An overhead view of Densmore spreads through the space above Ezio’s desk, marking out the cities and topography of the country in intricate detail. A gleaming map of mana made manifest, the illusion magic pulses once, like a firefly at dusk, before settling and taking on solidity. As the light-map fades from eye-searing brightness to simply scintillating, Rakesh steps forward, deftly taking over the Skill as he paces back and forth in the office.
I sink into my [Manasight], gawking at the display. I follow the threads of magic, observing the combined Skill in rapt fascination as the flows of mana transfer from Ezio to Rakesh. I’ve never seen a combination quite like this before. The way my team and I use our glass Skills together is like an assembly line. We each have a role to play to produce a final product. This is more like two [Drivers] directing a carriage pulled by a massive team of horses: each person holds separate reins, but they give intent and directions in unison. It’s mesmerizing to watch the two work in tandem.
“When Ezio first asked me to look into Ember’s swords, Nuri, I mistakenly assumed that I wouldn’t find much to support the assertion that they’re masterworks. How many of those are simply floating around Densmore unverified? Yet, the more I looked, the more I found evidence to support that assertion. A good [Researcher] may start with a supposition, but he never allows his assumptions to color the evidence, so I quickly discarded my bias. To my surprise, they’re not only legitimate, but I was able to find references to their commissioning over forty years ago in Cape Netainbie.”
Rakesh pauses his speech for a moment, gesturing to the map and highlighting a city as far away from the capital as we are, but on the other side of Densmore. Presumably, this is the aforementioned Cape Netainbie, which I’ve never heard of before. I just smile and nod, and that seems to be enough.
“I have copies of the [Image Mage] imprint-pictures, as well as a press release article from a newspaper if you’d like to drop by later to take a look. I still can’t quite figure out how they made their way into your father’s possession, and now Ember’s but I imagine it’s a fascinating tale if Ember is ever willing to share.
“Once I verified their origin, I started looking for additional unaccounted-for masterworks in Densmore. As you may imagine, the list is pretty sparse. Most of the registered creations are still in use by their original owners, or inherited by the next generation. After all, most people who are wealthy enough to afford a masterwork aren’t in the business of letting assets slip through their fingers!
“Three weeks of mostly fruitless research netted me two other glass masterworks on my mystery list. Worse, the first one hardly counts, if the accounts can be believed. It appears to have been lost during an alchemical fire, an accident that melted bedrock and enchanted metal alike. Nothing was recovered from the workshop.
“The second missing glasswork artifact, however, is far more intriguing: an enchanted illusionary communication array. Technically, the linked mirrors are a pair, not a single item, although I refer to the entire object as a singular artifact precisely because they are connected. As much as it pains me to admit it, I’m unfamiliar with the exact properties of magic that allow them to project a likeness of a person across vast distances. How they transmit sound as well as image is an intriguing—and valuable—secret. Obviously, they’re intended for use together, but only one of the fabled du Maurier Glass Mirrors still remains in the capital. No one knows what became of the other half, although I came across a most fascinating clue while trying to track down the clues surrounding its disappearance.”
Rakesh trails off and fixes me with an expectant stare, and the silence starts to grow unbearable before it dawns on me that this is an interactive talk, not a dry lecture. I take the bait. “So, what’s the plan? When do we leave for the next treasure hunt?”
“Ahh, no adventures just yet. We have more research to do first,” Rakesh replies, with a bright note in his voice when he says research.
“I can’t wait to hear how it turns out,” I say, and I mean it. I’m glad that someone likes information and studying, even if it sounds overly tedious to me. As Ezio is fond of saying, there are all sorts of paths to power. Rakesh and I are taking radically different routes, but neither one is more legitimate than the other. In the end, the only imprimatur is success.
Rakesh nods fractionally. “You’ll be happy to hear that a familiar name popped up rather frequently while I was scouring the annals of history for clues about what happened to the other half of the glass mirror. Any guesses who that might be?”
“That’s an easy one,” I say, sudden excitement bleeding through. “Tem referenced a top secret way to communicate with his team in his autobiography—he had permission to declassify the existence of an artifact, but not its details or method of communication. His team used it on a mission once in Golvin. In fact, it was the very mission that led to their nickname: the Mage Killer Brigade.”
