This is an unfinished work of fiction. It's set in a broader universe that I write about often. I might pick it back up someday. In its present state, it's kind of disjointed, but I still think it's interesting enough to share.
She straightened my robes as a strange fixation took hold of her. White, I had then decided, was the heaviest color. It carried expectations. But for all its so-called purity, it was easily influenced. When I took off down the street and the evening lights invaded from colored glass windows, there was no space on the surface of the cloth without a hue. I stopped at a door I knew, and flipped the cover of a palm mirror I had smuggled out of the house. I stepped back into the road to capture a ray of green from the porchlight, and began to aim its reflection towards the most translucent piece of a second-story mosaic window.
“Ira! Where have you gone to?” My mother shouts after me, but I try anyway.
What had started as careful angle adjustments devolved into watching the point dance clumsily about, flailing only in the general direction of its target. Time to give up the ghost. I snap the mirror shut to hide it away in my pocket, and begin sprinting back towards home. I must have still managed to catch her attention, because the window swung open and Cairah shouted after me, hands cupped, “Be careful, alright? There's something weird about them.”
I turn my head but keep the pace. “I have to run now, sorry! Let's talk tomorrow!”
No words are needed. She smiles back at me, knowing.
“Don't make us late, Ira! They're *waiting.*”
"I'm coming, mom!" I shout after her, but God, do I wish I could disappear.
The warmth of her hand gently coiled around mine, and asserted her chosen direction of guidance, pulling me with her in procession down her road. I didn't want to move any closer to the place, but light cast from the windows and reflected by the mosaic roads destroyed the integrity of the perfection of these robes and made them something different, something alive with the movement of the rays and the individuality of their various shades. I found compromise with her and moved to know how they would change, but sometimes lingered to appreciate a moment in their kaleidoscopic life. This crime of art and the wholeness I felt were worth all of the loving disdain.
Soon, the lights had quietly retreated. The alleyway was not so hospitable to them, or to anything. The wind tore through this place howling like a stray. She used to carry me through in her protection, cupping my ears around the tips, a gentle warmth radiating from her palms. Now, stone-faced, I accept the frigid air. I march to the foreboding heavy doors, which loom over me, necessitating that I meekly ask them for their pardon as I knock. They read my blood in that brief contact and I was granted passage as one of the so-called chosen, a child of the family Quintier. Something was burning below that rose into the stairwell to thicken and escape out of the sole aperture, sending me into a coughing fit. The place was a chamber that hid prowling beneath the architecture of the House of Wisphoros. It may have been a basement or supply room, now long forgotten to those to whom it rightfully belonged, composed of jagged bricks concealed under rough tapestries hung from rusting pipes protruding from the ceiling, painted the wrong shade of gold. A temple, to anyone who was afraid to look too closely. A temple through the eyes of that elfin youth unchallenged, proceeding in the tow of his well-meaning mother into what was by far the deepest wound of the city Devoqin. The fumes were suffocating, and their implications nerve-wracking, making the idle wait intolerable. There were only so many lines in the grain of the wooden pews to trace. Someone was going to leave changed; it couldn't be avoided. It had to come to pass, and with any hope it would happen quickly.
The musician entered with his ratio-ringed disk, an old, scarcely-used instrument called a midaion, and sat in his place with it in his lap and began stroking the air before it, coercing from it a haunting melody. The high priest came with his twice-chosen, primitive flames spewing from their upturned palms. The majority of them were condescending youths, but they were more careful today not to antagonize those who may be joining their numbers. My mother was hopeful, counting her acts of devotion and letting each light her face. Surely she had to understand that for some cosmic reason, the odds were squarely against her, and in favor of me. I look around and, in dread, I see no others as young as I. I keep my head down and avoid the clergy's gaze.
“Such piety. Yes, you will do nicely.”
I clench my fists under my oversized sleeves; I am motionless otherwise. The last resort was foolishly hoping that the threat couldn't see me.
