Chương 57: Chapter 133 - The Dervish

"A dervish can never remain one thing. To be a dervish is to embody change," Rostal said as an introduction to his first lesson. They were back to standing in his courtyard, rapiers drawn.

"I will skip the lessons on the Silver Sky, because it is not a true form, merely a training tool. You have already demonstrated the ability to internally reflect, which is the first condition required for one to do anything as a dervish." Mirian nodded, still a bit wary. Rostal's demeanor had changed as soon as he'd started giving instructions, and she was worried it might shift again just as easily.

"There are six true forms I know. They are the legacy of countless generations, but they are not true things anymore than the word 'stone' is the truth of a rock.

'Water' does not convey the majesty of the ocean, nor the properties of the substance, and so is not truth either. Names are nothing more than convenience. God will not be impressed that you know names." That made sense to her. But I wonder if the god he believes in would be impressed by knowledge of the glyphs and runes, since they are a true reflection of reality?

"Since you are not Persaman, I will also tell you this: the mind and body are not separate things." That disagreed with a century of Baracueli philosophy, but Mirian had passed those classes because she was good at memorization, not because she particularly cared about the arguments. She could work with his statement. Rostal tilted his head as he looked at Mirian.

"You said your soul persists, but not your body. This is also in keeping with the teachings of the Isheer. We will have to try something. There may be a way to keep what you have gained. If memories persist, then muscle can too. The First Saint said, 'memory is but a thread in the mind.' And what are muscles, except bundles of threads?"

"So how will that work? If I keep bindings on myself through a cycle, they stay with me when I loop. But it takes time for my body to adjust." Rostal shrugged.

"If it's your soul traveling, you would expect the body to take time adjusting."

"Then does a dervish use runic bindings on their soul? I know a lot of points on the soul, but not that deal with muscle." Rostal contemplated that.

"How to explain? I know. When you want to build muscle, do you slice open your arms and stuff meat inside, then stitch it up?" Mirian didn't bother answering, since it wasn't a real question.

"You eat the food, your body builds the muscle. It builds the nerves, it strengthens the bones, and your mind adapts to them. These complexities cannot be achieved by bindings. Your body and soul know how to build themselves. You must simply prepare them, like a painter preparing a surface for a masterpiece. When we push your body to its limits, it will strengthen, and if you are using the right techniques, your soul will be more ready to accept those changes. The poorly prepared soul has… inertia."

Here, Mirian had to ask what several words he'd just said meant, and Rostal reluctantly used the Cuelsin words before swapping back to Adamic.

"We will go through the forms. Then you will lift iron weights in other forms. Then you will perform the basic dances."

"Dances?"

"Hmm. Does not translate well. Warrior dances. A pattern of movements that build agility and strength, and are useful in a fight. Each form has a dance associated with it.

"Once I know what you need, I will assign you the best strengthening exercises. Then I will teach you the first of the techniques. The Blooming Red Iron readies your soul to be tempered and molded. It's dangerous, because it becomes more ready to accept any change, so you must make sure you are changing it to become stronger. Your body will impart to your soul the lesson you've taught it, regardless of the lesson. This is why your form and warrior dances must be perfect first." Mirian nodded. Rostal sighed.

"Usually, there is more ritual to this all. But you say we are short on time. So let us begin. Lunge." Mirian lunged.

"Good form. First parry. Mediocre. Second parry. Good. Third parry. Passable. Fourth parry. Good. Fifth parry. Good." One by one, he went through all the basic dueling motions. Mirian did each one as quickly and precisely as she could. She was no stranger to the exercises. Then, it was on to the iron weights. Those, she had used rarely in preparatory school, and Rostal was disgusted with her form.

"The iron should flow with your muscle. You do not jerk it around like a poorly made puppet. Strength will be the first thing we work on," he said. After that, it was on to the movement techniques. The 'dances,' were complex, and it took several days for Mirian to complete the basic ones to Rostal's satisfaction. Each was associated with the archaic classification of elements the ancient Persamans had used to describe the world, predating even the Triarchy.

There was lightning, air, fire, stone, iron, and water, each of which had an associated fighting form as well. Each set of movements had a feeling to them that matched their element. The lightning dance had a series of rapid, direct movements. Some were very close to the dueling forms she'd trained on, and she recognized some of the movements as ones Liamar made. The air dance used slow, exaggerated movements, and was more to train strength and coordination than for fighting.

The stone dance was all about keeping movements close to the center of gravity where there was more power, and using her core and legs to power her arms. That was more important for someone using longswords or two-handers, but it wasn't wholly unimportant for rapiers. Water was her favorite dance, because it flowed beautifully from each form to the next. It was an evasive form, helping prepare a fighter for how they might dodge a blade they couldn't block, or reposition themselves even when in a tight corner.

