Torvald accompanied Bernt back to the open mess area they’d passed earlier to trade his empty porridge bowl in for some fresh bread and cheese, but then clapped the mage on the shoulder and turned away.

  “I’ll see you back up at the temple later, alright? I’m going to deliver the news to the others personally, like that clerk suggested. I don't like how they were looking at us.”

  Bernt grunted in agreement and turned to climb back up toward the Temple of Ruzinia. He wanted to hike down the mountain to Norhold to check in with the others and to send a few messages via the Mages’ Guild there. Pollock needed to know what had happened to him in the Phoenix Reaches, and he wanted to see how Josie’s case for Jori was going in Teres.

  But all that would have to wait. He still didn’t have any proper shoes. Song had lent him the pair of cloth slippers he was wearing now, but those were crusted with blood and not exactly suited for climbing down what would have to be at least a league’s worth of stairs, probably more. His feet had endured far worse than that over the past week, of course, but he wasn’t eager to repeat the experience.

  Olias had mentioned few weeks ago that fewer representatives of Ruzinia were expected to show up than from the other temples, but Bernt was still struck by just how empty Ruzinia's Peak looked compared to the others. The others bustled with activity, visible even from here. If Bernt didn’t already know that Torvald and Song were staying up here, he would have assumed it was abandoned.

  He was breathing hard by the time he reached the windy landing but he wasn’t sweating. He didn’t feel hot, either, or cold, and he hadn’t in quite a while now. It was an unexpected fringe benefit of becoming part elemental, and one that he appreciated. Never again would he have to worry about dressing appropriately for the weather. It wasn’t worth losing his ability to sleep safely in a bed, but he was still reasonably confident that he’d be able to overcome that limitation in time.

  Reaching the top of the stairs, Bernt stepped over the temple’s threshold to find Song and an old woman standing by the statue in the sanctuary. The odd-looking paladin was holding a large bucket of coal, which the old woman—a priestess, judging by her faded white robes—carefully shoveled into the braziers.

  Song inclined his head to Bernt in his overly formal way, while the old woman just shot him a quick glance before returning to her work, calling out in a reedy voice.

  “There he is! I thought you’d be in bed for a few days after the state those two boys found you in. Do you want some tea? I’ve got a few things that might put a bit of pep in your step.”

  “No, thank you,” Bernt declined. “Though, if that’s your garden in the courtyard, I was wondering if I could pick a few of your herbs.”

  She shot him a strange look, but he didn’t elaborate. After a moment, she just shrugged. “Suit yourself! But a bit of ginseng tea would do you good regardless. Lowlanders can get a little light headed this high up, even if the priests fixed up your injuries.”

  Song accepted the hand shovel from the priestess as she finished and placed it back in the bucket. Then, heading for the back door he called, “You would be wise to accept the wisdom of the honored elder, and her offer of tea. It is quite delicious. I will join you for a cup, if she will permit me to impose upon her generosity as well.”

  “Such a charmer, isn’t he?” she laughed, grinning at him with teeth that looked gray with age. “I don’t know how they raise their children over there in the Mirian mountains, but it seems like they know something people over here don’t. I spent forty years walking through Madzhur and Besermark even before I was sent to keep the lights on in this old hovel, and I’ve never seen anything like it. I asked the goddess if I could keep him, but she told me to get in line!” She grimaced. “Hrmpf! You would think that I’ve earned a little support in my old age.”

  Bernt shot a worried glance over at the statue of Ruzinia, ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble. People didn’t just talk about a god like this woman was doing—or make demands. Old age or her lifetime of service had obviously robbed the old priestess of any sense of self preservation. Her goddess didn’t have a reputation for pettiness, but that didn’t mean she never punished outright disrespect. And Bernt was standing right next to her. It was exactly the sort of attention he hoped never, ever to draw down on himself.

  He cleared his throat and gave her his best polite smile. “Well, in that case, I accept.” He didn’t actually feel light-headed, though he knew that some people suffered uncomfortable side effects from the air high up in the mountains. But he’d wanted to talk to Song anyway, and he would do anything to get the woman to stop verbally haranguing a goddess in her own house.

  “Good!” she said. “Last thing I need is to find you lying in a puddle of your own vomit. Come, come!”

  Five minutes later, Bernt found himself sitting at a weather-worn wooden table in the courtyard across from Song, boiling water directly in a teapot. He didn’t use a cantrip as he usually did. Instead, he held the teapot in both hands relaxing the fine sorcerous channels that fed mana into his arms. It was a passive exercise of sorcery—something mages couldn’t do.

