Morning at Arhat's Tower

The snow was coming in hard.  The cold crept in through his clothes, seeped up from the uneven flagstones.  Saragos liked it – it kept him from sleeping too much.  But his body was shaking now, close to breaking down.  Annoyed, he woke up and traced the spell pattern, then withdrew a rod of blackened steel and bound the lines of mana to the ritual focus.  With a gesture, he was ablaze.

He rolled over on to the wool cloak and pulled his hat over his eyes.  Someone had left it – he didn’t know who.  He supposed he should be thankful.

Later, he woke to the fingers of the dawn curling pink and orange through the clouds above the ruined remains of Arhat’s Tower.  Fitting that it had all happened here, a monument to the dangers of magic.  He stretched, feeling his body’s complaints, feeling the invigorating chill of being awake outside in the morning.  His body was beginning to break down.  The tower was covered with a foot of snow.

Nawain was sitting there already, playing a song on her txistu. Too many people stayed around him.  Sat with him.  He thought they might be taking turns, he wasn’t sure.  Sometimes they fed him.  Dimly, he supposed he should be thankful.  He was aware that it was a gesture of kindness.  But he wished they’d leave him alone.  Every break in concentration was something he could ill afford.

He set to work.  First, the snow had to be cleared.  He brought the flames around him to a roar, and set about the circular tower, methodically melting the snow, and then drew the melted water away and out of the tower.

Then he sat against the wall, drawing his legs up, placing his elbows on his knees.  And prayed.  One hour every morning.  He hoped it looked like moping, hoped they didn’t notice his lips moving silently.

He realized through all of this that he had never really prayed before.  Sure, he had been to rituals, said the words.  But he had always seen it as transactional, really.  Giving an offering, asking for assistance.  He had been too prideful to really pray.  It was too close to asking for help, too close for begging.  He never begged.

But now he did.  He had nothing to offer save his pride, and he gave it freely.  First, to Firulf and Meraud, most of all, he asked for the knowledge and the strength to do what needed to be done.  And to Alamhif for the strength to carry on, to be the husband and father he needed to be.  Those catechisms were unfamiliar to him, and he’d needed to look them up.  Next, to Berengaria, finder of the lost, he asked for her assistance to find his wife.  And finally, to Chadatru, who he had always regarded as his patron, he asked, in the end, to be able to bring to justice those who had taken his wife and the others.

When that was finished, he ate a bit of cheese and bread.  Someone else had brought those.  He didn’t remember who.  Navesi would have made sure to remember, and thank them directly.

Time for work.  Removing a loose stone he withdrew all of the books Rileos had brought him from a cavity beneath the floor.

The problem remained as impossible as ever.  When they had opened the portal to Zengmodaleth, it had been with a full team, well-trained.  Many of them had expertise that he didn’t.  Even then, they had nearly died, and nearly failed.  It seemed they had come through it by a thread’s width.

Now he had to do this all alone.  It had taken maybe twenty roisaen to open the portal at the Suur Pillar, but when Navesi and the others had first disappeared, They had turned magic off in maybe five roisaen during his frantic attempt to open a portal around what he hoped was a remaining snarl in the Aether.  He hadn’t thought to look at an orlog, something like that.

But he had noticed that the fissure had remained.  Existing planar disturbances weren't effected.  So if the portal could be opened before they shut off magic on him, it could work.  Maybe, if they didn’t draw attention at first, he might have a little longer.  Maybe.

Five roisaen to do it all by himself, do it with no mistakes, do it better than a group of experts, in a quarter of the time, and live long enough to finish the job.  He liked to be realistic about his capabilities.  He didn’t think he could do it.  He knew he couldn’t do it…

The beginnings of tears welled in his eyes.  He banished them, as he banished the Mantle of Flame, and let the cold bite at him.  That helped.  There was no time for couldn’t.

There were strings he could pull at.  He could practice the motions, get them down precisely.  Shave some time that way.  He could weave the Aether more thickly.  There’d be more risk that way, it would be less stable, much harder to work with.  And he’d need to be so precise with it…  more time to be saved there.  He might be able to make it easier with some apparatus.  An orichalcum framework for a loom, maybe?  He had drawn plans for that, but wasn't happy with it.  He thought enough people could feed him enough streams of Aether.  And an Empath could probably keep him knitted together.  More than one?  That might let him work faster, if he was burning himself out.  He made a note.

He sketched in his notebook, elaborating on a model of the Aetheric lattice in the area.  Lines showed the Aether being pulled back around the point of disappearance and drawn into a bolus.  Additional arrows showed that mass of lines being drawn tight into a torus.  He’d tried chalk to mark the positioning of everything on the ground, but the snow kept washing it away.  No matter.  He’d numbered each and every stone in the floor in his notes, and could draw the diagrams for assistants and any construction that would be needed.

He’d need to move fast to get this done, too.  Who knew how long the remaining snarl would last?  If it was even still there.  He had stared at the point they’d disappeared so long that he swore he could see it.  Could he see it?  Damn Uryutis, he needed to get here to verify it.  He needed that man for this.

Then there was the spell pattern Mazrian had tried to take during the initial opening of the Zengmodaleth portal.  It was Sorcerous, he was sure, and Uryutis had successfully warned him off of it.  Could he shave some time off with that?  Was that a dead end, or just a dangerous shortcut?

There would only be one chance at this.  The snarl would probably be faint, and ruined with a failed attempt.  One chance.  Perfect execution.  Five roisaen, or less, before they cut him off.  Five roi.  One chance.  He wasn’t good enough, not for this.  It was impossible.  She was depending on him.  All five of them were.  And Madigan and Ezerak.  One chance.

He didn’t have to use it, after all, just know it.  See if it would work.

He stared at the cup of oshu’mary tea.

He took a sip, and the bitter liquid opened his mind.  His tongue tingled.

Nawain asked, “Have you eaten recently?”

He started, glanced at her, and set the tea aside out of view.  Inwardly, he began the exercise of tracing the elements nearby back to their quintessences.

“No,” he said.  “I just had some tea.  I’m fine for now, thanks.”