I take the stairs at an achingly slow pace, first one leg, then the other, each step taking longer than the last. Reknor strolls out of the kitchens carrying a clay jug of something that sloshes just as I reach the bottom. My tongue immediately goes dry in response to the sound. Reknor grins at my expression and offers me the jug.
“Thirsty?”
“You know everything,” I say eagerly, reaching out and taking the jug gingerly. The wrappings make the motion awkward, but I bring it to my lips. At the first taste, my eyes pop wide, and I swing the jug down and gawk at the brown liquid within. “What is this?”
“Milk mixed with cocoa from the Talirese Islands. It promotes swift recovery.”
“It's the Creator's drink itself,” I gasp as I finish another long swallow of the ice cold milk. I’ve only had chocolate a few times in my life. Each other occasion was on my birthday when the girls at the Simply had given me gifts. Usually, it was a mouthful or a small sweet mixed with caramel or coconut. I loved those rare times when the girls relaxed and were more themselves.
“Come with me,” Reknor says, beckoning with his hand as he walks past the scribing desk in the front room and into his study. He picks up a stack of tomes from a cracked, green leather chair and gestures for me to sit. “Can you read?”
“Some,” I say as I let my trembling legs relax into the seat. “I know my letters, and Rosie taught me stories out of the Enchantress when I was young. I don't know that many words, but I know enough to get by.”
“Rosie?” Reknor asks, glancing up at me sharply.
“My mother. She raised me and gave me a roof to live under.”
“What happened to her?”
“Do you know of the Simply?”
“Oh,” Reknor says. “Oh. Jace, I'm sorry.”
Everyone in the city knows what happened to the Simply. It’s hard to forget.
Soldiers surrounded the brothel one evening in Summer just before sundown. These were not just soldiers of the Wave, but the knights of the Tide: the best, the brightest, the most ruthless. They had tracked a wanted criminal to the building and demanded him on pain of death. They were after Jonah, of course. They claimed he stole from royal messengers, missives detailing troop movements, news of the Vengeance and the Mason, and much more besides.
Jonah was with Darzay, his favorite girl, when they arrived. I was away on an errand for Rosie, buying some green onions and spices for the stew that night. That errand saved my life. The women of the Simply weren't just going to give him up. Rosie walked out to tell them he wasn't there. I turned the corner just as they cut her down. She spun to the ground, her blood hanging in the air like drifting Spring rain. A scream strangled itself in my throat.
The Tide piled kindling on the building and set the whole thing on fire. Even where I was, a block away, I could feel the heat, feel the screams as they pierced the night like rapiers into flesh. Some of the women tried to run, and arrows found them before they made it two steps. Darzay crawled, a bolt through her spine, dragging herself forward with just her arms. Her bright red hair was wild and already stained a deeper crimson with blood. She looked up, her green eyes burning out through the night. She mouthed 'run' just as a soldier stepped up, laughing, and plunged his sword into her back.
They caught Jonah as he tried to slip out a window in the back. A crossbow bolt took him in the leg, and he fell to the street. He was hardly able to hobble. We never spoke again. I never found out if he actually took any messages or if the Sealord was just trying to make an example. The headsman executed him two days later, but when they brought him out, the whole crowd went silent. The festival jeers and cheers of a normal execution day ceased immediately. One look at Jonah and every man, woman, and child there knew that the execution was mercy compared to what they had done to him. He couldn't walk. He could hardly breathe. He didn't cry out when they roughly thrust him to the block. Jonah was already dead when the ax hit wood.
My memory is vivid of those times. The smell of burning flesh, the horrifying screams, my mother’s death. Of all of it, though, what I remember most is the soldier's laugh. It was blithe, carefree. It wasn't malicious or evil. It was just the laugh you laugh when a friend tells you a joke. What sort of man laughs a happy laugh as he stabs a woman through the back? What sort of person burns down a building full of people and is filled with joy? You can see where my fear of the Tide is derived.
