Chương 236: Chapter 189 - The Palendurio Monument

Her sabotage efforts had kept Troytin busy, and from Lecne's reports, the Deeps were busy too. Troytin's loss of influence was only compounded by Ibrahim's war in the south. While they played at petty tyrant of their domains, she was preparing for the future. She returned to Palendurio and found Rostal. He was meditating in his courtyard when she entered. As he opened his eyes to question her intrusion into his home, she spoke.

"For the Luminates, the time of Prophets has come again. For the Isheer, the Saints. Their visions of the future were lived, not mere dreams. In exchange for your aid, you've requested I help mend Persama. Since you're still training me, I've made no progress on that yet, except for a brief conversation on Ibrahim's nature. But the other you I talked to requested I tell you that." Rostal stood, giving Mirian a puzzled look.

"We were working on my mastery of The Blooming Red Iron so I can improve my physical form and soul potential," she added.

"The last version of you I met suggested you'd want to examine my soul. So you may," she said, holding out a bare arm. He had a lot of questions after that, but it basically did the trick. Within the day, they'd resumed her training. By the end of the cycle, she could create a short whole-soul ripple that seemed to have the correct form. Rostal spent his last night on the roof, praying.

Mirian idly wondered if Granpa Irabi had ever known a dervish. As she learned the basics of the other forms, she thought his meditation techniques had similarities to The Spear That Cuts Water, though his was more about using the physical body to calm the soul, rather than stirring the soul to change the physical body. Though the Persaman dervishes had their six forms, Mirian was sure there were more techniques, only they'd been lost.

Rostal was sure of it as well, but for all his travels, he'd never discovered them.

"It was after your Unification War," he said.

"Well, no, that's not quite right. It began during the colonization of what would become Akana Praediar. During the Hundred Wars. The Baracueli sought to stomp out the casters that were opposing them, so they branded the Semnol, Takoa, and Mianol versions of magic as necromancy. Only, ideas are not stones. They blew back to Baracuel on the wind, and the Luminates found their reason to start wiping out the Druidic Orders.

And, seeing how useful this tool was for conquest, newly formed Akana Praediar and Baracuel worked to ban and destroy the hierophants and dervishes of Persama. Only arcanists certified in their own academies could be allowed to practice. I am sure something similar happened in Zhighua. But after the Unification War, it went from being a useful tool of colonial governors and ambitious priests to a foundational law of the land. They are necromancers. We are holy." This was a history Mirian knew little about.

Her history classes had mentioned the Druidic Orders fading away, but it had sounded like a natural thing; old, primitive magic fading away naturally as people saw the inherent superiority of new arcane discoveries. It was the result of the inevitable march of progress and human triumph. Her history books had talked about the Baracueli conquest of the new continent the same way.

Her conversations with Selesia so long ago had changed her perspective on that, but she hadn't thought much about what that implied about other stories she learned in history class. Rostal shook his head sadly.

"Opposing necromancy became easy to rally people against after the Unification War. After Atroxcidi, who could defend it? Everyone was terrified of him. Of course, all actions are reflected. Soon enough, Baracuel was culling itself. The combined loss of our knowledge is incalculable. Wars kill more than people." There's that name again, Mirian thought.

"What do you know of Atroxcidi?"

"Hmm. As little as anyone. The Arcane Praetorians and Luminates began to consider even knowing about the man dangerous. The idea that learning anything more than his sins might inspire young fools to emulate him. It is said he could regather the dispersing souls of the dead. But the druids and the hierophants were said to be able to do that too, so they could talk to a recently departed spirit. The rumor is that he could go beyond that. He could set that soul back in its body and have that soul serve him.

In the end, the Isheer and the Luminates both could agree that he needed to be eliminated."

"But they didn't kill him, did they?"

"Maybe not. Anyone who knows doesn't much like talking about it. So at the very least, he stalks about nightmares, and people dread the day he might return to the slaughter." Something there didn't make sense to Mirian.

"Someone told me he was more powerful than Archmage Solvir. Casting at powers above even 150 myr. That's… it's hard to even put into words what kind of spells he could cast. And if he knew necromancy—those clever tricks the Praetorians use to hunt down rogue casters, I know they wouldn't work. If he wanted to be out there killing people, he would be. What could stop him?" Then she blinked.

