Pen poised over paper, I watch in pity as Melidandri grimaces at Scalpel’s mental touch. She’s examining him at work while he imbues mana into glass. Guilt eats at the edges of my mind at the sight of his discomfort. He only agreed to this imposition because he feels sorry for me. To his credit, the master of the glass studio gamely pushes through the unsavory sensation and completes the task at hand, deftly finishing the piece with his characteristic aplomb. Eschewing his bolder, more esoteric concepts, he makes a simple glass platter that’s unbreakable, or at least thoroughly shatter-resistant if dropped.
“Undiluted expression of power. New vectors of thought,” Scalpel rattles off as she observes. The words grate on my nerves, scorching through the studio like smoldering lines of sulfur and saltpeter. Her unsettling black eyes are sightless, since her attention is turned inward, but somehow it doesn’t seem to make anyone feel better that she's not looking directly at them.
Melidandri flinches; she must be moving to the more hands-on portion of her core space probe. Sweat trickles down his high, stately forehead, which is ashen in pallor and wrinkled in concentration. His gaze flickers over to me. “Is this how you normally work, Nuri? No wonder you show such reticence to leave the studio.”
I hold a finger up to my lips in alarm, not even daring to give voice to my dissatisfaction while Scalpel is within earshot. I have no idea how much of the outside world she's aware of while on a delve, but I have no desire to risk becoming the target of her displeasure again. Not now, when I'm so close to my next breakthrough.
Alas, I’m not so fortunate; my master wakes from her trance and overhears Melidandri’s offhand comment. She glares at me, her void-like, abyssal eyes wide open and unnerving as the full weight of her attention falls upon me, and I know she believes that his words are disparaging to her. “Treachery, apprentice?”
I shake my head, feigning innocence. “I just like glass. You know I’m making good progress here. My work here benefits us both, in the end.”
“Fair enough,” she says, smiling with entirely too many sharp teeth showing. “You better start showing some enthusiasm for our work, Nuri. As my first and only apprentice, I have high hopes for you. Don’t let me down.”
I offer a strained, polite nod. “I’m flattered that you would imply that I haven’t yet.”
That earns me a wry smile from Melidandri, who coughs to interrupt our posturing. He presents his classically imbued glass for inspection. “Do you have what you need, Mage Scalpel?”
“I believe one or two more sessions will be sufficient, provided you still have the mana and mental energy,” Scalpel says. “Are you amenable?”
I don't think I've ever seen her make a request before rather than a demand. The words sound awkward coming from her, as though that part of her vocabulary has rusted out from long disuse. Perhaps this is simply how she reacts when she has some respect for a colleague's professionalism and proficiency. I still don't like her, but it is somewhat humanizing to see her in this setting. Trying to spy on her and break free from her control is a lot easier when I have no mixed feelings about how monstrous she truly is.
Faint disappointment flashes through the glass Master’s eyes. “Another? Please give me a few moments to recover my equilibrium,” Melidandri says, his words tinged with a sort of grave and frosty politeness that endears him to me even further. I don't think he likes her anymore than I do. Try as she might to appear accommodating, she can’t help but discard people as soon as she’s extracted every last bit of usefulness.
An image of her cracking open charred bones and sucking out all the marrow before tossing the mangled remains on a scrap heap springs to mind. I shudder; it’s all too real when it comes to the master foisted on me.
Scalpel stares at Melidandri blankly, then flashes another one of her sharp-toothed, horrifying grins. “Forgiveness, I am accustomed to the frailties of flesh, but I forget that it afflicts the talented as well as the unskilled. You ought to transcend the failings of your frame, [Glass Smith]. You, ah, have promise, unlike most. Wasted potential in your current form.”
“I will take your advice into consideration at a later date,” Melidandri replies stiffly.
All the while I stare at nowhere in particular, avoiding the crackling tension that's been building between my two masters. We might be on Melidandri’s home turf, but Scalpel brought a contingent of her guards with her and clearly has binding and surgical Skills that can pull double duty in combat. If she forces the matter, then there's no doubt in my mind who will emerge as the victor.
