The Arclight Saga

by C. M. Hayden

  Azra tapped the side, then held the prosthetic up vertically and moved it in several different directions. “There we go, right as rain.” He handed it to Taro. “That glue’s an old family secret, tough as a landlord’s heart.”

  Taro thanked him graciously, though without the magistry runes the prosthetic was little more than a hunk of wood. Still, having it made it easier to walk, even though he’d still need the staff for balance. When his mechanical prosthetic had been forced off him in the freezing cold, it had ruined the base nerves of his leg, making walking without a magistry-enhanced prosthetic incredibly painful.

  “Now don’t look so down,” Azra said, patting him on the shoulder. “You’re alive, you’re fed, you’re not laying in some alley bleeding to death. I know it’s not optimal, but you’ve got to count your blessings, boy.”

  “Sorry,” Taro said. “I don’t mean to seem ungrateful.” He set his leg into the prosthetic groove, and began to pull the buckles and leather straps around to secure it to his limb. He did his best to suppress the pain of his tender flesh meeting the wood.

  Taro got up and walked around a bit, staff in hand. It was indeed as painful as he’d expected, but the staff helped ease the sting.

  Azra followed him into the backyard and nodded in approval. “You see? Good as new.”

  _____

  Azra’s oldest boy, Bran, returned to the house soon after, carrying a two-wheeled wooden cart packed full of candles. He set the cart outside the door and entered, looking dejected.

  “Home so early?” Meia said.

  “The aculam’s closed, Mum,” Bran answered.

  “Closed?”

  “Undercleric Isen said it could be closed for weeks, for repairs.”

  Meia looked considerably worried at this, but her motherly expression quickly returned and she hugged her boy. “Go ahead and put the cart in the backyard.”

  “But what about money for—”

  “You don’t need to worry about that,” Meia said. “The midsummer festival is soon; we’ll make up the difference then. Yes?”

  Bran nodded and went to pack away the candle cart.

  “Festival?” Taro asked.

  “You Endrans don’t celebrate the Festival of Lights?” Meia asked.

  Taro shook his head. “It’s always summer in Endra Edûn, and it’s always raining in Ashwick, where I’m from.”

  “Well, you’re in for a treat. Fireworks, candy, jugglers, and acrobats. It’s the best time of year. And we sell more candles at the festival than we do in a whole month at the aculam.”

  Azra had been just outside and had heard the conversation. “If we get a decent crowd this year, things being how they are.”

  “There’s no point in looking for a rain cloud in our future, dear,” Meia said with definite reproach.

  “We need to consider it,” Azra countered. “The Shahl hasn’t exactly been making friends, and we won’t get many tourists this year with a parade of bodies hanging outside the city. I swear that man…”

  “Dearest, it’s not polite to speak of such things around company,” Meia said gently.

  Azra looked as though he had a great deal to say about the Shahl, but he kept it to himself. This seemed to be a small piece of a much larger argument the two had been having for some time.

  Meia turned her attentions back to Taro. “That staff suits you.”

  “It does, thank you,” Taro said. He started for the door. “I’m healing up pretty well. I think I’ll be fine from this point on. I’d better get going.”

  Azra stopped him. “You got eight colors of hell beaten out of you. I insist you stay here, at least until you’re well again.”

  “I couldn’t impose. I’m sure money’s tight with the aculam being closed. I don’t want to—”

  “Rubbish,” Meia said firmly. “You staying here won’t put us in the poor house.” She tapped her lips with her finger. “And, dearest, I seem to remember you saying you could use an extra pair of hands in the shed.”

  Azra nodded appreciatively. “I certainly could. Mr. Taro looks like he’s got clever hands. Builder’s hands. I’m sure I can find a job for him. What do you say, my boy?”

  Their generosity hit Taro so hard, he felt his eyes swell up with tears. He held them back with a sniffle and shook his head. “Why?”

  “Why what?” Azra said.

