My carefree existence lasts exactly one week.
A [Runner] delivers a message to my parents before I even wake up the next morning; apparently, I’m making a habit of sleeping in. I’m staying with my adopted family since they missed me while I was gone—and because I let my rent lapse on the little cabin I was living in previously. When I see the familiar [Inquisitor]’s crest on the letter, I take an extra serving of the hot biscuits Kirsi made for breakfast. I’ll need energy to face what comes next.
“Might not make it back for dinner,” I inform Kirsi gravely.
She nods, glassy-eyed, and hands me a basket of food she has already prepared. She pointedly ignores the letter in my hand, and a twinge of regret makes me wince. Of course she saw the letter. Home for a handful of days, and already I’m causing her grief.
“There’s enough in there for lunch and dinner both, since I know it’s going to be a long day for you. Send us word if you can’t make it back tonight?”
“I’ll try,” I say, wiggling out of making a promise I might not be able to keep. I offer her a half smile to try to cheer her up, but my heart isn’t in it. “Shouldn’t be too bad. I’m going to see Casella and Mbukhe. They’ll treat me right.”
Kirsi clicks her tongue at me. “I'm not worried about how they treat you. I’m worried about how long you’ll be gone this time.”
“I’m not leaving,” I say, but without much conviction. We both know I might have to leave again at any time. Accepting missions is the price of my relative freedom.
My mother's eyes grow soft and sad. “Maybe not today. Maybe not this week. But I know you, Nuri. You've always burned with ambition. You can't help it. Soon, you’ll find that you have something important to do, and you won’t be able to resist. Nor will I try to keep you, even if I’m angry about not seeing you again for months. Now, give me a kiss and get going! You'll be late if you keep dawdling and listening to an old woman complain.”
“Yes, Ma,” I say, shifting the lunch basket to the side so I can lean forward and dutifully peck her cheek. “Don't worry so much. I’ll bet I can bribe the [Inquisitors] with your good home cooking.”
“Peh! Off with you, ya little smooth-talker. You sound more like your silver-tongued troublemaker of a brother by the day.” She shakes her head slowly. “What's a mother to do? The two of you will drive me to an early grave!”
Her rosy cheeks and the twinkle in her eyes take any potential bite out of her words, so I laugh and kiss her once more, and off I go. Yet my feet don't carry me to the Royal army camp. Instead, I find myself wandering toward the glass works. I might not make it on time, but better late than showing up empty-handed.
Lio teases me when I arrive that I ought to pay rent for his workbench if I’m going to set my own hours and interrupt his commissions, but at a stern glance from Ember he quiets down. I offer to tutor him one-on-one later in the week to help him improve his fledgling mana imbuing in exchange for disrupting his flow, and he perks right up at his good fortune.
I crack my neck side to side, flex my hand a few times as I stretch out my wrist, and get to work. I’m not ready yet to give away the secret of my pseudo-cores—although I suspect that Melidandri will have to report on them to the [Viceroy] eventually, like it or not—but I can still put effort into imbuing other concepts. Perhaps something soothing, for mental rejuvenation and clarity, given the difficult job Casella and Mbukhe have. They deserve a balm for their troubles.
=+=
The Royal army encampment is more entrenched than I recall, with spiked walls and gates creating a menacing approach. Patrols of [Soldiers] rove about with hard eyes and sharp steel. A pair of guards intercept me as I approach the gate. Their hands drift to their sword hilts and their ready stances bear the promise of violence.
“Halt! You’re in the wrong place, cripple,” the [Soldier] growls. His sallow skin and sunken cheeks elicit more pity than fear; Silaraon seems to have had it rough lately.
I’ve dealt with dogs whose bark is far worse, I remind myself, but I keep my uncharitable thoughts silent for once. I present the letter I received from Casella, and after a brief examination to ensure the summon is authentic, they wave me through with disdainful glares. Their eagerness to put me in my place vanishes like the release of a sigh; no one in his right mind wants anything to do with the [Inquisitors].
