Chapter 9 – The Elder of the Ways

“Good. You’re here early. That shows your seriousness, dedication to the task. You’re going to need it.”

Jarrel had just entered the tranquil garden when the quiet voice passed through his body, more felt than heard—a sense of towering trees rooted deep into the earth, connecting the ground and sky, reaching for the sky’s radiance, pulsing with gathered vitality, and defying the great winds to create a refuge for the life nurtured below.

The vision caused his will to flicker like a candle before the breath of a god. Jarrel paused to reform his determination. Just wanting to be stronger would not be enough to even stand before the ancient Elven master when the master’s distant voice was already enough to weaken his resolve.

Lord Vorshan had arranged the introduction, but couldn’t promise a meeting, much less that the master would help him. But now he understood that even asking for help was weak-hearted thinking. Approaching the master wasn’t about being helped, it was about seeking strength—seeking truths.

He had been annoyed that the Wardens at the Shrine of Nature required tests of him but had sought to excel as a matter of pride. He was wrong. They weren’t testing him. They were preparing him.

The test of skill was to hone his mind, body, and determination. The test of traversing the Reserve full of powerful magic beasts without shedding blood was to focus his senses and connection with nature. The test of the master’s garden was no doubt to forge his spirit.

It was said that many warriors who reach the peak of physical skill seek the Elven master’s advice to unlock their inner energy but almost all are turned away. Clearly that was false. They weren’t turned away. They lacked the resolve to even approach.

His desire to protect his friend’s abandoned—and now orphaned—daughter had caused him to take the sword back up, but as he was now, she would soon grow past where he could follow. But that selfless desire wasn’t enough to carry him forward.

Even those who are weak desire to protect the ones they care for.

To actually protect requires strength.

His thoughts drew him back to when he trained as a youth. What fueled his rapid growth was his rivalry with Tina. Their endless quest to be better. The striving for perfection. For a truth.

Tina found her truth in her daggers. His was the sword.

Jarrel drew his sword and took up the first stance. The stance from which all the other stances progressed. From there he grabbed onto that comforting feeling of familiarity. The weight and length of the blade. The awareness of distance. His feet gripping the ground below. The gentle flow of the wind passing against his hands and face, carrying the scents of spring blooms and the forest surrounding the garden.

In his mind, he moved through each of the stances, flowing from one to the next, his sword cutting at the needed distance. That was his truth. Even more than the time spent learning the ways of the wild.

Having re-found his purpose, Jarrel sheathed his sword and stepped forward along the path, his will sharp—a blade bared for battle.

As the path wound past a brook and small pond, the burbling water seemed to chuckle its amusement and the pond’s surface reflected intriguing mysteries as the dappled light played across its surface. The beauty mesmerized him for a moment before he shook his head to clear away the stray thoughts and pressed on.

Though the desire to marvel at the sense of natural order achieved by the garden’s seemingly haphazard placement of plants and features played to his love of nature, he couldn’t afford to let himself be distracted from his goal.

The path of carefully placed stepping stones itself soon proved to be a trial, arcing closer toward the center, wending and winding to allow the pressure of the approach toward the master to build in waves.

There had been times when he had felt similar pressure from Ria on occasion and from places of power, but never sustained or to such an extent. If this was A-rank strength as indicated by the master’s guild rank, Jarrel couldn’t even imagine what sort of world-shaking existence an S-rank power would be.

The path approached a grand tree, passing through an arched hollow formed from its trunk. Jarrel had assumed that the pressure of the garden was simply from the Elven master, but he was clearly mistaken. The tree itself was pressuring him, and as he stepped beneath the archway, the weight of the tree pressed down on his spirit, dulling the sharpness of his resolve, his trust in his mastery of the sword was challenged by the weight of a world where someone better always existed. The more he doubted his mastery, the heavier the weight of the tree felt until his legs began to shake with the effort to proceed forward through the tunnel.

Jarrel thought it strange that his perception of his mastery over the sword could affect his ability to withstand the spiritual pressure from the ancient tree. Was it an illusion set up by the elves? His gut told him it was something different.

Either way, he needed to overcome his doubts to pass this test.

Clarity came to him when he remembered what Old Man Klaven replied when Jarrel asked if he should switch to daggers. ‘Just because Tina is better at her path doesn’t mean it is your path.’

