‘This isn’t working,’ he told Puravai eventually. ‘A mage is born with their affinities. You can’t change them.’
‘Lord Meiros did,’ the old monk replied, the hint of challenge in his voice.
Alaron bit his lip.
Sure: because he was Lord
rukking
Meiros! He could do anything!
But that made it a point of pride: he would show them both that he, Alaron Mercer, could turn his hand to
anything
. He would show Ramita that he could do what her husband could. And he’d do it before Ramita did, because he was Arcanum-trained and she wasn’t, and that
had
to have meant something. His father had sacrificed and scrimped for years to get him into Turm Zauberin. It
had
to have been worth it.
But his misery was compounded after days of continued failure when Ramita, with a squeal of delight, produced a faint glow on her fingertip.
I managed more on my first day at the Arcanum
, he thought sulkily. She danced around the garden so gleefully he almost stormed off. In desperation he took to immersing himself in the stream below the monastery, using the gnosis to keep his body temperature up until it felt like he was on the verge of dissolving into liquid himself. The only thing he achieved was a cold.
He didn’t give up though. Puravai made suggestions: like trying to visualise an invisible arm holding a tongue of flame, while the core of his gnosis was reserved for pure energy. Then he had to envisage another arm, holding the Water-gnosis. It sounded simple enough when Puravai described it, but of course it wasn’t – and he just couldn’t do it. Trying to follow Puravai’s instructions was akin to being taught to paint by a blind man, in his view.
Am I going to become the first known mage to ever
lose
the gnosis?
he wondered after waking one night unable even to conjure light. The Fire-gnosis had been so central to his being that stripping it out of his core energies left him enfeebled. He panicked, lying there in bed feeling like he’d lost all his senses.
After a moment or two, he managed to attain gnostic sight, which had never been linked to Fire-gnosis, and that settled his dread. Seeking calm, he slowly re-found those gnosis skills that were based upon pure energy rather than an element or Study. Then he lifted a hand and, trembling, conjured light without his periapt.
A glowing sliver of energy coalesced in his palm and he screamed silently in joyous relief.
I did it!
He turned the light into a glowing ball, grew it, shrank it, threw it and drew it back, shaking with relief.
I really did it
.
That afternoon he couldn’t wait to get to the garden – where he found Ramita juggling globes of light so happily it almost crushed him.
How can a mere Lakh market-girl be so much better than me?
Then he mentally slapped himself. That thought had been so ugly he could have borrowed it whole from Malevorn Andevarion or Francis Dorobon. It certainly wasn’t worthy of someone raised by Vann and Tesla Mercer.
Who do I think I am?
he told himself, bitterly ashamed that such a notion had ever crossed his mind.
She’s got a brain as good as anyone’s. She’s had different opportunities to me – most would say a harder path – and yet she’s more open-minded and adaptable and willing to explore than I am. Why should I expect that a path created by a Rondian mage must be best? Why shouldn’t this be better? It was good enough for the greatest mage in history.
He walked quietly into the garden, sat cross-legged before her, conjured a globe of light – not as bright as hers – and tossed it into her ring of whirling light.
She laughed aloud, caught it, and sent half of her balls of light cascading towards him. He dropped all but one, and they tossed it back and forth, then she mischievously pulled a trowel from the garden with telekinesis and threw it at him. He caught it instinctively using kinetic gnosis before he’d realised what he was doing, and a wide grin split his face.
They spent the next hour playing, and if Puravai came past, neither saw him, so wrapped up were they in what they were doing.
Alaron’s eyes met Ramita’s as they faced each other and let the various garden implements clatter to the ground before sitting back, laughing. He suddenly realised that he’d not been this relaxed for two years, not since the befuddled General Langstrit had appeared at Anborn Manor. But this was better, because there was someone to share the feeling of peace.
‘That was fun, Brother Longlegs,’ Ramita said.
‘Please! I’d rather you called me Al’Rhon the Goat than Brother Longlegs,’ he chuckled. She giggled, then looked away shyly.
After that breakthrough, he caught up rapidly, his six years of training finally paying off. He knew the basic gnostic skills intimately: wards, shields, binding, enchanting and the rest were all second nature to him, but new ground for Ramita. But he was fascinated to find that all of these basic skills worked much better once he’d taken the Fire ‘taint’ from his core gnosis: his shields and wards were stronger, his mage-bolts more powerful and precise.