The Lowfort District's tension only grew as the riots and lawlessness engulfed the city. The communities started patrolling the district and set up several barricades to prevent foot traffic. Near the outskirts of the district, several shops burned. Ibrahim's changed the timeline enough that the Persamans are getting persecuted by mobs now too. On the 28th of Solem, Rostal finally agreed to teach her the first form.

"The Blooming Red Iron is like metal in the forge. It's not a fighting form, but an exercise form. Some dervishes have used it in combat to better prepare for an enemy or situation they expect to face again. It opens you up to learn, in every sense. I will repeat once again that it is dangerous, because I've seen too many foolish students for my conscience to allow anything else. Then I will say it no more, for you've heard me." Preparing for a form involved a great deal of meditation, at least for a beginner.

It was like how a brand new spellcaster often took nearly an hour just to bring a catalyst in contact with their aura. At first, Mirian had to reflect inward and spend time carefully adjusting the flow and patterns of her soul. She was used to doing that with bindings. It was significantly harder to push the flows and currents around without them, especially because the soul had a natural tendency to flow a certain way.

"Damn, how do auramancers do it?" Mirian muttered at one point.

"Traditionally? They use the form The Sinister Hand of Shadow. The Akanans? They are using bindings. Much cheaper, even if it does mutilate the souls of their soldiers." That was not the reply she'd expected, but it did explain a lot. Soul magic was still clearly suppressed and hidden in Akana Praediar since Troytin didn't know the first thing about it, but someone there knew something about it. The Blooming Red Iron form couldn't be be done piece by piece. She had to move the totality of her soul in a rhythm.

It was like trying to grab water. The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. Rostal, for all that he was annoying and aloof, was a patient teacher.

"Don't be frustrated," he told her one evening.

"How do you know I'm frustrated?" she asked. He gave her a knowing look.

"You aren't very good at hiding your emotions. They pass through you like a tremor before you can suppress them." Mirian grunted.

"You're learning faster than any student I've taught. Probably because this is not your first time controlling your soul. A child does not learn to walk immediately. A dervish does not learn perfect soul control overnight. Practice the techniques that keep everything in motion. Practice the type of motion in a small area. Soon enough, you'll be able to combine them." She sighed.

"What do I tell you next cycle?" Rostal became contemplative again, eyes looking at something distant that wasn't there.

"I've not made demands of you, because such things are easily discarded. Persama is… a beautiful place." He was silent again, then he gave a sigh. Replaying some memory in his mind, Mirian guessed.

"If you have a chance, you should see the harvest festival in Alatishad. The sunset on the sea by Urubandar. Walk the oasis gardens of Mahatan. Such care has been put into the sanctuaries. The desert has this subtle beauty to it. The painted hills, the dusk hawks, the bursts of flowers hiding in the sands. By Jiandzhi, the high desert has the most beautiful sandstone spires and canyons. If you can visit it…"

"I suspect I will," Mirian said. If only to see Ibrahim's power base and what can be done about it.

"Like cracks in dry land, Persama is divided. No matter where you go now, there is no peace to be found. This is not… I can't explain it. But God must abhor how many broken souls the land churns out." So he does care, after all.

"I'll do what I can," she promised.

"That's all I can ask. Then tell me my request, and what you've done so far, even if it's nothing. The me of yesterday is dead, so I can't know his mind, but I imagine if you show me what you know and can do, and let me examine your soul, I'll sense what truth there is in you."

"Thank you," she said.

"I must believe that God has foreseen all of this. There is purpose beyond what we can grasp. There is causality beyond what we can comprehend. He knew you would find me, and thus, I must play my part." They sat in silence. Mirian snacked on a Persaman meatball. It was nothing like the Baracueli meatballs. It was full of fruity flavors from the plums, walnuts, and barberries.

Part of her training also meant having enough protein, and Rostal was on good terms with roughly a dozen cooks who were all happy to drop by meals and snacks for them. A few of them refused Mirian's attempt to give them a few extra silver as thanks, which made her wonder what Rostal had done for them. The man had a history, that much was clear.

"I'm going to have to talk with Ibrahim, at some point," Mirian said, thinking, and I hope his first reaction isn't to try and destroy me.

"What can you tell me about him?" Mirian saw the flash of pain pass over Rostal's face before he hid it.

"He was a bright young man. A natural at the warrior's dance. A natural leader. Smart. And yet, all he can understand is fire." She was starting to understand some of the cultural context behind that phrase. It didn't simply mean Ibrahim had a temper, more that once he set himself to something, he didn't stop, and he would spread his passion and mission to others. He would either consume his enemies, or burn out.

"He has seen…" Rostal started, then changed his mind." We have seen terrible things. How much do you know of the wars down there?"

"Not much," Mirian admitted.

"Only there's a lot of them, and a lot of brutal fighting, and as long as fossilized myrvite exists there, that fighting isn't really going to stop." Nicolus had called Persama a key resource. It seemed a rather condescending way to describe someone's beloved homeland.

"He seeks to correct an injustice," Rostal said.

