted out as he halted, blaming his fatigue for the awk
ward timing. He sighed. “And what are you even doing? I don’t see the point.”

  Zareus turned to regard him before ignoring his questions by instead saying, “I’m pleased to see you return in one piece. Report everything that happened.”

  Roun sighed again, but did as he was told. The scribe was silent for most of the retelling and only interrupted here and there to ask for clarifications or request additional details. Zareus didn’t react when Roun hesitantly told him of his encounter with the hoard aspirant, which he concluded with a good dose of self-admonishment.

  Afterward, Zareus stared off across his workshop, the butt of his scalpel rubbing along his jaw.

  “You did well,” the scribe finally said. “What are your thoughts?”

  “I think tonight proves that I’m on the right path,” Roun replied, “but if stealing élan from wraiths is the only way I can get more, then I’m not exactly sure it’s good news.”

  “That might be the result of your arte’s influence. In fact, I feel that your next step should be to slay a chimera so that you can observe the difference. Your Wood ‘rank’ is symbolic; in terms of general strength, all Grimoires begin at Low Copper. The Burrow’s hoard aspirants are rated at a Low Copper threat rating, and a single Grimoire can slay them, so they’ll serve for your purposes.”

  Roun stared as he thought back to the encounter. “You expect me to kill that thing alone?”

  “Yes, I do—after regular trips to cleanse wraiths and some more combat training. Slaying a chimera will also be excellent training in itself.”

  With that, Zareus turned back to his table. Roun saw it as the end to the conversation that it probably was.

  “What should I do now?” he asked.

  “How are your reserves of élan?”

  Roun shrugged at the scribe’s back. “I used up a lot, but I still have more than before I left.”

  “Leave the mask and coin, but you may keep your axe; I’ve already informed Yhul and your peers are being assigned personal weapons today, anyway. Continue training as you have and don’t worry about your arte for now. The Burrow is placed far enough away to not be a priority and will become even less of a threat with your hunting, so I’ll speak with our exarch and see if we can’t delay its unmaking for as long as is feasible. Ensure this additional training remains between us for the moment, however.”