When he examined his own aura, he could see the change, and in Ramita’s too. Where both auras had been crimson or earthen, they now burned pure white. The deep blue patina of his Sorcery affinities were also gone: so he had apparently purged his gnosis, but at the price of losing touch with his elemental and arcane affinities. When he tried to conjure fire, he couldn’t.
Instead of panicking, he and Ramita went to see Puravai.
‘So, you are now ready for the next step.’ The old monk beamed at them both. ‘You have cleansed your canvas and now it is time to paint. Let me show you both something.’
They followed him to a small room that contained a very strange statue of a man – or a god, Alaron supposed – with blue skin and a lot of arms. The three-foot-high marble sculpture was finely carved and highly polished. It portrayed a muscular, clean-shaven man with long hair in a topknot, sitting cross-legged. He’d never seen such a bizarre thing, but Ramita gave a squeal of recognition. She fell to her knees before it and immediately began to pray.
Alaron looked at Puravai, puzzled. ‘I thought you Zains don’t believe in gods?’
‘We don’t. But we understand that the concept of godhood has been important to man since time began, and it is instructive to look at how men conceive their gods to be. This is a representation of the Lakh god Sivraman, made more than a thousand years ago. It comes from Teshwallabad. I keep it to remind me of my discussions with Lord Meiros.’
He bent and touched Ramita’s shoulder. ‘My dear, there will be opportunity for prayer later. Please listen now.’
She stood obediently and inclined her head towards the old monk. Puravai turned to Alaron. ‘Please, describe what you see.’
‘Uh … the god has four arms … one’s held up as if in greeting with a lightning bolt etched onto the palm; one is holding a bowl; another a lamp. The fourth is holding a staff with a snake coiled around it.’
‘Correct. What do you think they mean?’
Alaron frowned. ‘That the sculptor doesn’t know anything about anatomy?’
Ramita threw him a peeved look, but Puravai just smiled faintly. ‘What else do you see?’
‘Umm … he’s sitting on a lion pelt. He’s got an eye symbol in the middle of his forehead. And …’ He peered closer, then frowned. ‘He’s got a woman’s breast, on his right side … in fact, his face is half-male and half-female too!’ He pulled a face. ‘That’s really weird.’
Puravai turned to Ramita. ‘Can you clarify for Master Alaron?’
The little market-girl tossed her head defiantly and glared at Alaron. ‘This is an Ardhanari statue, showing the union of Sivraman and Darikha as one being. All gods are one god who is many gods. My guru says this. It is known.’
Yes, but what does it actually mean?
Alaron looked at Puravai impatiently. He had quite enough trouble following all the contradictions of the Kore, and he’d had that thrown in his face his whole life. Omali theology was utterly alien to him.
Puravai indicated the statue. ‘Let me interpret. This highly symbolic statue is meant to represent the many powers and aspects of the god. There are variants, but this one is a common representation, and it is relevant to your gnostic study. Note his four arms and what they hold: a lamp, a bowl, a snake-staff and a lightning mark. Do you know that in many cultures, the snake is regarded as spiritually linked to the earth?’
Alaron’s eyes widened. ‘A snake for Earth … A lamp for Fire … A bowl for Water. And a lightning bolt – that’s Air.’
‘So perhaps the sculptor is telling us that Sivraman is a master of the elements. What else?’
‘The eye in his forehead … that could be for Sorcery. And the lionskin for mastery over living things … Hermetic gnosis. And Theurgy … um … the half-female, maybe? I’m not sure I understand that.’
‘Well, as Ramita says this is not purely a statue of Sivraman: it is also partly a representation of his wife, Darikha. Often the Omali make such statues to remind worshippers that the god and goddess are one union, as men and women should be. It is also a reminder that the Lakh believe the soul has no gender and that the flesh is only a vehicle for the soul.’
That rang bells for Alaron. ‘The definition of Theurgy is use of the spiritus – the soul, I guess – to perform gnosis that affects other souls, bypassing the flesh …’
‘Sivraman and Darikha-ji created the gnosis when he created the world,’ Ramita announced proudly. ‘That is clearly what this statue is saying.’