“Waiting is often inevitable, but inaction is inefficient. Nuri, please replicate what we witnessed today while the [Glass Smith] recovers from his exertions.” Just like usual, Scalpel delivers an impossible task to me, all matter of fact, as though the outcome is already assured and all that’s left is for me to get to work. I suppose that in her mind, that is precisely how things are.
Without complaint or protest, I accept the mana crystals she offers and slowly draw in energy, ignoring the all-too-familiar pain that accompanies the act. Fixing the image of what I want to convey firmly in my mind, I produce a small glass amphora that I’d made during a previous visit. Working with hot glass is preferable, since it's easier to coax the mana to respond to the emerging design, but since I made this myself, it should be compatible with the concepts I feed into it. There's nothing particularly extravagant or special about the design, but it's well made. More importantly to my challenge at hand, it’s a nearly perfect representation of one of the classic archetypes of glassware.
My conception of unbreakable differs markedly from Melidandri’s, but that doesn’t mean I can’t do what he does. I can embrace an adjacent idea and still make it work. I cast my mind back to the feeling of facing down the monster in the Lesser Rift as it charged toward me with slavering jaws and flashing claws. Immersing myself in the memory, I cling to the remembered sensation of unyielding might. Wrapped in reliving the past, I envision myself as a bulwark against the chaos of the void. Force of will marries strength of conviction, and in a terrifying surge the mana is torn from my control and floods into the amphora.
Gasping in shock, pain, and delirious excitement, I fall back on my rear and sit on the floor of the hot shop, too light-headed to move. Scalpel throws me an approving look, though her lips thin into a line when I keep sucking air like a fish out of water. Wait, that doesn’t make sense, they breathe air through their gills, I think a moment later, but my mind feels distant from my body, and I’m too weak and tired to process it right now. Warm satisfaction spreads through my chest at her praise. I hate that it means so much to me. She doesn't deserve a place of honor in my affections. What has she ever done to earn my respect?
“First try. Magnificently done, too,” Melidandri mutters, shaking his head in disbelief. “All your hard work and practice is paying off.”
I know he’s proud of me, but his incredulous tone stokes the fires of competition always burning within me. I don't simply want to match him; I want to surpass him someday. Although, I have to say that it feels good to do something impressive.
“I never would have made it this far without your help,” I say as sincerely and warmly as I can, bowing in turn to each of my masters. My eyes never leave Melidandri's face, however, and I'm sure that he understands that I meant the words for his benefit alone. Despite all the progress I've made thanks to Scalpel’s undeniable expertise, I still can’t convince myself to give her any credit.
“Good return on investment,” Scalpel grunts, taking back the first of the spent mana crystals.
Hmm. Interesting. It’s no good now—it can’t be recharged without breaking it, unlike my glass prototype pseudo-cores—but she slips it into her satchel anyway. Maybe she knows something that I don’t. Something to look into in the future.
“Speaking of investments,” Melidandri says to Scalpel, lifting his chin and squaring his shoulders as he seems to gather his courage to approach her, “I’ve invested considerable time and effort into teaching Nuri and revealing my secrets to you. In recompense, I’d like to have more time with him going forward and have him work for me part time. He’s a [Glass Worker], after all; he ought to put his talents to good use around the studio. He could earn a fortune with his creativity and craftsmanship.”
“Mm. Perhaps after he repairs his channels. We have years of work to catch up on first,” Scalpel replies absently. She’s already thumbing through her notes, adding in the scant words I scrawled into my notepad for her, and whispering to herself about all the possibilities. She barely pays me any mind at all as I shiver where I’m sprawled on the floor, trying to stay conscious after the potent working of mana.
My fist clenches. She won’t be able to ignore me forever.