Skirting past the command center, I wend my way through the ramshackle rows of tents and utilitarian structures set up on a more permanent basis. The squat, dull gray, cinder-block outbuildings ring the center of the camp, like a stern column of guards standing at attention. A cynical part of me wonders if [General] Tychicus is offering up the soft belly of the rank and file as a distraction to buy him time to retaliate if another attack hits the camp.
Thankfully, the insurgent group seems to have been stamped out entirely by Tychicus, so another attack seems unlikely. Say what you will about the man, but his ability to repay violence tenfold is an exceptional deterrent against terrorist activities. Despite the allegations leveled against me, I’m no malcontent. In fact, I’ve always thought of myself as a patriot, proud of the service that Ember and my father, and countless others, have rendered to my country.
That still doesn't mean I want to sit down for a drink with the [General] at the pub, but I no longer think of him as my enemy. He’s doing his best to defend the realm, as he sees it. My feelings about the wraiths are disjointed and muddled at best, so I’ve sworn off worrying about politics until I can get a better read on the situation.
When I reach the [Inquisitors] outpost, I stand in front of the door without knocking for half a minute. I enjoyed my interactions with Casella and Mbukhe, and they’re some of the few people I actually trust, surprisingly enough, but once I reconnect with the [Inquisitors] there’s no going back. Maybe I should turn around, come back another time. Surely if anyone has earned a reprieve from duty, it’s me.
Knocking on that door feels like shattering the illusion I’ve held onto so tightly for the last week—the soft, alluring voice that whispers I can go back to normal again. The worst part of it all is that I’m not even sure I want things to remain as they are. The only thing keeping me from flinging myself back into the schemes and dangers of my life on the road is the knowledge of how much my absence will disappoint my friends and family. Less than two hours ago, I told Kirsi that I wasn't leaving anytime soon. Now, I suddenly can't wait for the next adventure, and the guilt is eating me alive.
Right before I turn tail and flee back the way I came, the [Inquisitor] headquarter’s heavy oak door swings open, revealing Casella’s broad, friendly face. Vivid, pearly teeth flash against the dusky background of his dark skin and full beard.
“Nuri! Back where it all began,” Casella booms, clasping me by the shoulders with both of his big hands, his enthusiasm making me wince. “You may be the worst fugitive I’ve ever had the misfortune of laying eyes on, but I’m glad you’ve returned to us. You’ve been making waves back at headquarters, so I’m relieved I can keep track of you.”
I chuckle weakly. “Oh, you know me; always keeping things interesting.”
“What did you do to yourself?” Mbukhe’s horrified voice cuts into our conversation as he seems to materialize from thin air right beside me.
I manage not to flinch when he reveals that he's been there all along. Bereft as I am of my beloved old friend, [Manasight], he’s completely invisible now to my senses. For all I know, he may have been tailing me since I left my parent’s home, waiting patiently for me to finish my glass projects, and standing quietly nearby for the last ten minutes. Or perhaps he just showed up a split second earlier. I never can tell with the elusive, secretive man.
“Thanks for the letter you gave me when I left town, Mbukhe,” I say, bowing instead of jumping in fright. When my heartbeat settles back down, I continue to thank him. “I doubt that I’d have escaped without your obfuscation artifact. As for my core space? Well. Don’t you know it’s impolite to snoop without permission?”
“A thousand pardons begged,” Mbukhe says gravely. “But sometimes it's worth speaking up even if my actions break convention. What has been done to you—this is an unspeakable crime.”
“Hardly the worst that's happened to me since the [Adjutant] handed me off to Scalpel. She is far more hands-on; a little peeking is barely anything at all.”
“I always knew you were too interesting to waste on that miserable [Adjutant]. I'm glad to hear he didn't succeed in sinking his claws into you. But enough of that. You must tell us what happened. If he's responsible for the violence done against you, then I will avenge you. You have my word on that.”
