INTERLUDE 5C: AN APPRENTICESHIP
“It is not enough to have a fertile imagination. There is no fire in the tinder of the mind. There must be the seed. The spark that catches. It must come from outside and it must be tended. It must be watered and fed. It must be coaxed into being. There is no idea in isolation. There is no being out of nothing. To create it always takes two and the creation is in constant tension between its progenitor and its progeny. That which preceded it and that which superseded it. Only the strongest creations persist as templates in spite of the successive regenerations which would attempt to replace them.”
– from ‘The Mortal as Material’, ch. 21
30th Kailost, 997 NE
“Please, take a seat, Mr. Wyle…”
The brown-haired boy steepled his fingers, lounging back in his huge leather chair on the other side of the table. Harukar did his best to maintain a graceful manner while sitting down in the (far-less-grandiose) chair on his side of the table, and noticed the faint smile on the boy’s face.
“What brings you here? I asked for men of character to submit their applications. I appreciate your keen ability to emulate your betters, but I –“
“Please, m’lord, allow me first to express my gratitude that you have been willing to accept my submission,” Harukar had chosen his words carefully, along with the accent, “and my apologies that I dare interrupt you – when you make such pertinent inquiry into my arrival at your magnificent abode today. Gods willing, if you should allow me to make my case, I will then leave to your good judgement what punishment or reward I might deserve.”
The faint smile on the boy’s face had deepened, and for a moment Harukar thought he’d been successful; then the boy spoke.
“Your flattery is well-designed, but perhaps a touch overwrought.” The smile didn’t leave the youthful face, however. “I take it in my considerable stride. Make your case, Mr. Wyle, and make it well.”
Harukar drew in a deep breath. The boy-man sitting across from him, the young Lord Shadow, represented everything he’d always wanted to be. Now here he was, twice the kid’s age and then some, basically abasing himself before this icon of nobility for a chance, a shred of a chance to be something like him.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
So he spoke. He spoke of his ambition and he knew it lit up his eyes; he felt himself flush as the excitement built. He spoke of his needs, his craving, his obsession.
He went off-script. He spoke from the heart.
The black, empty heart.
Something in what he said struck the right chord, made the same light take hold in the boy’s eyes.
Harukar was shaking as he finished, and closed his eyes, enduring the painful silence as one endures the fall of the headsman’s axe.
When the young lord’s words fell he shuddered.
“We begin tomorrow night.”
* * *
8th Lynara, 997 NE
The same nightmare. The same faces. The same screaming.
Harukar awoke, panting, pulling at the sweat-sodden bedsheets, his hair that stuck to his head. Yathira stirred, and saw him through half-closed eyes.
“What’s wrong, dear?” she murmured sleepily.
He could hardly stand the concern in her voice.
“Nothing.”
“You smell of wine again.”
Why is she intruding?
“Leave me alone,” he snarled.
She frowned, then rolled over and went back to sleep.
He stayed awake, waiting for the dawn, for the day of toil to begin. If he wanted profits from his day’s work, he had to work himself hard, and he would do it, knowing all the while that it was coming.
Dusk. The evening of slaughter, ready to be resumed.
He could take off the bracelet Lyferin made him wear, take it off and take Yathira and run. Run far from Mund, run until they were broke. And maybe even then it wouldn’t be fast enough, far enough, to escape the Lord Shadow’s wrath.
No.
He’d exposed his soul to the young lord. He’d never taken money from Lyferin – it would be beneath his lordship to offer such a banal gesture of generosity, and improper for a man of Harukar’s station to accept – but nonetheless he’d forged a bond there. He’d submitted, and sworn fealty. He’d accepted a spell binding him to silence.
This was everything I ever wanted, he reminded himself. He’s going to bring me prestige. He promised it. It will be mine. If I just do what he says, it will be mine.
But why? he questioned. Why? Why does he make me kill? And what does he do with all the bodies? Who does he trust to clean those up, night after night?
So, so many bodies…
And then it occurred to him, for the first time: Where does he even find these lost souls?
It didn’t matter that he didn’t go back to sleep. He saw the faces now with his waking eyes, in the corners of the bedroom. They never moved – they weren’t real ghosts. But they were there all the same. He saw them, and they saw him.
No. There was no going back.
* * *