But despite the gains he had made through the memory, he was left with a sick feeling.
The man had an arrogance that permeated his every thought. He was the best, and he knew it. The prisoner really had tried to assassinate him, so Lindon didn’t feel much pity for him. But neither was he comfortable with the Arelius Patriarch’s callous disregard.
Eithan turned to him, having noticed that Lindon had finished. He didn’t say anything, but Lindon got the impression he was waiting.
“I didn’t realize the Path of the Hollow King was a destruction Path,” Lindon said. That was the safest topic.
“It was less difficult than you might think to adapt it to pure madra. Many of the lesser aspects and fundamental principles were complementary.”
“Apologies, but why bother?”
Pure madra had its advantages—Lindon was proof enough of that—but Eithan would have had a far easier time training a destruction Path. At least destruction aura existed.
Eithan busied himself with his clothes, not meeting Lindon’s eyes. “No offense intended to the Path of Black Flame, but I found myself…less than comfortable with destruction madra. I have seen the Patriarch’s memories myself. His experiences were enough to cause me to develop a distaste.”
Lindon could understand that, and he didn’t comment further.
Ziel peered down the sloping hallway. “Don’t bother hurrying, but the enemy is building up strength.”
The tunnel had already been sealed off by three layers of his scripts—this time, the runes were etched onto plates that he’d stuck to the walls, floor, and ceiling of the hall rather than Forging them in midair. The script should be less brittle this way. The first row was powered by Eithan’s pure madra, the second by Yerin, and the third by Ziel himself.
“Does anyone else find it alarming that we haven’t been attacked by the hunger spirits in a while?” Mercy piped up.
Lindon was examining the display next to the tablet he’d just read. He couldn’t tell what had once sat there; he suspected a table and chair. Perhaps a book of some kind.
He spoke as he investigated. “If Subject One can’t reach us here, we should use the time wisely. The value of these memories is…I don’t have words for it.”
Yerin pulled a hand back from a tablet nearby, next to a series of six triangular imprints in the stone. She looked startled.
“Lindon. You…I don’t…bleed me, take a look at this.”
He hurried over and immersed himself in another memory.
Ozmanthus’ black hammer cracked against the gleaming chunk of wintersteel. He poured his madra into it, his soulfire, and his desperate wish for destruction.
His hammer amplified his wish, focusing his will, forming the metal into a perfect tool of elimination.
He could atone for the ruin he’d brought only by causing more, because that was all he could do. This arrowhead would be his apology for what he’d already done. His atonement.
His penance.
Lindon snapped out of the memory, dragging himself out of an ocean of despair. This memory felt much later than the others, and carried sadness like Ozmanthus had just watched his entire world collapse.
From the context of the memory, he knew what had been enshrined here. Not Penance, the prize that the Abidan had gifted to Yerin.
The prototypes. The failures.
Ozmanthus had tried many times to complete his Penance, to leave behind a perfect weapon to repay those he’d failed. But while these weapons might have all graced a Monarch’s armory, he had never succeeded. He’d kept them here in the hopes that another Soulsmith might complete his work.
Eventually, he would succeed. But clearly sometime after he’d left this room for the last time.
“Long odds that we’d stumble on the place Penance was made,” Yerin said. She was frowning at the spaces in the wall where the arrowheads had once been kept.
Eithan stood by her, looking on them as well. “Not as coincidental as you might think. He spent many years on that project. Similar failures were once kept beneath House Arelius and in Blackflame City, though they were all used long ago. Anywhere you find his works, you are likely to find an attempt at Penance.”
“He was a master of destruction madra,” Orthos said from across the room. “Some of these techniques could teach us more about Blackflame.” Lindon realized Little Blue was missing from his shoulder, and she and Orthos had found a dream tablet that even they could view.
Ziel firmed his two-handed grip on his hammer. “I like learning from my predecessors more than most, but I prefer to do it when we have more time.”
Lindon glanced over to the commotion in the hallway that he’d been ignoring. A Forger technique from the Tomb Hydras was actively clashing against Eithan’s layer of scripts. Forged glowing fangs snapped at a barrier of blue-white madra, which flashed into existence every time they attacked.
There were half a dozen sets of jaws attacking, and as Lindon watched, another joined them. The barrier was going to fall soon.
“Can we pry out the dream tablets?” Lindon asked. It would be a real tragedy if they couldn’t milk this room for everything it was worth.
“Not unless we can break the walls,” Eithan responded. Once again, Lindon suspected he could do that, but it would cost him. And he certainly wasn’t willing to flagrantly spend energy and attention with a powerful enemy in the next room.
He sighed. It seemed they really did have to take care of this enemy first.
“Oh, this one!” Mercy said excitedly. “Look at this one!” She pointed to a shimmering purple gem embedded under a set of lines that had once been etched into the stone, but time had wiped away.
Lindon flicked through it, but it wasn’t as cohesive a memory as the others. It was just a series of impressions, thoughts that Ozmanthus had meant to pass on.
Once, it had been a map of the labyrinth.
Dross!
[I have compiled the information, but much of the memory is faded, as this environment lacks a way to replenish dream aura.]
Any information was better than none. And as the labyrinth shifted seemingly at will, a “map” was more like an understanding of the patterns that governed its changes rather than a physical layout.
But there was one thing that stood out even more to Lindon. The wall showed an X scratched into the bottom of what had once been a diagram of the labyrinth. It marked the lowest room.
Ozmanthus’ exact warnings and instructions had faded over the years, but his emotions remained. He urged those that would come behind him to make their way to that room.
That was where he had left a test. And a prize for any who proved themselves worthy.
“Eithan, I think—”
Eithan heaved a heavy sigh at Lindon’s excitement. “What you’re thinking is correct. I formed my reputation with Tiberian on my insight into the first Patriarch’s memories, so I understand him better than anyone still alive. He left a Soulsmith inheritance here.”
Lindon’s heart raced.
“Not his complete inheritance, you understand,” Eithan hurried to assure him. “He left this one behind long before he ascended. But it is still the legacy of a Soulsmith without peer. If you can win its approval, it would be invaluable.”
Lindon clenched his fists. This was what he’d been waiting for.