Chương 17

Descent is a lesser path to power. Master where you stand before casting your gaze below. Harker traveled overland, sticking to game trails over the roads and staying low wherever possible. The sun was bright enough that it felt like he walked bathed in a bonfire, though clouds thickened the horizon as the day progressed. He clung to what shadows remained. For all of that, however, Harker was feeling better. He traversed the countryside at a fast hike, sprinting up inclines and sliding down gullies.

All the while, he was busy with his new store of reagents. Normally he'd have to let such reagents slowly accumulate Water outside his cottage. Steeping herbals while still in-pot was a time honored tradition, as few could afford to spend their power on it. Harker had plenty to spare now, and the entire harvest from the den was already brimming with the Sea's influence. So, as he moved, he set about working on some solutions. Crafting without tools was a challenge, but mixing a paste was a simple effort.

Taking a few of the leaves, stem, and root of three separate plants, he chewed them up. Once they'd been well masticated, he palmed the mashed pulp and kneaded it vigorously. It took some time, and a few dashes of Water from his reservoir, but within an hour he'd mixed together a thick paste. He took a dab and spread it along his neck, armpits, and groin before packing the rest of it into one of his vials that survived the Drop. It worked instantly.

The salt scent of the Sea vanished from his person, along with everything else. Harker grinned. The paste was a nullifier, meant to aid long hunts, but this worked even better than normal. Harker eyed his satchel and its store of grown treasures. I could get used to materials like this. The nullifier was a relief when he'd applied it, but Harker couldn't stop the nerves from returning. He hadn't yet seen a trace of the mercenaries or the Stitcher, and not knowing was far more concerning.

It was a possibility that he'd lost them, but he found it more likely that something unforeseen had occurred. Perhaps they killed each other. One could hope. The sun filtered through the bare branches, casting shadows that wavered with the chill wind. In between hurried steps, Harker could almost believe he was somewhere in the northwoods. That nothing had changed. But reality was too hard to evade. Harker's world had been broken, and the pieces were too scattered to put back together.

If he were being honest, it wasn't the Stitcher. Wasn't even the Vestige. Things had been broken for weeks. Harker looked at his nails. There was dirt under them, caked into a dark line, and more had been ground into his palms with every tired stumble. It wasn't the same dirt, couldn't have been, but it kept coming back. His mother had died, and she took with her the only stability he'd ever known. Then… this. Harker twisted his hand around. The gold on his wrist wasn't bright except where it caught the sun.

Then it gleamed. He'd never expected to take the mark. Dreamed of it, sure, but folks like him weren't meant to be Aspirants. I figured it'd feel different. Harker chewed his lip. That I'd feel different. So much had changed, and it was all the same. While Harker crafted his nullifier, he'd spent time investigating the Chartermark. He hadn't been able to glimpse any more of what might lay within, but could still reliably make out the basics.

The lines had changed at some point after the den, and now details on Talent, Scope, and Depth were as clear as if they'd been put down in script. The Chartermark was clearly designed to identify the bearer, an aid to the magisters of the Spires, no doubt. It felt invasive, though he could see how useful it would be to know all of the students basic capabilities at a glance. Still, Harker was wildly uncomfortable with volunteering himself to such scrutiny.

Thankfully, he could hide under the last record of Jeren Kalson. You were a terrible person, and I'm sorry you're dead. He let his sleeve drop, covering the mark. At least you're useful now. Aside from his other challenges, Harker had to figure out how to fake an Accuracy Talent. From what he knew of Jeren's ability, it had allowed him to fill his limbs with Water and somehow amplify his own precision. While not as strong as Earthfist, it was a startlingly effective Talent…

one that nearly opened up Harker's throat only two days prior. Could I mimic that effect with Sovereign Sight? Awareness was a huge aspect of accuracy, though Harker wouldn't be layering Water through his frame. He was a fairly good shot with his knives, and even slings and a bow. He popped a piece of jerky in his mouth as he descended a low hill. The Scope isn't a lie, at least. Insults aside, Harker was technically a Minor Talent. The real issue was that his reservoir was still the size of a Knack's.

Thanks to the Vestige, it refilled far more quickly, but being unable to refine the Sea as it flowed into him created problems. He could fool some, but Harker doubted he could keep the ruse for long. The magisters would spot it miles away. Another problem true refinement would solve. The Depth listed on the mark was curious. Harker could have sworn that Jeren had bragged about being on the cusp of submersion months ago. Descending was dangerous—incredibly so—but Jeren had never been a cautious person.

Harker figured he would have made the attempt weeks prior. Why then was he still at Surface level? Involuntarily, Harker's gut clenched. His glimpse of the Surface had been… upsetting, to say the least. The concept of going deeper sent a chill down his spine. Yet he would have to; power lay below the Infinite Sea, and power was required to ascend the Nine Spires. If the Water eroding my tributary is this strong at the surface, though, how much damage would it do at First Depth?

He needed a Current and proper tributaries before he could make that leap. But more than that, he needed to refine himself. Stolen novel; please report. To Descend, one had to face down a great deal of threats. The Sea carried within it monsters, yes, but just as bad was the dark, the cold, and the suffocating pressure. Those would crumple an unready body. Most Talented refined their skin and muscles in preparation for their first Descent.

The process was long and involved, and most folks in the Vale were at that stage. This is what Kaz and Mert had done. It was why they were so cursed strong. It was what every child in the Vale wanted to do once they grew strong enough to form their Current. To become the rare heroes that could withstand the Sea.

