Page 280 of Of Empires and Dust
Rist satin a crater almost a hundred feet in diameter, its centre about six feet into the ground. Judging by the moss and small patches of vegetation that sprouted from every crack, the crater was far older than Rist himself. He had no idea what had created it, but whatever it was, it was large.
“Focus, Rist.” Garramon sat before him, legs folded, arms resting on his knees. The Spark thrummed in the air as both mages held themselves open, threads weaving about them.
Channelling was the act of intentionally drawing as much of the Spark into your body as you were capable of and holding it there while continuously drawing on more. Pushing yourself to your limits, and then past them. It was not a particularly safe thing to do. Neither was it safe for anything within a stone’s throw – which was why they sat in the crater.
“Your mind is elsewhere.”
“I’m trying to decide what formed this crater. Do you know?”
“Rist, I need you to focus. Vastly more people die trying to earn the title of Arcarian than those who do not. If you don’t channel, if you don’t push yourself and learn your strength, you will die in your trial. And if you push yourself now without focus, you will burn the Spark from your veins.”
“Apologies, Brother.” Rist shifted, his arse numb from sitting on the rock. He ran his tongue across his teeth. “What is the point?”
Garramon rolled his eyes and sighed. “Of what?”
His voice held that tone he used when he’d run out of patience.
“I see the point in channelling. In carefully testing your limits in a controlled environment?—”
“The Spark cannot be controlled, Rist. We are conduits, wielders. But the Spark is raw, untamed power. We do not control it, we direct it. This environment is not safe and controlled. With the kind of power you are calling upon, one slip of the mind could lead to death. You need to respect the Spark.”
Rist pursed his lips, nodding. The truth was, he had been distracted since Neera had said she loved him. That moment was a uniquely singular thing in his life. And as soon as he’d had a second to think – for his thoughts to percolate and his mind to settle – all he’d wanted to do was tell Calen and Dann. He had so much to tell them. So much… Throughout his life, nothing had ever feltrealuntil he’d told Dann and Calen. He sighed. “I see the point in pushing my limits. But why would I duel an Arcarian and risk death, simply to earn a title?”
“You do not have to, though now I do not believe Fane would be too pleased if you refused.” Garramon let out a sigh to match Rist’s. “You have a strength within you, Rist. I have known it since the moment I first laid eyes on you. How deepthat strength goes, we will soon find out. But the title of Arcarian is a thing written in legend. To even offer you the opportunity to bear its weight, Fane does you a great honour. You ask why you should risk death to earn a simple title?”
Rist shrugged. “It seems unnecessary.”
Garramon smiled at that. “I cannot tell you whyyoushould do it. That is a choice you must make yourself. But I can tell you whyIdid it. I did it to become something greater than what I am. It was part ambition, part hubris, part longing. I did it to be remembered long after my body has withered. To be named amongst the most powerful mages to have ever lived. To have the name Garramon Kalinim entered into the Book of Arcaria. To tell you anything otherwise would be a lie. Whether we admit it or not, all living things seek permanence in one way or another, a way to leave our mark on the world before we die. For me, becoming an Arcarian was part of that. I am part of something that has stood for thousands of years. And I’m not going to lie to you and say it wouldn’t give me great pride to watch you do the same. As difficult as it is for you to believe, there are things that transcend logic. Things deep within our hearts that demand to be answered. The question you must ask yourself, Rist, is what isyourpermanence? What is the mark you wish to leave on this world?”
Rist only stared back. It was not a question he had ever asked himself.
“Close your eyes and listen to my voice.”
Rist did as instructed, the Spark flowing through him.
“Take a deep breath in, and let the darkness flood around you. See the elemental strands in your mind.”
Rist sat in complete darkness, the black emptiness of his mind washing over him like the liquid from the Well of Arnen. But in that darkness, light burst into existence.
The elemental strand of Fire was the first to come to life in his mind, pulsing with a deep red light, twisting and coiling in the blackness like a snake. Spirit followed, pulsing with a faint white light that reminded Rist of dawn clouds illuminated by the rays of the rising sun. As the two strands coiled around one another, Water and Earth came to life like kindling catching ablaze. The strand of Water was a bright blue, while Earth shifted from brown to green, in constant motion. Air was the last to take form. It held no light, but the space around it rippled, the light of the other strands seeming to warp in its presence.
“Call to them.” Garramon’s voice echoed in Rist’s mind as though in a bottomless cavern.
Just as Rist had done every other time Garramon had brought him to channel, he pulled on threads of each strand, each no thicker than a grain of rice, and pulled them through his body.
The threads moved like meandering streams, whirling through the emptiness, the light gleaming in bends and turns. In the darkness of his mind, the threads wove a tapestry around him.
“Now take more.”
Rist did as instructed and pulled deeper from the Spark, allowing each thread to thicken, the energy pulsing in his veins.
“I will tell you when to stop.”
Rist drew a long breath and continued to pull harder. The drain itched at the back of his mind as the Spark burned in his veins.
His jaw began to tremble, and he clenched his hands into fists so tight his nails pressed into the skin of his palms.
“Good, Rist. Slowly.”