I meet his eyes and nod. “I'm flattered, but as I told my mother, my stupidity is hardly grounds for a war. Didn't Xharrote pass along details when he gave you this responsibility?”
Casella and Mbukhe exchange glances. Casella doesn't answer for so long that I don't think he's going to speak, but he finally breaks his silence. “So it's true. Even the Chief has a personal interest in you.”
This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.
I shrug. “I think he was just annoyed that he couldn't track me. He'll never admit to it though. Only Tapirs intimated that he knew how I eluded your fine colleagues for so long.”
Casella's bushy eyebrows crawl up his forehead, looking like fat, furry white caterpillars on the move. “Look at our little friend. He departs us as a wet behind the ears provincial nobody, and returns to us hobnobbing with the [Viceroy]!” He lets out a rich belly laugh.
“Sounds like you have a story and a half to tell us,” Mbukhe says, a ghost of a smile on his usually stoic face. “Come. Sit!” He bustles about in the kitchenette off to the side of the Inquisitor office and soon returns with a pot of tea.
We make our way through the entire teapot, sharing the fragrant tea in a comfortable stretch of silence, punctuated only by my long-winded retelling of the events since I last saw them. Unlike my brief summary for my friends and family, I don't gloss over the worst of the suffering I endured. It's not that I don't trust my family, but rather that I don't want them to feel sad on my account. I grieved and moved on; there's no need to tear open old scars.
By the time I finish, Casella and Mbukhe’s faces are more troubled than I expected. They took the news in my escapades in the Rift and my abuse at the hands of Scalpel in stride, as though they'd seen worse in their days as hardened [Inquisitors] who toured the realm. Yet my words about the [Viceroy] and his perspective on wraiths, the Rift, and the state of the war has them looking like a [Seer] just pronounced their imminent deaths.
Casella strokes his beard. His eyes shift side to side, as though considering if he should speak up. He lets out a deep, resonant hum. “I take it from your silence on the matter that you didn't get a chance to connect with Tem while you were in the capital. In fact, I suspect the [Viceroy] didn't even tell you that he's being held prisoner there.”
“By whom?” I blurt out. The answer dawns on me a moment later, and I clench my fist. “Why is the [Viceroy] so opposed to Tem? Surely he doesn't hold the mana plague against him. If anyone should be upset, then by all rights it should be me. But I can't blame Tem for what sounds like an honest mistake. I don't think he meant to unleash a plague, or knew that void powers would damage Densmore. Really, though, what's the point of keeping Tem’s captivity secret if they’ve already condemned him as a traitor to the realm?”
“Ha. Politics are funny like that,” Mbukhe interjects. The taciturn infiltrator grimaces, his distaste for this particular subject clear. “If I had to guess? My suspicion is that they’re saving news of Tem’s capture for when it will have the most impact on popular opinion. Densmore may be a monarchy on paper, but in practice it’s a loose coalition of city-states and powerful nobles. Right now, [Viceroy] Tapirs enjoys a position of ascendancy, thanks to the power of [Mages] in the war, but his cabal could lose their support if they fail to close all the Rifts. Parading around a valuable prize like Tem Cytekin could buy them more time.”
My mouth hangs open, slack-jawed, as Mbukhe says more in one go than I think I’ve ever heard from him before. I only wish he weren’t making so much sense.
Brooding storm clouds settle over our group as we each sink into our own thoughts. I scratch my beard, feeling guilty that I brought down the mood, and decide it’s high time to dole out gifts and take care of the problem I introduced. I pick up my battered old haversack, unfasten the worn leather—which is softened over time by folding over and back again, hastened along by oil from my skin until it’s supple and carries a subtle sheen—and withdraw the glassware I wrapped in linen at the studio earlier that morning.
“For my only friends among the [Inquisitors],” I say, chuckling at the wry twist of their lips. It’s uncanny, the unison they display sometimes. I give the men their gifts, one at a time, bowing formally. While I’ve mostly gotten over my missing hand, right now I wish I could properly offer them their presents with both hands to show my deep respect.