I sigh softly. “He always hated that name, he told me. Said it made them sound like mere butchers with a vendetta against magic, rather than specialists adept at mapping, infiltrating, and occasionally putting an end to threats against the realm.”
An impish grin briefly cracks the veneer of the aloof [Researcher] that Rakesh maintains most of the time. “I’ve read that one, too,” he says, catching me off guard. He doesn’t seem like the type to get into spy stories. “To be honest, I thought Tem’s book was heavily fictionalized. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that some of the artifacts really did exist.”
I lean forward eagerly. “You think one of his old teammates might still have it? Could we use it to try to find him? Maybe he’s trying to communicate with us from the other side of the Labyrinth! Or is it only possible to use it as a linked pair? I guess it doesn’t simply pick up any attempt to communicate from a distance.”
“It’s possible,” Rakesh said slowly, drawing out the words as his forehead creases in thought. “I don’t think it’s likely, however. Anyway, let’s stay on topic. I’m not done yet with my monologue!”
Ezio and I share a look. He quirks an eyebrow, and I let out a quiet chuckle at the way his face furrows comically. “Aren’t villains supposed to monologue?”
“Hmph! Let me have my moment,” Rakesh grumbles.
I wave Rakesh onward, curious what else he has to say. His story is just getting good.
“You know, the SCA isn’t noted for its largesse,” Rakesh continues. “I suppose it’s to be expected. As an academy in a borderland City, we admittedly lag behind the universities in the bigger, wealthier metropolitans in central Densmore. Thankfully, our humble academy has made one splurge, although it didn’t come from their own coffers. A few generations ago, a wealthy local [Lord] made a generous posthumous contribution to the Academy so that the SCA could subscribe in perpetuity to the national Index of news, unusual information, and research papers.
“The Index is our greatest asset. Most of the [Scholars] and [Researchers] here use it only to check each other’s work, or to keep in touch about banal issues. I freely admit that there’s value in peer review. But I prefer to use my Skills to analyze hidden trends and informational anomalies. I collect and correlate data, particularly from primary sources, and activate my Skill [Pattern Matching: Overlooked Commonalities].”
“And that led you to a discovery?” I ask, more curious than ever to understand how his mana abilities work. They’re well-suited to his line of work, as befits his Class, but they’re all so different from what I’m used to that they seem more, well, magical. I can adjust heat, summon a bit of glass, and shape it into other bits of glass—all things that a non-Classed crafter could also achieve, if more slowly and with less flash.
What Rakesh does seems like he’s cheating, though. Surely no one has the patience or insight to meticulously comb through details and match just the right ones together, piece by piece, until a complete picture emerges, without relying on Skills. That sounds horrifying. I shake off the errant thought, and nod toward the mana map. “What else did you find?”
“What did we find? Ah, yes!” Rakesh says excitedly, resuming his frantic pacing. “I looked up all the old press releases related to the presentations of these various glass masterworks. They were spread out all across the country, over several generations, but one thing always stood out—the shipping crates.”
I frown, feeling lost. “I’m not sure I follow. Isn’t a crate just a crate? How else would they deliver the glass? We always pack up our deliveries in soft straw and ship them in a crate. I’ve never seen anything unique or notable about them.”
With a wave of his hand, Rakesh summons more phantasmal apparitions, pictures drawn from the [Image Mage]’s imprints of the deliveries. The scenes are captured in exacting detail, as though I’m standing right there watching it happen in person. Rakesh jabs his finger at the rotating display. Mana sings forth from his channels, and the shipping crates are highlighted in shimmering gold while the rest of the scene fades into obscurity.
I shuffle forward, squinting as I studiously try to make out the differences in the pictures. Or, more accurately, the similarities between the lit up crates. They do seem to bear remarkable resemblance to one another, but isn’t that to be expected? On a whim, I activate my Skill [Architect of Unseen Worlds] to try to gain insight into the construction of the various crates, but no matter how much mana I pour into the ability, nothing happens.
I growl in frustration. My shoulders slump, and I release the mana-intensive Skill with a twinge of disappointment. I should have known that I needed something physical to analyze in order to get any tangible feedback, but still, the failure grates on me.
“So . . . what am I looking at, exactly?” I finally ask, admitting defeat.
