Sulfuric light blooms in the dark, stifling confines of my prisoner’s cart. I flinch away from the flare of harsh illumination. Grunting, I wipe the gritty particles of sleep from my eyes, and blink until I can see well enough to take in the silhouetted form of my provocateur. The [Adjutant], [General] Tychicus’s right hand man, looms over me. His breath is hot, florid with the lingering scent of rum.
“Whatever you want this time, can’t it wait until morning?” I mumble, squinting against the flickering flames from his hand-held alchemical torch. The strange fire makes me queasy. I’ll never get used to his dramatic, unwelcome entrances.
He snorts at me. “We’ll be back on the road at first light. I have work to do, plans and people to oversee. Responsibilities. Not that you would know anything about that. Now’s our chance to talk without interruptions.”
I shift upright on the hard wooden bench, stretching my neck to work out a stiff knot. My muscles feel like they’ve been twisted like yarn on a loom. I let out a yawn. “Great. I’m sure it will be more productive than our last few sessions.”
A scowl warps the [Adjutant]’s face. “The more you tell me now, the easier it will go for you when we arrive in Modilaraon. I can be friend or foe to you, glassmaker. Your call.”
“You seem quite solidly entrenched on the foe side,” I say, my voice calm despite the sour taste in the back of my mouth. “I think it’s too late to become friends. If you’re interested, though, how about you introduce yourself properly? Do you realize you’ve still never told me your name? It would be nice to know who you are.”
“You think you’re so clever, don’t you, Nuri?” the [Adjutant] sneers. “Everywhere you go, you somehow dupe people into taking your side. Against all odds, you cozied up with the Lady Evershed, earned free passage with Captain Ash, who believes you’re a [Mage], charmed the guardswoman Qiya, and consorted with a known subversive, the window-maker Vicario.”
He lists off each name on his articulate, painter-precise fingers, grinning at my growing discomfort. “All seem to like you for some odd reason. Oh, yes, I’ve been checking up on your activities. Don’t look so shocked! You left a trail of devastation in your wake. Yet, somehow, people are hesitant to turn against you.”
I sigh, rubbing my forehead to fend off the mounting stress from talking with him. Again. This is, what? The fourth time in the last fortnight he’s interrupted my sleep to try to intimidate me into talking? I cross my arms, waiting out the tirade. It won’t last forever. He’s livid that he can’t touch me, thanks to whatever agreement Lady Evershed worked out, and he takes it out on me verbally whenever his frustration boils over.
I lift my chin defiantly and look him in the eyes. “Did it ever occur to you that I’m not the villain you paint me to be?”
“Meaningless protests! The fact that you twist people’s emotions and predilections so that they think favorably of you, despite all you’ve done, shows how truly devious you are.”
I growl in headache-induced frustration, no longer interested in continuing to go round and round in circles with the surly [Adjutant].
My irritation only earns me a nasty chuckle in return. “I believe you mistake me, Nuri. I’m not insinuating that you’re a malefactor or traitor. I’ll leave those appellations and allegations to the [General] and his ilk. On the contrary! I admire your craft. We’re alike, you and I.”
“Worst insult yet. I liked you better when you threatened me. You’re more believable that way,” I say, pointedly turning away from him to put an end to the conversation. I pull my cloak close and huddle in the corner of the cart, seeking to return to sleep.
For a long moment, silence settles over the cart. The flame snuffs out. Briefly, hope wells up in my heart that he’ll just just leave for once. But before I can relax, he speaks up one last time, in a low, mocking tone.
“Very well. Have it your way. You’ll remember this moment, Nuri. When my master slices you open, dissecting you piece by piece, you’ll wish you gave up your secrets willingly. You’ll try to change your mind, but it will be too late. You’ll scream for me to have mercy. By then, I would rather cut my ears off with my own hand than listen. You’ve made your choice; now your fate is out of my hands. Honestly? Good riddance to you.”
With his ominous pronouncement hanging in the air, the [Adjutant] kicks open the door to the cart and storms off, slamming the door behind him. His heavy boots stomp away, squelching across the muddy ground as he departs.
My brave smile falters, then fades altogether. He hates me, but right now he can only bluster. Whatever my master, Lady Evershed, arranged with [General] Tychicus, it seems to be restraining the hand of his underling. He can’t touch me, but that only makes me worry what he’ll do once I’m no longer under her protection.