"Heroes are for tales, Harker. Real life is far messier." His mother had taught him everything he knew. She would rarely speak of Descending, however, not at the length she'd go into refinement at least. The few times he'd gotten her to open up about it, she'd told him that Descent took far more than just hardening your skin and taking a great breath.

"The First Depth is not reached by even a fraction of those that attempt it. Do not be so hasty to throw your life away." There were no Second Depth Talents north of the Gnarl, and those at the First Depth were so rare they were all legends. Just treading those waters was enough to get a festival thrown in your honor. Strength forgives all sins. Harker snorted. They'd probably make me mayor if I could reach First Depth.

His mother had dissuaded him of those aspirations well in advance, even before the true nature of his Talent was discovered. Harker had taken her advice to heart. As young as five years old, he poured himself into learning medicine, herbalism, and hunting. Even the combat training his mother deemed him fit enough to try was taken to with full, unbridled focus. He'd spent his entire life making do with what he could scrounge together, whether that was herbals or his own meager capabilities. Now…

his horizons had expanded. I will master this. Harker held out his marked arm, fist clenched. Sovereign Sight! By the evening, Harker was sore everywhere and he'd made it a third of the way toward the Gnarl. Haver Hill was well behind him, and he'd entered the more wild ranges. Smaller villages and farmsteads dotted the region, with Runnel to the west and Creston closer to the east being the only true bastions of civilization.

All else was untamed wildland, filled with all sorts of animals that scattered from Harker's woozy footsteps and potent aroma. The Sea clung to him yet again, his nullifier overcome by his own tenacity.

"Sovereign Sight." Water surged from his left hand again, but Harker almost immediately cut it off. He stumbled between one step and the next, but recovered, firming his stance as a flood of detail assaulted his senses. The worst of it passed, and he straightened up and continued his swift walk. Only ten seconds of disorientation that time. He was getting better. Faster. Absorbing the information granted by his Talent was hard, and doing it quickly was an order of magnitude more difficult.

If I reduce the range, the overload lessens. Yet if I reduce it too much, the Talent is ineffective at telling me about anything except my own body. It was a conundrum that Harker had been struggling with for hours. To make use of the Talent he would need to use it at full capacity without losing consciousness. Below five inches in all directions, he suffered severe disorientation, but consistent practice had reduced the time from thirty seconds all the way to ten. It wasn't much, but it was progress.

If I can reduce this to nothing, then we can expand. Train larger distances. Harker winced, pulling out a piece of willow bark he'd foraged and chewing on it. It was bitter and the effect was slow, having been a normal tree, but it would do. Perhaps a break for now. The bark had little effect on his tributary. Sore beyond measure, made worse by his attacks of reflux, they traced a constant jagged line of pain down his left side.

Practicing his Talent wasn't wise in the circumstances he found himself, but Harker had little choice. He had three months, and who knew what dangers lay ahead? Still, a pause on Talent manifestation was wise. Harker reapplied his nullfier before turning his attention to his tributary directly. He started to push. The process was just as painful as his Talent, if in a different way. Pushing and pulling at the Water in his reservoir and tributary was like dragging lead weights across his chest.

It was sluggish and uncomfortable, sloshing without any sort of finesse or precision, but it did move. That was all he needed. The hours passed as he resumed what he'd come to call Current Training. It was nothing like a real Current, which required an entire set of tributaries to refine Water—but just like when he was a little boy lifting his first practice stick, this was all he could handle. It felt similar too, like exercising a muscle he'd never had enough strength to use.

The closest experience he had to it was when he'd coax the last dregs of his Water to light his stove. It was far easier to send Water out of his Lock now, of course. Forget the Nine Ordeals. Sweat dripped down Harker's temple as he rolled Water back from his palm Lock, all the way to his reservoir. The entrance exam cannot be worse than this. Someone screamed. Harker choked, his Water spraying from his palm to scatter into the bushes like glowing stars.

They evaporated almost instantly, framing him as he crouched low in the thin underbrush, and listened. The scream came again, followed by a laugh and several overlapping voices. They all sounded pleased, even the screaming one. More importantly, they weren't close. Harker crawled toward a nearby ridge, where trees clung drunkenly to its severe slope. On its other side the forest swept away at a sharp angle, ending after perhaps three hundred feet before it opened up onto a wide field.

A farmhouse was not far off, hidden until now by bends in the landscape. Children. Relief soaked through him, but Harker wrapped his scarf around his face once again as he counted. At least ten of them, and six adults. The children ranged in ages from three to well past ten, but all of them were running in crazy circles, chased by the family hound. The mastiff was ten hands tall, so likely still a pup himself, and was tearing up the field into deep furrows with every rapid turn.

Far more interesting was the food set out by the adults. Breads, sausage, beans and greens. A veritable feast, and only half eaten. Harker's stomach growled. He ignored it. There was plenty of rations in his pack, though he had been hungrier than usual recently. If he wasn't careful, he'd have to resupply before the Gnarls, and that would introduce far more problems than it solved. His stomach gurgled again, and Harker eyed the abandoned feast. Stop it.

He wasn't above stealing to survive, but that table might as well have been on the moon. He backed off the ridge, careful to keep from snapping any twigs or rustle the sun-dried leaves. Straightening up, he reapplied a dab of his nullfier across his palm. His surprise had left a trace behind, though Harker couldn't quite— Something was watching him. Harker froze for only a moment before he continued to massage the paste into his hand.

He made a show of checking where his Water has sprayed, but his attention was consumed by his peripherals. There was nothing. No leaf moved, no grass bent, not even a rustle of cloth. Yet the feeling didn't fade. Harker fingered the chain at his neck, pulse pounding in his ear. It seems I've picked up a tail, after all.