=+=
Despite my grandiose declaration, nothing much changes when we return to Scalpel's mansion. She does continue to ignore me, when she doesn't require my note taking or compilation services. All the practice I got doing paperwork with Ember is paying off I suppose, but I still haven't been able to force the issue of repairing my cracked and diminished skills.
I'm not sure that it matters, though. Right now the bigger bottle neck is figuring out my internal channels. I can't store mana within my expanded, ruptured core and even if I could, activating my skills is almost impossible in the usual manner due to the significant energy leak when trying to route mana through my internal conduits. I have to bypass my pathways entirely for usable results, and that carries with it a whole host of other problems, the worst of which is the significant drop off in power and control compared with internal Skill ignition.
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Pacing back and forth in my tiny, dingy cell, I recite the information I've learned over the last several weeks of studying with Scalpel. Simple runes are the building blocks from the universe. They are akin to the alphabet if I'm going to make a rough analogy that Scalpel absolutely despises. Mana energizes them and allows them to act in accordance with their nature. Complex runes, such as the ones in my skill structures, are more like complete sentences if I further stretch the analogy.
Heaven-given Skills are entire paragraphs, or perhaps brief technical manuals, or—or something. I snort, both amused and disgusted by my dogged determination to make the heavy-handed metaphors fit. It's not an elegant comparison, but it gets me moving in the right direction. What Scalpel wants to do is create short stories, or poems if I follow the convention Melidandri introduced to me, instead of relying on rigid, pre-set archetypes.
I lean against the rough wall and scratch my beard. Perhaps the more accurate comparison is that simple runes are like a single pane of window glass with a word etched on the surface. Hot. Cold. Light. Dark. Complex runes, on the other hand, are more like a three-dimensional glass sculpture of a scene or a character interaction: I don't need to spell out the word ‘hot’ if I create an image of a desert cactus and a sun-baked man crawling in the sand with his hands outstretched and his eyes rolling back into his head. The scene shows the truth of the matter without additional commentary.
“Still heavy-handed, Nuri,” I mutter to myself.
I know I can reliably use a confluence of runes to create the effects I'm looking for, but only if most of them are already present in my Skill structures. Try as I might, I still can't replicate the success I had in Melidandri’s shop. Even with the convenience of the glass cores I'm slowly adding to my collection, the sheer amount of power required to form and activate runes freestyle is absolutely staggering. Add in the inefficiency and power loss when trying to route the mana externally, and it feels like I'm trying to dig an artificial lake with a teaspoon. Technically, it's possible given enough time, but realistically no one has the time or dedication to accomplish that feat.
And that brings me back to fixing my internal channels. I'm still on a mana-soaking regimen that seems to slowly improve my condition, but it's a far cry from where I want to be. Sometimes I think back to the theory posited in one of the books Ezio loaned me, which claimed that instead of draining myself dry and feeling myself back up, I ought to gently hold mana in my body and let it suffuse my entire being. I haven't ever possessed enough free time and mana to put the idea to the test, but now I suddenly find myself in a position to take advantage of a nearly inexhaustible supply of energy. Time is still a limiting factor, but I may as well get started now and see how far it takes me.
Mind made up, I stride down the now-familiar, sterile hallways to requisition additional mana crystals from Scalpel’s workshop. She doesn't seem to care that I blow through my annual allotment on a weekly basis, at least not as long as I continue to consistently produce intriguing results. If I ever slip or stall in my progress, however, I am sure she will cut off my resources. I guess that's as good of motivation as any I will find around here.
My days blur together after I put my plan into motion. Soak my entire body in mana. It feels luxurious and downright profligate to hold so much latent energy in my body even though I am not using it for anything or performing any actions. Nonetheless, I soon sink into a semblance of normality as I follow the same pattern over and over again. Soak my body in mana. Work with Scalpel. Soak my body in mana. Meet with the [Chief Inquisitor]. Soak my body in Mana. Experiment with Melidandri. Soak my body in mana. Rinse and repeat.