=+=
The next few weeks pass by more peacefully. My life is a dull rhythm of slow travel and slower training. Like my first imprisonment—I chuckle ruefully, shaking my head at the fact that I’m now an experienced hand at getting myself arrested—only my mind is still free. This time, however, I can’t do much more than cast my thoughts back to what I’ve seen and done, roaming through the wastelands of my mind as I sift through memories like a [Miner] trying to find gold in the dirt and detritus.
I’ve been fortunate enough to witness talented glassmakers plying their craft, in addition to the dazzling displays of mana manipulation from the [Enchanter] and [Mimic Mage]. Right now I’m limited in my practice, since mana is mostly out of my reach, but I can still remember. Everything I’ve seen is locked away in my mind; now I simply have to sort through it. Theory isn’t my strong point, but building a foundation will pay off down the road.
Assuming I live that long.
I drift in and out of sleep, my rest cycles desynchronized from night and day. The guards aren’t letting me out of the cart, not even to relieve myself. I’m back to using a pot in the corner, like an animal. All in all, though, it’s not a hard journey. I would even enjoy it, except that I’m not able to appreciate the landscape and locales.
I haven’t seen as much of the quaint Densmore countryside as I hoped. Throughout our six week journey to the Capital city, Modilaraon, we’ve stuck to military roads and established trade routes. Besides, it’s difficult to see much through the thick iron bars in my prisoner cart’s singular window. I can’t complain about my treatment, at least. The guards usually leave me alone, so I have time to think—unless the brooding [Adjutant] gets bored.
I sit up, stretching out my sore limbs with a yawn. Twilight blankets the land, robbing me of another chance to admire the fleeting view. I’ve always wanted to see the craggy mountains surrounding Modilaraon, the capital city of Densmore. One day, maybe I’ll get to climb them. A picnic in the peaks sounds incredible.
Longing for a quiet adventure hits me. I want to travel without disturbances and danger. Maybe I’ll walk across the white sand of the desert, the pink sand beaches of the coral seas, and the sizzling black sand of the far south, where the land grows uneasy—the surface of the earth breaks open to reveal weeping wounds of lava. Boiling steam jets into the air, or so the stories claim. I’ll need my [Heat Manipulation] back to hold up in those conditions.
The thought of my missing Skills brings me back to reality. I reach up and grip one of the cold, iron bars with my right hand, grounding myself with the rough, pitted texture of the bars. I glare at it, not that it does me any good. I’m a prisoner with no real hope of recourse. I’m not in a position to break out this time.
At least my guards treat me with relative indifference. Most of them weren't stationed in Silaraon, and those who were there seem dubious that I had anything to do with nefarious plots against the Royal Army. I didn't realize until I heard their idle chatter what had happened back at the prison. A radical group of insurgents tried to assassinate [General] Tychicus, even though he is past the Third Threshold. They burned themselves to fuel their ill-fated plan, but the only ones they killed were low-level [Soldiers] who had done nothing to draw their ire.
I had nothing to do with them, but my pleas that I was merely the victim of unfortunate circumstances seem to fall on deaf ears. That, or the guards are slackers.
It’s a miracle they’ve left me alone, but I suppose I cut a pathetic figure, with my filthy, matted hair and missing hand. I’ve grown scrawny. The thin broth and stale bread crusts they feed me aren’t exactly doing any favors for my physique.
I let go of the bar, examining my veiny arms. There’s not much I can do to develop my body in the narrow confines of the prisoner cart. I try to do squats and lunges when possible. The manacles and chains limit my movement, but it's important that I don't let my body waste away to nothing. I’ve even managed to modify push-ups, resting my left forearm on the bench of the cart so that I can keep up a modicum of upper body strength, but it’s not the most effective strength program.
Hey, look on the bright side. Maybe I’ll have more room in the cell they dump me in when we arrive in the Capital.
Sweat drenched and shivering now that night is descending, with a thin blanket that does little to keep me warm—I miss my old friend [Heat Manipulation] more than ever—I turn to the only training I have left: mana manipulation. Controlling the energy of the world around me is tricky enough when I have a ready supply of mana to harvest. Inside this blasted cart, which is scripted with mana suppression runes, the ocean of power we swim through is reduced to a tiny trickle, a rivulet so small it doesn’t even count as a creek.
My lips twist into a grimace. I can't make much use of the scraps of energy I harvest, anyway. Still, bathing my inner world in mana is the fastest way to heal from my horrific injuries. The progress is excruciatingly slow, but as I’ve discovered from practicing with higher order concepts, intent is everything.