"Oh shit. I just realized—the Arcane Praetorians all leave Palendurio at the start of the cycle. Like, almost all of them." Rostal raised an eyebrow.

"And they wouldn't say who they were hunting. But I wonder…."

"Perhaps. But who can say how a man like that—if he is still a man—might think. And perhaps the Praetorians have some tricks you don't know about." That was true. Mirian hadn't actually had to fight them yet. They almost all evacuated from Palendurio, and the Pontiff's word had gotten the one's who had confronted her to stand down.

"But enough talk!" Rostal said, standing, and drew his rapier. Mirian drew hers and they fought again. By the end of the cycle, she could maintain the Blooming Red Iron form for several minutes.

When Mirian woke in the next cycle, she was hungrier than normal. That was a good sign, she thought. If the Blooming Iron form was working, she and Rostal had theorized that the soul would only be able to reconstitute any gains she'd made in physicality with matter. And that meant food. She rushed through her first few errands, then got the largest chicken stew she could. It couldn't compare to the Persaman cooking she was now used to, but it certainly filled her up.

She made her usual preparations, then headed down to Palendurio. By the 20th, she could maintain the Blooming Iron form for a full hour. Now, after another round of practicing dueling forms with Rostal or running through the park, she could feel the difference. She was also ravenous. Fortunately, cashing in the fake Florinian ingot as she stopped by Cairnmouth gave her enough gold to buy whatever food she wanted, not that many of Rostal's friends would let her pay them.

"Sand's already at the bottom," they would say, which was a phrase meaning 'the debt's already settled.' Mirian reveled in the training. Each time she was done, there was a euphoria that outweighed the exhaustion and soreness. Near the end of the cycle, Lecne reported an increase in Deeps activity, but it seemed to be in reaction to events down south. The messages from Torrviol were different than the last cycle.

It seemed Troytin was learning to convince the Akanan team to join his sabotage efforts, including assassination. One of the Akanans, deeply disturbed by the request, had gone to the Torrviol professors. Mirian thought Troytin seemed to be confused; when people said "Akanan scholarship is cutthroat," that wasn't quite what they meant. Troytin had escaped to somewhere before he could be arrested. Mirian was unconcerned. If he was hiding, he wasn't doing damage.

Readings from the leyline detectors seemed remarkably similar, except for the anomaly north of Alkazaria. It moved around, very slowly, but in a different pattern than last time. Is that Ibrahim's work? But he's still sieging the city. There were no answers there. Mirian stood with Rostal again as he met God.

This time, Mirian started bothering Rostal about contacts.

"If Ibrahim does start to turn hostile towards me, I want an early warning," she explained, midway through the cycle. A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

"I abhor subterfuge," Rostal grumbled. Mirian had to ask what the two words meant since she was still working on her Adamic. Nevertheless, after several arguments, he agreed to introduce her to several of the people he knew best. Rostal tried to ignore politics altogether, but a few of his friends kept their ears low to the ground. Mirian made sure to be generous with her coin as she purchased from their shops.

As best she could tell, a lot of Persaman culture had to do with gift giving and favors, a sort of informal economy. She could only get the shopkeepers to accept her overpaying if she framed it as an investment into their business from a friend. Even then, sometimes she stumbled face-first into some social rule she didn't know.

Rostal, watching her annoy a shopkeeper, finally said, "You say, 'the tailor down the street wants to show off a new pattern, so I hope you will buy a new outfit for you and your children with this extra money. It would mean a lot if such talent could be seen.' Then the gift is acceptable." Mirian had to think about it, but still didn't understand.

"I didn't have to frame it that way for the baker or the alchemist, though." The dervish frowned.

"That's because they are different. I don't know how to explain it to you. It's not a general social rule, like what side of the plate the fork goes on. You have to show you know the person and their circumstances. Gifts cannot be impersonal or they are bribes. And bribes are frowned on." It was kind of like a bribe, though, Mirian thought, and it also made clear that she could pay more than anyone else snooping around if it came to that.

