The Makers of Light (6 page)

The Order of the Mother were watching him in silence, even Hannelore, even Gabriel Flint and Gerard. He was breathing heavily, and he found himself clutching the back of Hannelore's chair, not trusting his trembling legs to hold him.

He had not heard Gerard's reply at all, but it was suddenly important. "Why, Gerard?" He looked into Gerard's eyes. "Why are you here, except for the free food?"

Gerard stared back, but this time did not reach for his dagger. "You do not know? Why are
you
here? I am personally here because I refuse to give up."

The crowd rustled; obviously Gerard had not said the same before, but Gerard did not pay attention to them. "I am here because the world I know is crumbling before my eyes, and I do not know what to do about it. I am here because I was an office manager with the Toy Factory, but the Toy Factory does not need me and most of my colleagues any more. Soon it will close, and I won't be able to even feed my concubine and my old parents. I am here because your Master is not doing his job! Because the Mother just might."

"
A path wrought by tears and desperate hope,
" Dominick thought, and it was a line from a tale, an old Balkaene tale he had thought banished from his mind long ago. He did not even remember if it were a proper tale about the Master or an aberrant one about
samodivi,
or a mixed tale about both, as only Balkaene peasants could mix tales. But he did remember the path the little boy in the tale had walked so that the Master or
samodivi
would heal his sister. The path that little Dominick had not found, no matter how many tears he had shed or how desperately he had hoped.

"It won't work, friend." He looked at Gerard and then at Calia beside him. "Masters,
samodivi,
mothers—none of them will take care of her for you, none of them will save her life for you. A useless bunch of supposedly benevolent, omnipotent frauds, all of them. She deserves
to live.
" He stared at Gerard's eyes. "So find a way to care for her yourself."

"I am not entirely useless, you know." Calia, her green eyes narrowed in a way that looked strange on her sweet face. A smile would have suited her better. Gerard looked at her in surprise, and so did others. "I can take some care of myself. And of Gerard, too. Why are you making conclusions only because I am a concubine? And how do you know what I deserve or do not deserve, anyway? Do you know me? I already asked, but you did not answer. I don't know you. I have only known one Mentor in my life, and he is not with us any longer. Perhaps you will tell me what happened to him."

She had stepped towards Dominick now, and Gerard let her, perhaps because she was so angry; at that moment Dominick would not have been surprised if she attacked him herself. She did not. She stood still, glaring at him, her shoulders trembling, and suddenly he wanted to embrace her, to comfort her—not as a woman, he did not want her as a woman—as a sister. Damn her for poking into old, bitter memories.

"Tell me"— her voice was higher now, and bitter. "What happened to old Maxim? What happened to
Lind?
What did you and your kind do to my friend? She disappeared together with him. She had never done anything bad to anyone, do you understand? Do you!? She might have been opinionated, rebellious, standing up to Bers, strange, difficult to know, but
I
knew her! She helped me! She truly, genuinely cared! She was like a sister to me. What did you do to her, Mentor—you who have the audacity to announce who deserves to live or who does not? I want her back, do you hear me? I want her back!"

There were tears on her face now, and Dominick watched Gerard put his arms around her.

"Ger has this strange old
Science
book that his granddad brought from Srednaber." Her words came out muffled now, and slurred. "We have no use for it, but it would have made her happy if I could give it to her. But I can't ..."

She broke down just as Hannelore reached her with a cup full of some concoction, and once again Dominick ignored the others' hostile looks. Oh yes, they remembered him again, now that the girl had ceased providing entertainment; they remembered that he had insulted their lauded Mother and, more than that, told them that she would not run their lives for them.

"Calia." He ignored them one more time, turning to her who was most important, her who both looked like his sister and had right now given him vital information without him even asking.

Silly girl, she had not heeded Hannelore's warning to him; she had shared the name of a friend as easily as he had. The name of his
samodiva,
the woman he sought. He knew she was the one. He would check to make sure, of course, but he knew it. He could give Calia a small consolation as thanks.

"Calia, what is your friend's full name? Mentors keep records about everyone accountable to them. I am no longer a Mentor, but I still have a way to check. Then, if I can find the way to this place again, I will tell you what I have learned."

"Find the way to this place again?" A voice behind his back; he did not even know who it was. "Do you think one can find the way again who does not believe in the Mother?"

Dominick sighed. "I already found it once. And I never said I did not believe in your Mother. I simply do not trust her in the least."

Chapter 2: Ber

A letter to Ber Adept Catechist Endarion from Eliss Librarian, Year of the Master 397:

There are easy paths. Those are the paths of the ignorant, the common folk who drift through their lives with no sense of purpose, with no responsibility but fulfilling their small, insignificant needs. Then there are harder paths—those of Mentors and Militia, whose task and burden is to care for both the individual and society by prodding people into wholesomeness; and the paths of nobles, who care for the land and kept the Aetarx safe.

I know some of these paths intimately.