I draw in a breath, pulling in a quivering nonce of power. It’s so faint that I worry for the hundredth time that I’m just imagining the progress. Whenever I'm tempted to give up, though, I remind myself that every little bit helps. There's not much else to do while I slump in my cart, so I make a daily discipline of drawing in and circulating the occasional few drops of ambient mana that leak through the seams of the wards.
As always, the searing pain tempts me to stop. I shrug it off, gritting my teeth. Not like I have anything else to do, anyway. The mana catches on my skin like hooked barbs, buzzes against my skull, and burns through my channels, but I’ve come too far and lost too much to just give up now. Over the last year, I've been tested in the fire of opposition and come out forged into something stronger and more resolute. I’ve been purified and refined.
My core is still ruptured, though. There’s no getting around that yet. My channels are too weak to retain the small amounts of energy I take in; they’re covered in miniscule cracks, like an old rubber hose left to dry out in the sun. The mana seeps through the fissures no matter how hard I strain to keep it contained. I’m unable to use my Skills in any prolonged or meaningful way, given how long it takes to collect energy in the confines of my prisoner’s cart, but it feels good to practice mana manipulation with the trace amounts of magic available to me.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
I pull the motes through my core, circulating them toward my Skills, and will the mana to heal the pockmarks on the crystalline structures. A frisson of pain accompanies each movement of the energy. Coaxing the mana to flow through me feels like trying to draw up cold, sticky molasses through a straw. The viscous material clumps and hardens, resistant to maneuvering, unresponsive and uncaring despite my efforts.
With a groan, I collapse on my bench and release the working. It’s tough to concentrate, what with our destination on the horizon. We ought to arrive in Densmore’s political and cultural center tonight, I muse. By now, the acid bath etching on my soul is almost bearable, at least if I can keep focused. Almost. Ah well. Might as well keep training until we reach Modilaraon.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, I delve back into my fractured inner world and survey the progress. All of my Skills are still fractured and pitted, but the damage to [Heat Manipulation] no longer seems quite as debilitating. If I could hold onto a little more mana, or if I got my hand on extra mana crystals, then I could probably use it normally. Like old times.
My sight turns toward the slagheap of my other Skills. In the airless, illusory space of my soul, I heave the equivalent of a sigh as I look at my glass creation Skill. Perhaps my greatest regret is that the [Eternal Glass Forge] seems like a contradiction in terms. The Skill structure gleams in places from the few precious drops of mana that I’ve infused into the structure, but it's still inoperable. Eternal. Ha!
Far from immortal and inviolable, I fear that it is now more mausoleum than machine of mana. I wish more than anything that I had it still available, so I could at least make something in the slow, agonizing hours in the cart when I have nothing to do but contemplate my fate.
My imagination's bone dry right now though. What would I make? I resurface, wrapped in a shroud of melancholy. Before I can drown in the despondency, however, I’m reminded of one of Ember’s favorite sayings: the difference between an amateur and a professional isn’t talent or interest, or even earning a living from the work; it’s the dedication and willpower to continue making things when you don't feel like it.
There’s work to be done. I aim to do it.
I shift on my seat, shuffling over to the edge of the cart to try to catch my first glimpse of the fabled capital. I suppose it doesn’t matter that I can’t see much, since it’s night time out, but I’m excited to finally see the needle-like spires from my picture books. The thought cheers me up instantly, and I practically bounce on the narrow wooden bench in anticipation.
During my youth, I always thought I would one day visit the capital. Of course, back then, I thought I’d go with my friends. I close my eyes as my thoughts drift back.
Once upon a time, I’d planned to hoard my pocket money. I’d buy a stick of spicy meat from a street vendor and eat it by the crystal fountain in Modilaraon’s central square, dipping my toes into the water and savoring each bite. After lunch, I’d visit the arena where my favorite heroes trained. I wonder if any of them remember Tem, or if they’re distancing themselves from the supposed ‘traitor.’
Then I intended to wander around Modilaraon without a destination in mind, gawking like a tourist at the stately architecture and towering turrets that stand like the spines of a hunchback monster against the sky. I’d dreamed of the thrill of brightly-dressed traveling circus [Acrobats], the mad cacophony of foreign [Merchants] and visiting [Dignitaries] bustling about admiring the majesty of Densmore, and the sweet scent of a hundred thousand hyacinths all in bloom.
The reality is much crueler.
We roll into the outskirts of the city after dusk, bypassing the main gate. Our procession angles off to the side, away from the marvels of Modilaraon. We’re heading toward an imposing military barracks, all square shoulders and dark stone set in a sheer cliff. I haul myself up by the iron bar, craning my neck to peer up at the foreboding mountainside. A gaping tunnel in the rock face opens to receive us like the dark, yawning maw of a beast.