“Ira, boy, it is your time.”
His cloth had sounded as it brushed against itself and I suspect he is pointing to me. I was cornered in the open. The exit was spatially available behind me, but socially locked and barred. When I finally gathered the courage to open my eyes, I was the path that every eye traced, the one significant member of the congregation. The prey of the praying. I was thawed from my place by her touch on my shoulder, reassured by her soft smile, full of pride. I knew what I needed to do.
I stepped out into the aisle, hands on my chest, prepared to offer what lay inside it. The basin stood ahead with its iridescent contents and the bright fumes surrounding it. The priest submerges a glass vessel and lets the viscous substance slide into its depth, fostering it with a tempered glow in his palm. He places his right hand firmly on my head, tendril-like fingers clamping to my skull, and fills the chamber with a declaration, “Ira, most innocent child of Lageminus, receive your master!” He flings the liquid over me, which shocks the skin everywhere it runs. It finds its way into every orifice, and doesn't leave, only dries with the thirst of my skin, while part of me dies and is drowning still. I crumble to the floor and writhe, screaming until I can't. A voice booming with the force of a hurricane's winds, spewing that stinging venom, his eyes everywhere, the smoke marking his presence, even in my lungs… too much of it, all at once… I fail to remember what words he uttered, but that self-satisfied grin told me more than I could ever have wanted to know.
“I am so deeply sorry, kind one. He was not ready to experience our master, that much is clear now.”
She kept me close, her face red. “Did you not consult the master? How could this have happened? I don't understand.”
“He makes no mistakes. Accuse Him not. The fallacy was all mine. I felt no need to consult, your boy appeared so ripe. Given a meager amount of time more, he would have been prepared, I'm sure of it. Take pride in him. This will be a difficult transition for him, but do not fear. In time all will be healed. I am sure there is a lesson to be learned from this affliction.”
When all had stopped spinning, I lifted my head to him to make a plea that he take it back. He met my eyes quicker than I met his, as if he had waited for it, and said, “Ira, remember you are strong.” He then nods to the onlooking twice-chosen, who gather around us. The white cloud of people had helped me to my feet, when I realized that some were smiling when I'd never seen them do that before.
"In exchange for my time and my power, I ask you to disclose your methods to our scribes in full."
"Of course, my lord."
I know just enough about the monarchy to understand it isn't truly a question, but the barely perceptible quiver in my voice makes it clear that the prospect of relinquishing my secrets inspires a silent anguish. I can only hope he'll forgive my insubordinacy.
I can't tell whether it's a good thing or bad, but he seems to sense this unease and attempts to reassure me.
"Please, call me Cilesin. And this is my personal guard, Attico." He gestures toward the taller man beside him with fiery red hair, bow and quiver slung against his back. We exchange glances and he gives me a subtle nod, which I return. "We'll be spending a lot of time together in the coming weeks, and perhaps the long stretch of years to follow! Between you and me, I find my patience tested by these needless formalities. Treat me as you would a respected colleague. That *is* what I would be to you, after all, if my responsibilities were put aside, along with the status they afford me."
He seems good-natured. I don't trust it. My every impulse is screaming at me to run, but my higher reasoning overrules it. With a mage of the caliber the nobility so often becomes, to run would be utterly pointless. It would be received as a mere nuisance.
"Understood, Cilesin."
"Well, then. Shall we get to work? I'm told you're quite the artificer, and I'm eager to see what you've devised."
I nod slowly, and figure if it's inevitable, it's better if I let him down sooner rather than later. "The device which earned me that praise, my work of the last four years, may not suit your purposes well."
"Oh? And what leads you to you believe that?"
"It is not designed to empower a mage. It is designed to siphon from him."
He stops walking and turns to me, looking genuinely baffled. "Why would you build a thing like that?"
