Beginning of Book Four
The very air itself seems fresher back in Silaraon. Maybe it’s the scent of freedom. I breathe in deeply, enjoying the reinvigorating crispiness of the afternoon. The fragrance of sandalwood fills me with a heady sort of joy at the familiar surroundings. I never should have left, although at the time it felt like it was out of my hands. I didn’t have a choice.
I snort. That’s what I thought back then, but I’ve come to despise that sort of weak-willed passivity in me. Now, I realize that I always have a choice, as long as I am willing to stomach the consequences, something I’m not always ready to do.
Consequences. My mind drifts back to my escape from the capital. After our fateful final encounter, I cleared out the ward on my arm, marched out of Scalpel’s mansion like I owned the place—nodding to the guards as I went, with a confidence I didn’t truly feel—and sprinted for the [Inquisitor] headquarters. Unlike my previous visits, where I walked up the ominous stairs, I was ushered to an inner room in the bastion and discovered that they have an enchanted lift system that carried me straight up to the top floor. Based on the way the guards smirked at me, they had a habit of initiating newcomers in this manner.
[Chief Inquisitor] Xharrote welcomed me into his office, expectation sparking in his eyes at my unannounced and harried appearance. He gave me a skeptical look when I passed along the redacted notes from Scalpel. Thankfully, he didn't push me much when I told that I wanted to go home in exchange for handing over the intelligence he asked me to uncover. His only stipulation was that I check in with his branch offices from time to time, and that I swear an oath to answer his call if he has a mission for me.
Privately, I think I’ve gotten off pretty easy. I’m concerned about what that means for my future in case he decides to cash in his bargaining chip. Neither he nor the [Viceroy] seem like the type to set aside a tool after it's only just started to prove its worth—if that is in fact what I did by delivering the goods that I plundered from Scalpel’s safe box—but I have no choice but to take their offer of amnesty at face value. On the plus side, Xharrote promised that I’ll be able to work with familiar faces upon my return to the Silaraon region: Casella and Mbukhe have volunteered to oversee my training and field reports, and I’ll report to them while they’re in town. Technically, I'm outside of the [Inquisitor] chain of command, so the assignment carries with it only loose requirements, but I have no delusions that I'm free to do as I please without any repercussions.
Worrying about things I can't control does me no good, however. All these concerns are for my future self to sort out. In the meantime, my only goal is to get home and resume something resembling regular old life. No one knows I'm coming. The Royal proclamation clearing my name wasn't scheduled for release until after I’d left the capital and escaped out from under the grasping hands and prying eyes of career [Politicians]. By the time my friends hear the good news, I should be well on my way to surprising them with my presence.
Traveling home goes far more quickly than either my frantic escape from Silaraon on foot, or the cramped, torturous journey to the capital in the back of a bouncing prisoner cart. This time, I’m riding with a caravan attached to a military convoy, and while I hold no rank, I’m afforded the privileges and respect that comes with association with the [Viceroy].
When we finally crest the small hill separating us from the view of the city proper, I nearly tear up at the sight of my home. I've been gone for less than a year but somehow it feels like I've returned with a lifetime of adventure and experience, both good and bad. Any irrational part of me wonders if I'll even be able to fit into my old life anymore. Perhaps the changes I've undergone are more permanent and damaging than I realized.
Now that the military convoy has reached Silaraon, I bid my farewells to the camp [Cooks] and various attendants who helped me along the journey home. I don’t have a shred of loyalty to the military [Commanders], but the rank and file were friendly and refreshingly normal. No schemes within schemes, no designs on my life or Skills, and no calculating thoughts about how they might leverage our friendship for personal gain. In their eyes, I'm just a well treated civilian tagging along for a safer ride.
My steps slow as I approach my childhood home. What if my reception isn't all that I've dreamed of? What if Reijo and Kirsi think I’m responsible for the attack on the barracks? What if they didn't hear about my pardon? What if they blame me? Panic rises in my chest, but I push it down like the old [Gaffer] tamping his pipe; I only hope it doesn’t keep smoldering, just to reemerge in flames and smoke later on.
My fears aside, coming back to Silaraon feels like putting on a worn old coat, well broken in and immediately comfortable. Or perhaps it’s embracing a childhood friend, whose presence is so relaxing and intimate that no words are needed to celebrate our reunion.
Then I walk around the bend and catch sight of Kirsi, who raised me like her own, washing the laundry by the creek side. Her simple brown dress is hitched up so she can stand in the little steam and scrub laundry. Instantly, I throw out my ideas of not talking like they’re nothing but dirty dish water. Words are glorious when reuniting with childhood friends and family. A million things I’ve always wished I told her surge through my mind, and I vow to set things right. My feet are moving before I realize it, carrying me down the slope of the knife-edged ridge at breakneck speed.
