"THIS IS weird. I am very most certain that your foundation was merely flickering yesterday."
I see to it that I am not that disappointing, Miss Olivia. Maze almost allowed a grin to surface within his thoughts as his third day began. Currently in cogitation in his Soul Tree, he stood prepared for new learning.
Miss Olivia cleared her throat, her voice calm. "Do you still recall our yesterday's topic, Maze?"
Maze offered a slow nod. He began to recount the art of her lecture, weaving in the truths he had unearthed before this very moment.
"You spoke of the Phantasm as a trigger," Maze began, as his voice was the only sound in the quiet of his soul space. "By this analogy, you defined the string as the Phantasm . . . from what I can remember, it is the source of tension, and somehow . . . the release as the trigger that looses the power. Is that not right, Miss Olivia? You, on the other hand, spoke of two arrows: there is the Wine, a burning fire gifted by the gods, and the Vision, a poisoned shaft loosed by the self that seeps into one's own vessels."
He paced toward the dark brown trunk, his fingers tracing the bark.
"That is why I have come to realize that to understand power, I truly must first understand the root, after all. All thanks to the hints that I received, for which I am beyond grateful." Maze had this smile born of relief inside. "My path was not fully realized because I was a house divided. I was . . . merely observing the shadow. I did not face it instead, and that was what slowed me down. To refine my foundation, I had to accept how my Vision appeared to be. It was confronting the very thing within it."
He looked up at the branches, and somehow, he saw two realities: a hundred pale green leaves, and barren branches bearing dice fruit.
"That mimic . . . I have come to embrace it, so that . . . I could claim the origin for my own."
Even with closed eyes hidden behind his blindfold, he felt the presence of his lecturer in the Chamber of Sanctum.
"Miss Olivia, the bow is no longer just a metaphor to me. It is the truth I now harness. Am I merely a witness to the poison? Then I realized, I am also the one who looses the arrow."
He could feel a frail and warm hand ruffling his hair. Why did she do this? I am not a child for her to do such a thing. However, being treated as if a little brother, Maze was comforted. It was the first time someone had performed such an act toward him — the ruffle.
"You are quite sharp, are you not?" Miss Olivia remarked with evidence of relief in her voice. "I hesitated at first as to why Sir Azaniel said you are one of a kind, but you are only solidifying his claim as I see you possess a potential."
If only that were true. But his potential was not even that good.
"Now, now, let us broaden your horizons, Maze." There was a sudden pitch in her voice, as if cheering him, until she teased mischievously: "I deem you are prepared for practice after this."
Knowledge was something Maze yearned for, above all. Even the rustle of the wind through his hundred leaves was sounding like a soft invitation. Yet, how would this practice take place? Miss Olivia seems to be suspicious about it. He hoped for it not being too difficult.
Before he could conjure possible answers, Miss Olivia's voice proceeded already. In his soul space, it was the wind that was talking.
"Hmm, tell me, Maze," the wind whispered, "suppose you are the archer and your power is the arrow; what then is the bow? What is the physical wood that must hold the tension of the string?"
Maze looked at the dark brown trunk before him, the central pillar of his little world. "I guess the tree?"
"Precisely! This is your Core. If you are asking about what it is . . . it is the vessel, the literal structure of your existence within this space." Her voice wondered for a moment. "Let us set another example then. Imagine a ceramic pot; though it holds the water, it is the fired clay itself that defines the shape and prevents the contents from spilling into nothingness.
"In that logic, the wood of the bow is brittle, Maze; the release of the string will shatter the archer before the arrow ever strikes the mark. The Soul Tree is the sturdy frame that must house your truth."
Maze ran his hand over the bark, feeling the solidity of it.
"But consider this," she continued, the wind swirling the dust at his feet. "Even with the finest bow, what happens to the archer if he stands upon shifting sand? If the force of the release is great, can he remain upright? This is the importance of Blessedness."
"What exactly is this stability?" Maze asked, his mind reaching for the definition. "What is Blessedness, Miss Olivia?"