No matter how many there were in the world better than him, his path was his own. Learning and incorporating their ways into his own was a means of growth, but that didn’t change the fundamentals of swordsmanship or that his path was the way of the sword. The pressure from the tree hadn’t decreased, but as his resolve returned, he again felt strong enough to press forward.

Once clear of the tree, Jarrel found that the stepping stones meandered through a peaceful cluster of willows and flowers. The stretch without challenges gave him a chance to reflect on his experience with the tree, and he couldn’t help feeling that the tree’s pressure had helped him refine his resolve into conviction.

Jarrel could feel that he was approaching the center of the garden, and after a turn past a grouping of stones balanced upon each other in oddly artistic stacks, the pathway opened up to reveal a beautiful orchard in full bloom surrounding a cliff-like… stump.

His eyes tracked upward, and before him, the cut trunk of an enormous tree towered. But the tree was far from dead. From the outer ring of the cut trunk, hundreds of smaller trunks with leafed canopies rose, and where a gap showed at the front of the ring, the trunks and canopy bent to form an archway. A stairway formed of low branches wound its way around the broad stump from the ground all the way to the archway.

Master Yeriliel, Elder of the Ways, resided within. Jarrel had no doubt.

Jarrel again placed his hand on his sword to refocus his mind on the essence of the sword and began his climb, but with each step, superior truths clashed against his conviction, and he began to doubt he truly understood the sword.

Was sharpness all there was to the sword? If simply cutting was needed, wouldn’t an axe do? Or a glaive with its superior reach. He stumbled under the weight of these new doubts, sinking to a knee as he hooked his elbow around the branch forming the next stair, stopping his fall to the ground below.

No. His decades of training, his mastery of the sword were more than that. The sword was a flexible weapon with broad utility. It’s shorter reach allowed for use to deflect and redirect the opponent’s attacks. It was more than just a simple tool for cutting. The way its motions flowed as extensions of the arms allowed for cuts to be made at angles an axe or pole weapon could not achieve. And a warrior of the blade required a fierceness to face his enemy directly with a sudden finality that the spear’s distance and the axe’s single minded chopping couldn’t compare.

Neither was the sword a shield or a net. It was not at its best as a means to defend another. It was a tool for killing or disabling an opponent as quickly and efficiently as possible. Swordsmanship was an art focused on the intent to dispatch one’s enemy. Swords didn’t protect others, rather, their strength lay in removing threats.

As his knowledge and skill congealed again into a certainty wrought of dedication, relentless practice, and raw combat experience, Jarrel rose again to his feet. A naked blade filled with purpose, with each step, he refined his convictions. Until at last he stepped through the high archway at the top.

Before him sat a bearded elf, in a pose not unlike the one Ria had taken to using of late. How old would an elf have to be to have a beard? Much less a white one that fell to his lap?

The ancient elf didn’t stir, content to continue meditating.

Repressing a groan, Jarrel grew certain he hadn’t yet completed the trial. The elf likely wouldn’t give acknowledgement until the one seeking his guidance stood directly before him.

In his mind, Jarrel further sharpened his conviction in his mastery, continually stepping through his stances and footwork, cutting, dodging, parrying, and deflecting the pressure before him, beating back the flood of concepts that sought to dull his will, and forced his way the last few steps.

“Humans are always seeking the quick path to power—which makes sense because of your limited lifespans,” the elderly elf spoke as he squinted open a single eye and gave his human visitor a kindly smile. “Magic is an example of this. It draws on the work of others and cannot create truths of it’s own. As such, it is a flawed path to power.”

The elf opened his other eye and stood, his muscles creaking like aged oak, his sinews stretching like tightly-wound steelvine. Even just these slow careful motions set Jarrel’s heart and instincts to flight.

I am a sword.

Sharpening his will to his purpose, Jarrel held his ground, cutting through the primal fear that threatened his resolve. He had reached the pinnacle of skill. To advance, he would need to progress beyond skill. Failure here would mean staying at C-rank strength, forever reliant on the use of magic gear to fight stronger opponents.

