Second of Twelve: The Heat-Soul

“The opposite of the Mist-soul and its complement, the Heat-soul is energy transferred in a positive direction, away from the innactor and into the .”

- From the Book of Souls, Article 2: The Heat-soul

“Heat within, fire without. Give, don’t take. Live, don’t break.”

- A common training mantra of the Volcanarch sect of Augurs

“Generosity. To give from one’s own to those without. This encapsulates the tone of the Heat-soul. One cannot give to an excess, thus one cannot Heat a fire, something that is overflowing with warmth. As you can see, Augurs and Auguresses, not only is the method of attuning a soul linked with a moralistic mindset, but the functionality of the soul itself emanates from that ideal.”

- From the Refutation of Augur Hadelard by Auguress Elois

Mountain’s Breath! They didn’t tell me it would be so damned cold. Daein trudged his way through the snowbank, his arm blocking his face from the blizzard. It’s spring! Spring! The world is supposed to be warm. Butterflies, little bunnies hopping about, flower petals drifting in the breeze. That’s what its supposed to be like. Not snow up to his ankles.

Daein knew listening to that old storyteller was idiocy. Tales of ruins filled with ancient treasure and unsaid songs waiting to be heard. Stories of Iledarn, that long fallen empire that had ruled these icy wastes. How had anyone lived out here? Let alone thrived. And he had only now passed into the ancient territories once held by that great land.

The top of the mountain pass loomed over Daein, two massive spires of rock that he could barely see through the storm. The twin peaks of Eta Ajah and Eta Moya twisted up into the sky. Split down the middle as if some First Epoch deity had divided a larger mountain in twain, leaving the twin peaks forever separated. Between the two, in this split, a steep basin formed one of the few mountain passes through this range.

Daein had heard it called Maletak’s Way, though no story had ever mentioned any man or creature known by that name.

Three days of hiking, just to reach this pass, with nearly another week before he would even reach a satellite city of the old kingdom.

The wind howled in his ear, drowning out all complaints. Daein’s soggy boots, his aching ears, his dripping nose, they all championed one thought: shelter. He had to find shelter.

Hadn’t the old storyteller mentioned something? Ajah’s Rest, Daein thought that was what she had called it. A deep cave within the basin that spiralled down to the very bones of the mountain. Was as good a place to search for as anything.

Slowly, Daein trudged forward through the snow, against the wind. The cave was called Ajah’s Heart, so the side of Eta Ajah made most sense for it to be. Eventually, his shoulder made contact with stone, the swirling snow blocking the majority of his vision. The wind had guided him against the earthen wall. All Daein could see was cold and white and howling. Wait… that sound. That wasn’t just the wind, was it? Somewhere, out in the storm, a hollow scream echoed against the twin mountainsides. Nearly identical to the winds themselves, he only noticed it once it was gone.

Daein really didn’t want to find out what made those sounds. Another reason to find that cave, now.

Right arm shielding his face and left feeling the rock wall, he trudged forward. With each step, Daein questioned himself. Did the old woman tell him lies, interesting lies, fascinating lies, tantalizing lies, but lies nonetheless? Had he found the wrong pass? Were these peaks not Eta Ajah and Eta Moya? Had the cave collapsed in on itself years ago?

His gloved hand felt something smooth. Far smoother than simple rock could be. This part of the wall… it had been carved. Someone had chipped writing, or maybe some kind of hieroglyphs, into the stone. Continuing on, Daein found more and more of the inscriptions until, yes, an opening.

An outcropping of rock protected the entrance, like a wind break, from the worst of the storm with only a small crack, hardly larger than a house door, giving entrance to the cave behind.

In exhausted victory, Daein let himself stagger into the cave, his eyes finally free of the blistering wind.

Out of the darkness, Daein saw two figures, one lying prone on the floor with their arms guarding their face and the other standing above, preparing a strike.

He screamed out in surprise, stumbling back against the wall. And they didn’t move. No head turned, no hand moved, not even to strike down the fallen person. Nothing. Hesitantly, Daein set his bag on the floor and dug around in it, eventually pulling out a waxed wick.

Snapping his sluggish fingers through the thick gloves to build up heat, Daein pushed all that warmth into the very end of the wick. It smoldered for a moment before, in a flash, a tiny flame illuminated the cave. The words of his teacher rang clear in his head. Fire simply needs a spark. With very little warmth focused on a miniscule point, heat can be magnified a thousand fold.

The candlewick filled the cave with little light, but just enough to see. The two figures he had seen were statues, one forever attacking and the other forever guarding itself. Each was featureless, merely the forms of men with a symbol engraved upon their chest. The attacker, made from an onyx-like stone, had an unfamiliar etching that appeared to be scratched out by claws. Unlike his assailant, the victim’s mark was recognizable. Engraved into its white marble flesh, the sign of the Still-Star, Iledarius, shone prominently in the light, almost glittering. Daein had seen hundreds of maps emblazoned with its four-sided sign, often used as a compass.