Rakesh inhales deeply, then spits out another rapid-fire explanation without pausing to take another breath. It’s a dizzying cascade of words that has to be another Skill at work—that, or the mania of a man wrapped up in the heady intoxication of ideas. “My breakthrough started with the shipping routes. Now, I recognize that there are major centers of traffic. Densmore’s postal services operate on the classic hub and spoke paradigm, after all. They’re not reinventing design principles. So, in a sense, all shipping traffic is bound by the limitations of the system to pass through one of several hubs. But each of these glassworks shared a route.
“When I reviewed available shipping manifests, one of my passive Skills began to tingle. [Epiphany of the Scholar] vibrated slightly, like a buzz in the back of the mind. At first, I worried it might be a false positive, so I pressed on and looked at other distinctives, not wanting to fall into the easy trap of failing to do my due diligence. None of the criteria I’d laid out had any actual correlation, however: the delivery timelines overlapped poorly, the material composition of the various pieces differed wildly, the colorations and designs were all over the place, the actual function of the artifacts had nothing to do with one another, and so on.
“No, the only thing any of the masterworks have in common is a small shipping station in the Western peaks region: Kalhue. The town itself is unremarkable. It’s only serviced by a few transportation routes. I believe they hold the key to unlocking this mystery, however. While the details of the shipping addresses are not in the public domain, the type of shipping crates are listed in both ship and carriage manifests, strangely enough.
“Did you know that Densmore lacks any real standardization or regulation when it comes to the containers in which freight is transported? No? Ah, well, I’ll try not to let your lack of familiarity with the subject dampen my enthusiasm; I suppose shipping crates aren’t a general topic of discussion over dinner at the pub. Nonetheless, it’s a fascinating detail, and one that served to ’crack the case,’ as they say.” Rakesh makes air quotes with his fingers, nodding to himself in satisfaction.
I grin at his excitement. He’s really getting into the spirit of the story. Maybe he would have enjoyed becoming a [Thespian] instead of a [Researcher].
Rakesh continues his torrid verbal offensive without pause, gesturing while speaking at an unrelenting pace. “All I had to do was look up the dominant lumber type of the various cities which feed into that shipping hub, based on the trees that grow best in those agricultural zones, and it readily became apparent that each of the masterworks could be traced back to a single point of origin in terms of where they were packed up and shipped off for delivery! A simple deduction, really, once I had the right details.” His smile grows sly. “Any guesses?”
I shrug, about to protest that I don’t know much about what he’s researching, but Rakesh doesn’t seem like the kind of person to barrage me with questions that I’m not equipped to answer. I twiddle my thumbs absently, running through old legends I’ve heard before while I try to come up with an answer. “The fact that you want me to guess makes me think that maybe there’s some sort of crossover with the popular rumors of hidden Masters of glass. If that’s the case, then I suppose it comes down to either the cities of Acondia or Mellanlange.”
Ezio pats my shoulder. “Geography is not your strong point, Nuri. Those cities are both along the Southern Coast, not in the mountains. Remember, he specified the Western peaks.”
“In my defense, Rakesh only asked me to guess. No one said I had to actually get it right!” I protest. “Besides, something tells me that if it were that easy, then someone would have figured it out a long time ago. What else did you find to support your assertion? You don’t seem like the kind of person to jump on the first theory you hear and not look for supporting evidence.”
“Astute observation,” Rakesh says. “There’s far more to this puzzle than just the lumber used in the crates. Yet in this case, the reason they all shared a shipping hub is because they came from the city itself! They didn’t originate elsewhere; the crates are a speciality product of Kalhue. Yet, as I said, knowing the locale is only half the battle. There’s a diverse population of over forty-thousand in Kalhue, despite its relatively out of the way location, and I don’t feel like knocking on each door to ask if a secret master of glass is at residence. Such crude heuristics are not my forte.”
Ezio and Rakesh share a quiet chuckle, as though Rakesh has told a joke, but I don’t get it. I don’t even know what the word heuristics means. Academics. What a weird bunch.
“There are four more key details to consider, however,” Rakesh says, clearing his throat as he prepares to launch into further explanation.
“Only four?” I interrupt with a grin, unable to hold back from playful sarcasm. “I appreciate that you’ve cut it down for my sake.”