Reknor reaches up and pulls down a heavy leather tome from his long wall of books. I look at the embossed gold cover and smile. It’s the Enchantress, twice as thick and three times as long as the copy my mother read for me as a child.
“Wow,” I mutter. “This is a few more than I remember.”
“Let's start with this: something familiar, and yet more,” Reknor agrees. He places the book carefully in my lap so I won’t have to hold it in my broken hands.
“What happens if I don't know a word?” I ask him as he settles down at his desk.
“You try to figure it out. Look at all of the words around it and guess at the meaning. If you really can't tell, then ask me.”
His voice is already far away as he picks up his quill and begins writing. I crack open the book, shocked to see beautiful, flowing script wrought in gold. Images of fairies cavorting and knights rearing on white chargers twine in and among the crafted words. I glance up at Reknor wordlessly. What kind of man spends this much gold on a book of fairy tales?
I turn the page, and the words sweep me away to a simpler time, a more magical time, a time of goodness and heroism that doesn’t exist in the world anymore. The words take me back to the cradle of my mother’s arms and the soft lilt of her voice, the trace of an accent I haven’t heard before or sense. Her eyes shine, her silky brown hair swirled atop her head. The words carry me back to a time when I was lost in the warmth and love of a mother.
The first story concerns a knight who rescues a princess. I read through it quickly, almost impatiently. The story is secondary to the memories parading through my head. I haven’t thought of her in such a light in so long that I almost forgot her like this. But here she is, laughing as she tells me of how the knight tricks the evil king.
The next page has no words, but instead a painting of the knight facing down an army on his own. The artist has claimed each minute detail for his own, a miniature masterpiece worthy of any collection. I almost feel myself there, heart drumming, eager to fight in the name of my lady.
A tale of a simple orphaned street girl follows. She discovers that she has the power to shape the wind. Shaping is every orphan’s dream; to find out that you aren’t ordinary, you aren’t poor. You’re just waiting to find your element and call its name.
There once was a girl of little worth or mettle. She had bright red hair turned gray. It lost its color as she lost her hope. Her bright blue eyes faded to the same slate gray as her hair, and the blush of youth left her cheeks. Her name was Anna.
Anna lost her parents early, and there was no one to look after her. She had to fend for herself, barely finding enough food to survive. She begged, she stole, and she fought tooth and nail to keep everything that came to her. She survived those times through luck. Hunger and cold were her constant companions. She was never comfortable. She slept little. The hunger and the cold took turns shaking her awake with fiery and icy fingers.
One night, as Anna lay on the cobbled streets unable to sleep from the cold, she heard a whisper. Now, it had been a terribly hard day. Anna hadn't had anything to eat, and the only water she’d had was the bitter, dirty snow of the street. Anna thought she was hallucinating the sound, the voice.
I nearly stop reading at this point. The words are too close to reality for me. I’ve been far too close to starvation to enjoy this story. I also have to break down and ask Reknor what 'hall-uck-in-ate-ing' means. He corrects me gently and goes back to his work.
The whisper came, beckoning, begging her to stand up. Anna was cold and hungry. She cried out that she couldn't. The strength ha
d left her frail arms. She couldn't even sit up. The whisper echoed through the alley again, louder, calling for her to find the will. She closed her eyes and ignored the voice. She knew that if she listened to the dead, she would find herself beyond the bone door that very night.
Finally, the whisper turned to a shout. The wind stirred Anna's gray hair and picked up her tiny head with the force of its voice. She looked up in wonder. The voice was the voice of the air itself. She reached out to the waiting wind, arm trembling. The wind picked her up from the ground, caressed her, cushioned her, made her as light and as swift as the air itself.
She walked without a care, the wind bringing her warm drafts from the South. They swirled around her and chased away the cold. The wind brought her the smells of meat and cheese and wine. She followed those scents to a kindly old man who was down on his luck. He refused to open his door at first, but he saw that the wind was with Anna, so he welcomed her to eat her fill.
