Chương 36

The first cut hurts the greatest. Harker calmed himself. His hands were practically shaking—not from nerves, but excitement. Don't get ahead of yourself. One step at a time. He poured a measure of Water into the thaumic cauldron. Unrefined, of course, but he couldn't help that. Normally it would be a problem to create a medicine with it—the Sea's impurities would affect the patient's refined Water, often causing blockages that led to new issues.

For Harker, who only had unrefined Water within him, it was simply another dose. The Water boiled quickly, the marvelous cauldron doing its work efficiently. Several base reagents went in next, and soon a thin mixture was bubbling along merrily. While they boiled, he prepped the Ghostflower Root. With one of his knives, he shaved the root into quarter inch slices—lengthwise—exposing the deep white-green hue inside. A scent rose from each cut, spicy and cold, and a deep chill radiated from it.

With each slice, Harker's fingers stung and fern frost bloomed along his blade. Then it was done, and he shoved it all into the pot. Harker rubbed his hands, trying to coax warmth back into them as he watched the root pieces dissolve rapidly. They spread into the mixture, turning it a cold green and slowing the bubbling. That same chill radiated from the cauldron, thick and heavy, until with a gurgling pop the heating element broke through. It boiled once more, though far slower.

Needs more heat than this, otherwise the next ingredient won't mix properly. Harker waited, watching the bubbles slowly gain speed, all the while going over his plan in his head. He'd mapped out Stillwater's tributaries, but it was impossible to copy the Gilken wholesale. Not only out of concern for what Stillwater had said—that they wouldn't work for a human—but also because his tributaries were so complex that Harker could never add all the right details. Yet he had to try. The bubbling sped up.

It was almost time. Fishing the last ingredient out, it gave off enough light to illuminate the clearing even as the dawn spread buttered radiance across the tree tops. The violet muskgrass hadn't lost a lick of potency. Adhira said to strip the branchlets from the stipe and add those first. He made quick work of it with his knife. The branchlets—thin, needle-like leaves that radiated in whorls—dissolved into the mixture, turning the pale green more saturated.

The stipe, or stem, came next along with the translucent, hair-like roots at the bottom. The hue darkened, taking more of a blue tone, until it almost resembled opaque Water. The mixture bubbled and frothed, the surface heaving like the Seas in storm. Immediately, the chill of the Ghostflower Root was replaced by an enormous output of heat. No, no. Not good. Too much heat will ruin the effect! He tried stirring it with his knife, but that only released a cloud of cloying steam.

Desperate, he jabbed the freeze command on the side of the cauldron. Cold immediately radiated from the thaumic device. Normally, the cauldron should have frozen the mixture solid in a few minutes, but luckily—or unluckily as the case may be—the muskgrass was too potent. The heat died down, little by little, but the cauldron's reservoir drained rapidly. Harker grunted and pushed more Water into it. Even if the exchange rate for unrefined fuel was poor, it would be enough to keep functioning.

The moment the frothing stopped, he cut the power to the device entirely. Bracing himself, he stuck a finger into the mixture—only to whip it back out again with a grunt. It was still very hot, but not unreasonably. The froth and bubbles soon faded, leaving the surface smooth as glass. He wafted the scent of it forward and nodded. Inside the cauldron, the mixture had turned into a gray-green elixir. It shimmered as he tilted it in every direction, checking the consistency as it rolled toward the edges.

The reduction thickened it, but not too much to handle. Good. The treatise he'd read was old, perhaps ancient, but like the other sparse tomes on herbalism his mother had collected, Remarkable Roots had left an indelible mark on Harker's mind. Its preparation was simple enough that he could add the muskgrass with little worry—though that had almost cost him. But had it worked? He lifted the cauldron. It was nearly half full of elixir and steam poured up around him as he tilted it. There is only one way to find out.

He tipped the cauldron up to his lips and downed it. It hurt. The elixir had a consistency of thin pudding and it clung to his tongue and teeth and throat with a scorching tenacity. All the while, it scoured him, carving a line of fire through his throat and down his chest, even radiating outward into his back and shoulders. Abyss! He clenched his eyes. It poured toward his stomach, but Harker seized it, guiding it inward. The fire of it passed into his reservoir, filling it to the brim.

