Path of the Warrior Read Free Page B

arcing arm of his sculpture, an aberration in the otherwise perfect flow of organic and inorganic. It was not meant to be and Korlandril did not know how it had come to be.
    It had been like this for the last two cycles. Whenever he laid his fingers upon the ghost stone, to tease it into the forms so real in his mind, it refused to be held sway by his thoughts. It had taken him all of the last cycle just to get three fingers perfect, and at this pace the piece would be far from ready when the unveiling was to be held in just two more cycles.
    The pale ochre of the ghost stone sat unmoving, dormant without his caress, but to Korlandril it had developed a life of its own. It rebelled against his desires, twisting away from the shapes he wanted, forming hard edges where soft curves should be, growing diminutive thorns and spikes whenever his mind strayed even the slightest.
    He knew the ghost stone was not at fault. It was possessed of no will, no spirit. It merely reacted to his input, shaping itself under his gentle psychic manipulation. It was inert now, but Korlandril sensed a certain smugness in its unwillingness to cooperate, even as another part of his mind told him that he was simply projecting his frustrations onto an inanimate object.
    His mind divided, all concentration now gone, Korlandril stepped back and looked away, ashamed at his failing. The shimmering of the holofield around him, erected to conceal the work from admirers until it was unveiled in its finished glory, played a corona of colours into Korlandril’s eyes. For a moment he was lost gazing at the undulating view of the forest dome beyond the shimmering holofield, the distorted vista sending a flurry of inspiration through his mind.
    “I almost dare not ask,” said a voice behind Korlandril. He turned to see his mentor, Abrahasil, gazing intently at the statue.
    “You need not ask anything,” said Korlandril. “It is Aradryan’s return that perturbs me, but I know not why. I am happy that my friend is once again with us.”
    “And what of your thoughts of Aradryan in relation to your work?”
    “I have none,” replied Korlandril. “This piece was started long before I knew of his return.”
    “And yet progress has been slow since you learnt of it, and almost non-existent since it happened,” said Abrahasil. “The effect is clear, though the cause remains obscured to you. Perhaps I might help?”
    Korlandril shrugged his indifference and then felt a stab of contrition at Abrahasil’s disappointed sigh.
    “Of course, I would appreciate any guidance you can give me,” said Korlandril, forcing himself to look at the statue. “I see it clearly, all of it, every line and arc, as you taught me. I allow the peace and the piece to become one within me, as you taught me. I direct my thoughts and my motion towards its creation, as you taught me. Nothing I do has changed, and yet the ghost stone is rebellious to my demands.”
    Abrahasil raised a narrow finger at this last comment.
    “Demands, Korlandril? It is desire not demand that shapes the ghost stone. A demand is an act of aggression; a desire is an act of submission. The thought shapes the act which shapes the form. Why has desire changed to demand?”
    Korlandril did not answer at first, startled that he had not been aware of such a simple distinction, subtle as it was. He repeated the question to himself, searching his thoughts, sifting through his mental processes until he could locate the point at which desire had become demand.
    “I wish to impress others with my work, and I feel the pressure of expectation,” Korlandril said eventually, pleased that he found an answer.
    “That is not what is wrong,” said Abrahasil with the slightest pursing of his lips, spearing through Korlandril’s bubble of self-congratulation. “Always has your work been expressive, intended to impose your insight upon others. That has not changed. Remember something more specific. Something related to