1.21 THOUGHT CRIMES

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His head ached. Not like a headache, but physically. A half remembered scream echoed in his mind. But was it real?

When Glim opened his eyes again, he wasn't sure at first where he lay. His clothes squelched with sweat. The basement chamber pulsed with dry heat and stones seared uncomfortably into his back. Glim sat up. The movement made him dizzy.

Heat. He’d come here for it. But now it had become the threat he needed to escape.

This time, Glim let cold guide him. He crawled away from the chamber into a corner behind a bank of metal boxes, pipes, and dials. Dark and silent, they offered nothing but a reprieve from the heat. Glim pressed his cheek against the brass monolith and felt the heat drain away from his face. He switched sides, dissipating the heat of his other cheek into the cool metal, and felt the dizziness pass.

Glim moved further into the cool shadows, away from the chamber that had taken him to the opposite extreme: overwarming him when he’d sought to escape the cold.

A glimmer of light in the dim caught his attention. A flicker of flame had appeared inside of a glass tube nearby. Curious, he looked at the bank of boxes around it and wondered at their purpose. Strange symbols and holes covered the panels. Why had the Elderkin wrought these devices? Aside from warming the fortress, what were they supposed to do?

And why had the flame appeared all of a sudden?

Glim reached into his tunic pocket and pulled out the brass cylinder. He held it up. The flame titled in the glass tube, leaning towards the cylinder in Glim’s hand. He watched the spark of flame dance inside its cell.

What did it mean?

He looked around with fresh curiosity. This particular chamber seemed different from the others. It had more levers and instruments along the walls. More cryptic text engraved into brass panels. Countless unlit tubes and dials. It would be a perfect place to set up for studying the Elderkin. He could move his tiny collection of trinkets here and really try to figure things out.

Glim saw it perfectly in his mind. It would begin with a chance discovery. Perhaps some dial would light up, he’d turn it, and then Wohn-Grab would have some new doorway open up. One with a stockpile of books, or games, or unknown spices. That new door would lead to another. In no time at all, Glim would rediscover the ancient lore. The devices would answer his call alone. He’d be the hidden power behind Wohn-Grab. Glim would make a pudding machine and have dessert whenever he wanted! People would come to him for answers, eventually ousting a trembling and cowed Master Willow from his tower. There would be a new Mage-at-Arms. Master Glim.

Ugh. No way, he thought, shuddering. Glim the Grim. Or Glim the Benevolent.

…But if Pyri and Gyda suddenly found their baths ice cold, and their homes somehow filled with an unpredictable whining noise in the wee hours? Even Glim the Benevolent has his limits.

Glim tinkered with the dials and levers a bit, stalling his return. He wanted his father and Master Willow to really sweat it out. To worry themselves into tatters over his absence. Master Willow would regret pushing Glim this far, and father would make him pay for it.

“Not my son,” he’d say to Master Willow. “Never again.” He’d pull Glim away to train with the guards, never to ply again. Glim would become an expert with catapults, or maybe throwing daggers. He’d tame the hinterjack hordes, and teach them to haul sleds. Years later, when Glim’s Hinterjack Sled Tours had become world famous, the children would ask him with wide eyes: weren’t you once a mage?

No, he’d say. I’d rather fight a thousand hinterjacks than cast ice. It’s honest work.

Somehow these fantasies just didn’t invigorate him. They lacked style. Glim realized he was boring himself. Stalling.

This is not your best work, he chastised himself.

He thought about staying in the tunnels until someone came to look for him, but the dramatic appeal of that idea faded when his stomach rumbled. He collected himself and headed back to the stairs.

When he reached the dining hall, his father looked down at him.

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“Good lesson today? Must have been. You've been gone for hours.”

“Master Willow nearly killed me, Father.”

“You look alive enough. Icer training is rough on the body and mind. Everyone says so. I'm proud of you, son.”

His father handed him a bowl and scooped stew into it. Glim ate in silence, unsure of what to say. Did his death mean nothing to father?

Glim’s earlier fantasies fled his mind in a rush, replaced by cold fear. A fear he’d been trying to fight off since the moment Master Willow had frozen him.