"A great question." Miss Olivia seemed to agree with his inquiry. "In our world, Blessedness signifies your endurance, the intake of life that allows you to remain unshakable. But remember that endurance is power, Maze, but power is not endurance alone. We get a glimpse of power, which is endurance for the logic of the analogy I give.
"It is the capacity of your spirit to anchor your existence, perhaps against the strain of your own nature. Without it, think of yourself as a glass weapon; and if you imagined that, the glass is destined to crack upon the first strike.
"Now, connect it to the analogy, Maze: it is the stance of the archer, the grip of the feet upon the loam. In the Soul Tree, it is the soil and the roots beneath you. Have you realized that in your own space, there are three levels to this soil? Shallow, mid, and deep. The beauty in it that even I . . . found so beautiful is that . . . the deeper your roots pierce the strata, the richer the tree becomes, and the better you shall last."
Maze knelt, pressing his palm to the cooling crust. So, that means that the soil is my endurance, and in terms of the Soul Tree, it is my power.
"And the leaves, Maze? What do you think those hundred pale green sprouts signify in this analogy?"
Maze tried to search for a possible answer until he thought of one: "The arrows?"
"They are your Essence. If the Core is the bow and Blessedness is your stance, then Essence is the volume of your manifestation." The wind seemed to catch its breath. "It is the arrows in your quiver. You know what? Vaelstrom informed me of your count, Maze. He said you possessed one hundred leaves while yet Fertile.
"I must admit, when I heard that report, I was so, so shaken. That very ideal, you see? To possess a hundred leaves is to reach the very ceiling of manifestation. It is a full quiver, Maze. It is a weight that few beginners can carry without collapse, and you did so, even when . . . anyway . . ."
Maze was lost for words. To be at the limit before he had even begun felt like holding a live coal.
"But," Miss Olivia whispered, "a heavy quiver is a burden to a weak archer. You must see if you have the Blessedness to hold it. Maze, I want you to become one with the Soul Tree. Well," she paused, "do not just look at the ground. What I want you to do is feel the part of you that is the soil."
Maze obeyed. He let his lids fall and reached out with his spirit, feeling his feet shrink and dissolve into the landmass. Slowly, his awareness descended into the earth.
"What do you see, Maze?"
"I am . . . in the earth," he whispered. He followed the wooden veins downward and realized with a start that the roots were deeper than he imagined. They were a pale, sandy brown, clutching far beneath the surface. "I see the first level, Miss Olivia. Here, it is light."
"Can you go deeper and aim for the next level?"
He pushed his consciousness further down. Fortunately, the roots did not stop as they plunged deeper. The color shifted, becoming a lustrous, silvered brown, and this time, denser and colder. Maze was stunned by the sheer length of the fibers.
"I see silver this time," Maze reported, his breath hitching as the depth increased. "But . . . they do not stop there. I wonder why they go further."
"Just relax and peer into the depths more."
With a final, straining effort of his will, Maze felt his roots pierce a layer that felt like solid iron. There, the wood turned a rich and deep, almost black in its intensity. It was the same dark brown of his bark, but it was appearing to be timeless, something that was without yield. It stopped here and there in the absolute pit.
Maze realized with a jolt of shock that his roots had reached the third level.
How is this possible?
"So that explains that the level of my root is . . . But, this is impossible, Miss Olivia," Maze implied, his voice trembling with the weight of the discovery. "Does this mean that I could last longer in the . . . trials in the future?"
Not that he was hopeful, but it would be an advantage.
"Fascinating, is it not?" Miss Olivia remarked with a reverent voice. "You are not merely Fertile, Maze. Look, even your foundation is this rich. It is just like this: you have the bow, the quiver, and the stance, all in their absolute fertility. Wonderful, indeed!"
He heard Miss Olivia flick her fingers once.
"Then, shall we take you to the Chamber of Refinement for practice?"
The curious Maze agreed with a wobble.