  “Why are you people so god damned nice? You don’t owe me anything. I’m not even Helian. I’m not family. Why help me so much?”

  There was a long pause as Azra and Meia exchanged serious looks. For a moment, Taro thought the question itself had caught them off guard; but when Meia moved toward the fireplace and retrieved a picture frame from the mantelpiece, he knew he’d misjudged their reaction.

  She handed the picture frame to Taro. It was a simple brass surrounded with a painted portrait of their family. Azra and Meia, their young children. There was also an older boy, presumably their missionary son. He was taller than all of them, and in his right hand he held the same staff they’d given to Taro. Most of his lower half was obscured by his little sister, but the parts that were visible showed off a substantial brace that ran from his calf, down. His leg wasn’t missing, but it was severely damaged.

  “How?” Taro asked.

  “Polio when he was very young. The doctors thought he was going to die,” Azra said, then paused for a long moment. He appeared deep in thought.

  “There’s no cure for that, is there?” Taro said, venturing a bit too close to a very personal question. He caught his tongue before he could say more.

  “Not in Helia, no, but—” Azra began.

  His wife interrupted him, with a stern shake of her head, and spoke. “He’d want us to help you. This family has never turned away someone in need before, even in our worst times. And we’re not going to start now. And that’s all that really needs to be said.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  The Stars That Form Us

  When Taro awoke the next day, Meia inquired as to his health. He said that his bruises were still sore, but that he felt fine. She sat out a plate of warm fried potatoes, a scrambled egg, and a thin slice of fatty bacon. Taro scarfed it up in almost one gulp before he remembered his manners and thanked her four times over for the food. She smiled like the sun, and for a moment she reminded Taro so much of his own mother that he forgot himself.

  Taro choked on the food and washed it down with a chug of warm cider. Meia patted him on the back with a lighthearted laugh. “The food’s not going to run away, child.”

  “Sorry,” Taro grinned, embarrassed. “Where is everyone?”

  “Azra and the little ones are out selling candles to the small aculams. Bran is in the shed out back; he’ll get you started on your chandlery, when you’re up to it.”

  Taro took another gulp and cleaned off his plate before heading to the shed. Bran was inside cutting a long strip of wax paper with a pair of scissors. When Taro entered, the boy jumped reflexively and the paper tore sideways.

  “Shit,” the little boy said, then suddenly covered his mouth. His eyes widened. “Please, don’t tell my dad I said that.”

  Taro laughed. “Your secret’s safe with me.” He hobbled toward a stool and set his walking stick between two posts in the thin shed walls.

  Bran drew out a new sheet of wax paper, an ink quill, and a ruler, and drew a new line where he intended to cut it.

  Bran reminded Taro somewhat of Decker, though he was a bit younger. He had bright blond hair, as most Helians did, but it was kept very short. His eyes were the color of seafoam, and he had a curious look about him. His eyes were always searching around; and despite his directness in introducing himself the day before, he seemed intensely shy around Taro. The reason was obvious: Endrans were not at all common in Helia, and with the stories that came from the west, Endra must sound like a vast magical kingdom to a young boy.

  While Bran was clearly trying not to stare, his eyes glanced back at Taro several times as he
seemed to struggle to find something to say. “Are you feeling better?” he stammered.

  “Much better. Your parents are wonderful people.”

  Bran smiled as he finished the cut, then folded it into a tube and applied some pink-colored adhesive to the ends. It made a funnel about an inch in diameter. “They are,” he agreed.

  “Why aren’t you out with your dad?” Taro asked conversationally.

  “I usually sell candles at the big aculam. Not much else to do but work on some special orders. They’re custom-made for nobility. We even sell to Inquisitor Praxis, sometimes.”

  “Your dad trusts you with that? Sounds like a big job.”

  Bran shrugged with faux modesty. “I can do anything my dad can. I even made a candle for the Shahl himself, once.”

  “You’ve met the Shahl?” Taro asked.

