Chapter 70 – Limits

When Mirian woke, it took her a moment to overcome her disorientation. It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes. The wand of levitation was still lying in a patch of dirt where it had rolled. She could tell she’d have a nice handful of bruises. When she stood, her vision briefly narrowed, and the nausea hit her again. She stumbled forward and braced herself against a nearby tree, the tactile sensation of the rough and cold bark grounding her.

She pocketed the wand, then slowly made her way back to town, occasionally stumbling as she walked.

What is going on? she wondered. Is it the time loop? Something with whatever is in my soul? She needed to talk to someone about it. But who?

The most obvious place was the hospital. The priests knew soul magic, even if they called it something else, and more importantly, they knew the soul magic of people, not just of plants like Xipuatl. She made her way there. Something about her must have looked awful enough, because after talking to the desk attendant, she didn’t need to wait long. She met with Cleric Marovim in one of the ritual rooms, a younger man who she’d seen before at the hospital, but never properly met. His dark hair and olive skin marked him as south Baracueli, and both of them were happy to speak Cuelsin. Northern Baracueli rarely bothered to practice the language much, but it was the language she knew better.

As he pressed his hand to his heart, Mirian was pleased to discover she could feel the faintest signs of him working soul magic. It was much like the subtle tingle she felt at arcane magic, but different. As with arcane magic, it was an entirely different sense that defied easy description, but she thought of it as having a different color.

Cleric Marovim closed his eyes as he worked, hands hovering over Mirian. After a moment, he opened them. “You have Soul Destabilization Syndrome. Probably the worst case of it I’ve ever seen.”

Mirian wracked her mind, but came up with nothing. “What’s that?”

“Your soul is… chaotic. Parts of it are breaking loose. The soul, mind, and body are all linked in the holy triarchy. Disrupting one causes the other two to suffer. This is why healing the soul also heals the body. However, the reverse is true, which explains your symptoms. Frankly, I’m surprised you were able to even walk here.”

“Oh,” said Mirian, fear gripping her. That sounded bad.

“There are several causes. One, you have been attacked by a necromancer. They may not have used an actual ‘curse’ spell, but rather just attacked the soul. I don’t suppose that’s it?”

“Certainly not,” Mirian said, though as she said it, her own self-doubt crept in. Were there any necromancers hanging around Torrviol? Had one of them secretly attacked her? It seemed like the sort of thing she would have noticed, though.

“The next likely cause is the over-consumption of mana potions,” Marovim said, and immediately Mirian thought oh shit. The look on her face must have been enough for the cleric, because he said, “Ah. That would be it, then. How many mana potions have you had in the last few days?”

“Two a day. Well, sometimes three, if I’m doing extra practice.”

Marovim’s face went white. “Per day? And how long…?”

“Two months.” She wasn’t sure how the time loop affected that, and she was sure the cleric didn’t either. “I was only drinking one every few days before that…”

“Xylatarvia certainly smiles on you, then. You must have a strong soul. Most people would be dead. Soul-death is… not a pleasant way to die, I have heard.”

“Oh,” said Mirian again, feeling the floor drop out from under her. Could the time loop even save her from that? It felt like one of those things she shouldn’t try to find out. “It’s A-class mana though, just like what our auras make. Why…?”

“I heard of a man once who died from drinking too much water. Everything is dangerous if you have enough of it.”

“Right. Uh, how many mana potions is safe to drink, for future reference? I must have missed the day they talked about it in class….”

“Two per week. Per week,” Marovim said, adding raised eyebrows to the emphasis. “Some people tend to do okay with three. Usually, it’s not a problem because no one needs that much mana—or has the money for it. You’ll want to lay off the mana potions for a few months.”

“And can I cast spells? Is that dangerous?” Mirian wanted to ask about using soul-magic, but that wasn’t likely to go over well, or get an answer.

“I would lay off the spellcasting for at least a week.”

Eugh, Mirian thought. That was going to be annoying. “Is there anything you can do to help?”

“Usually, yes. But at this level of destabilization, it would be dangerous to do anything. Sometimes, time is the best healer.”

Mirian thanked him, then went to rest. She’d need it; tomorrow she’d be meeting with Mayor Ethwarn and the militia preparations would begin.

***

Respected Jei was able to get her both the leyline data and access to research on the Divine Monument again, though this time through less legitimate channels. She seemed as surprised as Mirian to learn that mana potions could cause such a problem. “It has never come up before,” she said, and seemed to be embarrassed that she hadn’t known.

After the meeting with the mayor, Mirian spent the rest of the day pouring over the notes with Jei. Her mentor weathered the questions for hours before finally saying, “I will have a headache if we continue. You need your rest as well.”

The next day, Mirian met with Professor Cassius and the newly appointed Captain Moliner to go over Akana’s plan of attack and the defense of Torrviol. This time, she could say with some confidence that the Baracuel Army would arrive on the 25th, well before the Akanan spearhead made it to Torrviol, and could plan for their deployment.

Barred from magic, including even artifice, Mirian had a great deal of extra time, even with her meetings with the militia and mayor. She went to the Luminate Temple, where Priest Krier had prepared more texts for her to study. No rancorous mob ever made an appearance; whatever had stirred them up, she had clearly headed off. As the Battle of Torrviol neared again, a great deal more eyes now watched the edge of town. Mirian used her new connections in the government to get Valen appointed as an intelligence agent of the militia, so she had her finger on the pulse of more than just the rumors; she could convey to Mirian the official reports of other agents.

Valen called the operation “shabby” and “amateurish,” but on Seventhday, after the arrival of the Baracuel Army, a patrol picked up an Akanan agent making a desperate dash for the woods. It was no one Mirian had ever seen or heard of before, but she memorized her name and face. She was one of the transit workers, it turned out. The spies really had insinuated themselves everywhere of any importance.

In the evenings, Mirian sat down with Nicolus with old Akanan newspapers she’d checked out from the Bainrose archives and talked politics over dinner. To Nurea’s horror, Nicolus would use the pages of newspaper to wipe his hands. “What?” he said, with Nurea looked aghast. “They’ll be good as new soon.”

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Firstday, the letter from Nicolus’s uncle finally arrived.

Mirian met him in the living room where several plush, embroidered couches were positioned to look out the large eastern facing window. Nurea had made up little slices of bread with olive oil, diced olives, and a delicious sharp cheese, and so they ate those while Nicolus read the letter aloud. “Dear Nicolus, I hope this finds you well, blah blah blah, there’s the code phrase that means he really wrote it under his own power. I am in—in hiding? Gods’ blood! Hold on, hold on.” Nicolus stopped reading out loud, his eyes rapidly skimming the letter. When he was done, he set it down, leaned back on the couch, and said, “Mirian, you’ve got your work cut out for you stopping this war.”

Mirian groaned. “There’s always more to it, isn’t there?”

“Yeah,” Nicolus said. “The Akanans are saying a Baracueli guy assassinated their Prime Minister. That’s why they declare war.”

Mirian sat upright abruptly. “What!? When?”