Underlord (Cradle #6)(59)

So, if I had taken those hits instead of Yerin...

[You would have shrugged it off,] Dross said. [I’m sorry. I didn’t know how much damage she’d taken before we saw her.]

Dross was using Lindon’s senses. And Lindon hadn’t opened his Copper sight, because the aura was too strong.

Lindon felt like he was being crushed beneath the pressure of an Underlord. He had made sure that Dross and Orthos had all the water they needed from the Life Well, because they could use it. He had ignored the rest because he hadn't seen any use for himself.

[Uh, Lindon? Are you feeling all right? I'm growing alarmed. Alarmed is a good word. 'Afraid' is another one.]

Without looking, Lindon reached out with his right arm and seized the Lowgold Brightcrown. She shook as the Remnant hand closed around her upper arm.

He turned to her, and she flinched back. Was he squeezing her too hard? No, he was being gentle. Maybe it was his face. Still, he withdrew his hand.

“A new lifeline,” he said. “How do I get one?”

The Lowgold girl looked from side to side. “It's not something...I mean, you can't replace it. It's a representation of how strong your life is.”

“So I could pour more life aura in?”

“Ah, no. That's like filling broken madra channels with more power. It won't fix the damage. The power will only leak out.”

“Something restores broken lifelines,” Lindon said.

The Life Well did. Northstrider can't have been the only one to have done so. And he wasn't the only Monarch in the world.

The girl rubbed the back of her neck. “If she were Lowgold, I would say advancement. That helps everything a little, even your lifeline. But she's Truegold. This is as far as she goes.”

She looked at him as though expecting him to be angry, but he felt as though she'd pushed a mountain off his shoulders.

From her perspective, no one could count on advancing to Underlord. By most common sense, the journey of a sacred artist ended at Truegold.

But not for Yerin.

Just in case, he checked with Dross.

[Oh no, advancing to Underlord is worlds better than advancing to Highgold. Your body and spirit are remade.]

“Gratitude,” Lindon said, and she looked confused.

Lindon started to push his way into the tent, but hesitated. “I'm coming in,” he called, waiting for Yerin's response before entering.

She sat in the same position as before, though now she had a loose brown robe wrapped around her shoulders. She stared into her master's sword, its white blade sitting in her lap.

“I heard,” she said. “Nothing like a deadline to push you past your limits, true?” Her tone was supposed to be light, but she was forcing it.

Lindon sat on the edge of the bed and put on a brave face. “Who needs two months? You fought two Underlords at once last night. You'll be breaking through any time.”

Yerin pushed out a smile. “Yeah. Cheers and celebration for me.” Her eyes were sunken, and her face was paler than usual.

She still hadn't looked at him, staring deep into her master's blade. She was gripping the hilt hard...too hard. Her knuckles stood out white, and from Yerin, Lindon suspected that meant she was squeezing hard enough to crush rocks to dust.

He put his hand over hers, partially to comfort her, and partially because he was afraid she would hurt herself. Her grip relaxed, at least a little, and she looked up at him.

He looked into her dark, questioning eyes, and racked his brain for something to say.

What could he say? What could he do?

Lindon's mouth spoke before his brain had entirely confirmed the idea. “...I want to go back home.”

Her expression turned confused.

“After we're Underlords. We won’t be strong enough to fight off a…monster, or a Dreadgod, or a Monarch, or whatever’s coming, but we can hold our own in the world out here. Even if nobody listens to me, we can grab my family and get out. Take them to the Blackflame Empire; Underlords here are treated like kings. We could even wander around, like you and your master used to do.”

The look in Yerin's eyes shifted over a long moment, like a ship slowly turning to another course. “We've got to fight in the tournament.”

“Why? We can advance on our own terms.”

Anything to keep her talking.

“Did that prince chip your head? Steel sharpens steel. You want to toss away a chance to cross swords with the best in the world?” Her grip on the sword loosened further, and she was sitting straighter. “My master lost in the solo matches to Del'rek of the Shann. Said it was the sharpest battle of his life; worth more than ten years of practice on his own. And Del'rek joined up with the Eight-Man Empire.”

“I would miss the prizes,” Lindon said. Though no one had explained what the actual prizes were, they had to be substantial.

“It’ll be a tall cliff to climb, but worth every inch. You make it past the first round, and the Ninecloud Court make a floating castle just for you.”

Lindon started. She actually knew what the prizes were? Why had he never asked?

“If you survive the second round, you get an Archlord weapon that makes that castle look like a pig pen. Third round, that’s a gift from some other faction. One of the ones you didn't come from, if you’re following me. Factions compete over who can give the best gifts, so you'd be looking at the storm phoenix feathers, fruit from the Heart-Piercer Tree, thousand-year spirits...my master got a dream tablet showing a heavenly messenger swinging a sword.”