“Indeed. The original presentation was far more in-depth, but Ezio said we had to keep it at a twelve-year-old’s comprehension level,” Rakesh says without missing a beat. He is so matter of fact with his delivery, maintaining a perfectly neutral face, that I’m actually hurt a little. Teasing and the occasional jab I enjoy, but this is straight-up murdering my pride.
I shake my head, and finally manage to mumble, “My gratitude for your thoughtfulness.”
“First and foremost,” Rakesh continues blithely, seemingly unaware of the carnage he’s leaving in his wake, “I reviewed Densmore’s rare metals production. You know better than I do how important materials are to the formation of various types of glass. There are three main warehouses across Densmore that deal in the rare earths that are necessary for more unusual colors and compositions. One of them is located here.”
Rakesh points to the interactive map again with his elegant, scholarly fingers, and the view zooms down at a nauseating pace, going from a blinking dot to a full-fledged, bustling town a bit smaller than Silaraon. “This is a production facility roughly a half a day’s journey away from Kalhue, based on the average daily pace of freight wagons or caravans. The others are more easterly, in the great plains before the landscape fades into the desert. It seems like a logical conclusion, then, that it’s easier to source materials locally. At the very least, it’s cheaper than paying shipping and tariffs to import from several provinces away.”
The map zooms out again, then shrinks down to a quarter of its original size, superseded by a newspaper clipping. I squint and just make out text gleefully proclaiming infighting among one of Kalhue’s leading aristocratic Houses, but I don’t have much context to understand who’s involved or why it’s relevant to me.
Rakesh rambles onward, undeterred by my confusion. “I must admit that the second and third reasons are inextricably tied together, but I’ll try to clarify my line of thought. Legal squabbles are always ugly when family is involved, but this involves a side branch of the family auctioning off studio space, which is advertised as ’a haven for artists working with all mediums, whether visual or auditory, written or performative, mundane or magical, corporeal or ethereal.’”
I snort, unable to hide my derision. “They really covered all aspects of creativity, eh? Let me guess—they have a hot shop or glassworks in the design studio?”
Rakesh blink owlishly. “Er, yes. How did you know?”
Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.
“I’m not actually lacking in mental capacity. I’m just not a [Researcher] or data specialist,” I reply a bit more smugly than necessary, picking up the pieces of my shattered ego. Small victories. “You’re explaining why this location makes sense for the glassworks. I’m just speeding up the talk a bit.”
“Yes, yes. And that leads into my third point: bank statements!” Rakesh proclaims.
“Bank statements?” I scrunch up my nose. “But those aren’t public record. The other pieces of information make sense, since you can find them in the Index, and it’s very impressive how you’ve puzzled out the answers, but how did you get access to their financial information?”
A modest smile creases Rakesh’s face. “Ordinarily, you’d be right. Thanks to the estate sale, however, certain details have been made available to the bidding public that otherwise would be kept under wraps, for the sake of full disclosure. As for the rest? Well, I have my ways. Let’s just say that there’s far more money flowing into that business than a simple glassworks studio can account for, even one attached to a creative space trading in the ’ethereal’ arts, whatever that may mean.”
His excitement boils over, and he starts to pace vigorously back and forth along the length of the office again, despite Ezio’s frown of disapproval as he scuffs up the new carpet. “I double-checked their taxes against Ember’s Glassworks. Now, I know that their shop is twice as large as yours, and probably has higher-paying clientele. Even assuming that they make five times as much profit per sale, though, the numbers still don’t add up! They’re paying nearly fifteen times as much in taxes compared to what your glass works studio pays. That’s simply not possible if they’re only selling cups and bowls and vases, unless my market analysis is completely off-base. And if I may boast, as indecorous as it may be, I don’t think that’s the case.”
“No, no, I’d never accuse you of such sloppiness,” I murmur, holding up my hands.
“Thank you, Nuri,” Rakesh says gravely. “Your vote of confidence means a lot to me. I’m certain they have produced artifacts and masterworks there. There’s no other way to account for the sheer volume of cash flow.”
“Eh, I don’t know about that.” I shrug one shoulder. “Couldn’t it just be a front for the little lordlings? A money-laundering scheme is less grandiose, but probably more common than an actual hidden master at work.”
