"NO!" I screamed; leaning forwards and knocking the little cup over. I think Hardt was confused, maybe he thought I had fallen asleep again; another bad dream plaguing me. But it was far worse than that. Only Sourcerers could wield the magic of Sources, anyone else would be consumed by the power in a matter of minutes and the death would be far from pleasant. Tamura had just fucking killed himself!
The crazy old man chuckled, his jaw working around his mouth. Then he spat the Source back into his hand. "This one's for you." He flicked the Source over the fire. I'm a little ashamed to say I scrambled for it. I'm more ashamed to admit I had to fight the urge to swallow it. Instead, I clutched it to my chest as though fearing someone might try to take it from me again.
"This is…"
"Kinemancy," Tamura said with a sage nod of his head. "The power to move things." A basic description if ever I heard one. Basic and very lacking.
"What just happened?" Hardt asked.
"I think Tamura just identified a Source by taste." It's fair to say I was a little surprised. Back at the academy we were told there was no way to identify a Source until the Sourcerer swallowed it, until they could access the power. We were instructed to memorise the Sources we were given; their size, shape, flat surfaces, edges, imperfections. Everything, including the most minute details. That way we would know which of our Sources we were swallowing even while blind.
"Tastes like a river; always moving, cutting its own path." Tamura smiled and went back to turning the spit as though he hadn't said something entirely crazy.
I wondered if I could trust him, trust his judgement, his memory. His sense of taste. I will admit I thought about popping the Source in my mouth, to see how it tasted myself. I had never even thought about it before, I had always swallowed the Sources down as quickly as possible. The very idea that they might have a taste was alien to me. Right then I knew I couldn't trust myself not to swallow it, and placed the Source instead in the little leather snuff pouch tied to the rope around my waist.
"It's not enough," I said. I was attuned to six different types of magic and if I had a Source for each of them it still wouldn't have been enough. "I need to know how to fight as well. I need you to teach me."
"Who?" Hardt asked.
"Both of you."
Tamura giggled.
"You're not built for what I do," Hardt said with a sad shake of his head.
"Then I'll get stronger." I have always had determination in spades. Determination, and a relentless drive to get what I want. There have been many times in my life when I have relied, instead of using a convincing argument, on wearing down the other person. Hardt has never taken much wearing down. At least not where I'm concerned. "I need to know how to protect myself." I didn't point out that it was more about learning to hurt others. Sometimes you need to tailor an argument to the person.
Hardt nodded slowly. "Remember, you demanded." He shared a look with Tamura who just giggled. It was decided, but there was no way my training would start that night; we were all far too tired.
There are three ways to deal with grief, and make no mistake, I was grieving just as surely as Hardt was. I might have cut Josef loose down in the Pit, pushed him away and left him there, but I loved him. I fucking loved him. He was my best friend and my brother in every way that mattered. My safety and my comfort. Without him I felt less somehow, as though the better part of myself had been cut away along with his throat. But pushing someone away is not the same as watching them die. I saw the life fade from his eyes. I saw the blood spilling out. Even if I had hated him, truly hated him, not just trying to convince myself of it, I would still grieve for the loss.
The first way to deal with grief is to confront it, to meet it head on and accept it as a part of yourself. It is, by far, the hardest thing to do, but also the only way to truly move past it. I wish I could give some sage insight into the process, but I have never been good at confronting my grief. Hardt, on the other hand is a bloody master. His grief for Isen showed for a while, both in the tears he shed and the smiles he shared. He told us stories of a younger brother who followed him everywhere, copying him as he chopped wood or collected water from the well. I think that was the way he coped and the way he moved past his loss, by remembering the good times. I couldn't help but notice that all the stories he told were from their childhood, and not one of them contained even a mention of their father.
The second way is to wallow in it. At first it might seem a lot like a confrontation. Both forms certainly contain a lot of spilt tears and even more spilt booze. But the key difference is those who confront their grief move on; eventually they make it out the other side and put the pain, sorrow, and tears behind them. Those who wallow don't even try to move on. Maybe it's the pity that they heap upon themselves, and that which they take from others. Maybe the attention is addictive, or maybe they just don't have the strength needed to pull themselves out of their misery. I don't know. I've never been able to stand people who wallow in grief for very long; their pain and tears soon become annoying. Or even worse, they clamp down and refuse to feel anything. At that point they are little more than golems made of flesh. I cannot abide wallowers.
The third way of dealing with grief, and I count myself as one of the great followers of this belief, is to run from it. Rather than allow myself to feel the pain and heartache, I throw myself into activity. I use the desire to escape my grief to drive me. Some of the most successful periods of my life have come about because I needed to run from my feelings. In the Forest of Ten, I was doing just that. I made both Hardt and Tamura teach me, to distract both my mind and body, because it was easier to wear myself to exhaustion than it was to deal with the fact that Josef was dead and a part of me had died with him.
Chapter 3
Josef
I didn't die.
I write those three little words to affirm it in my own mind because it still seems impossible to me. I sit here, weak and weary, with wounds that should have killed me. But I am alive.
I didn't die.
I. Didn't. Die.
But I wish I had.
She betrayed me. I don't know how else to say it. Eska betrayed me. I had a way out, for both of us, a way out, and a way to be free. But she didn't care. All she wanted was to keep fighting. All she wanted was vengeance for something that no longer matters to anyone save herself. Stupid bitch!
I wish I could say sorry. I killed Isen. I don't even know why. I think I was jealous. Or maybe I just wanted to hurt her. To hurt him. To hurt them. I killed him. Hardt must hate me. Eska must hate me.
I know this isn't what the overseer wants. He gave me paper and ink to write down what I saw. To tell him what happened down there. I can't speak. My voice is gone and I don't know if it will ever come back. The knife cut too deep, severed something that should never be cut. It hurts to breathe and swallow. They spoon feed me gruel and it feels like eating knives.
But what happened? There were creatures down there, I think. Monsters I had never seen before. Creatures from the Other World. I don't know anything about that place, except that Eska knows. She tried to hide it. She did a good job of hiding it. But I know knew her better than anyone. Eska is drawn to that world in some way I can't begin to understand. I remember finding her staring off into space so many times, and I know it looked like she was daydreaming, but she wasn't. She wasn't here. She was there. She was in the Other World, searching it for… I don't know what she was searching for. After everything I shared with her, everything I gave her, it still wasn't enough. Eska was always withdrawn. Even from me.