I quickly trim my story into something I would feel is safe to tell, and begin to relay it slowly, so as to observe any change in his demeanor. "In my youth, I was a member of a religious sect-"
"Which?" He interrupts me. Yet, he seems interested. He doesn't sound, at least, like he's reprimanding me for my ambiguity.
"Those followers of Lageminus that worship under the Wisphorians' roof."
"I'm vaguely familiar. Go on, then. Did they ask you to build this device for ceremonial purposes?"
"No, they're... deeply opposed. There's an initiatory rite where you drink of a certain salve, which incites you to experience the words and visions of whom they believe to be god. Most go on to live with a benevolent creator close at hand; Some others, like myself, find themselves chained to a relentless persecutor. This is permanent, as far as anyone knows. I discovered that it draws on an individual's inner power, and so by relinquishing mine, I could dispel these illusions."
"Permanent? So few things are permanent." He glances over at me with a soft smile, placing the suggestion before me like a bribe. "I suppose clarity of mind is what makes a scholar, it makes sense that you'd go to such lengths to secure it. I've been told you must work alongside a mage. I take it you do not study conjuration at all, then?"
"I study it, yes- but I don't perform. It is, I'm sure, more difficult for me to understand, lacking firsthand experience, but from a purely academic standpoint, I'm fairly well-versed."
"That will suffice. No, then, you are right. I don't have any need for your device."
It seems like a contradiction, both a dismissal and a weak acknowledgement. He begins to walk the other way, guard in tow, but he nods for me to follow.
"We'll begin something else," he explains. "That you managed to build a siphon before anyone else as far as I'm aware, and I *would* be aware, speaks to your tremendous skill. It would be a shame if it were to go to waste. The arcanists' hall may be the best resource open to the public, but the Archirian tradition is to keep our secrets ours, and we have made much further strides. Build our trust, and we will divulge some to you if there is the prospect of further discovery."
I was right, wasn't I? This is all an elaborate fiction. Archirian insight is not something outsiders are privileged with.
"You must recognize that you are in a unique position, Arvidian. This is uncharted territory for us as well. But we children of Archirias are made for conjuration. It is what comes naturally to us."
His sharp eyes soften and his movement slows, as though caught in a waking dream. I hold my breath. Some Archirians have been known to let their control slip, and I'm horrified at the possibility that this man who I could be committing to work under may be one of them. I feel a tremor run through the hall. The guard reaches out to steady him, putting a firm hand on his shoulder. After it subsides, I insist to myself it is either sheer coincidence or a trick of the mind, though a deeper part of me doubts that very much. But his departure from reality is brief, and his full focus returns.
He resumes walking, as though nothing had happened. "I wish I could better explain, but for once, it isn't because it's a closely guarded secret. It's perfectly unspeakable, especially to you who have never known it in any capacity! You'll just have to trust me when I say that nobody in their right mind would walk away from it, not for a moment they have to spare. It shouldn't surprise, then, that scarcely anyone among us takes up artificing. Our hope is that you will develop this science, as our supremacy in the arcane in all of its forms is what secures this great city of Devoquin."
I'm surprised, but this makes a lot of sense. It used to be that during the summer solstice festivities, a new work of Archirian artifice would be gifted to the people. The dais of revealing was the first, though long before my time. My mother forbade me from seeing the unveiling of the song-bells at the Church of the Origin, on the grounds of their heresy. On the other hand, the self-igniting torches made redundant the chore of lighting them for the pilgrims every night. This is both a serious obligation closely attended to by most, and very easily forgotten when a widower and her child are the only ones doing the remembering. All of the bitter neighborly conflicts resolved, she welcomed that change with open arms. That was many years ago.
I'm torn. I want to ask, but I'm not sure if it's out of line. He seems personable enough. Knowing his boundaries is better than not; I take a small risk. "Is that why the house of Archirias stopped presenting new devices at solstice-time?"