Rakesh looks stricken, and I instantly regret my cavalier attitude. He was so proud after my compliment, and now I’ve cut him back down. Would it kill me to think before I blurt things out? I’m not a very polite friend.
“That’s an excellent point,” Rakesh admits, running his fingers through his hair. He turns toward his mentor. “Ezio? Your input here is invaluable to me. Have I overlooked a far simpler explanation in my rush to explain everything with a grand narrative? My anti-bias Skills aren’t as ranked up as I’d like. I know yours are more potent. I thought I’d adequately ruled out incidental details, but perhaps I’ve been looking so hard for correlation that I’ve erred. Could you review for me once more?”
Ezio laces his fingers together in front of his waist. He tilts his head to the side, his lips pressed together, and his eyes grow vacant. A flurry of mana ripples below the surface, but for once I can’t make out the shapes of the spellforms. After a long moment, he stands up straight and smiles. “No, I don’t think so. Trust our process, Rakesh. Trust the conclusions we’ve reached. We’re working with good data, and we’ve ruled out false positives as much as we can. I don’t think you should second-guess yourself now. It’s only human to doubt, but don’t let it cloud your mind.”
“Thank you, sir,” Rakesh says, his eyes growing misty before he blinks away the tears before they can form and regains his composure.
I cough, growing uncomfortable with the sudden revelation that I’m not the only one with insecurities and inadequacies. Ha! Even my deficiencies aren’t special!
Rakesh squares his shoulders, his resolve firming up as he meets my eyes. “Last point in my theory. No one lives forever, although breaking into the third Threshold apparently doubles or even triples the average lifespan of a human. Most Crafters never reach those exalted heights, however. Few reach the second—for example, we only have a few citizens in all of Silaraon, regardless of Class, who have achieved that distinction. Masters of a craft may have relatively high levels, but they aren’t guaranteed to surpass the second Threshold. That means we won’t need to look through centuries of history.
“Working off the theory that these disparate glass masterworks all came from the same glassworks studio, I determined that we have to look at a roughly eighty to one-hundred year time frame, and then match that against the known lifespan of various noteworthy glassworkers.”
“Let me guess. There’s a famous glass smith in Kalhue?” I ask, wondering why we didn’t just lead with this detail and save us all a lot of time.
“Not exactly,” Rakesh says, a slight twist to his lips. “In fact, there’s no record of a master or of an established smith there at all. But how could that be? It’s impossible that a professional glass studio earning that kind of income is made up solely of interns and apprentices. They’re hiding something. I’m sure of it!”
I frown, struggling to see his point. “Then why talk about lifespans? You don’t have an actual crafter to analyze. How is it relevant?”
“Ahh, the heart of the matter,” Rakesh says. “Remember the family squabble I mentioned earlier? One of the members of the minor branch of the House was a known dabbler in various arts. He set up the competition while on his deathbed, and he passed away earlier this year.”
At my dubious look, Rakesh holds up his index finger to ward off further doubt. “This is where things get interesting. He’s the same [Viscount] who used to sponsor the glass studio. The dates of his birth and death line up nicely with the timelines for the various masterworks we’ve discussed, although he never took credit for any of the glass artifacts. He acted as a rich benefactor or patron, not as an artisan. Admittedly, If this were the only detail, then I’d continue to doubt my conclusions, but Ezio and I have stumbled upon a secret during our research.”
“A secret important enough for more privacy wards than the bank can boast?” I ask as I glance again at the array of runes on Ezio’s desk. “How did you afford all that, anyway?”
“A gift from a mutual friend,” Ezio says softly.
I bounce on my toes, a sudden burst of excitement making standing still impossible. “I knew it! Tem trusted you with a lot, didn’t he?”
“Just so,” Ezio murmurs, confirming my suspicions. “Thus, it’s only right that I pay back his investments by helping his last student. Nuri, you may want to sit down for this last bit. It’s a weighty secret indeed.”
Something about Ezio’s tone makes me take his warning seriously. I pull over one of the overstuffed chairs and perch on the edge of the seat, waiting for the final revelation. Thankfully, Ezio doesn’t disappoint.