“It’s hardly as dire as all that. You have more friends than you know,” Casella rumbles, but he seems touched by my gesture all the same. He unwraps the light-blue linen cloth to peek at the glass brooch, and a genuine smile creases his face. He lifts up the golden-rayed sun with reverent care and pins it on his cloak.
“You remembered our words,” he says, beaming at me. Apparently, he’s pleased at the shape of the jewelry more than its function, but I don’t mention anything yet. “The sun rises in darkness.”
“The sun rises in darkness,” Mbukhe murmurs in response. He’s more traditional than his easy-going work partner, and he slips the gift into his pocket to save for later.
“I’ve wondered what that meant,” I say quietly. “Are you at liberty to share?”
The two men exchange a quick look, but it’s rife with meaning. Casella clears his throat. “Only that truth will always triumph over ignorance. Our allegiance remains to Densmore, but we follow the truth, not directives from on high.”
Casella’s forehead creases in thought a moment later. He fingers the glass sun and sighs heavily. “My friend, your largess is appreciated, but the soothing properties of this brooch won’t do us much good while we’re still on active duty. [Inquisitors] undergo rigorous training to earn Skills designed to protect our minds and souls from tampering. Theoretically, we are no longer susceptible to outside emotional manipulation, for good or ill.”
“Perhaps it will help you when you’re on leave,” I reply, trying to sound hopeful. Casella’s resigned weariness in response is disheartening. I wish I could do more for them.
“Perhaps,” Mbukhe says. He sits down, lacing his fingers together and resting his hands on his belly. “Let’s hope we survive until then. The news you bring is dire; we’ve known for some time that the [Viceroy] opposes us, but he’s acting more brazenly now. We may need to consider advancing our plans to help Tem.”
Casella lifts his head up sharply, narrowing his eyes at his companion. “A discussion for later. Let us not trust overmuch in our warding here in the heart of the army.”
“I’d love to show you the studio in Peliharaon sometime,” I say, breaking the tension. “I should drop by soon to check on the progress of my student, Ifran. I would be honored if you two accompanied me; I’m giving a lecture on mana-imbuing that you may find beneficial, even as non-crafters.”
“Ah! Yes. Excellent idea. Congratulations on your advancement. I suppose we ought to call you Master Nuri, now. Thank you for the offer. It’s always good to learn something new,” Mbukhe says, his eyes glinting. Left unsaid is that we’re likely to be left alone out in Peliharaon, away from prying eyes, where we can speak more freely at last.
=+=
Sunset is already painting the clouds pink and gold by the time I slip away from my meeting with the two [Inquisitors]. Thanks to Kirsi’s food basket, I don’t need to rush back for dinner, but all the same, my feet drag as I try to make up my mind. The relatively late hour doesn’t lend itself well to social visits, but I’ve yet to get a chance for a sit-down discussion with my friend and teacher, the [Scholar Nonpareil] Ezio.
I debate inwardly about the visit all the way up until I reach the door to Ezio’s office in the Silaraon City Academy, at which point I’d be embarrassed to turn around. He probably sensed my strange, mangled mana signature as soon as I set foot on SCA grounds. Either that, or he has an automated ward array to do the job for him; it seems like the kind of thing that he would do in order to offload some of his attention and brain-power to other tasks. I can even think of three or four base rune combinations that might do the trick, which makes me realize how far I’ve come since I was last here. Perhaps I’ll ask him about the runes. He likes talking shop.
Sure enough, the door swings open before I can knock, and Ezio sweeps me up into a big hug. His professional decorum returns a moment later, and he distances himself from the embrace. He coughs and straightens his robes, craning his neck to check the clock. “Nuri! Words can't express what a wonderful surprise this is, especially at this time of day. Come in, come in. Have you eaten yet?”