It's monotonous, and the progress is slow, but the results are undeniable. I am slowly healing. Scalpel keeps insisting that it will be the work of many years, up to a decade, perhaps, but I am determined to cut that figure down to months if possible.
Optimism is slowly ground down by reality, however, and nearly two months pass by in a jumbled rush with only small successes. I am not content with the pace, but victories are still victories, no matter how modest. My carefully-curated equilibrium is thrown off kilter by order of the Viceroy, however. Speaking through his mouthpiece, the chief Inquisitor, he gives me an ultimatum: deliver details about Scalpel, or he'll renege on the promised pardon for my crimes.
Thus encouraged—or, more accurately, entrapped, I muse bitterly—I work up the wherewithal to act on Xharrote’s ‘request’ for information. I wonder what’s changed? Maybe the [Viceroy]’s position isn’t as secure as he’s led me to believe. Or maybe they’re looking for an edge in the war. Regardless, I’ve given my word, so now I have to follow through. Flimsy at best is how I would describe my plan, but I haven't been able to think of any better alternatives.
I dally in the mess hall one day, chewing methodically on a stale crust of bread. It's harder than the usual fare we get, but it's intended for dunking into our onion soup, so I guess that explains its toughness. I delay my meal for so long that an irate guard approaches me and demands that I report for duty.
“I’ll be there. Tell Scalpel not to get her knickers in a twist,” I grumble.
The guard’s eyes narrow dangerously, but I simply give him a rude gesture and go back to my food. As expected, he retreats and summons backup in the form of his superior officer and a contingent of other guards.
I snarl as they approach. “What a bunch of cowards. Send ten men to do the job of one! I know your faces. Don’t think there’s safety in numbers.”
Their anger and fear billows out from them like a rank stench. I sigh in an exaggerated manner and scoop up my platter of food. “Fine, fine. Let’s see what the old lady is up to now.”
While the guards choke on their disbelief over my casual disdain for their godlike master, I bring the bowl of onion soup with me as I trot off to Scalpel’s workshop. They follow hot on my heels, but none of them dares risk my wrath. They saw what I did to the pair of fools who tried to strong-arm me into giving up my mana allotment. When we reach Scalpel’s lab at last, I shoo them away, relieved that they didn't call my bluff or beat me within an inch of my life.
Inside the laboratory, Scalpel shoots me a questioning look, although I'm not sure if she's more annoyed than I'm late or that I showed up with food, but she doesn’t comment on it. In fact, Scalpel hardly reacts at all, other than gesturing for me to get in position beside the patient already sedated and waiting on the examination table.
Hoping I look suitably wide-eyed and contrite, I rush over and take up my place next to her, fumbling to gather up my notebook and pen and prepare for my note-taking duties while my master delves into the test subject’s inner world. In my haste, I manage to spill the onion soup on her white jacket, staining the pristine coat with big, brown splotches.
Scalpel hisses in irritation, loosens the clasps on the jacket, and shrugs it off. She throws the dirty laundry behind her desk, draping the jacket over the back of her chair, and tells me to have a guard wash it once we’re done. As I hoped, in her impatience she doesn’t bother to put on a replacement jacket before she begins her delve, which leaves the key hanging around her neck exposed for once.
Her eyes close, and her consciousness sinks deep into the test subject in front of her as she examines his progress since the last session. Moving my fingers mechanically, I write down her intermittent, fragmented report. In between her clipped, stilted sentences, I channel a trickle of mana from my prototype glass cores into the fractured remnants of my once-majestic artisan Skill, keeping the mana use as subtle and unobtrusive as I can—I don’t want to alert Scalpel to my actions by triggering one of her extrasensory, magical wards.
I wear the hidden glass mana cores in a criss-crossed bandolier across my chest, but underneath my tunic so Scalpel doesn’t see them. This is my only real advantage, as long as it remains secret.