Alaron turned on her crossly. ‘No! Baramitius discovered the gnosis—’
‘Discovered
. Therefore it was already there.’ Ramita looked at him truculently.
He rolled his eyes and turned back to Puravai. ‘How can an old Lakh statue have anything to do with the gnosis?’
The monk looked at them both. ‘I am not going to take sides – you may both be right. The real lesson of the statue is this: the god is holding the elements of the gnosis outside his core body, but within reach, yes? Omali statues often have many arms, to show all the powers that the god can reach.’ He put particular emphasis on
reach
.
Ramita got it first. ‘You are saying that we should hold our core as pure energy and reach for the affinities without pulling them into us?’
‘Exactly.’
Alaron stared at the statue and tried to picture himself: a core of gnostic energy with all the Studies in reach, like balls of light linked to him by ‘arms’ – cords of energy forming conduits to the power. ‘I think I see it,’ he admitted.’
I get it – and I think maybe I could learn to do it too
. He felt his pulse begin to quicken as the possibilities magnified. ‘We have to grow arms to hold the elements.’
‘And more,’ Puravai replied. ‘You must open the eye in your forehead. You must master living things and free your soul.’ He smiled faintly. ‘Best you both get busy.’
*
They did get busy. For Ramita, it represented a magical, spiritual time. From the moment she had been given to Antonin Meiros, her life had become a strange learning journey, but each phase had been brought to an end in violence. In her married life in Hebusalim she had learned languages as well as how to be a wife, a period ended by her husband’s murder. In the next phase, on the Isle of Glass, she had learned about her newly flowered gnosis with Justina, though they’d had little time to do more than teach her a few basics and do some early exploration of her affinities. Justina had told her that her enormously strong gnosis – born from pregnancy manifestation whilst carrying the twins – had allowed her access to powers that often eluded better trained magi, but the fact remained that she was a neophyte.
This third phase, as a mother and a novice mage, was characterised by the alarming exposure to new sensations and experiences. Each day was filled to the brim with wonders and new discoveries. Under Puravai’s guidance they teased their affinities back into reach and tried to use them without pulling them inside and changing their core aura. She could scarcely believe the things she was achieving. And with the joy of her twins sharing her room, she’d not been so happy for a long time. She just dreaded that this phase too might end in violence.
Part of her enjoyment was seeing Alaron Mercer blossom. She could see how downhearted he’d been – and even offended – by having a non-mage turning all he had been taught on its head. He’d been upset that she’d made faster progress at first. But now he’d got his head around it, he was enthusiasm itself.
After they had regained touch with their normal affinities, Puravai directed them to concentrate on those elements they’d not previously been able to reach, trying to balance Fire, Water, Earth and Air, never allowing one to overwhelm the others. Progress was steady as days blurred into weeks and she began to think her head would burst. Between caring for her children, regaining her physical health and strength and this new learning, she was exhausted, but she also felt immense fulfilment.
It was a shock to realise that almost three months had passed. It was Jumada already, late spring, and the mountain goats had returned to the slopes to graze the patches of pale green. Every day the villagers brought gifts to the monastery: food and cloth and other necessities. They were small, wiry people with narrow skulls, almond-shaped eyes and unkempt black hair sprouting everywhere; they wore elaborately patterned blankets and shawls.
She caught movement in the garden below: Alaron, practising with his sword. Something in his stance reminded her of Jai, her brother. She thought that they would get on well. And that thought led to wondering where Jai was now – was he still with Keita, and had they got home safely and found Mother and Father? Were they all well? And the twins – they must be six by now! And the two surviving triplets – they’d be eight!
I can’t believe I’ve not seen them for two years!
The next moment she was dabbing at a haze of tears while loneliness welled up.
At least I have someone here
… He was increasingly pleasing to look at, especially now, clad in a crimson novice’s robe that left his shoulders, arms and legs bare. His limbs were muscled now, and as tanned as his face. His chest was broader and his shoulders more square. His face looked different too: older, leaner, the jawline more pronounced, his cheeks more sunken. The effect was, well …
manly
. Somewhere in the past months, the last of his boyhood had gone.