  Bran shook his head. “No, never. But I heard he used it. Dad wouldn’t like me being near him anyway…” He trailed off as if he wanted to say more.

  “Why’s that?” Taro asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

  “Dad doesn’t think he’s a very nice man.” He said this with a note of finality, then quickly changed the subject as he stood and brought the tube over to a small pot of boiling wax. On the counter beside the pot was a set of tarnished iron rings that the cylinder fit into perfectly. Bran looked back. “Watch closely.”

  Taro did so, watching the boy set a strip of wicking into the mold. He then poured the molten wax in until it was near the top. On the floor below the iron frame was a great deal of wax puddles where overflow had dripped through the years.

  “All done?” Taro asked.

  Bran shook his head. “Once it dries we’ve gotta inscribe a prayer onto it.” He pointed to the rack of brass molds. “There are ones for weddings, deaths, celebrations—”

  “So, we need one for the festival?”

  “Exactly!” He pointed to several at the end. “You can pick one out, if you want.”

  There were four suited for the task and seemed to be the least frequently used (as the Festival of Lights only occurred once a year).

  “What are the candles for, exactly?” Taro asked, picking one off the shelf and looking it over.

  Bran responded as if he was reciting from a textbook. “The candles represent the stars in the sky. We light them at midnight, at midsummer, to honor the Old High Gods.” His voice returned to normal. “Or something.”

  The writing on the candle Taro retrieved was in Deific, but he read it aloud in Amínnic. “Bless the five stars that formed us, that give us light in the darkest bout of night. That guide us through the Great Sea toward home. From starlight we come, to starlight we return.”

  Bran’s eyes widened. “You speak Deific?”

  Taro glanced up. “Just a bit.”

  The boy gave him a conspiratorial look. “Cori thinks you’re a wizard.”

  “I heard.” Taro chuckled. “But every Endran can’t be a wizard, right?” Taro said with a wink.

  Though he was just a boy, Bran was indeed incredibly knowledgeable about his father’s work. He taught Taro how to turn petroleum into paraffin wax, how to pour a candle mold without spillage, how to change the color or odor of a candle, and about appropriate prayer templates.

  It was remarkably relaxing work, and much of it reminded him of his long hours in the Artificium, minus the choking heat and frequent opportunities for injury. Each candle was like a work of delicate artificing, a piece of art in itself. As they worked, they talked of small things. Of the weather in Endra, the Sun King, and whether Taro had ever actually seen a magister in person. Bran was clearly bursting with questions, but he did a good job of doling them out in small chunks so as not to appear too eager.

  Taro, in turn, learned a great deal about Helian culture and practices. He learned that the tattoos they wore were given to them when they reached twelve years old, and Bran was particularly excited to receive his next one. They weren’t decided by the children, but rather the Helian clerics would perform a ritual that would divine what their next design should be.

  This explained why so few Helian refugees in Endra Edûn had them, as most of the Helian migration had happened generations ago. There simply weren’t any clerics left to keep the practice going half a world away.

  The tattoos indicated many things, such as what sort of life they might be expected to lead. One of charity, service, mercantile, or religion. These weren’t castes, specifically, but going against them was considered quite out of the ordinary.

  “They don’t do that where you’re from?” Bran asked, looking up from the candle he was carving custom letters into.

  “Nope.”

  “What about yours?” Bran pointed to Taro’s bare arm.

  Taro did indeed have a tattoo of his own. It was a single line above his wrist. All Magisterium recruits got them when they attained the rank of artificer. It was high enough on his arm so that it wasn’t immediately noticeable unless he pulled up his sleeve a few inches and turned his hand, palm up.

  Taro turned it away and smiled. “That’s just a birthmark.” He sheepishly changed the subject. “So, I think I’m ready to do a candle on my own.”

  Taro did his best and focused all his effort into crafting a perfect candle. What resulted was a flaking, crooked mass of wax with a buried wick. Bran made a token gesture at containing his laughter, but upon seeing the result of Taro’s efforts, he burst out laughing.