Anna followed where the wind led, across lands and kingdoms, seas and plains of ice. The wind always looked after her. She learned to ask the wind for its help, and the wind responded willingly, a glad companion and friend. Never forgetting her own misfortune, Anna helped all that she could. When she found suffering, she left behind joy. She left behind the legend of the Wind-Daughter.
After years of travel, Anna had followed the wind across the entire world, helping everyone who needed her. Finally, the wind led her back to the city of her birth. There, the legends of the gray-haired, gray-eyed child were powerful. They welcomed the Wind-Daughter with open arms as their queen.
“Surely that can't be right,” I mutter quietly when I finish the story.
“What was that?” Reknor asks, looking up from his parchment.
“This story. About the little girl named Anna. Surely that isn't what Shaping is like,” I say, exasperated.
“You'd be surprised,” Reknor answers with a faraway look in his eyes. “Turn the page. The Wind-Daughter was a real person, Jace.”
I flip the thick parchment and have to draw in a sharp breath. An angelic woman with silver hair graces the page. Her features are delicate and pale, surrounded by a halo of her gorgeous tresses as they float in the wind. I blink when I realize she is floating above the earth, her long hair flowing around her and a beatific smile on her face.
“To say she was beautiful is an understatement,” Reknor says, smiling.
“You say that as if you knew her,” I scoff. “This story has to be a thousand years old.”
“Seven hundred and forty-three.” I glance at him incredulously, and he shrugs. “I am a historian, after all.”
“Okay, fine, she was a real person. But the wind just talked to her? The wind can't talk.”
“Really? Have you ever heard the wind on a cold night? Have you listened as the wind blows through a cracked window, or over the mountain passes? The wind has a voice, alright. Most of us just can't understand it.”
“I can't imagine that's how Shaping works.”
“Why don't you tell me what you know about Shaping, and I'll tell you how wrong you are,” Reknor answers in a reasonable tone.
“Fine. There’s one Master for each element in the world at each time. They have mastery over their particular element, though no one knows how they manage it in the first place. A lot of people insert a bunch of religious nonsense into the story here, but I don't buy any of it,” I pause to take a breath, looking at him expectantly, but he just nods and waves for me to continue.
“Another thing no one knows is how many elements there are that can be Shaped. Everyone knows the obvious ones, like earth and wind, fire and water, but there are supposed to be a bunch. The Mason is supposedly the Master of Stone, and there are rumors that the Lord General is the Master of Beasts, whatever that means. I don’t know. How can flesh be an element?” Reknor remains impassive, just gesturing me onward.
“Uh, no one knows how the power gets passed on, just that there is one of them at a time... Ugh, I'm repeating myself now,” I mutter, then I remember. “Oh, there used to be a Council of Shapers that made laws for them and normal people and generally lorded over everything. Sometime around when I was born the Sealord and his buddy the Lord General killed everybody else and took over for themselves. All of the imperial types say it’s for the best, but I don't buy that. There aren’t stories from before the Sealord took over of brothels being burned to the ground.”
I say the last bitterly. Reknor walks over and puts his hand on my shoulder in sympathy. I nod my thanks, looking up at his craggy face with its eye patch.
“Is that it?”
“Right, well, the Vengeance and the Mason are supposed to be out there somewhere, plotting the King's downfall and raising all sorts of rebellions, but no one has ever seen them, and no one knows where they might be. And Telias the Warmheart was the last good Shaper of all of them. The last man to stand before the Kingdom of the Sea was formed and fight for what he believed in. He would have won, too, but the Vengeance betrayed him.”
Reknor's grip tightens uncomfortably on my shoulder. I start to flinch away, but the pressure disappears. For a second, Reknor looks so shaken I think he might faint. He recovers quickly, though, his face sliding back into its normal cheerful grin. I stare at him hard to see if any signs remain, but his smiling mask is in place.
“That's about it,” I say.