“I think I’ve uncovered an Inheritance. The ’little lordling’ as you put it was no mere patron of the arts. He may have been eccentric and reclusive, but I believe that he was looking to pass along a set of Skills to the next generation. Think what that would do for your work! You could catapult ahead by two decade’s worth of intensive practice and training. More! This could put you among the upper echelons of Densmore’s elite. You could seize any destiny your heart desires with that kind of power.”
I suck in a breath, incredulous at the thought of obtaining an Inheritance. It’s just an old legend that crafters like to talk about when they’re dreaming of becoming a true Master. Then the memories of wandering around in something as legendary as a shattering Rift crash over me, and I reconsider my skepticism. “After everything I’ve seen recently, I suppose I shouldn’t feel so shocked to learn that artisan Inheritances are real. You aren’t just paying me back for being an annoyance, right?”
“It’s real,” Ezio confirms, his voice firm and brooking no dispute.
My heartbeat speeds up. I’m having trouble seeing straight, dizzy with the intoxicating rush of implications. I push it all away, practicing the breathing Tem showed me in the Rift, but hope is building up within me, so potent that if it goes sour it will feel more akin to poison than joy. If this is just a joke, I might cry.
“That still doesn’t change anything,” I say bitterly, not willing to embrace the hope just yet. “Your speculation doesn’t guarantee that there’s an Inheritance. And even if it’s real, why would they give it to me for winning some competition?”
Ezio and Rakesh exchange glances. “The estate is up for auction after his passing, including the studio of the arts, and the family is hopping mad about it because it’s not for sale in the traditional sense. There’s some legal wrangling that needs to be sorted out, but that’s where opportunities abound.”
“We’re not exactly legal scholars,” I protest. “And if it comes down to an auction, then how am I supposed to bid successfully? I had to give up the beast core from the Rift to keep the [Adjutant] off my case. Even if I still had it, I don’t think it would be enough value compared to an entire estate. We’re not rich, so what am I missing? I know you two are way smarter than I am, but it seems like there’s a hole in this plan.”
“Normally, I would agree with you,” Ezio says. “In this case, however, only glass workers are permitted to bid for the workshop. You don’t stand a chance for the rest of the estate, but for the part that matters, we may be able to win. I mentioned earlier it’s not for sale in the traditional sense, because the [Viscount]’s will expressly specifies that money cannot exchange hands. The only way to bid is to submit a crafting proposal.”
“But how exactly am I supposed to gain this mysterious Inheritance just by winning the right to the glassworks studio?” I interrupt. “Shouldn’t I bid on, oh, I don’t know—the library or something? Surely, if we want to find more details about this mysterious Master, then we need information. I don’t even know how it works. Do I read about his works, or start making things in the glass studio, assuming I win, and hope that I earn a Skill by taking over the Master’s absent role in the hot shop?”
“Rakesh? Why don’t you show him our secret weapon?” The pair of conspirators turn toward each other, grinning so hard I’m scared their lips will fall right off their faces.
“Secret weapon? Is this related to your earlier claim that we’re going to cheat?” I ask, still unwilling to harbor hopes of such an incredible transformative gift. “I don’t understand how you think I’ll get away with that. Unless you know one of the judges, or have a way to manipulate the results, how do we guarantee that my offering will be up to par?
“An astute observation, as always,” Ezio interjects dryly. “May I take this part?”
Rakesh inclines his head toward his teacher. “Be my guest, good sir. After all, it was your research that determined this particular detail. My skills only got us so far; I had the general outline, but you were able to fill in the shape and colors to finish the final puzzle.”
“Nuri, you’re going to make this,” Ezio says, thrusting out his hand and manipulating the presentation again. A simple glass pyramid springs into view made up of triangles of various colors, and I step up to take a closer look.
Each of the pyramid’s four faces is defined by a particular theme—one side is covered in hues of red and pink; another one is orange and yellow; the third is all blues and greens, while the fourth is periwinkle and indigo. There’s nothing particularly fancy looking about the pyramid as it’s rotating in place, showing off its various faces and points. The only thing that stands out to me at all is that there are no seams or joins; the entire structure is smooth and cohesive, clearly crafted by a deft touch.
I scratch absently at the back of my head. “Am I supposed to know what this is?”