My plan is to leverage the tattered, barely functioning analytical remnants of the [Architect of Unseen Worlds]. I can’t really transmute anything successfully anymore, not without an exorbitant amount of mana and some fancy finagling of free-form runes. Thanks to my study of Scalpel’s journals and notes, I’m gaining both knowledge and confidence when it comes to the foundations of the world’s mysteries. I can still analyze, even though I can’t activate the Skill in its entirety. If all goes well, then I’ll make a delicate imprint of Scalpel’s ever present key. My control isn’t great, and the shaky, strung-together segments of my Skill can’t handle much strain, but I hope that line of sight will allow me to concentrate enough to get the job done. I’m worried about the consequences of failure, but that’s not enough to deter me any longer.
Sparse notes, I think to myself in alarm as Scalpel stirs. Memory comes flooding back to me with my mana-heightened senses, and I rapidly scrawl out a few of the missing phrases that she muttered while reviewing his mediocre progress.
She dismisses the first patient, moving into position by the second man’s side even as the guards wheel the first test subject’s gurney out of the workshop. Undulating at her sides like banners dancing in the wind, her long, segmented fingers twitch and flutter. I can’t help but wonder if it’s in anticipation of sinking her claws into another victim.
Repressing my revulsion, I shuffle along to take my place next to her, offering her a minor mana draught before the next delve. For as long as I’m in this position, I’ll be the most dutiful apprentice I can, as long as it doesn’t overly violate the dictates of conscience. Nothing she does is particularly ethical, but at least I’m only a notetaker, not a perpetrator.
Or, at least, that’s what I tell myself so I can sleep at night.
Once I have her notes and I settle up with Xharrote, I’m out of here. Resolutions do me little good, of course, if the [Viceroy] isn’t done with me, but I’m hoping that he’ll come through with a pardon for my cooperation. The looming specter of dealing with the fallout with [Mage]’s Cabal bothers me even though I can’t do anything about it, like an itchy sweater that I can’t change in public. I can’t wait until I’m on the other side of this part of my life.
Xharrote has summoned me three more times now, and he’s starting to apply serious pressure to produce results. I don’t think he’s used to slow progress. My pleas for more time to shore up my shaky, crumbling foundations fell on deaf ears; now that the mandate has come down on high, there's no getting out of my unsavory responsibility.
Scalpel’s next delve commences, and I focus on the present again. I force myself not to set aside the notebook, splitting my mind as best as I can. Pounding like surf on the shore, my blood roars through my temples, but I press onward. I don’t want to tip Scalpel off to my actions, so I half-heartedly take notes, but I need to devote most of my mental energy to free-form shaping the small glass rod in my pocket, hidden away for just this purpose.
Praying desperately that I don’t run out of mana before my glass copy of her key takes shape, I surround the glass with filaments of mana drawn from the glass beads strung around my chest. The threads of raw energy wrap the glass in a shroud, then sink inward and begin the transformation. It's slow and ungainly, but it’s working. Power surges into the glass, threatening to drain my artificial cores in an instant. I grit my teeth. It should be enough time to finish the work if I’m careful.
Like a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis, the glass rod passes through the enveloping mana and becomes a glass key instead. Grim satisfaction at my impending success fades to horror as the mana flow sputters. My eighth glass bead is unstable, and I can’t seem to draw any more mana from the core. I should have tested it in the studio more thoroughly before this crucial juncture, but it’s too late now for regrets.
Bands of pressure loop around my head and tighten around my temples, making my vision swim. My energy flow wavers as the key extrudes, and with a groan my control slips. The complex, slender glass key bulges obscenely, malforming rapidly before my eyes like a malignant growth and taking on a hideous, unrecognizable shape.
I hiss in frustration, clamp down on my mana in a losing effort to maintain the last few drops I still have, and stuff the misshapen key back into my pocket. Today's failure isn't the end of the story, I tell myself. I got a good imprint of her key, and I should be able to shape the glass to suit my needs while I'm in Melidandri’s workshop. All I need to do is survive one more week. Easy, right?