“I have, thank you.” I stride in and take a seat in his familiar office, beset by a wave of nostalgia at my return. I squint up at his pinched cheeks. “I have extra, in case you got tied up with research and forgot to take a dinner break.”
He ducks his head and glances away, like a kid caught sneaking out of his room at night to play with his toys. “Guilty as charged. You know me too well, Nuri.” He shakes his head, flops down in his seat, and chuckles. “When did you become the responsible one?”
“You can thank Kirsi for her foresight. All I did was carry the basket.”
“Good man,” Ezio says around a mouthful of dinner: savory flatbread stuffed full with a generous scoop of curried lamb and spiced yogurt. It’s my favorite meal; Kirsi is spoiling me. He finishes the food in record time, sighs in contentment, and licks his fingers clean. “I assume this is more than a social visit.”
“Astute as always!” I say with a laugh. “That’s why I know you’re the right person for the job. I need help drafting a charter and coming up with creative contracts for my [Glassworkers], so we can monopolize the techniques I teach them. Most glass Masters hoard their knowledge, so it’s rare to find an entire group who can mana-imbue. I’m worried that we may destabilize the market prices, which means we’ll probably make some enemies. Can you help us with that?”
“Is that all?” Ezio asks, drumming the tabletop with his fingertips. “Likely my cousin is a more useful resource, since he’s an actual [Merchant]. I will try to assist you with this, Nuri. I’m far from an expert on trade dynamics, however. And, somehow, I doubt you would act quite so nervous about a simple trade agreement.”
I scoot my chair closer to the desk and rub my nose with my hand, covering my mouth just in case anyone is trying to peer through the windows or scry on us. “Could you please activate your silence array?” I whisper, relieved that Ezio is so perceptive. “I’d like to discuss a matter of some delicacy.”
Alert in an instant, Ezio sits up tall. His fingers fly across his enchanted desk, and the mana-empowered privacy runes flare to life in response to dexterous inputs. He nods at me, now the picture of a consummate professional. “Ready when you are. I’m listening.”
“You’ve heard an abbreviated version of my adventures in Modilaraon, but I left out a few key details about my time with Scalpel,” I begin. My jaw clenches, but I meet his eyes and keep going with my plan. “I intend to tell you the rest of the story now—including all the details I kept back from the [Viceroy] and [Chief Inquisitor].”
At the mention of the macabre researcher, Ezio sucks in a sharp breath. “I see why you requested the privacy runes. I must warn you, however, that if you tell me privileged information, and I suddenly become an expert on runic research after meeting with you, then it won’t go well for you. The [Viceroy] isn’t exactly going to scratch his head, shrug, and declare my newfound knowledge an impenetrable mystery of the ages.”
“Then don’t publish any of the information,” I say, crossing my arms. “I know it’s hard for you to keep quiet on matters of scholarship, but I need your help. Telling you what I’ve learned is the best way for me to advance, since you’re the smartest person I know, and way better at drawing conclusions from datasets than I’ll ever be.”
“Rakesh is excellent at that sort of work,” Ezio admits, rubbing his chin. “He’s working on a new thesis, since he had to pivot subjects after you left, but I can surely advocate to win an extension on his behalf.”
“Excellent! Now, you’ll have to memorize what I tell you about complex runes, because I don’t dare write this down anywhere. Better not to leave a paper trail. I destroyed the references in her notes to the secrets she unearthed before I gave the notes to [Chief Inquisitor] Xharrote.”
Mana glimmers across Ezio’s eyes, and I know he’s activated one of his academic Skills, probably [Eidetic Recall]. Warming to my tale, I lean forward and continue. “Scalpel was brilliant. Deranged, but brilliant. You see, she discovered a method for controlling concepts directly, via complex runes. . . .”
Night has long since fallen by the time I finish my report. I trudge home, wrung-out from my day and ready for a good night’s rest, but with more hope for the future than I’ve had for a long time. It’s good to be back among allies and friends.