“Had to happen eventually,” said Naomi. “You’d best be much more careful, moving forward.”
Scorio scowled and pulled his hood lower over his face. “Should we leave?”
“We’re only four spots from the fountain. No. If they give us trouble, I’ll take care of it.” Naomi sniffed. “I don’t want to have stood here for an hour for nothing.”
Scorio watched the plaza’s edges carefully until they dunked their pails in and walked away, hurrying back toward the ruins. He insisted on a more circuitous route, and only breathed easy when they slid back into the shattered streets of gray stone.
That afternoon Naomi taught him what she called the First Form; it was a slow and elaborate dance against invisible opponents, each step laid out, each blow pre-determined. It reminded Scorio of his rhythm work against her, where they traded parries and blows, but this was one he could work alone.
High up on the rooftop, Amber giving way to Second Bronze, he walked the capital “I” shape of the form, starting at the base, moving to his left with a series of blocks and blows, then returning to move to the right, then striding up the length of the center, to turn to the left at the end, back to the right, and then return to the same spot where he’d begun.
“It’s pretty simple,” he grumbled, feeling decidedly unimpressed.
“Watch,” said Naomi with an amused smile, moving to take his place.
Scorio stepped to the edge of the roof and crossed his arms.
Something came over his trainer. Her whole body tensed without moving a muscle, as if the very air about her had begun to coil. Smooth as silk she wheeled to her left and flowed through the series of blows, each movement precise, each blow violent yet controlled. Retracted, spun to face the other side, continued.
And it really did become a dance. With no effort at all, he could visualize her opponents, could see their strikes being blocked, her own blows destroying them.
There was a logic to it. The movements weren’t arbitrary, but rather a choreograph that might have been drawn from an actual fight of a master. He’d have thought it so were it not for the artificial mirroring that happened on either side.
When finally she drew back to her starting space, she inhaled audibly, and Scorio felt the mana around them shiver, only for it to settle as she exhaled once more.
“What was that?” he asked, impressed.
Naomi relaxed, and the intensity blew away like smoke in the wind. “The First Form marries precision with intent, control with aggression. Ambitious, hungry Great Souls like yourself find it hard to dedicate time to, but in time it’ll become natural for you to move through its steps, and when it does, you’ll learn how to inhale and exhale mana from your Heart as you go. It’s the first step on the road that leads to your reflexively drawing as much mana as you need when you need it.”
“Reflexively?” Scorio’s eyes widened. “You mean I won’t even need to think about it?”
“Not at the higher ranks, no. I still need to, myself, but when I truly lose myself in the Forms, I catch a glimpse of what it will be like as a Tomb Spark.” Her smile was genuine, and her face was flushed with something that might have been exhilaration.
“It’s been a while since you did the First Form, hasn’t it?” he asked.
Naomi frowned, sighed, then kicked a rock, sending it skipping over the lopsided rooftop to disappear into the air. “It has. Perhaps for that very reason.”
They sparred then, a good hour of working on technique and going back and forth, with Naomi setting limitations or goals for him to work around or towards. When finally the clouds ceased to burn off before Second Rust and began to wind their way up to spiral around the sun-wire, presaging Second Clay, she called for them to stop.
“It’s been a good day. You’ve got lots to work on. But for now, I want you to go for a walk through the ruins instead of a run. As you go, try to draw in as much mana as you can. Hold it, and when you think you’ve reached your limit, try to draw a little bit more.”
“Oversaturation?” asked Scorio from where he’d dropped into an exhausted crouch, sweat running from his face.
“Oversaturation,” agreed Naomi. “Don’t ignite. You need to stretch your Heart to its greatest extent, deepen it to the point where you can barely ignite it. That’s the only way you’ll ever make Emberling, and the first step is in testing your limits.” Her eyes gleamed. “Might as well do it while walking.”
“Got it.” He rose to his feet. “Thank you. See you tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” she agreed. “And be careful. Now that I’ve really started your training, I’d hate to lose you to some stupid accident.”
He laughed. “I’ll do my best. Thanks.”
“Don’t worry about it.” She moved to the edge of the roof where she hesitated.
“Naomi?”
She turned back to him, about to say something. But then he visibly saw her change her mind. She gave him a tight smile. “Be safe.” And only then did she drop out of view.
“I will,” he said softly. Picking up his sodden towel, he stepped to the roof’s edge and leaped down to the great block just below his window. Climbed inside and drained the water pail dry.
He allowed himself five minutes to rest and eat a quarter of his gruel, and then, replacing the lid, stood with a sigh.
Time to get back to his training.
Grabbing his rope and burlap sack, he paused, an idea occurring to him, and turned to the hundred or so small reeds he’d been whittling during the few moments before sleep. He placed them carefully in the sack, and then slipped out and down into the street.
The sun-wire was dimming, the clouds of steam rising in ragged, curling tendrils into the sky, and the temperature slowly getting cooler. Moving through the deep, bloody dusk, he focused on Naomi’s instructions and attempted to draw in Coal as he walked.
It was an exercise in frustration, but he kept at it, at times managing to reach saturation while keeping his wits about him. Each time he tried to draw in more Coal, however, he’d begin to lose focus, would panic, and release the mana to regain his clarity of vision.
Wandering around the ruins half-blind was the best way to get yourself killed. Still, it kept him busy, so that he was almost surprised when he made the final turn and saw the brutal bridge over his chasm ahead.
Suppressing the flicker of excitement, he jogged forward. They’re all gone, he told himself. Something ate them up. Or they failed to grow. It’ll be a big, barren expanse of rock and nothing more. Relax, don’t get excited.
He jogged right up to the chasm’s edge and peered down, into the gloom and fiery glow, to look at his island.
“Yes!” He straightened and punched the air, a wash of elation and satisfaction coursing through him.
Then he just stood there, staring down at the little island, feeling pitifully proud as his throat closed and his eyes prickled, hands on his hips, lips pursed as he fought the emotions roiling within him.
“All right. Enough. Just get down there and take a look. Calm down already.” And with a deep breath, he dug out the steel rod, tied the cradle to its length, and made his way down to the second ledge.
The albino spidercrabs below paused once more, forelegs waving before them as if they’d suddenly lost the ability to see and were fumbling in the dark, but Scorio ignored them. He ignited his Heart, took a deep breath, and he burst forward into a flying leap.
Out into the air, and then falling, faster and faster, till he activated the rod and jerked to a stop. Clutching at it with both hands, he swung, allowed the rod to release, and this time simply dropped all the way to land in a crouch at the island’s edge.
And there he marveled at the hundred and fifty or so slender plants that had thrust their way out of the black soil to probe at the air, luscious black petals opening wide to reveal their complex, patterned hearts to the cloying winds of Coal.