“That was a whole lot of 'no one knows' you threw in there, despite the fact that you’re remarkably well-informed. Where did a boy who is just learning to read get all of that information?”
“I was raised by a thief named Jonah,” I answer. “He seemed to be kind of fascinated with Shapers. He told me all the stories he knew whenever he got drunk.”
“Defthands, eh?” Reknor says, cocking an eyebrow.
“You knew Jonah? How—”
“Everyone knew who Jonah Defthands was after the Simply burned,” Reknor says, holding up his hand to cut me off. “They put up posters across the city proclaiming his execution. I make it my business to know everything, including prominent thieves and cutthroats in the city. Now, you aren't far off about the recent history of Shapers, nor about the fact that there is only one Shaper for each element existing at a time. The way Shaping works... that's kind of a tricky question. Think of it this way. All energy comes from somewhere. For Shapers, the power to control the elements comes from within, from their souls.”
“Souls?” I ask skeptically. “Didn't you nod in agreement with the 'religious nonsense' part of my story?”
“Religion does come in, and the Creator's faith is critical to Shaping,” Reknor says seriously. “Each element is an aspect of the Creator's power he gave up in the creation of our world. The power was passed to us, his creations, so that we could continue to Shape the world as we willed. Our soul powers us, both typical humans and Shapers. It's how we walk, how we breathe, how we jump and speak and swim. You most definitely have a soul. In fact, Shaping isn't all that different from a normal action. It just requires the right mental commands like walking and running. It uses up the same energy, just to fantastic effect.”
“Shaping is like walking? I believe that less than I believe this,” I scowl, shoving at the book in my lap.
“Not quite like walking. Nearly anyone can walk, but only a few can Shape. Shaping is passed from one to another by way of an unexplainable energy transference that travels directly to the next infant born.”
“What?”
“The power goes to the next baby born, anywhere in the world,” Reknor simplifies. “A lot of people will try to tell you that the Creator blesses infants deserving of the strength, but there have been as many Shapers you could call ‘evil’ as ‘good.’ The passing of power, though… that is a true mystery. It just happens. The power passes. When a Shaper is near his element and in the right state of mind, he can use the energy of his soul to Shape that element.”
“Just like that,” I say, smoothing my hand across the air.
&
nbsp; “It’s not easy, if that's what you are asking. But those are the basics.”
In fact, Shapers focus their power through...” He trails off, and a pained expression flits across his face.
“Focus through what?”
“A symbol.” He clears his throat. “A glowing symbol that appears on the body of the Shaper the first time they use their power, each a different color: blue for water, orange for fire, gray for stone, and the like.”
“Gray?” I ask, trying to wrap my head around that idea. Gray light? “How do you know all this? Talked to many Shapers?”
“The question you should be asking, Jace,” Reknor says with a smile. “Is not 'how do you know' but 'what don't you know.' I am the kingdom's premier historian, perhaps the most knowledgeable man on any continent, anywhere, ever. Didn't you know who I was when you broke into my house?”
“I thought I did,” I say, slowly shaking my head. “But I didn't.”
I go through several bouts with the pole and a dozen books over the next few weeks. After the first day, Reknor gives me genuine instruction in how to hold the blade, how to slice across and score the wood instead of slamming into it, how to cut from one height to another smoothly. I’m never going to be a large person, no matter how much muscle Reknor tries to pack on my slender frame, but even I notice the strength building in my arms and legs. I also devour story after story in Reknor's small library, practically spending every free moment reading. I love the stories where the heroes aren’t really heroes, where the ladies aren’t particularly ladies, and especially where the monsters aren’t actually monsters.
Just as I start to get comfortable, I walk into the training room to find, as if by magic, a second post sitting next to the first. I pull up short and glance at Reknor. It isn’t just the fact that I have two targets, but the colors on the new pole are all entirely different from the first.
The Crux of Eternity: Eternal Dream, Book 1 (The Eternal Dream Saga) Page 14