As the cart rumbles through the long tunnel and finally emerges into the starlight, I crane my neck to glance out the window. We’re far from the main boulevard that I’ve always imagined treading, far from the imperial palace and its legendary lionine guardian, but I still squint out the tiny window in hopes that I'll catch a glimpse of the palace.
“If that can’t inspire me, but nothing will,” I mutter under my breath.
And then, with a juddering screech as the wheels grind to a halt, we arrive. Fear slithers through my gut, cold and reptilian to the touch, like the alien-smooth scales of a snake. The unsettling sensation crawls up my spine and curls up in the dark recesses of my mind. Not even the thought of seeing the pinnacle of the glass making craft, the Lion of Densmore, can shake the trepidation that comes with knowing we've reached our journeys end.
“End of the line,” a rough voice calls out, the sound accompanied by the rapping of knuckles on the door of the cart.
A moment later, light floods the dim, cramped quarters, stabbing into my eyes making them water with its intensity. As instructed, I shuffle toward the door with my manacled arms held out in front of me, as meek and unassuming as a lamb led to the slaughter.
No spires greet me outside. Even the impressive edifice of the barracks has disappeared from view. Instead, I blink and stare at an unassuming brick house. The windows have no bars over them. The front gate looks purely decorative. We appear to have stopped in a residential district.
Yet there’s something about the place that makes the fine hair on the back of my neck stand on end.
“And so my journey draws to a close,” I murmur softly. It’s been a disappointment so far. The only mercy so far is that the [Adjutant] hasn’t bothered me again. After his last threat, he’s given me a wide berth, although that’s unsettling in its own way.
Still, there’s an ever present, simmering rage just underneath the surface of the caravan. I can sense it while standing perched in the doorway of my wheeled prison cell. When he stalks past the side of the cart, I lift myself up to my full height and meet his imperious gaze. This time, he’s the one to flinch when we make eye contact, but it’s not fear or shame that makes him look away. His lips curl away from his teeth in a snarl. There’s madness flickering in his eyes, like a leashed dog straining to be free of its bonds.
I gulp and look away, unsettled by the intensity of his glare. The man truly despises me. What vengeance will the [Adjutant] extract? I don’t know what he’s planning, but it seems like a forgone conclusion that I won’t get out unscathed.
As if in answer to my question, he yanks on the chains, dragging me out of the cart and making me stumble onto the hard, cobbled street. With a bitter, mirthless laugh, he spits on the ground next to me. “Get up. The only reason I haven't dissected you myself, boy, is because politics stays my hand. I'm not willing to lose my entire career to bring you to justice prematurely, but don’t think you’re safe. This isn’t the end.”
The door of the cart slams shut behind me. I stagger to my feet, glancing around at the strange surroundings in confusion, a dozen questions on the tip of my tongue. I try to sort out where I am and what’s going on, although my thoughts are grinding to a halt. “Where are the barracks? Where is General Tychicus? What do you want with me?”
The [Adjutant] snarls at me. “The [General] is still busy fighting the wraiths. He’s cleaning up your messes, fixing the incursions that you and your traitor friend unleashed on Densmore. Until he returns to the capital, I’ve been given leave to investigate however I see fit. You may have deceived that kind-hearted old glass maker, but I'm not so easily fooled. She pulled a few strings to keep you alive, but she doesn’t have as much clout as she thinks she does.”
“Where are you taking me?” I ask. “Do the [Inquisitors] work here?”
The [Adjutant]’s thin lips curve into a dangerous, mocking grin. He gives the chains to another guard. “You’ll find out soon enough. You certainly haven’t escaped punishment, if that’s what you’re hoping. Your time is coming soon.”
One sight of the storm clouds on the [Adjutant]’s face, and the rest of my questions die unspoken. To be honest, I’m not sure I want answers.
“This place gives me the creeps,” one of the guards next to me says, leaning to the side and spitting in the bushes derisively. I half expect that its roots will suddenly lift out of the ground and strangle him.
A side door of the house creaks open, making me jump. I hadn’t seen it before, since it’s shadowed by the twilight hues of blue and sable. The heavy, studded door swings wide open to disgorge a pair of armed guards. They saunter toward us with the bored, arrogant look of men accustomed to casual violence. They are kings within their own domain, uncaring that we come from the Royal Army. I see no crests or defining regalia; their uniforms appear matte black and shrouded.