“Allow me to expound upon the matter,” Ezio announces grandly. “This, my friend, is the product of meticulous research. It’s a prototype work of the master who made your swords and the communication mirrors, and it’s your ticket to greatness.”
“What’s to say the others won’t make the same thing, then, if it’s such a certain bet? And aren’t you putting the cart before the horse? I still have to actually win a local competition to get in. I’m very good for my age, but what if someone more established than I am also enters the competition?” I’m repeating myself, and I know it, but my chest is constricting and making it hard to breathe because I want it to be true so badly.
“Then I suppose you’ll just have to practice hard,” Ezio says grimly.
I grind my teeth, but I know he’s right. Still, too many questions niggle at my mind for me to feel comfortable with their explanations so far. “If he’s dead, then who’s judging? What else do you know? How will recreating something he supposedly made be enough to convince the judges that I’m a suitable inheritor of his studio and Skills?”
Just saying the words aloud brings an enormous grin to my face, despite my misgivings. I don’t care how goofy I must look at the moment; the thought of gaining such a tantalizing legacy is way too tempting for me to moderate my reactions. I turn toward the duo of researching fiends and plead my case. “Tell me that we can win. Don’t get my hopes up for nothing. Please.”
Rakesh waves his hand above the table, a look of intense concentration on his face, and a torrent of mana pours out of him. It gushes forth, a geyser of raw power, and coalesces into a wireframe image of an intricate golden goblet hanging in the air. “Do you know this work?”
A jolt of recognition runs through me. “Ember makes all of us study that. It’s the work of a [Glass Smith] in the Grand Ile region. She said she apprenticed at one of their schools when she left her adventuring days behind.”
Rakesh wipes his forehead dramatically, miming great relief. “Good, our sources weren’t incorrect. We’re fairly certain that you already have the right fundamentals to impress the judges there. They may even recognize their lineage in your work and approach to the craft. I was able to find references to this by utilizing the Index and my specific research Skills. It’s amazing what you can discover if you just know where—and how—to look.”
I sink back into my chair, taking in the density of details and information that my friends have tracked down. “That is incredibly impressive! Out of curiosity, Rakesh, how much do you know about wraiths? Could you research them for me? I want to check some of the information Tem and I discussed in the labyrinth, but I can’t seem to find answers anywhere.”
A flicker of silver and gold mana shines across Rakesh’s eyes, brilliantly weaving into his irises and sclerae until the natural colors fall away completely. The shimmer of magic transforms his eyes into shining, starlike orbs. A moment later, he lets the Skill fall dormant, and the threads of raw magic dissipate. “We have three hundred seventeen books in the library currently that mention wraiths. Of those books, I have read one hundred four, but most treatments are incidental at best. Not much is covered in formal research. Surprisingly, there’s not much in the Index, either. Some of it appears to have been redacted.”
Unease slithers through my gut. “Can you ask for a library swap from another Academy? I have so many unanswered questions, and your unique Skill set might be my best bet if I’m ever going to uncover the truth.”
Rakesh hums. “I’ll see what I can do, but no promises if the Index is so sparse. Certain topics are more sensitive than others, and thus subject to more oversight. I may need a royal license to look into this further.”
Something about the restricted nature of the information makes me shiver, and I resolve to leave the topic alone. For now. “We’ll come back to that another time. Meanwhile, can you tell me where the competition is held? Grand Ile, I presume?”
“Got it in one, Nuri,” Ezio says, confirming that I have a fair bit of traveling ahead of me.
I rub my palms together. “Excellent. Then let’s make a plan. While we have a few months until the estate sale, if I read the press clippings correctly, I’m afraid that I’m still under a deadline. I need to get out of Silaraon, not to mention finish my full suit of armor as quickly as possible if I’m going to be a royal target. [General] Tychicus is breathing down my neck, and I’m afraid I don’t have much time to waste.”
Ezio eases himself back in his seat. He taps his fingertips together, staring up at the ceiling. “You’re serious about leaving?”
“I don’t see how I could possibly stay in Silaraon right now. Not with the Royal army on my case. I’m not safe here. Not after they condemned Tem as a traitor.” I fix Ezio with a stare. “How long until you and I are next? Besides, if you want me to compete, then I can’t stay here.”
