Kelafelo’s frown deepens as the Anchorite begins to chuckle, hoarse and throaty like a crow.
“That is where you are wrong,” the woman says. “To become a true master of Red magic, you need your humanity. Did I not tell you that agony feeds your understanding of it?”
Kelafelo’s anger gathers and redirects itself toward the Anchorite. “I am not afraid of pain. I will scarify my whole body—flay myself if I have to—but I cannot be weakened by sentiment. I will not.”
The Anchorite is unmoved. “You speak only of agony of the flesh. That can be powerful, to be sure, but far more powerful is the agony that visits you in your sleep, for this is the kind that will reveal to you the greatest secrets of sorcery, secrets you could never hope to grasp with a hollow heart. The powerful emotions that come from spiritual anguish are crucibles of transformation; embrace them and let them forge you anew.”
“I am filled to the brim with hatred. Why is that not powerful enough?”
“Because hatred alone is not agony. Hatred is the burnt husk that agony leaves behind when it is done with you. It cannot offer you any insights into the universe. But grief and guilt—the things you feel because you have a soul—now that is where the truth lies, and with it, power.”
“I cannot accept that. The men who killed my daughter and defiled me laughed while they did it. I saw it in their eyes. They had no humanity. They felt no remorse for what they were doing. You can’t tell me they weren’t stronger for it.”
“Silly girl. Men such as those who attacked your village deny their humanity not because they are strong but because they are cowards.”
“I find that hard to believe, Mamakuru.”
“It is true. They fear unraveling under the crushing weight of their guilt, their love, compassion, so they scour themselves free of these attributes to make what they do easier. But this is not strength! It is weakness masquerading as strength! Those who are truly strong embrace their humanity; they shoulder the weight of it and then persevere in spite of it.”
Now Kelafelo tilts her head, defiance slipping into confusion. Why embrace something one must then persevere in spite of?
“The strong face their guilt, the consequences of their actions, the sorrow they’ve caused, and they weep over it, and yet, if it will further their own ends, they will readily shed rivers of blood,” the Anchorite explains. “To torture and sacrifice another soul while feeling the full weight of the crime upon your shoulders, and then to do it again, and again: now that is strength. Use your hatred, yes, but don’t kill your humanity. The spiritual agony of defying it is what will lead you to your greatest Axiom.”
Kelafelo has never feared the Anchorite before. Not truly. But now she feels something disquieting stir in her core. The men who attacked her village and killed Urura were evil, but their evil was mindless in its intensity, bestial. Far more terrifying is the evil that knows exactly what it is, that contemplates itself, philosophizes its own nature, an evil that Kelafelo can now see for the first time behind the Anchorite’s milky eyes.
How did she miss it?
“I will think on what you’ve said, Mamakuru.”
The Anchorite gives her a knowing smile. “You do that. In the meantime, I think you are ready for the next stage of your learning.”
Kelafelo fails to conceal her surprise. “I am?”
“Indeed. There is something we must collect before you begin.” With the aid of her walking stick, the Anchorite rises from her stool and gestures for Kelafelo to do the same. “Come. Let us take a walk down to the river.”
The calm and coppery waters of the River Fulamungu can be seen glittering from the Anchorite’s hut through a copse of tall shrubs. The river is navigable almost as far inland as the World’s Artery, so it’s not uncommon to see boats and the occasional ship gliding by.
While Kelafelo stands next to her along the riverbank, the Anchorite starts to chew on a dry stick of licorice root, as is her wont when she’s in a philosophical mood. That’s how Kelafelo knows she’s about to be tested.
“The Blood Woman blessed Umadiland with arguably one of the most powerful ancestral talents in the Redlands,” she begins. “No other tribe can rival our capacity to grow our powers. It takes years of meditation, study, or ritual sacrifice for every other mystic to achieve the same growth in power we can achieve in mere weeks by simply rooting our cosmic shards to our lands.” The Anchorite spits out a chunk of desiccated root. “Now, given this incredible advantage, tell me why Umadiland is not an empire with dominion over all the Redlands.”
Deciding that the lecture will probably be yet another polemic against the tribe—the Anchorite is fond of these—Kelafelo responds accordingly. “Because our mystics don’t build strong Axioms, Mamakuru.”
“Explain.”
She takes a moment to consider everything she’s learned and proceeds with caution, thinking over every word. “While it is true that the number of rings on your cosmic shards determines how much essence you can draw per unit time, the quality of your Axiom is a far more significant factor in determining the speed and efficacy of spell casting and charm creation. Fundamentally, the Axiom dictates how much of this raw essence is converted into useful magic and how fast. So even if your shards provide you with a stream of essence as forceful as this river, if your Axiom is rubbish, then little of that power will ever be usable.”
The Anchorite acquires a distant look as she mulls over the answer. Eventually, she tosses her root into the river. “That answers why you might want a good Axiom, but not why Umadiland is where it is today.”
Kelafelo hesitates. “I guess . . . I’m not sure I know.”
“It is quite simple. Instead of using our ancestral talent to uplift ourselves, we have used it as an excuse to get away with rubbish, as you’ve so accurately described it. Why slave over an Axiom when rooting yourself to even a small piece of land can add a whole ring to your cosmic shards? All you need is an Axiom that works, and then you can make up for its deficiencies by conquering more and more land. A solid plan, yes?”
Kelafelo takes some time to think. “There is a fatal flaw to that logic, Mamakuru. Spellwork with inefficient Axioms is vastly more taxing to the mind, and you can forget about casting charms.”
A little smile appears on the Anchorite’s weathered face. “Then you understand something many of our tribe’s young men do not. From the day they are born, they dream of becoming warlords. They teach themselves the art of death and violence but do not bother to master the language that underpins the art of magic. And why? Because that would require that they actually use their brains—a waste of time in their eyes. They want the Blood Woman’s power but are too lazy or stupid to apply themselves.”
Kelafelo’s attention is slightly drawn away from the Anchorite when a rowboat appears upstream. She can make out two men inside, one shirtless with his back toward her—the rower—and the other in an olive-green robe. A third, much smaller passenger sits next to this second man. A veil covers her hair as is customary for young Umadi women and girls, turquoise as the sky on a clear day.
The Anchorite continues with her lecture, as if oblivious to their approach. “Do you know how most of them discover their Axioms? Not through hard work and effort, I can tell you that much.”