That the elf considered magic and body-strengthening to not be a path forward surprised him. Though after experiencing the garden’s path, he found himself accepting the master’s words as true, convinced that such gains—which he would have greedily jumped at before—now paled in comparison to the true power Jarrel felt just standing in the elf’s presence.

“Be proud. You have succeeded in realizing your seed and taken your first step onto the path of true power.” The elf reached up and stroked his beard, a grin forming on his face. “It’s been many years since anyone other than my disciples has traversed the Path of Trials and refined their seed sufficiently to reach me. For that I will listen to your request.”

Jarrel wasn’t entirely sure what the elder elf meant by refining his seed, but surely, the wisened elf already knew what he would ask?

No. That wasn’t the point. The elf was a teacher and knew putting one’s intention to words had power. It was a lesson Jarrel had used with his own son many times.

“Master Yeriliel, I have come seeking a way to overcome my limitations,” Jarrel stated. As the words left his mouth, the remaining doubts about why he was here left him.

The master took a fighting stance. “Then let us gauge your resolve to the path ahead. Show me the truth of your seed. You cannot harm me, so come at me with the intent to erase my very existence.”

If not for the declaration of his goal just made to himself and Master Yeriliel, there would have been no way for him to withstand the fear of witnessing the ancient elf’s battle stance. But now, there was no turning back. All that existed was the enemy before him and his swords.

Jarrel drew a sword in each hand, grimly pressing forward and launching into a whirlwind flurry of strikes each intended to kill.

To Jarrel’s surprise, the Elven master moved at a matching speed, clearly giving chances to earn hits. But a greater surprise was that Jarrel recognized the martial arts style!

His wandering mind earned a painful counter that send him flying.

“Focus, young one. Don’t dishonor the fight even if it is training,” the elder elf scolded as Jarrel picked himself up from the heartwood that made up the sparring ground.

With renewed vigor, Jarrel reengaged. Had Tina found a master that was a disciple of Master Yeriliel? Had Tina achieved her breakthrough by seeking training from Master Yeriliel herself?

The thought sharpened Jarrel’s ferocity, and he stepped and slashed with a fierce desire to cut. Cut, cut, cut, and prove himself. The smile that formed on the elf’s aged face only drove him to strive harder.

Having become familiar with the style after dueling Tina several times since returning to Vorshan’s Hills, Jarrel was reasonably pleased with how well he held up even as Master Yeriliel slowly increased the difficulty. It was only when fatigue began to dull his sword strikes that Master Yeriliel called an end to the spar.

“I’ve obtained an adequate understanding of your seed and how to nurture it,” Master Yeriliel proclaimed, not even winded in the slightest from the exertion. “The way will not be easy or quick. Are you resolved to travel the path of natural truths?”

Jarrel calmed his ragged breathing. “I am.”

“Then I will be blunt. Your lack of progress stems from a common fundamental misunderstanding. The real truth of this world is that it is ideas that become energy, not energy that becomes ideas. To transcend mortal limits and reach for divinity, one does not borrow the strength of others but, rather, becomes a source of strength for himself.”

The Elven master called forth the wind and a flurry of leaves surrounded him, only to all fall perfectly cut in half. “Why do you need your sword to cut when the idea of the leaf being cut is far sharper?”

“This is your task for today. Cut the leaves.” The wind blew again, and a sphere of swirling leaves formed. “You may use your sword to begin, but to complete this task you must learn to cut the leaves with only the idea of the blade’s passage.”

If anyone else had told him to do such an impossible feat, Jarrel would have considered it a waste of time. Yet, in this place, after witnessing the elf’s power, he felt that his eyes had been opened to the possibility of a new way forward and determinedly set himself to the task.

Ria sat on her balcony in the Vorshan estate and meditated in the late morning light, Ranger beside her having returned to lounging with his head on his paws and also looking out over the flowering garden below.

Since visiting the familiar shop and being told about the limitations and benefits of the familiar bond, Ranger had been attempting all kinds of things to improve himself—from intently staring at the gardens with his tail straight up from concentration to tapping his paw in imitation of her Sensing Sphere spell. But when he sat on his haunches cross-legged, looking like a jowly old man, and tried to form a circle with his forelegs and paws, all of her concentration was required not to fall over in hysterical laughter.