  He was hoping that Song would notice what he was doing and comment on it, but he only watched impassively, as if watching someone boil water with their hands was completely normal. By contrast, the old priestess, whose name he’d learned was Doreen, looked suitably impressed as she pared little bits of root into the water.

  “Well, I never—that’s a good trick! Nobody likes waiting for water to boil. Have you considered opening a tea shop?”

  “No… my focus is more oriented toward fighting—or that’s the goal, at least,” Bernt said. Now that he thought about it, he really did use magic to make tea fairly often, but that didn't qualify him to run a shop. Not that he even wanted to. “I’m working to build better control over the heat my body generates." He shot a look over at Song and went on, "I… uh… developed my spirit recently, and I’m still working to master the resulting abilities that I gained.”

  “Power without discipline is a burden to its wielder,” the man said with the air of someone quoting. “It is good that you seek spiritual mastery over your body. Pure aspect of fire is an unusual choice for body cultivation, though. I am not aware of any bloodlines that are suited to such a path. It is remarkable.”

  Bernt wasn’t sure how to answer. It was clear enough that Song was talking about the way the sorcerous spirit that had been grafted into his own infused his body, but the words he used were wholly unfamiliar. Did Mirian sorcerers do this sort of thing on purpose? How? Somehow, he doubted that they—or anybody, really—would deliberately pursue the method he’d used. Regardless, Bernt felt confident that Song did have some familiarity with sorcery.

  “I’m a pyromancer—fire seemed like the most natural choice after I manifested my spirit as a sorcerer," he explained. In actuality, he'd never even considered branching out, but he didn't have to tell that to Song. "I thought doing so might allow me to unite the sorcerous portion of my spirit and my normal investiture into something greater. But I failed to form an hybrid augmentation, so maybe I could have pursued another compatible specialization... but there was no way to be sure before I tested it. It's almost as if I had two spirits, though they definitely interact.”

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  Song stared at him as if he were speaking an entirely foreign language. Doreen scoffed and poured tea into cups.

  “A person only has one soul, regardless how you decide to poke around in it or twist it around, and that’s the goddess’ own truth. I don’t care what kind of spellcaster you are, you should treat it as a single thing.”

  Bernt cleared his throat and nodded at her. “Yes, thank you. I just meant that the two parts don’t interact strongly with one another. Of course it’s a single thing.”

  Song watched Bernt for a few seconds, his expression growing more and more wary. Had he said something wrong? “You are a mage, but you learned a method to open your spiritual sea on your own? Nobody helped you? How did you do it, exactly?”

  “Er… I don’t know about that…” Bernt hedged, taken aback by the man’s sudden change of demeanor. But... if he wanted the man's help, he was going to have to tell him a few things. “I physically manifested a portion of my spirit in my arm using a modified investment procedure. I was trying to heal some damage with a unique kind of fire that can interact with spirits.” He held up his hand to illustrate. The glowing veins under the skin were even brighter than they had been before he’d met the elemental. “I asked a fire elemental for help with the rest, to bring it all into balance. So, I wouldn’t say that I did it on my own.”

  That was all technically true, with the added benefit that it made him sound like he hadn’t just been making it up as he went along. Apparently, it had also been the right thing to say. Song relaxed back into his chair and stroked his chin thoughtfully.

  “And this elemental aided you in opening your spiritual sea?”

  Bernt cleared his throat. “Ah. I’m not really sure, actually,” he began carefully. “I’m not familiar with your terminology. We don’t practice the same spellcasting traditions as you, so I don’t know if we’re really talking about the same thing.”

  “Mmm.” Song hummed, frowning thoughtfully. “Perhaps it is a poor translation, but I always found it to be intuitive enough. The spiritual sea is the heart of the soul, where energies pool, where they can be refined and from where they can be circulated throughout the body and spirit.” He indicated to a point below his navel. “Traditionally, it is located here, though some rare bloodlines focus instead on the heart or the head. What do you call it?”

  Bernt did his best not to look too fascinated, but he could tell by the look on Song’s face that he failed. On the other hand, the man was talking, so what did he have to lose? “Well… mages don’t have this kind of core structure at all. As far as I know, I’m the first classically trained mage to actually practice sorcery. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to teach me some of what you know? This is all fascinating to me, and I’m mostly forced to do my own research to make any progress. You said you can refine mana? What does that even mean?”