Ezio nods in approval. “Good. I’m not trying to convince you otherwise. Obviously, I want you to try to compete in the Grand Ile local tournament. I simply want to make sure that you have the conviction to see things through. This is a monumental change for you, Nuri. Who knows if you’ll ever be back. You might find you miss Silaraon. Don’t take this lightly.”
“If I stay here, then I’ll be stuck under the thumb of the Royal army for as long as they are in town,” I say hotly. “I need to get out now, while I still can. Imagine if they decide to take me with them back to the Capital for further questioning! I don’t feel like languishing in a dank, forgotten prison there for who knows how many years while they deliberate over whether or not I’m guilty by association with Tem.”’
I grimace, angered anew by the way they’re dragging his name through the muck and mire. “You and I both know that Tem wouldn’t do anything to harm the citizens of Densmore. He’s being run out by that new mage faction. I’m almost certain they set him up. And if they have enough clout to take out a famous [Scout], then what chance do I have? They will probably find me a rather inconvenient loose end. You know what happens to loose ends? They get snipped off.”
Ezio purses his lips together, giving me a searching look. “What do they hope to gain from going after you, Nuri? If you run off, then that’s as good as admitting guilt in their eyes. My hunch is that it will make them more likely to hunt you down. I’d be willing to bet that if you stay in town and keep your head down, then you’re less likely to show up on their agenda. Are you sure that it’s worth the risk to flee?”
“You should get out, too,” I urge him, my nerves fraying as I consider his fate. “I’ve seen what horrors await in the Rift. The battalion that [General] Tychicus brought with him might not be enough to stem the tide of beasts in the Rift, let alone invading wraiths. It’s a start, and I’m sure he’s powerful, but I can’t help but think that he’s been set up to fail. What if this is a ploy, part of the same game that the mage cabal are playing with Tem?”
“I don’t follow,” Ezio says, sounding a bit peeved. “I’m not sure that now is the time for crazy rumors or seeing conspiracies behind every move. We’re trying to help you obtain a rare Inheritance, not bandy about wild theories.”
“What’s the best way to gain public support?” I ask, reframing the conversation. “When the Royal army fails and Densmore’s citizens are terrified, then they can move in and finish the job. They get to look like heroes, saving the day, and it will further cement their case against people like Tem—they’ll blame him for causing the invasion in the first place! Don’t you think it’s suspicious that Tem’s team, who actually have the abilities to stop them, were disbanded prior to all of this happening. By the time the [King] realizes that he’s been duped, he’ll be primed for a coup. It’ll be too late to change things.”
“That sounds a bit extreme, don’t you think?” Ezio chides, raising his eyebrows at me.
“Maybe. But how are we supposed to stay safe if we’re caught up in this web of intrigue? We’ll be crushed without regard—casual collateral damage,” I growl.
Ezio rubs his chin. “A few weeks ago you were convinced you and your friends would be able to hold the line against a wraith Invasion. So, which is it?”
“We simply wanted to defend ourselves against any incursions that break through. I want to protect the people I love and respect. An actual Invasion is far beyond us. Besides, defending is vastly different from invading. Do you really think that my theory sounds too far-fetched to be plausible? I’m convinced that [General] Tychicus wants to enter any Rift he can find, tear open a way into the labyrinth, and invade the wraiths’ homeland. But he doesn’t have enough men to take over an entire enemy realm. He’s getting in over his head, despite his personal power.”
“A discussion for another time,” Ezio finally replies. “Let’s focus on the competition for now. If you’re determined to get out of Silaraon and try for the Inheritance, then give it your all. Stay the course, Nuri. We’ll back you up.”
I nod at him gratefully. “So, we’re in agreement for our next steps?”
“I have one stipulation. If you leave, take me with you,” Rakesh says. “I could write my thesis from here, safe from harm, but nothing beats first-hand experience. If you become as famous as I think you will, then this is my chance to add my name to the Index.”
I shake my head at the thought of Rakesh in the middle of the intrigue, [Inquisitors], and Inheritance, but I can’t deny he’s got a useful set of Skills. “Very well. You’ve earned it. Pack your bags; we leave tomorrow at midnight.”
We strike hands, and the pact is sealed. The only way forward is out.