Progressing to the unified meditation technique proved a significant step forward in improving her attunements. Though, appearance-wise, the only difference was laying her hands in her lap palm-over-palm to form a circle with her arms and upper body, the differences in technique from the inwardly-focused and outwardly-focused meditation techniques were incomparable.

The capability to project her sense of self outward into her surroundings while still being able to focus on the minute details going on inside her body allowed for a vastly improved ability to gather energy and circulate it through her body, targeting key locations to increased effect and noticeable gains. The only real downside to the new technique was its smaller external range.

The meditation had become a routine for her on mornings when she didn’t have outings or projects planned. She could also feel that she was becoming a bit hyper due to nervousness about attending her first high class tea party and wanted to head that off before she did or said something stupid. She was actually proud of herself for recognizing her dangerous state of mind ahead of time.

Some time remained until Ana would show up to help her get ready. Ria used the time to review her progress with Ranger from the prior day. Overall, the empowerment practice had already yielded some early successes, particularly when it came to boosting Ranger’s physical abilities.

Even if Ranger couldn’t yet direct the energy to best effect, by focusing on the bond, Ria found she could pass energy through the bond to temporarily improve his overall speed and strength, as was proved by a trip to the garden to experiment. Ranger was also noting that he could now see and smell elemental energy—or as he called it: glowy lights.

Their experimentation was cut short when Ranger reported that he was starting to feel ill from energy sickness. The result wasn’t unexpected as it had been discussed in the text as a problem for non-magical familiars. And it was probably best to limit testing for now, as Ria was still leery about further strengthening the bond until she could discuss the situation more with someone knowledgeable at her Order.

Even so, the results were encouraging. If his attacks could be strengthened—or even given elemental properties—and he became more resistant to injury, then she would feel more comfortable having Ranger fight alongside her.

A knock at the door roused her from her musings and she looked over to see Ana enter followed by a hat-wearing dark-haired girl in a fancy dress and serving as transport for a certain spriggan. Iselyn!

Was her new friend early?

“I’m on the balcony,” Ria called over as she eased out of her meditation pose and stretched.

“Miss Ria, I’ve brought up your visitor. I hope you don’t mind,” Ana reported.

“Thank you for your effort, Ana,” Ria replied and added, “Can you bring up some refreshments for Young Lady Iselyn?”

“Of course!” Ana quickly bobbed and closed the door behind her as she left, looking excited that she had been entrusted with a task.

“Your room is so much nicer than mine,” the branded noble girl grumbled in discontent as she plopped down on a couch in the sitting room. She then nodded something in response to a likely comment from her familiar. “Somehow, I didn’t picture a frontier lord as being this wealthy or having such a beautiful property in the capital city.”

“Ah, but you get to live in the Academy and have access to the library any time you want,” Ria pointed out as she sat on the couch opposite.

“Well, there is that,” Iselyn admitted then motioned to her outfit. “But you have a maid to help you dress and do your hair. I have to either do it myself or call up one of the housekeeping maids.”

Ria had survived without a maid for most of her life, but she did have her mom and Jeni to help when needed. Iselyn might not have anyone.

“We’re friends and Order-members now. Just let me know, and I’ll come help!” Ria offered then remembered her promise. “I’m not allowed out without an escort though… so it might be easier if you came here instead…”

Iselyn snorted, but she looked like she might be wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. Malleron looked to the side and grumbled something, earning him thanks and a pat on the head.

“So…. You received Keira’s letter about the tea party?” Ria asked.

“Thanks for that. Keira said that you were the one to suggest inviting me.” Iselyn rustled around in her handbag and presented a sealed letter. “Hulle caught me as I was leaving and asked me to give this to you.”

“Hulle?” Ria queried as she looked the letter over. Ria of Shadewood was meticulously written on the back in a bold and fancy script. The seal was pressed with a snowflake design set within a circle.

Iselyn shrugged. “Yeah, it’s probably about us meeting the other Order members this evening.”

Breaking the seal, Ria opened the letter and read. It was indeed from Hulle. In addition to the evening meeting with the Order’s Grand Games team mentioned by Iselyn, he had arranged for Researcher Shadwich to be there to review her familiar binding.

Ria let out a sigh. Though the morning had been relaxing, she was clearly in for a long and busy day.