"Times have changed," he sighs. "There had been times when we couldn't settle on an idea and the king didn't care to take a side. There had been times when we'd come to an agreement, but no one wanted to put in the work. There had even been times when we'd started something, but the volunteers simply... lost interest." He stops beside a door and smiles at me, arms crossed. "Let's suppose, Arvidian, that we could be the ones to change that. What would you propose?"
"Oh, hmm. What a question!" My mind races with possibilities. Let's see... consider that the arcanists' hall has underground cellars to learn conjuration in, and they have to rotate which they use due to the perpetual need for repair. Oftentimes neither are serviceable."
Cilesin narrows his eyes, mutters something under his breath, and glances back at me. "The king would never allow it, for fear of..." He holds his head in frustration, not sure how much information is enough. "Application in... other domains." He settles on the most vague statement possible, and even that doesn't seem to satisfy him. "And you could say that the concept of fortification by artifice has been... thoroughly explored, here."
I take that to mean they've already figured it out. Interesting, but not to him. I try to keep the conversation moving. "I see. Then, how about we alter the roads, make them warm the city during the harsh winter months? The pilgrims arrive at all hours, and there isn't always room at the inn."
Cilesin resumes smiling politely, but his voice is still laced with frustration. "Admirably altruistic, but I'm afraid it's not permissible either. What is the difference between a light frost and a raging snowstorm?
"Intensity," I respond quietly, as I'm invaded by unwelcome images of a burning Devoquin.
"Intensity, and nothing else at all! If you're to give something to the public, you must consider whether a given work of artifice, given more power or less, or situated in a different context, could be used against us. If you do not, I can assure you, you will only face an endless series of rejections. I know the mind of the king; I am his son."
He is watching closely, studying my reaction. I feel frozen in place, though I try not to seem so. I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing right now, but acting natural feels like the next best option. "Of course. I will be sure to thoroughly consider such potentials in the future," I say, much more softly than I had been talking, but by the time I notice this discrepancy, it's too late to correct.
He waits for a moment. Uncertain and wracked with fear, so do I. Then, he has this to say: "Not even a statement such as that could force you to stray from the path of invention?" He lightly chuckles to himself. "If this is demonstrative of a single-minded dedication to the craft, I think you're my artificer, Arvidian. Please, come inside."
What noble turns such a failure into an accolade? He's positively silver-tongued! It's unnerving, and reminds me not to let my guard down, lest I really do become *his* artificer, a mere possession. I need to work out what his motives are before this probation ends, before I know too much. He said it himself; No young Archirian is this invested in the advancement of artifice for its own sake. What does he actually want from me?
His guard, a silent presence ever watching, opens the door. Cilesin turns his head toward me as he enters, so as to keep the continuity of the conversation. After him, I step into a pristine workshop. All manners of implements are hung on the wall, and as expected there's a furnace occupying the far corner, but it is far larger than any I've worked with. Racks of supplies, such as sheets of metal, glass, clay, and paper to draft the glyphs, even tomes for the most intricate works, are seemingly untouched. It is the artificer's workshop that non-nobility can only dream of. The arcanists' hall has no idea it exists, vacantly even, and on my life I can't tell them. I can only picture how envious they would be.
The prince sits at an arbitrary bench, one of many, and I take up the one beside him. The guard remains standing. I notice he's facing the door, and glancing from time to time at the half-circle window at the height of the wall. Boredom or vigilance, I wonder? But, there's no faultless way to ask.
"This room was where our artificers worked. Now it is ours- not by rule, no, but by sheer circumstance. It could change, but in my opinion, the likelihood is too small to bother considering. Not quite the accommodations you're used to, I take it?" He gives me another smile I don't know how to interpret.
I realize I'm gawking, and collect myself immediately. I try to brush it off. It shouldn't matter- the work is what matters! But I'm forced to begrudgingly admit that of course I'm drawn to things such as beauty and abundance. "No, not exactly," I say with a forced, awkward smile. But I think I'm learning the game, and I see an opportunity. If he pities me, which is what I suspect, he might be willing to make a concession.