The Water inside was infused, swirling with the potency of his elixir, until Harker felt his awareness spike. Suddenly, he could perceive a thousand stretches and tears along the edge of his reservoir. Places where the organ thinned with every influx of the Sea. All at once, he bent over. The reservoir convulsed, and a measure of the elixir was sent racing toward his left shoulder.

His awareness split between reservoir and tributary, feeding Harker every misaligned angle and worn out curve through shoulder, elbow, and wrist. Focus! He reminded himself. Push! The Ghostflower Root had many benefits, but mainly it was a tributary aid, same as the violet muskgrass. Both were meant to expand his senses, enhancing his awareness of every piece of his inner makeup. The Root, however, was more than that. Pressure built up in his chest.

Cold and heat scoured him, looking to bore a hole straight through him if he allowed it. Harker seized the elixir and the Water that now carried it, and he did just that. Starting at his reservoir and spreading outward, Harker cut through himself. The pain of it was terrible but familiar—he'd gone through it once before, long ago, resulting in his sole tributary. Now, however, Harker bore the strength of his elixir and the sheer force of his Water.

The pressure propelled his efforts forward, cutting through flesh and spirit alike as he wound around his reservoir in a widening spiral. The path twisted and curled, bending across his chest like a river sliced through the landscape across centuries. Stillwater's thorny tributaries were burned into his head. Harker copied them, and with each revolution around his reservoir, the pressure at his center dropped. The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Until his center gurgled, and the Sea poured through him in an unexpected rush. Harker's reservoir wasn't an armored shell like Stillwater's or an ossified chunk like an Aberrant. It was fleshy and compact, too small for the Water it now strained to hold. He needed more ways to alleviate the pressure.

"Sovereign Sight." Talent thrummed through him and joined with the elixir. His senses widened and tightened at the same time, encompassing so much of himself even while he drilled down ever deeper into his spiralling tributaries. He felt the groove of the path he'd already carved, but most of all, Harker could feel the revelation that had taken him all night to sense. My Stature… The overlapping mess around Stillwater's reservoir wasn't a chaos of intersecting knots no matter how much it resembled one.

It was layered. Like the thorned thicket he'd first compared it to, the blackened pathways were wound around, over, and under one another. The gnarled appearance was hidden at right-angles to common sense, and each spiraling turn around Stillwater's reservoir was a convoluted dance cut achingly close to one another. What made it all possible, of course, was Stature. Somehow it had created a depth to Stillwater's body that did not exist.

Like the Chartermark on his arm, the Gilken's tributaries stretched far enough into his body that they should have blasted through his back. Instead, Stature seemed to fill the gaps, not only creating depth but also insulating the thorned tributaries. This allowed them to stretch longer and with greater precision through the body, all without taking up any further space. Harker reached for that inflexible material around his reservoir.

Sovereign Sight brought him the touch, taste, and sight of its leathery surface—but the elixir brought him more. It honed his awareness to a new pitch, and with it he found pieces of his Stature that weren't quite so solid. They were hidden, layered beneath the hardened rest, and he pulled it away. Each flow diminished the border around his reservoir, trading it instead for protection around his spiraling tributaries.

Those he cut deeper, stretching them with thorned protrusions that thrust into organs, skin, and bone. With the addition of Stature, they cut all the faster, forming with less pain and greater fidelity all at once. Yet with the diminished boundary around his reservoir came problems. The aperture to the Sea raged, and unrefined Water crashed into him. It plowed into his half-finished tributaries, cutting them further and bathing them in the sting of salt.

Only to roll back, the tide turned and yanked Harker's feet from under him. He fell, plunging head-first into the Surface of the Infinite Sea. Flailing, Harker fought to keep afloat as waves crashed upon him. A storm raged above, filling the sky with bruised clouds and crimson lightning. The Surface heaved, lifting him into the air before dropping him hard as rain drove sideways across the swell. Wrack and ruin—! He choked, coughing up salt. I need to get back!

Power, unrefined and raw poured through his soul, filling his reservoir that Harker could feel as a distant light. Just as far, he felt his tributaries spiraling outward, cut by the sheer pressure of the Sea's flow. He had to get out—before his entire body was riven through! Something hit his legs. The water was inky black, but Harker felt their presence. Things clutched at his heel, trying to drag him under. To Descend him by force.