What was this place, to have such a monument? A memorial? A tomb?

Holding the candlewick before him, Daein approached the two statues, ever locked in one-sided combat.

On a plaque, beside the monument’s base, an ancient poem had been inscribed. Faded by time and wind, Daein couldn’t make out much. Bal rah ikatay. Bal rah f…. B.. ish malante. The other stanzas were nearly gone except a single word from the last line, preserved against time, looking for all the world like it had been carved yesterday. Ileduraan.

“Can’t you hear the storm, son? By Ona Oraanus, what made you think it was a good idea to go for a hike in a falgabrac?” Daein screamed again. Another figure, this one very much alive, hobbled its way into the light from the depths of the cave. An eldery man, with a short white beard, closer to scruff than true facial hair, and a fur cloak marched out of the darkness. In one hand he held a gnarled walking stick.

___

Daein huddled around the old man’s fire, blessed warmth returning to his fingers. No explanation for the wood or his presence was given but Daein didn’t care. Something up in this frostbitten wasteland was warm. The old man poked at the fire, embers twisting in the air above.

“What brought you this far from civilization?” The old man looked at Daein, his eyes glittering in the fire’s light. “What lie were you told?”

“Why does it have to be a lie?” Daein asked, pulling a stick of jerky from his pack.

“There is nothing here.” It was said with more spit than words. “Gold? Stolen long ago. Books? Nothing but dust. Art, science, philosophy? Snow took it ‘fore your grandfather was even an idea in his father’s head. There’s nothing here.” The old man turned back to the fire, throwing another log into it.

“You’re out here.” Daein bit through the salted pork, the half-frozen meat sticking to his teeth.

The old man only gave him an annoyed glare but no answer.

Rummaging through his pack, Daein brought out a coil of wire. His teeth pulled off his glove, the wire unfurled in his lap. No free, he began spiralling the metal around his forearm. Once, twice, thrice, and on. Finally reaching his wrist, Daein stopped and snipped the end off with a pair of cutters, stored in one of the pouches on his pack. The old man watched him suspiciously but didn’t question him.

Daein then coiled a small amount around his palm, overlapping his hand but leaving his fingers free.

Then he did the same for his right hand. Coiling wire around the forearm, then a loop over his knuckles.

Finally, his host spoke. “What’s that supposed to do?”

“I am sick of this cold. My boots are soaked, my fingers could fall off any second. My nose is frozen shut. I am sick of it. Got to put up with this for another few days at least. Best make the cold bearable. Then I can finally go home.” Daein moved on to his feet, repeating the process.

The old man leaned against the rock wall, his poker thrown to the side. “Home”, he whispered to himself wistfully. “Wish I could go home.”

“Why not?” Daein pulled back on his boots. “Can’t find it in all this snow?”

The old man watched him, and a smile crept onto his weathered face. “In a way. They won’t let me back in, ain’t the same person I used to be.”

Finally done, Daein stood before the fire and let himself bask in the heat. His own miniature sun. His own star. Like Iledarius, from the statue’s sigil, right before him. Then, Daein moved the heat. The wire, coiled around his skin, began to warm up, the extra heat filling the metal. He moved more and more of it, away from his center, towards his extremities, until Daein could delight in an even warmth. Sweet, blessed relief. Heat within, fire without.

“What did you come here for?” The old man asked again.

Daein smiled at him. “I never wanted gold or art or books, none of that. My task is the collection of songs. One’s forgotten by men. Songs unsung. Music unplayed. That’s what I came for. Better to me than all the gold that could fill the sea.”

The old man laughed, a deep hearty thing. And yet, it seemed he had not for a long time, for it turned into a dusty cough. A bony hand shot up to cover his mouth, but Daein could see his hot breath escape through the spaces between his fingers.

“Here.” Daein pushed some of that heat, that warmth within him, to the old man. Heat-wisps, like red smoke filled with shimmering embers, blossoming in a line between them. Fire, heat, was not simply warmth but energy, that is what Daein had been taught. The body could use that energy, fix itself given enough time. This would never be a true healing, a gift of the Life-soul, but its what he could do.

The old man’s cough stopped.

“Thank you.” His voice was soft, sincere. Twin spheres twinkled like stars in the cavern. “Of the few people I have met these past years, none have matched your kindness.”

Daein smiled back.

“You said you came looking for songs?” The old man asked. “I knew a poet, a great one, who never got his work played. Maybe I could remember a few. If you’d like.”

Daein got out his mandolin from his pack, a small traveling one with four strings rather than the standard four sets of two.

Outside the blizzard raged through the mountain pass. Yet, over the howling wind and the screaming snow, the faint hum of cords and two voices in harmony could be faintly heard, echoing throughout the mountains of Eta Ajah and Eta Moya. The Mother and Father of Skies.