Unsouled (Cradle, #1)

by Will Wight

Shields for Enforcers, who protect the clan from its enemies with strength of arms. Arrows for Strikers, who attack their rivals from a distance. Scepters for Rulers, who bend the powers of heaven and earth. And hammers for Forgers, whose techniques create weapons and wealth for the clan. All things in Sacred Valley can be divided in four.

If you studied until the end of the universe, you would still have not touched true comprehension. The Path of the White Fox is but one among countless others, and none reach the end.” “This one thanks you for the enlightenment, Elder Whisper,” Lindon said, though he still didn’t fully understand what the sacred beast meant to teach him. All three foxes paused, side by side, regarding Lindon. “When a traveler cannot find a path, sometimes he must make his own.”

Whisper harvested both light and dreams into his core, blending them so that he could blind any eyes, stifle any ears. The humans understood light to some limited degree, but they had great difficulty with dreams. Whisper, however, had spent a hundred years meditating on the nature of dreams. For the most part, a dream was nothing more than a mind deceiving itself. Only rarely did dreams tap into greater forces…but when they did, they could reveal pieces of fate.

Weakness and the appearance of weakness were the same, and only strength had a place in Sacred Valley.

“Surely when Mon Keth left himself undefended, Kelsa’s Empty Palm would have done far more damage than mine.” Jaran’s fists tightened on the table. “Son, if that’s what you think, you came close to a harsh lesson today. A weapon held in ignorance only wounds its bearer.”

To keep yourself pure, you’d have to give up the easiest and most reliable way of getting stronger. Worse, you’d sacrifice your most dependable means of self-defense. A fire artist could burn arrows out of the air mid-flight, and a sword artist could strike them out of the air. An artist of pure madra would be helpless to affect the flight of an arrow. He would die as helpless as a bird.”

The mountain under which he had been born in a dark chamber of stone. The ruins of the library where he had once developed his own Path. The pillars where he debated the ten greatest scholars of the day, leading three to commit suicide soon after. The City of Anvils, sealed now, where he’d forged his first weapon. The labyrinth where he died and returned to life. The country home, buried beneath a meadow now, where his fury had first touched the Way.

Though she understood his rationale, she had never felt comfortable with Ozriel on the job. Then he quit. Ozriel, the celestial executioner, had refused to demolish condemned worlds. The Reaper had hung up his scythe. The other Judges were out for blood, and they expected the same of her. But how could she blame him for not murdering billions?

This was the sort of person the Abidan were created to save: the weak who stood against the strong. The sort of person the Phoenix was meant to save. The sort of person who might, with a little outside help, even reach beyond their fate.

“My organization has a name for this world, Wei Shi Lindon. We call it ‘Cradle.’ It’s where we keep the infants.”

He’d been dreaming before he met Suriel, and now he was awake.

As long as he stayed here, there would always be another Kazan Ma Deret. He would never be anything more than Unsouled.

Even so, he kept his eyes off the body. Despite what he’d been told as a child, there was nothing to celebrate here.

“That test doesn’t show you what you are. It shows you what you’re best at. Shows where you start, not where you end up. You start as a Forger, well cheers and celebration for you, that means you’ll have to work extra hard as an Enforcer. Outside of the valley, you don’t get to call yourself a sacred artist until you’ve at least learned the basics of all four disciplines and harvested a Remnant. To my eyes, every one of your elders is still in training.”

He didn’t need to find a Path of his own. He was already on it.

He has followed the Unsouled Lindon since the intervention of Suriel, the Phoenix, Sixth Judge of the Abidan Court. Though he does not remember the events prior to her temporal reversion, he has noticed the effects of her involvement and believes that Lindon is favored by heaven. He watches the two young sacred artists leave the valley, and for the first time in centuries, he experiences hope. Maybe these children, blessed by the heavens, will save the valley from the Dreadgods’ return.

He was an interesting distraction. Her Presence told her he had a seventeen percent chance of surviving the Desolate Wilds, a four percent chance of making it past Gold, and a zero-point-three percent chance of ascending beyond Cradle.

“A shield is meant to protect,” she said. “It’s not an appropriate tool for this.” She drew her weapon.