“Sure this is the right one?” the older looking of the two guards says, nudging me with the blunt metal end cap of his spear. “Looks a bit scrawny to be a revolutionary.”
“Ain’t much to look at, is he?” the [Soldier] who primarily guarded me chimes in. A regular guard of mine on the journey back to the capital, he’s been aloof but inoffensive. He didn’t cause trouble or take out his frustrations on me, unlike the burly, brutish guard back in Silaraon, but we're not exactly friends, either. He's a skinny chap with a bit of fuzz on his top lip, though not enough to get him in trouble when the sergeant demands clean-shaven faces.
“So why are the [Inquisitors] offloading this one here?” the guard asks, glancing back and forth between us.
My head snaps up at his words, a jolt of shock running through me. What does he mean by offloading? I figured that this was an [Inquisitor] safehouse. If not, then who lives here?
“The [Adjutant] took a shine to him. He’s destined for the Scalpel.”
They all share a look. The [Soldier] shudders when he says the name. “For his sake, I hope the rumors about her ain’t true. Seems like a nice enough fellow.”
What rumors? I wonder, my heart pounding. My teeth grind together as I clench my jaw. I didn’t exactly expect a welcome party, but I thought I’d have a few months while Lady Evershed and [General] Tychicus argue over my fate. Time no longer seems like it’s on my side, however.
The pair of new guards snatch up my chains, one in each hand, and drag me along. Before the conversation turned ominous, I figured they’d take me to my cell, where I’ll bide my time until the [General] returns. Now, I’m not so sure.
I glance over my shoulder at the [Adjutant]. I don’t bid him or the [Soldier] farewell. When we duck into the doorway, and they’re gone from view, a weight lifts off my shoulders that I didn’t realize was there. I clear my throat and try to pump the guards for information.
“Where are the [Inquisitors]? Who’s this Scalpel? What does she have to do with me?” I ask, my voice croaking from thirst and long disuse. Fear of another disaster turns my tongue dry. The air tastes stale and thick, like a mouthful of sawdust.
“As the [Adjutant] said, the Army is busy cleaning up the messes your kind made,” the shorter, stockier guard on my right growls at me. He tucks his short spear in the crook of his arm, adjusts the fur collar of his cloak with his free hand, and scowls as he yanks on my chains with his other hand.
The gangly, bald guard on my left elbows me in the ribs, though not hard. He lets out a world-weary sigh. “Don’t talk. Prisoners who keep their mouths shut tend to live longer.”
“Let him find out the hard way,” the guard in the fur-lined cloak sneers. “It will only make it more fun after the Scalpel is done with him.”
The bald guard shivers, and his long arms tremble. His one-handed grip on his spear tightens. “Enemies or not, I wouldn’t wish her on anyone.”
“I’ll remember that,” a cool voice says, sliding into the conversation like the rustle of silk or the sharp-edged whisper of an unsheathed dagger.
We turn with a start to take in the newcomer. The two guards slam their spears into the ground, the metal caps on the end of the spears making a hollow ringing sound in the tiled hall. They both incline their heads. Unease plays across their faces.
The slim, pale woman—Scalpel, I assume; she must be a northerner—clicks her tongue, and the guards straighten instantly, moving back to give her space. She takes my manacles in her hands, murmurs something too quiet for me to hear, and discards my restraints. As far as I can see, she has no key, but it doesn’t matter.
She lifts a lily-white hand to my cheek, holding me in place while the dark voids of her eyes drill into me. She has no sclera or iris; her wide, deep-set eyes appear entirely pupil. They’re profoundly unsettling, particularly against the wan, bleached look of her skin, and they seem to pierce right through me. I shiver at the touch of her mana against my inner world. “You have a fascinating, fractured soul. I’m looking forward to getting to know you better.”
She smiles at me, but the action is strangely hollow, like her face is an enchanted mask trying to mimic human movement. “Don't worry, child. I’ll play along with your master’s wishes. I won't harm you.” Her smile grows wider, emptier. “We have so many secrets to explore!”
I shift backward, unnerved at the strangely joyful tone in her voice, but she stops me with a single snap. I’m frozen in place, unable to move as her odd, knife-edged mana swirls around me and binds me more securely than my chains ever did.
She tuts, pats my shoulder, and takes my arm. With another snap, she releases the Skill that holds me fast. “Never fear. We won’t hurt your body. Your shell has seen enough abuse.” She shakes her head, as though she’s truly sad for my sorry state as she guides me deeper into the house. “Come, child; we’ve got work to do.”