"Get off!" He kicked, his other foot slapping into something hard and scaled. It was as unyielding as granite. Teeth sank into his calf. Harker screamed through salt water and kicked himself up—back—it didn't matter which direction. A primal terror seized him and he heaved. A rock as big as his head rose from the water, pale white and weather worn. Only a foot above the Surface, it skewered whatever held him, hurling it away. The teeth vanished. The waves calmed.

Harker was thrown back in a rush of Water—and he was once more in his own body staring at the wild, curving tributaries all across his chest and abdomen. Abyss… What was that? The answer leapt to mind as quickly as the white stone itself. He could see its kindred extended in aborted loops all across his chest. His Stature had somehow responded to his need, providing—Harker wasn't sure what to call it. Stability, perhaps. The same thing it provides my reservoir. Brows drawn, he refocused his attention.

And my tributaries too. Grappling with his Talent and elixir, Harker seized the soft parts of his Stature and wound it around every tributary he could. It was like a sheath—protecting both the blade and bearer all at once. He kept cutting through himself, splitting flesh and spirit with every numbing slice as Water followed in his wake. It broke him open, the caustic Sea scouring his newly made pathways, but Harker didn't stop. If he stopped, it was all over—he would not get this opportunity again.

Time pressed on, a ticking clock that meant increasingly little. His bodily needs were distant, his kaffa-fueled energy more than enough to ignore all else. There was only the Sea and flesh that hadn't yet been cut. Without warning, the elixir ran out. Harker fell back, suddenly less as he landed on the ground. Mud seeped into the seat of his pants, but he didn't care as he dragged in great lungfuls of air. His Talent scattered too as the world intruded upon him. The morning light was far too bright.

It caught in dew that clung to weeds and branches alike, refracted into awful little beams that stabbed at his brain. He groaned. Moisture dripped from his nose and brow. He wiped at it, but when he looked at his hands, all he found was blood and a gritty, blackened sludge. It smelled like death. He stopped from throwing up with nothing short of a heroic effort, and smeared the gunk onto the nearest frond. It wasn't just on his forehead though—now that he was aware of it, Harker could feel it all over his body.

Impurities. Salt and silt were always released when you used your Current, or when… Harker blinked. When you cut your tributaries. It had accumulated greatest along his arms and legs and neck. No doubt he had more inside of him—great heaps carried in by the Sea. Even so, Harker was giddy. He reached inward, and was delighted that, even without his Talent, he could feel it all so much clearer.

His tributaries circled around his reservoir, spiraling around in an overlapping pattern that wasn't even half as complex as Stillwater's. He'd added thorns, but even those were tame protrusions to cut into his viscera compared to the Gilken. He'd liked to have claimed it was an improvement, a simplification for efficiency's sake, but it wasn't. Harker had done the best with what he'd had.

As he watched, the Water in his reservoir pushed outward, flowing into the spiraling tributaries before entering back into his reservoir. He grinned. A true loop, and the first step to make a Current. Just as fascinating, however, were the five primary tributaries he'd cut. He modeled them after his mother's brief teachings and Stillwater's example. They branched off of his center, each one a loop of their own. One for each limb, and one for his head.

Tentatively, Harker inspected them all, starting with his left arm. Though he'd fouled it originally, his new additions cut a thorned pathway through his shoulder. There wasn't much he could do to shore up the worn edges, not without some sort of recovery treatment, but Harker deepened the shallow flow of it, and in so doing smoothed out its jagged edges. In his right arm, he cut something far more efficient and elegant. Same with his left and right leg.

They spiraled down his limbs, thorns reaching outward into muscle and bone and blood before terminating at the base of his feet, his palm, and this throat. At the end of each primary, he found a hardened knot of stone. It was faded, as if it weren't entirely real, but it stopped the flow of water as surely as any dam. My Locks. If he could get them open, he'd have far more options for manifesting his Talent, not to mention for refinement.

If he could get a proper Current, his power could— Harker clenched his jaw, heart racing in excitement. Power. Harker looked to his Chartermark and the golden lines within, eager to see exactly how much progress he'd made.