She had to sit down and memorize facts and favors related to the people like she was studying for an alchemistry exam, and just trusted Rostal knew what he was talking about. Rostal still refused to talk about himself and his history, but Mirian could read between the lines. He'd been involved in a lot of fighting in Persama in his youth. At some point, his group had worked with Baracuel to end the reign of some upstart warlord. Ibrahim had considered this an unforgivable betrayal.

That was about as much as she could figure out. Many of the people in Lowfort had come there because Persama had become dangerous for them and their families, personally, and weren't eager to revisit the path that had led them there. Even among those who had come to Baracuel to pursue wealth or a better future missed their homeland. Mirian could sympathize. She missed Arriroba and Madinahr all the time. She continued to extend her Blooming Iron form.

Pleased with her progress, Rostal had started showing her the other stances. The Spear That Cuts Water was a combination of martial techniques and soul-form that sought to use an opponent's momentum against them. It helped the dervish move with perfect fluidity so that when a blade came their way, they not only were out of the way, they were moving into a counterattack. It drew its name from one of the Persaman spear fighting martial arts. Some of the techniques had made their way into rapier fighting.

Lone Pine on the Mountain was the stance of the defender. It sacrificed evasion for resilience, and was mostly favored by heavily armored warriors trying to hold a line in battle. It also enhanced their spell resistance, though only for themselves. The Sinister Hand of Shadow was the basis for auramancers. Unlike an auramancer, the dervish had far more control over how far their aura—and the spell resistance that came with it—extended, and where it extended.

A skilled dervish could withdraw their aura as an allied spellcaster sent out a spell, then replace it in time to prevent a counterattack. Auramancers could extend and withdraw their aura, but not shape it with such precision. Rostal had used it against her when she'd used raw kinetic magic in their first bout.

By historical tradition, these Persaman aura dervishes had also used dirty tricks in their fights, like flicking out bolases to entangle their enemies, or throwing magically infused sand in their opponents' eyes. Through the years, the techniques came to be associated with shadowy assassins in the stories. The Dance of the Dusk Waves Across the Ocean was, as Rostal put it, "the one you will like." It was associated with the tempest, and therefore the element of lightning.

It was the one Liamar had used on her that allowed for rapid bursts of speed. When performed, the movements that complemented the form had a jagged, chaotic feel to them. They only looked that way though; Rostal made her practice them dozens of times before he let her use Blooming Iron to start internalizing the movements. Of course, The Blooming Red Iron only helped with the martial arts that came with each of the forms. The forms themselves were expressed in the soul.

As Rostal predicted, The Dance of Dusk Waves came easiest to her. And Daith noticed lighting spells came easiest to me. There must be some underlying pattern and mechanism at work that our textbooks don't cover. But the ancient Persamans noticed them as they were classifying the world. The last form was Last Breath of the Phoenix.

"I shouldn't even teach it to you," Rostal grumbled.

"The other techniques won't kill you if you use them wrong. This one will." The Phoenix form was famous because several great heroes of Persaman legend had used it in their last stands. Rostal only briefly demonstrated it because, while it granted the dervish great strength, it did so by consuming their soul energy.

"So that's Ibrahim's favorite form?" Mirian asked. That made her wary. He clearly knows something about soul magic. If he's anything like Troytin, he's far more dangerous.

"Yes. I'm surprised he isn't dead. Several times in his youth, he was surprised he wasn't dead. Until you told me about him, I thought either the Baracueli or Akanan agents had killed him years ago. The man lives on a knife blade." Not risk averse, Mirian mentally noted.

"So… can the Phoenix form burn soul energy from another living being. Say, a stored myrvite soul?" Rostal looked at her, then put his hands in his head.

"Should not have showed you that one. I should not have… look, I don't know. A dervish seeks to strengthen their own soul. None of the techniques deal with the souls of others, but that sounds… souls were not meant to mush together, you know? I will just repeat: it's dangerous. Dangerous. Do not be a fool."