"Could I ask you a question?"
"You can ask, whether I can answer is another matter. But, yes, go ahead."
"Thank you. I take it we may be working together for some time, and I'd like to know- if you're willing to tell me- whether this is by your initiative, or you are acting according to the will of the king. Or, put more broadly, how did this come about?"
The look he gives me is dramatically more engaged, and lives on the border between amusement and a sort of focus that isn't hostile, per se, but all the same I sense it's not in my best interest. It's as though he is a cat, and I a mouse, but he isn't hungry- my allure is all in the way I skitter across the floor. I'm wrong, dangerously so. Playing his game is asking for divine retribution.
"You see it, do you? The undercurrents here move in ways you are compelled to measure. This is, after all, how the analyst approaches his problems. But their behavior inspires you to think that if you simply find the right path to sail, you can avoid the danger you sense in these waters."
I see now that I've only given him license to speak about the unspoken, only thinly veiled in analogy. Is it possible that he can read my mind, or am I this transparent? No, I can't waste my time with that. I should instead start to weigh the reasons that this may or may not be my final mistake, or better- think of a way to return to the realm of the practical!
"This is wise in principle, I'll admit! Our gifts spill from our cups from time to time. Each thought in our minds is a glyph, mere traces away from becoming. Arvidian, we are not blind to this! We go to great lengths to carry ourselves well, but at times, even the most stringent discipline fails us. Stay and you'll hear of the tragedies that befall us when one of our own fails to rise to the occasion!"
"I digress. You suppose that if you learn where to steer, you'll get to where you want to be with the least harm. You seek mastery, why else would you have come? I understand; It is something we share in common. But let me give you some timely advice. It is not the current you need to concern yourself with, and if you go poking around in it, you may attract unwanted attention from the life lurking within. It could be ruinous. I understand that blind faith is a lot to ask of you, given your past circumstances, but find it in yourself to trust me and I will lead you to glory."
"Why am I doing this? You are right to wonder, but unlike my brothers and sisters, I know that the art is potent in all of its forms."
He stands abruptly. "That's enough for now. The time approaches for the king to introduce you. My family must come to see you as a guest, and his blessing is our only hope of achieving that."
I follow him out in silence, feeling too dizzy to walk straight, still grappling with what's been said and implied.
I just can't discard, at the faintest scent of strife, this singular chance to see further. If I've enough hubris to say it, perhaps I could even see further than any artificer before me has ever seen. I'd be mad to run. If I did run, would I wonder with regret what could have been? The question of the hour, the heart of the problem, is whether I would also be mad to stay. Do I risk my life for a miniscule chance at discovering something significant?
We take our places near the table's head. When he arrives, Cilesin will be at the king's right hand, and I will be at his. Attico takes his post along the wall behind us, in hushed conversation with a young woman who came in with an Archirian in a sweeping dress. The Archirian in question can't seem to stop straightening it, or fixing her hair, or finding other ways to fidget with her hands like a nervous child.
When she finally comes to speak, she is soft and hesitant. "Cilesin, what's this Quintieri doing here?"
"Drelvathi, I'd like you to meet Arvidian, artificer adept from the Arcanists' Hall. I'll be working with him, potentially long-term."
"But, why is he here?"
"I encourage you to take a look around you, sister. We have two full generations of conjurers among us, and no artificers are left! How could we ever hope to stay at the forefront of capability, if we don't adapt to our circumstances? The Hall is where the people take part in our common transcendence; It is no place for forging secrets."
"Did father-" She stops to look up at him as he enters and takes the table's head. He's a tall man in elaborate robes, with long hair reaching his sides, all of it black as night. He is a silhouette made of shadow, save for his face, which is masked in smooth, reflective silver. Not moulded, but shaped to perfection with an unnatural degree of control and perception. If he doesn't like me, I'll only have his voice to go off of- and I think that might be the point. Like a god's, his mind is unknowable until revealed.