  Song shook his head firmly, his face blank. “The secrets of the sect are closely guarded, even from uninitiated clan members, but especially from unworthy wandering cultivators, of which you are one.”

  Seeing Bernt’s eyebrows rise, he softened his tone a little and raised a hand to forestall any protest, “It is not out of maliciousness or spite, my friend. We do not share with outsiders on principle, it is true. But that is not the only reason. Your 'sorcery' as you call it, is too primitive for our techniques, and you lack the foundation to even consider practicing them. Our cultivation methods are for our bloodline alone, perfected over centuries of trial and error at great cost to the clan. Even if you could somehow earn or steal our knowledge, the techniques cannot simply be copied and applied by you, who walk a path of fire, born from a spirit of fire. The wrong kind of knowledge can lead you to destroy your body and your spirit. You must walk the path as beasts do, growing crudely by simple instinct. It is the safest way.”

  “Hmm,” Bernt hummed, trying not to feel offended. He hadn’t really expected Song to tell him everything he knew, but still, he didn’t have to be so dismissive. But… he’d said he wouldn’t tell him his “sect’s” secrets. That didn’t mean he couldn’t learn anything.

  “What about general knowledge? Not everybody is one of these cultivators, right? But they still know far more than I do about your kind of sorcery. They would have stories, at least, wouldn’t they? Basic cultural knowledge about you, not your secrets.”

  Song tilted his head hesitantly. “Why do you want to know that?”

  “Because I don't know where to start!” Bernt cried in exasperation. “I don't even know what sorts of things are possible. We fight sorcerers sometimes—centaurs, kobolds, that sort of thing, but nobody studies how it all actually works because to us, sorcerers look like lesser, more ignorant mages with fewer spells. Nobody thought it was a promising field of study until I stumbled into it.”

  The paladin watched him curiously for a moment but then nodded in acquiescence. “Then you have much to learn. You may ask, but I will not reveal to you what is true and what is only rumor among the mortals in my homeland.”

  Mortals? What was all that about? He shook his head. That could wait for later.

  “Great! What are these bloodlines, exactly? I mean, how can they limit in what way you develop your spirit? Couldn’t you just try to grow it however it suits you?”

  Song shook his head and let out a soft laugh. “No, you cannot. If you plant a pear seed in the ground, you may cut it and train its branches to grow in whatever shape you wish. How you choose to cultivate it is your choice alone. And yet, no matter what you do, you will never harvest plums or apples.”

  “And your bloodline is the seed?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes. It shapes the spiritual sea. I am from the White Dragon clan, and our bloodline legacy is that of the wind dragon. My path must be one of movement, freedom, flexibility and change. No matter how I cultivate it, my spirit will never allow me to tear through my enemies like a raging fire or to stand firm like a mountain.”

  “Oh, right! We actually have a similar principle in how we develop our spirits as mages.” Song’s odd way of speaking had thrown Bernt off, but this was a different way to describe a principle he already knew. If Song’s “spiritual sea” was anything like the nest of channels sitting at Bernt’s navel, with its highly defined and complex structure, then it would limit the sorcerer’s future development just like a mage’s first investiture did—maybe even moreso. He had theorized about this topic with Pollock before leaving Halfbridge. While a mage could ruin their future development with an incompatible investiture, a sorcerer’s spirit simply wouldn’t be able to grow in a way that didn’t work with its existing structure. Which brought him to his next question.

  “Can you keep growing your spirit forever? Is there a limit?”

  Song made a so-so gesture. “We have a saying in my home. 'The paths to the heavens are many, but few ever arrive'. Every step requires greater power and a more advanced understanding of yourself and the nature of your spirit. The time and resources involved are enormous, and the chance of success is vanishingly small. We produce few true experts, and only the greatest of these—those who have perfectly cultivated both their body and spirit to their mortal limits—ever reach the point where they may attempt to manifest a nascent soul with which they may one day ascend to the heavens.”

  Doreen scoffed and took a sip of her tea. “Nascent soul. What foolishness is that? I said it once, and I’ll say it again. You only have one soul. Ask the goddess yourself, if you don’t believe me.”

  Bernt didn’t know what Song was talking about, exactly, but it certainly sounded like there was no limit. Not one that couldn’t be broken. And that meant, ultimately, that mages everywhere were wrong about sorcery. Sorcerers weren’t inferior or more primitive spellcasters than mages. They could empower their bodies directly, all while developing power that, as far as Bernt could guess, should rival any archmage.