“Looking well, mother!” I call out in a cheery voice, hopping down from the last basalt rock pile jutting out from the hillside to land in a puff of dusty red dirt.
Kirsi reels back, her hands fluttering up to her face as she gasps. The color drains from her rosy cheeks, and a few strands of flyaway hair come free from her colorful headband. She tucks them back under the folded scarf. Her fingers tremble as she observes me intently. A moment hangs between us, comprised of disbelief and longing both, suspended in a thin slice of time that suddenly feels endless.
“Nuri,” she breathes, her voice soft and tremulous. “Please tell me that you're real, that you’re not the ghost of my long-lost son.”
My own voice cracks under the strain of too much joy and regret all mixed together, and it takes me a minute to respond. When I speak, my voice is thick with feeling. “It's me, mother. I promise. I’m sorry I left so suddenly. I was afraid to stop to tell you that I was going. I couldn't risk it, not when I still had eyes on me. But I'm back, and I don't plan on leaving anytime soon.”
The surprise finally wears off, and she springs forward to engulf me in her warm, strong embrace, as though she'll never let go. “But you do intend to leave again, don't you? It might not be soon, but you were never meant for small things.”
My heart aches within me to tell her what she wants to hear, but we both know that if I deny her claim it will be a lie. I can't stay here forever, not after what I've seen. Instead, I step back, gingerly freeing myself from her bear hug, and smile at her as tenderly as I can. “Let's not focus on that for now. Where is everyone? I want to treat you all to a fancy dinner tonight.”
“Is that safe?” she asks sharply, her eyes narrowing as she peers at my face. “Last I heard, you were wanted man. None of us believe the lies told about you, but that doesn't mean it’s smart for you to be seen in public.”
“I’ve received a full pardon,” I say with a big, crooked grin. Joy wells up in my heart. No more hiding in the shadows like a rat for me.
Her shoulders sag with relief. Her hands clasp together in front of her in silent supplication. My mother’s eyes close for a moment, then flutter open as though she doesn't trust me to stay in one place, or that she’s afraid I will disappear again. I'm touched to see the misty glimmer of tears, and I take her hand in mine and squeeze reassuringly.
She squeezes back, her smile growing every second that I remain in her hold. The relief and joy billowing out from her grows deeper, and instinctively she reaches for my other hand. Shock ripples across her face when there’s nothing there. She touches the skin that's grown over the end of my wrist where my hand used to be, and her breath hitches.
“My boy!” she cries out. “What have they done to you?” Raw emotion make her words thick with grief and anger.
I lift up my left arm and admire the end of my wrist. Chuckling ruefully, I shake my head at Kirsi. “This? Oh, I managed to do this all by myself. Don't go looking to start a war on my behalf, you hear? My stupidity is no one else's fault.”
I don't blame her for looking dubious, or for the way her sturdy hands clench into fists, but to her credit she doesn't push the issue. For now. The pointed look she gives me promises in no uncertain terms that I will endure future investigation, however. “Sounds like you're full of stories. I look forward to hearing some at dinner time. Come, let’s surprise your father.”
Before we start back toward the farmstead, she tuts. “We'll have to get you something else to wear, though. We can't have you looking like a vagabond for your welcome home feast! Your hair and beard look lovely at least, Nuri. The rest of you need some work. Clearly you've suffered without a motherly presence in your life.”
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“More than you know,” I murmur. Instantly, I wince, regretting my choice of words as I see terrible suspicion take root in her mind. Deep, smoldering anger radiates off her.
“Soften the news a little, my boy. I may still start a war yet, Nuri. You haven't had it easy, and I've half a mind to march down to the army camp and take it out on that puffed-up [General].”
“He's still in town?” I ask, incredulous that the Royal Army hasn't been tracking down incursions and closing Rifts. The one that opened in Silaraon last year is an anomaly, as far as I understood it. But if that's true, then why are they still here?
“A mystery for another day,” I mutter. Right now, nothing can ruin my good mood.
=+=
Dinner that night at the Dancing Duck is a riotous, raucous affair. My adopted family, Reijo and Kirsi, along with Mikko, insisted on renting out the entire upper balcony of the popular restaurant. Stars shine overhead, more resplendent than any ceiling. Bright crimson and gold banners flutter in the warm, gentle breeze, and mage lights glow in opalescent splendor in silver-filigreed scones in the walls. Surrounded by carved wooden pillars, which age and elements have polished to a lustrous sheen, and climbing vines topped with clusters of delicate, fragrant little purple flowers, I feel like I’m in paradise. The lively music from the band on the floor below us only adds to the ambiance.