"Welcome," he addresses me briefly, neutrally, as the others are still filing in.
"Thank you, your highness."
I try not to stare at them, but I'm curious. I haven't seen too many Archirians before. They keep pretty well to themselves. Sometimes, you see them on the perimeter wall, and you know it's one of them by the various fabrics of their robes fluttering about them like flags in the wind, making them appear large and foreboding, but they're too far to make out the details. What others will only ever wonder, I am already witnessing.
They're as colorful as the mosaic roads and the stained glass that lets the light into our buildings. Some of the older are masked like the king, and I suppose my intuition was wrong. I can't work out why. The children stay very close to their parents, their young guardians not too far behind, and the reasons for this are much clearer. The risk that they might pose to themselves and each other if left unattended must be too great.
Cilesin said his farewells and departed after dinner, sending Attico off to lead me to my quarters. As we walk in silence, our footseps resounding with nothing to mask them, I note that this wing doesn't see much traffic. Given his little speech earlier, it's enough to suggest it was that sly prince's choosing. He unlocks a door at the very end, and one might assume I have the plague.
But, for all its remoteness, what are the odds that this room, too, could drive a man to grandiosity? It possesses the same surreal, purposeless beauty as the workshop. It confirms that there is no place unlike it here. What a relief it could have been to find a simple room! I'm starting to feel unmoored. It's like I've left the real for a waking dream, one that lapses into a nightmare, and under no circumstances will commit to either state. I take a deep breath, and turn back around to face him.
"Here're the keys," he says, handing them to me. He hesitates for a moment, but then his inner commoner slips free of the soldier's grasp. "How're you holding up? You look a bit dazed."
"It's a lot to take in, but I'm sure I just need some time to adjust, thanks." My head is spinning, the world has lost its orientation, and I can only hope I'm brushing it off convincingly.
"I wish you luck. Just remember that you can allow yourself to be completely at ease when night comes. Keeping this truth in mind has helped us over the years."
He's being honest with me. No obfuscations, just straightforward sympathy. I don't feel too afraid to match it. Having a confidant so close to the source of all of this agonizing uncertainty would be a godsend, so long as he's not silently gathering information or the like. I don't suspect he is. I'll be careful not to say anything too damning, but neither will I give him the walls I give his employer.
"I'll take it from the one who stands next to one of the most powerful conjurers in the world, most hours of the day. Anything else that you think might help me?"
"Well, there's this one rule we tell all of the kids: be forgettable to strangers, sulkers, and the scrambled."
"Does that ever apply to your charge?"
"Oh, yes. No stranger to me, but he'll sulk and scramble like the rest. I grew up with him, and he still makes me nervous from time to time. So it goes. He's a fine man, but not even he can escape the fate of a living weapon."
That's *real* reassuring. But it's also kind of fascinating, in a way? One would think they'd never meet until he was old enough to guard, and here they are as lifelong aquaintances, maybe even friends. I can't help but ask, "They raise the Rotholo with their own young?"
He nods. "Most of us. In pairs, to forge a bond. We learn to be perfectly loyal to them as they learn to trust us implicitly." I raise an eyebrow at this. What does that quirk of dynamics in their hierarchical roles accomplish? Now he's *really* piqued my curiousity.
"Then," he continues, "Under the close watch of stronger mages, there's a rite of passage where they have to push themselves too far on purpose. We're taught to reign them in, and they're taught to listen. We're the only ones that can do it; We're not apt for the arcane at all, so we don't get drawn into the reverie."
"I didn't know that."
"Think about it. If word got out, someone might wonder what happens to a conjurer if they lose their guardian. We know what happens all too well. Sooner or later, they hear the siren song, they give in to it, and then they're beyond all help. No, talk of this must stay within the walls."
"I see. Has it always been that way?"
"Always. Our houses' history together goes way back. The heights they've reached would have been impossible without us. And, every mage knows we're the one thing that might bring them or their brothers and sisters back from the brink. We're treated very well."