"I'm careful," Mirian assured him. Mostly. There was still so much about soul magic she didn't know, but she suspected the Phoenix form—or something like it—could be used to fuel spells as well. That Atroxcidi was a necromancer and that he exceeded the greatest Baracueli archmage do not seem to me to be a set of unrelated facts. Rostal had said the necromancer was less than human now.

It conjured in Mirian's mind the face of a man that was half-mummy, eyes bright silver, but face as dessicated and weathered as a sandstone cliff. Whatever secrets he held, she wanted them. Speaking of dangerous, Mirian mused. She still needed to learn more about the man. The legendary necromancer was not someone she could risk not understanding. Rostal tried to distract her by making her too exhausted by the training to think about other things. It mostly worked. But Mirian was always thinking.

Five more loops passed. Mirian spent one of them in disguise as Micael again, working as Professor Endresen's apprentice. Troytin, she could tell, was frustrated. His delegation arrived late—on the 10th, even though it could have arrived sooner. From what she could tell, he had been trying to leverage his contacts in Akana Praediar to rebuild his knowledge of the contacts in Baracuel, and to find ways to solidify his control over the Akanan professors.

He was running into the same problem with Tyrcast that Mirian had with Luspire: Tyrcast had his own agenda, and the power and connections to keep it running uninterrupted. The Archmage was difficult to manipulate, and impossible to blackmail. As far as she could tell, Troytin was attempting to establish himself as the Ominian's Chosen in the Akanan's eyes.

He spoke of visions of the future and of great knowledge and power the Ominian had bestowed on him, but it seemed he hadn't trusted his allies with true knowledge of the timeloop. Certainly, he had nothing to say about the end of the world. The moon falling just after the end of the month was so inconvenient that it simply had to be ignored. But his reasoning doesn't make any sense. If this is just a contest, and the moon falling is a symbolic of losing that contest, what's the purpose of it?

Why would the Ominian initiate new Prophets? It also didn't make sense, because the date of moonfall was variable based on what they did. Rostal would say, "A mind too versed in stone ignores the wind and water, right until the erosion turns them to dust." Troytin can't think of Akana Praediar as anything but righteous, so the idea that he has to stop his own country's war is anathema to him. Which was too bad.

From the snippets of talk she picked up on as she listened in on Endresen's conversations, Akana Praediar had done significantly more research on the leylines than Baracuel. She still wouldn't risk going there until Troytin was taken care of. She could needle at Rostal about taking risks, but heading across the Rift Sea would be far too dangerous.

Now that she'd seen their instant communication devices in action and learned that, unlike Baracuel, they actually had put in telegraph lines to the major cities (and embarked on a ruthless campaign of stonemole extermination), she couldn't rely on distance or travel times to shield her. Troytin was continuing to put effort into studying the Monument, but with Jei and Torres as her allies and her starting position in Torrviol, Mirian could deny him years of research easily.

And given that High Wizard Ferrandus was not nearly as smart as he thought he was, and the Akanans had to be introduced to the project each time, Mirian had no concerns of Troytin learning anything useful. Down in Palendurio, she continued her lessons with Rostal. Most importantly, she had mastered Blooming Iron, and the changes to her physique were obvious after only a day or two. Now she'd incorporated eating several baduka boar steaks into her first day of the loop.

Her muscles had become more defined, and she could feel the grace and ease in her steps. When she ran her old route in the Mage's Grove, she found herself completing it faster and not even being out of breath. When she examined her soul, she could see it shining. Mirian worked on another goal, too. Though Palendurio was no longer getting hit by the leyline rupture directly, she still had memorized the path it implied. She began to search the canal tunnels along the line she'd graphed out several cycles ago.

Despite her attempts to narrow the search, the area she needed to search was large, and while her divination spells picked up plenty of closed off caverns and hidden areas, most turned out to be abandoned, old smugglers' tunnels, or—since the Syndicate was still active— current smugglers' tunnels. She had to give her apologies to several criminals for disturbing them. At the end of the loop, Mirian stared at another readout of the anomaly near Alkazaria. There was a pattern to the leylines.

Very little changed with them, and what did change might be the imprecision of her measurements. There wasn't a pattern to the anomaly. I need to investigate it, she decided. If Ibrahim was doing something there, she needed to know about it.