Ember, Lionel, and the Linas show up after the final bell announces the nightly closure of the Silaraon Glass Works, and they mob me with rib-crushing hugs. Far be it from me to complain; I wouldn’t have it any other way. Ezio and Rakesh represent the SCA, and I can’t wait to tell my old teacher about all of the secrets I learned in the capital. I wish Ifran, Calix, and the old [Gaffer] could be here, as well, but it’s too late in the workday to make the journey from Peliharaon on such short notice. “I even wish that Bijan were here,” I joke, teasing Ember about our crusty former coworker.
She just smiles at me indulgently and doesn’t even frown at the mention of the intractable man. She is seemingly overjoyed at my return. Somehow, she even found the time after closing up shop to change into her old grey and blue formal dress, courtesy of the Densmore Royal army, which tells me just how seriously she takes the feast in my honor. That simple act warms my heart more than I know how to say.
Jumbled questions assault me from all sides as we sit down to dinner, but I don’t mind the chaos. Wine and words flow with equal abandon, rushing one over another, seemingly without end. Laughter and hugs abound. I can't keep up with the deluge of exclamations and concerns, but the beauty of it is that I don't have to. For the first time in months, I don't need to give a status report, or hasten to obey my masters. Right now, as I bask in the warm glow of friends and family surrounding me, I don't have any demands on my time other than to love and to be loved.
Slowly, bit by bit, the story unfolds. I walk them through each of my sorrows and victories since leaving Silaraon nearly a year ago: running into the leader of the insurrection in the basement of the barracks, fleeing for my life from shadow to shadow, the help I received from Casella and Mbukhe, my harried life hiding on the road, my experiments with primitive glass work without a hot shop thanks to my odd Skills, my fortuitous encounters with Vicario and Maire, my headstrong and almost lethal decision that led to plunging into the Rift on my own, culminating with the disastrous loss of my hand, and my slow recovery as I floated down the river to Grand Ile.
News of my shattered core, raw channels, and sundered Skills puts a damper on the festive mood, but not for long. I catch the eyes of my friends, one after another, and put on a brave face. “Everyone's acting like it’s my funeral. Lighten up! I’ve figured out ways around the limitations. I’m not bitter or upset, so you shouldn’t be, either.”
“Well said, Nuri!” Ember says. She lifts up her goblet and calls for a round of toasting and applause after she hears the story of my battle within the Rift. Her eyes misty with unshed tears, she circles the long, food-laden table and grasps my shoulders in her strong hands, telling me how proud she is of my sacrifice. “You’re fortunate you got out alive, Nuri. Losing a hand might seem like an awful blow, but I’ve lost entire squads in far less harrowing situations. It’s a miracle that you survived at all.”
Melina looks stricken, however, her face ashen as she stares at me with a mixture of pity and horror. “But what about glass work?”
I shrug as nonchalantly as I can. “The good news is I can still make things. The bad news is that I'm slower than ever.”
“Ha, is that even physically possible? Nuri, watching you labor painstakingly over a single cup is like watching a tiny little ant trying to wade through a sticky honey spill. I’ll go grey-headed long before it reaches the other side,” Lionel interjects. He sticks out his tongue at me.
I return an even ruder gesture, accompanied by a laugh, glad that I have a friend who doesn't treat me like I'm fragile just because I’m missing a hand now. “I can still work circles around you, Lio. Stuff your face with some of the candied dates so I don't have to hear your ridiculous jibes. Listen to my story, and prepare to be amazed.”
Lionel obliges, snatching up a handful of the sweets and munching away happily. I launch into a retelling of the rest of my adventure, regaling them with a description of traveling through the steep mountains via the lock system, and descending through seeming paradise before catching my first, unfortunately brief sight of the Ivory walls of Grand Ile. Starting with my arrival at the fabled gates of the proud trade city and farewell to my friend captain Ash, I catch them up to speed on meeting Baryl, the [Watchful Urchin]. Before long, I have them in stitches as I play up the comedy of my woebegone, unfruitful search for a glass studio in which to practice during my stay in Grand Ile.