"I cannot agree with his methods. He cannot countenance mine. Of all the forms, he only mastered two: the Lone Pine on the Mountain, and The Last Breath of the Phoenix."

"Stubborn, then."

"As the ocean is damp, yes. But I do think his heart… at least, when I knew him. I think his heart seeks peace."

"Then you think he's changed?"

"How much can people change?" Rostal asked.

"You can't cross the same river twice. And yet, the river flows through its channel, and for decades, the change along the banks is imperceptible. People are wet clay. People are cold iron. I fear he can change. I fear he can't." Mirian was beginning to understand that Rostal held completely contradictory ideas about things, and saw no problem with that. People would die, and God would accept their souls as they were, so in death there was no tragedy.

And yet, he loved his people and his land, and every death was a tragedy. That her professor of logic would have pulled his hair out in frustration didn't bother him. Mirian had explained the leyline crisis to some degree to Rostal.

"What do you think he'll do if I come to him with the leyline problem?" Rostal snorted.

"He's not stupid. Has he done anything about it? Then he doesn't care. Like me, he thinks he serves God. Then you must ask, what does he think God is telling him to do?" Mirian thought of Troytin.

"Does he serve God, or is that just an excuse for him to serve himself?"

"A question for the ages. Few would ever admit such a thing. Most would not even admit it to themselves." No doubt Ibrahim had the same dreams as Mirian. But how has he interpreted them? Troytin saw what he wanted in them. Has Ibrahim done the same? Am I doing the same? Shouting from the streets echoed down into the courtyard. It didn't sound like a riot, so it may have been looters being chased off. Mirian asked, "Do you think he could work with me? Or does he also fear the idea of sharing power?"

The shouting continued to echo, though she could tell it was moving on. Probably a running street chase. Rostal continued to contemplate. Mirian munched on another meatball, then took a hunk of stuffed bread to go with it.

"Like scorched wood, he has been burned before. One burn was very close to his heart. Perhaps, with time, it will heal. Perhaps if it tries to, he will put a brand to the flesh to stop it from doing so. Ibrahim does not trust that which he cannot control." He paused.

"Are you going to help them?" Mirian said, "ouhf alrought" because her mouth was still stuffed with bread. She used her wand of levitation to hover above the courtyard, then detect life to highlight where the chase had moved to. As she moved above the scene, she could see that a band of deputized Lowfort residents were chasing down another group. The weapons were mostly clubs and knives. Mirian used bind person on each of the escaping looters, causing them to trip and skid painfully on the cobblestones.

The pursuers looked around in confusion. Mirian landed behind them, finally swallowing the bread she'd been chewing on.

"Need anything else?" she asked in Adamic. One of them got wide-eyed.

"No, Disciple," he said. Anyone who knew Rostal had started calling her that once word had gotten around. What did Liamar do to impress Rostal enough to take him on?

"Great. I'll release the binding spell in… say, ten minutes? That should give you enough time to tie them up or… whatever you need to do."

"Yes, Disciple. Thank you." Mirian flew off again to go finish her food.

The 1st of Duala came and went, and the leyline eruption that so devastated the city didn't take place. Mirian's detectors could still pick out strange movements of the leylines beneath the surface, and again, the anomalous energy reading north of Alkazaria. The magical eruptions were still growing in intensity and frequency, but none of them were as catastrophic as the rupture. General Corrmier was doing his usual thing of taking over Parliament and preparing the city for the Akanans.

"We have until the night of the 6th," Mirian told Rostal.

"You're sure?"

"Troytin might detonate the Monument and speed things up, but I think he's finally figured out he needs to study it. I also don't think it'll do him any good. Even if he does detonate it, we'll have time before moonfall." Rostal glanced at the Divir moon.

"I am eager to meet God," he said. Then, "I've also been thinking. If you are in the form of Blooming Iron when you die, it may be… a problem. If the soul is extra malleable in that state, some of the damage of your death may carry over. A blade always has two edges." Mirian considered that.

"Alright. I'll be careful. Do any of the other forms carry that risk?"

"Doubtful. Well, the Last Breath of the Phoenix carries a risk, but that is incidental to the time loop." They trained for those last few days, though Mirian could still only partially use the Blooming Iron form. When the end came, Rostal stood at the top of his house with his hands clasped behind his back.

"I like to think of it as not the real timeline," Mirian told him.

"If I can think, then I am, and if I am, then I am real," Rostal said.

"I regret to inform you that all of this is real. I'm not worried. As I said, I'm eager to meet God." Mirian's face must have played a dozen different emotions in quick succession. She saw no reason he wasn't right, of course, but she didn't want to accept it. She had been forced to accept an ethical position she didn't like, but it was the only one should could live with: someday, in one of the distant timelines, Enteria would live. How many dead futures is that worth? Perhaps the Isheer's God could answer that.

She couldn't. The moon began to fall, setting the sky aflame. Rostal kept his eyes fixed on it, unblinking, and did not tremble. He held his hands out, palms up, and breathed in deeply.