Lindon's smile withered as though it had never been.
Moving hesitantly, his mind working for an escape, Lindon slid his pack to the ground and stepped into the ring. He calmed himself with reason—there was nothing to be nervous about. Of course he wouldn't be able to match Yerin's time, but no one expected him to. She was Lowgold, and he was only Iron. They wanted to see him perform a training exercise, that was all.
A few moments ago he had been excited to give it a try; with a little effort, he called some of that feeling back.
The wide circle of runes on the ground glowed white, giving the dummies a somewhat ghostly cast. He stood in the center of the circle, taking a deep breath. He cycled his madra faster in preparation for battle, running his madra to his limbs, readying the Empty Palm technique.
“Begin,” Eithan called, and Lindon stepped forward.
A green circle lit up on the inside of its wooden arm, and he struck it immediately with a low-powered version of the Empty Palm. The full use of the technique would exhaust him quickly, but this was enough to inject madra into a script. The target brightened as he hit it.
Then a second wooden arm smacked him on the back of the head, sending him facedown into the fresh planks.
This is the second time I've been hit in the head today, he thought as he struggled back up to his feet.
Eithan was still grinning, and Yerin wore her own satisfied smile. “Good news!” Eithan said. “You’ve beaten my time.”
Lindon bowed to cover his flushed face. “Your pardon; I have forced you to watch an embarrassing sight.”
Eithan leaned his elbows on the control podium. “I said I had a point to make. Yerin, which was the best way to clear the course?”
She gave Lindon a sidelong glance. “I’d still contend that facing it head-on is the best way.”
“Why so?” Eithan asked. “Activating the controls accomplished the same result.”
“Real enemies don’t have control scripts, do they?” She glared at the wooden dummies as though she longed to behead them. “Can’t lean for too long on a cheat. The top way, the solid way, is to make yourself strong enough to cut through anything.”
She spoke with such ringing confidence that Lindon found himself swaying. That was the path that had led her to powers beyond anything his clansmen had ever dreamed of.
He couldn’t pick out anything she said that he disagreed with, but somehow he felt like she was leaving something out.
Lindon inclined his head to her. “You two are the experts, so please correct me if I speak out of turn. But in my humble experience, you cannot wait until you are stronger than your opponent to fight. Sometimes the game is rigged against you, and your only option is to flip the board.”
Yerin gave him a blank stare. “You’re my prime example. You saw you couldn’t make it six feet in this world without a Goldsign, but your clan wouldn’t let you train. What did you do? You walked right off. You’ve been fighting against stronger opponents since the day I met you, rigged game or no.”
Lindon searched for a response, but none came.
That was exactly what he’d done.
Suriel had shown him that he wouldn’t make it anywhere without a certain level of strength, so he’d struck off on his own. He should be the first one in line to agree with Yerin.
But he couldn’t. Something about her words gnawed at him.
Eithan hopped over, hooked one arm around Lindon’s neck, and dragged him over to Yerin. He threw his other arm over her as well. She looked as uncomfortable as Lindon felt, but Eithan beamed down at them both like a proud father.
“You both have a piece of it, don’t you? Yerin, you have to watch yourself so that you don’t fall into a rut in your thinking. But Lindon…so do you.” He ruffled Lindon’s hair, which was uncomfortable and strangely claustrophobic. “In our big, broad world, there’s a certain difference in strength that no number of tricks will circumvent. For instance…”
He grinned more broadly. “…at your current stage, the two of you couldn’t give me so much as a headache even if you stabbed me in my sleep. Though I know you adore and idolize me, so let’s give a more reasonable example: if you want to survive Jai Long in a year, you must learn sacred arts the right way. Even with the full support of the Arelius family, and Jai Long on the run from his clan, you’ll at least need to reach Lowgold in a solid and proper manner so you don’t collapse into a pile of jelly when he glances in your general direction.”
Lowgold. It was the sweet fruit that dangled out of Lindon’s reach.
But he hadn’t even reached Jade yet. Once he’d longed for Jade, and now he saw it as nothing more than a moat to be crossed. One of many. Even once he reached Lowgold, he’d still have a long journey to match Jai Long.
“Thank you for the instruction,” Lindon said. “I never intended to suggest that I wouldn’t work hard. I’ll train harder than Jai Long, harder than anybody.”
“I forget how young you are,” Eithan said fondly.
Abruptly he released them, taking a step back and turning to face the door. “We’ll resume this discussion soon, because our guest has finally arrived!”
Yerin frowned and put a hand on her sword.
“If you recall,” Eithan went on, “you have yet to meet my family.”
Lindon had wondered where the rest of the Arelius family was. Scouts from the Sandvipers and Fishers had spotted Arelius banners approaching weeks ago, and Lindon had expected to meet them by now.
Eithan extended hands to the doorway as though presenting a prize. “It is an honor and a pleasure to introduce…my brother.”
The barn door swung open.
The man standing in the doorway looked perhaps ten years younger than Eithan, putting him just past twenty. His hair was the gold of fresh wheat, which must have been an Arelius family trait, but his was tightly curled. He held himself with grace and poise, standing proudly with one hand on the hilt of the slender sword at his hip. A silver bracer covered his right forearm from his wrist almost to his elbow.
He did not wear the traditional layered robes of a sacred artist, but otherwise it looked like he had the same taste in clothes as Eithan: his shirt and pants were deep blue silk, stitched with intricate silver thread, and looked as though they’d been tailored for him only the night before.
He made eye contact with Yerin, then Lindon, nodding to them both.
Before he could speak, Eithan cried out, “Cassias! Brother! It’s been too long!”
Cassias smoothly sidestepped without glancing at the Underlord, and Lindon wondered how often anyone managed to dodge Eithan.
“I’m not his brother,” Cassias assured them, tilting his chin to say over his shoulder: “I am not your brother.”
“Cousin Cassias it is, then!”