Before Glim had started learning from Master Willow, death had been a fuzzy concept. Something he knew was possible, even inevitable, in a vague sort of way. But ever since he'd been interacting with the man, death had become far more real. Like a hinterjack stalking his every move. A threat in the flesh, present, and alive, just around the next corner.

The first time he'd nearly died had been on the cliff. Glim thought about that and his stomach clenched. He could almost feel the rock sliding through his fingers again, and could recall the sickening sensation. As panicked as he was by those thoughts, Glim had to admit to himself that it had been his own fault. He didn't have to go in to the rift to look for the mushrooms. It had been his own choice. Even so, it had been out of fear for what Master Willow would do if he'd come back empty-handed.

The second time Glim had almost died had been when he and Master Willow went to the mountain looking for the blossoms and the hinterjack had attacked him. Again, that was not directly Master Willow's fault. Hinterjacks attack often in the mountains. You can't predict when they'll strike.

But this third time, this recent moment where Master Willow had cast ice on Glim, was definitely Master Willow's fault. There was no avoiding it. He'd even said as much: are you going to freeze that pail, or die here in my garden? The first time had simply happened. The second time was coincidence. But this third time made Glim fully aware of the danger he was in if he continued his studies. He knew he didn't have much choice. Father would make him do the lessons. And Master Willow wasn't going to ease his approach.

So Glim could only depend on himself to figure out how to get through this. If only he had someone else to advise him. Like a mother, for example, who could give him more insight in plying. Everyone said she was strong with essentiæ and a powerful plyer. But no one could tell Glim any spell she'd ever cast. He didn't even know if she plyed aeolia.

Or even plyed at all. He was starting to wonder if she was really a liar.

That thought only increased his fear. He had to get a handle on plying, soon, or he might not survive.

Choose, he urged himself. Pick a path.

The lessons he’d learned shifted around in his mind like shadows of branches swaying in a breeze. Polarities. Focus. The choices he had to make.

Assuming she did have the gift, the fact that no one knew anything about Allora’s style of plying gave Glim a little bit of insight. He thought through the polarities and decided his mother definitely plyed obscured. Nothing else made sense, if no one could even figure out any spell she'd ever cast. Plying obscured was the only explanation he could think of. And if she was plying obscured, that probably meant she was plying the fringe as well. Since no one could identify what she'd been doing, she wasn't doing something obvious like moving objects or flinging ice around. Her skills were more subtle than that. And if so, Glim knew he had a much harder time figuring out which legacy ran through his blood.

That legacy had suddenly become vitally important to figure out. Which left two questions to answer. Did she ply harmonic? And did she ply balanced?

The questions puzzled him, turning over and over in his mind. Glim really had no idea what her goals were at all. He knew almost nothing. And now, when he needed her advice the most, he had to try and figure it out on his own.

Glim looked across the fire at his father, seeking any hint of answer, but that man would be useless. He shoveled stew into his mouth and smiled at Glim. Just as useless as an absent mother.

Glim’s stomach clenched as the spiral of his thoughts spiraled without any anchor in sight.

The real question wasn't about his mother at all. It's about what Glim himself would do.

One anchor finally fell into place: he was definitely going to apply obscured. He suspected Master Willow did so. Everything he knew told him his mother did as well. Glim was starting to get the feeling that mages tried to keep their actions secret as much as possible. By applying transparent, he'd be opening himself up.

Glim had no idea whether to ply the fringe or central. Because he didn't know anything about what he was going to do with essentiæ. He had no way to answer that question. As for harmonic versus disharmonic, those questions were way, way beyond his comprehension. He didn't even understand about balance, much less harmony.

Glim grunted in frustration as the thoughts whirled around in his mind. Thinking about all the possible outcomes, he grew more confused with each thought.

He had come to one decision, however: he needed to decide which polarities to pursue quickly, because his life depended on it. And the quicker he could start gaining an advantage, the better chances he had of getting through these lessons and getting on with his life.

“Your stew is going to get cold,” his father said.

Glim looked up, and started eating again.

You have no idea how right you are, father.