"Might? So, it doesn't always work, then?"
"Yeah, sometimes they're too far gone." He scratches the back of his neck, a note of pensiveness in his voice.
"What do you do about them then?"
"It's... not something I like to think about." He quickly changes the subject. "Say, ah, would you like to come over to our wing? Night's always worth celebrating to us, so there might be fermented drinks involved, but it's regular company- they couldn't burn you to a crisp, even if they wanted to with every fiber of their being."
It feels like such an immediate and natural comraderie, but isn't this going a bit far? I laugh nervously and pose the question rhetorically, "You don't think Cilesin would mind?"
"I asked." He shrugs and tries to act as though it were nothing. "He was initially against it. But, I suggested that whatever happens, isolating you would be worse in the long run. He reluctantly admitted that was true."
"Well! I... appreciate your advocacy."
Another shrug. "I just figured nobody should be left to fend for themselves in this place. Cilesin'll ward off his own if I ever need him to, and then I get to go home to my brothers and sisters. You? Best you've got is the hope you'll get on well with your new patron. You seem a bit stranded, and I know my family would take you in, treat you like one of our own."
"I can't thank you enough."
Several minutes pass as we traverse the halls in friendly conversation, until we come upon a room that looks to be a tavern. I look out over the pool of flame-colored hair. A few sit around a large fireplace, most others at a long table. If I had to guess, they were roughly a crowd of forty at that point.
"Attico! Hey! Who's that guy?" A young man looks up and shouts, and everyone freezes and turns to look. Everyone, except a middle-aged woman standing behind a nearby counter.
"He's not a mage, is he?" She asks, her hands busy drying a glass cup with her towel. Then aside to him, almost out of earshot, "Attico, you know full well that this is a haven, a place where you don't have to keep your guard up like you must to keep company who're involved in the art."
"I know, ma'am. He does design work in artifice, but he's not a conjurer, not even to animate his work. I figured that might be okay."
"Is that so? Well, I suppose that's alright." She's hesitant, but softer. She allows her gaze to drift away from me. A good sign.
"What's he doing here, then? A guest of some sort?"
"Cilesin's trying something, wants to import talent in the less ecstatic arts. Might be long-term. This one's from the Arcanists' Hall. Picture it, this guy surrounded by mages and pretty much defenseless, going it alone in the name of honing his trade. That takes guts. Way I see it, we've got a lot in common."
"I see," she responds neutrally, reserving her judgement for now. "Yara. What should I call you, artificer?"
"Arvidian. Thank you for having me," I say with a quick bow. "I'm sorry that this was somewhat unexpected."
"Arvidian," he begins. "You know me fairly well by now..."
"Yes, Cilesin." I swallow hard, looking up from my schematic. I set my quill in its inkwell.
"Do you think you can confide in me?"
This might just be the most dangerous question I can imagine. I pause to consider. "I suppose... that would depend on the subject, wouldn't it?"
"You spend a lot of time with the Rotholo, I've noticed."
I don't like his line of questioning. "There's a lot of common ground between us, given our positions," I say quickly.
"Of course. I understand that." He waves it off, smiling sagely enough to belong in a portrait. "What I'm interested in has little to do with your personal relationships. It has far more to do with the state of the house of Rotholo."
I relax into a sigh, before recognizing that, well... I'd be a fool to ignore that he has identified my interpersonal developments, even if that's not the pressing concern of the hour. My relief is a confession. I smile wryly, clenching my teeth. "Ah, politics. I see. I'm not much inclined, but I'll tell you what I know. What's the issue?"
"For as long as I have been alive," he begins, as though beginning to retell some lengthy story, "I have been told that the Rotholo *exist* to serve the throne. That they aspire to nothing else, that they would be lost without their ordinance."
I nod slowly, not agreeing, but submitting to the narrative, which isn't much different.
"Now, doesn't that strike you as unnatural?"