  “Okay,” Bran said, “maybe you’re not a wizard after all.”

  _____

  Late that night, several hours after a simple dinner of collard greens and ham, everyone was fast asleep. Quickly and quietly, Taro retrieved his staff and went to the backyard. There were a great many brown prickly plants growing from crevasses in the shed’s wooden beams. Though these were little more than weeds to most people, thanks to Antherion’s lessons, Taro saw them for what they truly were: cephaeros maltrus. Their seeds contained a milky-white filling that would be useful. He picked virtually every seed in the yard, and brought it into the shed with him. His hands were bramble scratched and bleeding afterwards.

  With a small bit of templary, he rubbed his thumb and forefinger onto a lantern’s wick hanging over the worktable and it burst into flame. Taro emptied the contents of the dozen seeds into a burner bowl, lit the base, and let the contents simmer. While this happened, he rummaged through the drawers to see what materials he had at hand. Carving tools, vials of simple ink, wood alcohol, and chemical solvents used in chandlery.

  He carefully unlatched the buckles on his prosthetic and set it on the tabletop. The adhesive Azra had used to bind the pieces together was holding well, but the sheer weight of the wood, the grinding of it against his leg, and the unpivoting heel made it cumbersome and painful. What he wouldn’t give for his inscriber and proper ink.

  The magistry runes he knew well enough; it was the ink that was the problem. The runes were volatile and would ‘burn up’ (that is, expend themselves) much more quickly than others. This was why large machinery, such as engines, required an external power source and constant maintenance. With careful measurements, Taro took an eyedropper and dripped four parts black ink (the common home variety that was sitting in a nearby shelf), two parts tannic acid, and one part sodium orphea. This he mixed in with the white seed oil, turning the entire concoction a deep, rich purple. He took one of the carving tools and dipped the point in the makeshift inscribing ink, held it to the wood, and began to repair the runes.

  Twenty minutes later, he was done. He blew a puff of breath to clear off the woodchips and held the runes up to the flickering lantern.

  “Please,” he murmured to himself and the world in general. “Just work.” He pressed his hand to the runes and applied his templar. The ink in the runes popped and fizzled like a firecracker. A plume of smoke puffed into the air, and the runes glowed brightly for a few seconds. He felt the hunk of wood lighten and lose over ninety percent of its weight.

  Overjoyed, he be
at the tabletop with the palm of his hand triumphantly. When he did this, the door behind him rattled and he turned his head sharply to see Bran’s head, poking in from outside.

  He’d been caught.

  Bran’s eyes stared at Taro like two huge saucers. For a moment, Taro thought the boy would run for it, hollering and waking up his parents. Thereafter would follow a visit from the constable, a short trial, and a hanging. But while Taro’s mind raced to weigh his options, Bran took a step into the shed and shut the door behind him.

  “I knew it,” he said.

  Taro set the prosthetic down. “It’s just a trick I learned from a—” he began.

  Bran shook his head. “I’m not stupid,” he said. It was then that Taro noticed that Bran didn’t look afraid at all; in fact, he was swelling with what could only be described as anticipation. “You don’t have to worry,” he said, pulling up a stool beside Taro. “I won’t tell anybody, promise!”

  Taro breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you.” He felt the knot in his stomach loosen a bit.

  Bran looked over the glowing runes; they flickered for a moment and dimmed. “What happened?”

  “Nothing,” Taro said. “They only illuminate when templar is applied to them. They’re activated now.”

  “What do they do?”

  Taro set his leg into the prosthetic and began to re-buckle it. “Nothing really, it just makes it easier for me to walk.”

  Bran looked at the prosthetic, then up at Taro. He spoke with an assuredness Taro hadn’t heard from him before. “You’re not just some homeless boy, are you?”

  “Not exactly,” Taro admitted. He spoke slowly, trying to choose the right words. “I’m from the Magisterium.”