Spellbound by the entertaining tale and the oh-so-clever storyteller—if I do say so myself—my friends fall silent one by one, listening with rapt attention and wide eyes. When I mention stumbling onto Lady Evershed’s home and studio, Ember sits bolt upright. Disbelief flashes across her face, but she only shakes her head and chuckles, amused at my stroke of dumb luck. When I tell them about my ignorance of my host’s reputation, she groans and insists that she certainly did teach me about Lady Evershed during our early training classes together in the hot shop. I blush in chagrin over my oblivious blunders, though it’s always easier to be right in retrospect. Figuring things out right in the middle of all the craziness is the tricky part.
As my story continues, Ember smiles at me grimly across the table, shaking her head. “Well, Nuri, I’m neatly caught between my happiness at your good fortunate and sighing in shame over your faulty memory.” She chuckles, pauses from her vicious attack on a golden-skinned crispy-fried duck, the restaurant’s signature dish, and looks prouder than I’ve ever seen her before. “In celebration of your return, I’ll stick with happiness.”
I return a lopsided grin. “I promise that I’ll pay attention better in the future, Em. Glad to be home; I missed my favorite aunt.”
She blushes at the familial title, but doesn’t correct me, which is how I know she’s well and truly overjoyed to see me again. How I ever mistook her gruff, demanding personality for coldness is beyond me. She has been a constant anchor for me in the middle of life’s storms for as long as I can remember.
Ember’s reaction to Lady Evershed’s name does make me straighten in my seat and take notice. Maybe my accidental master in Grand Ile is even more famous than I ever realized. I tuck away that detail to look into later, and plunge back into my long-winded, rambling story. Heartfelt cheers and congratulations meet my description of working glass with only one hand, and my mate Lionel slaps me on the back in appreciation when I smugly tell my old team about successfully moving on in the competition.
Reminding myself not to let my shaking hand show, I swallow the lump forming in my throat. My voice catches despite my best efforts, but I walk my friends through my gut-churning fears in the fateful moment when I rounded the corner and came face to face, quite literally, with my own wanted poster. Fighting not to choke up, I rush through a condensed version of my long-overdue meeting with Padouk, my final entry in the competition, its ill-fated demise, and my arrest in what should have been my moment of triumph.
“Hm. I don't know how I feel, consorting with a known traitor, ” Lionel says gravely. He ruins the poor joke by snickering at me and resorting to sticking out his tongue again.
I return the childish gesture, and skip ahead in my story. I gloss over my terrifying imprisonment with Scalpel and the torture she inflicts on everyone within her demense, opting instead to focus on the nature of the runic research I conducted, and how I met the illustrious master of glass, Melidandri. The older members of my audience seem to sense that I’m not as forthcoming as I was previously, but they don’t press me further. Mikko and Lionel, on the other hand, want all the gory details of my escape.
A flicker of fire from Avelina announces her murderous intent. She glowers, her arms crossed, as a thunderhead storms across her face. The fierce scowl on her intense, dusky features is rather fetching against the vibrant, summer-sky blue of her sleeveless silk dress. “Give me a name, Nuri. I swear that ashes and dust will be all that’s left of anyone who hurt you.”
My voice quavers; old fears, buried deep, rise to the surface. I shove them down, deeper this time, and smile at Avelina weakly. I recap the deals I made with Xharrote and the [Viceroy] as quickly as I can, and state in dry, matter-of-fact terms that I fought my way free from Scalpel’s clutches, sparing them—and me—the guilt and horror of reliving the full truth of my horrific imprisonment. Offhandedly, I mention reconstituting my Skills into a new configuration, and promise to show off a few new tricks when we’re in the hot shop and away from eavesdroppers. That certainly catches Ezio’s attention; I can practically see the unbridled and endless curiosity exploding off him in waves.
I scratch at my beard, acutely aware of the sad, knowing looks I’m getting from Reijo and Kirsi, Ezio and Ember. I swallow hard, and switch over to good news in hopes of distracting them from the cruel reality of my last several months. “Tough times, tough times. Oh! On the plus side, I can mana-imbue now. According to Master Melidandri, I’m qualified to be called a master in my own right; he thinks that I’m ready to set up shop and build my reputation. You know, mana-imbuing is pretty easy once you get the hang of it. I don’t see what the big deal is, honestly. I’ll bet even Lionel could do it,” I say in an awkward attempt at humor, but my smile is all too shaky. Nonetheless, my eyes plead with my old friends to ignore the obvious secrets I’m hiding, and I pray that they take the hint and don’t ask any uncomfortable questions.
Stunned silence from all of the assembled guests in the balcony greets my casual claim of mastering mana-imbuing. And then the entire table erupts in excitement and shock as everyone starts hollering all at once. Yep, I think with a giddy rush of relief and happiness as I sink back in my padded seat and let out a contended sigh, it's good to be home.