But Bers tread the hardest path of all. It is the path that brings Mierenthia warmth and light, the path to keep the world whole and protected from the terrors that lurk beyond the Edges. It is a path that winds along the sharp, slippery Edge between coldness and burning; the path where the tiniest misstep might swing you into an icy abyss or an inferno. At least, this is what I gather from your scarce words, Endarion.

Please, Endarion, don't lose your balance.

Galina Songmaker, future Ber Adept Sagacitor Galina, to a trusted friend, Mierber, Year of the Master 650:

You know why Bers dislike songs and music? Because they fear them. Because the Powers That Be, the Bessove, love songs and music and will come to listen to songs that come straight from the heart. This is how you summon Bessove, with songs and music. And this is how you banish them if you know the right melodies and words. Bers don't. What they do know is that the Bessove hate and fear metal, and so the Bers have enclosed the whole world in it.

Are Bessove the reason why the Bers control all art, you ask? Are they the reason why not only songs and music are regulated and crippled but also stories, fairytales, pictures, sculptures, and anything that would have had a heart of its own if you let it? Who knows. It might be that. Or it might be that the Bers are so trapped into stiff old habits and stiff old ways that they cannot truly see and feel the world any more. So, they would not let us see and feel it, either.

Merley

Morning 13 of the First Quarter, Year of the Master 706

"What do you see?"

Merley jumped at the old man's voice, although it was a kind voice, deep and melodic, a voice that, if trees or buildings could speak, would belong to a forest oak and never to a gray, cold Ber tower. Then again, perhaps even Ber towers did not like being gray and cold. Perhaps in their dreams they were sunny and bright, or cold only with the special warm and kind coldness of snow sprinkling their flaming roofs with an array of fine crystals.

Had the old man ever seen a forest oak?

"I see many things," she replied as she faced him, emotion barely discernible in her voice.

"Oh, I see." His nose twitched as he pushed his pince-nez up, murmuring something like, "I'll tighten the clip one of these days, I shall." The accused clip wasted no time in slipping back, and Merley almost smiled as Darius issued a more vehement murmur, rummaging through the pockets of his red robe.

Ber Adept, the red color signified. Black for the novices to remind them of the highest honor bestowed upon them by the Master: that but for the power he gifted to few, they would have been smoldered to black, charred flesh and ashes. White robes like Merley's for the acolytes, who for a year had been training to shed the blackness of their hearts, and were now clean and ready for the Master's wisdom. Yellow for the generalists, who shone with borrowed light, who for ten white-robed years had gathered knowledge of many paths but had no deep mastery of any path. Red for the adepts—the true commandants of fire and blaze, those who gave life and took it.

"There it is, little rascal." Darius's wizened fingers held a pair of miniature pliers, delicate like the clock device on the table, which at this moment ticked seven times, a silvery tune permeating the silence.

No, the room had not been silent, not really. Tens or maybe hundreds of other clock-like devices, scattered throughout the room into what seemed an organized chaos, had not stopped ticking, humming, clicking, and altogether singing since Merley had entered. Together, their sounds blurred into a constant buzz, which was somewhat sleepy and somehow reassuring. Never had there been any sounds in Henna's learning room, except for the occasional click of her rod on the table, which was always a warning. The desks had always been spotless and cold, nothing but arranged quills and paper on the gleaming metal.

"Ah, it is better now." The sunrise danced over Darius's newly clamped pince-nez, and for a moment his calm blue eyes gleamed sharp and red. Then, the red was gone, but even through the barrier of glass Merley knew that a hint of the sharpness lingered. Different from Henna's overbearing sharpness, perhaps. But sharpness still, and Merley knew to beware of sharp enemies.

"So tell me, child, what do you see?"

The old man had settled into a soft chair, his eyes focused on something beyond the wall-wide window. Still standing, Merley folded her arms before her chest, forcing herself to inhale deeply and withhold anger and tears.

"
Tell me,
" "
show me,
" "
do it.
" They all wanted something from her, and never gave anything back. "
You must learn how to crawl before you can learn to walk,
" they said—and Henna's rod had done its best to make Merley crawl before its mistress, although Merley wielded fire better than Henna ever had. She wielded it better than any of them, which of course made them hate her.
I hate you, too.
Clasping her hands more strongly, Merley approached the window, her breath fogging the glass as she leaned towards it.
You too, old man. And I have always known how to walk. I want to learn to fly, and none of you can stop me
.

"Here is what I see," she said after she had succeeded to control her breathing, certain that he would not mistake the contempt in her voice. "I see fire." It was a ritual phrase, which they all expected to hear. Fire was the source of all life there was in the world. Fire was the essence of Mierenthia. Wherever you were, whatever you did, if you were a Ber, you saw fire.

"I see Mierber and the Sun, Adept Darius. I see mountains."
I see the blazing tops of both buildings and snow-laden peaks, and I hear the song the evergreen trees sing to welcome the morning, as well as the sleepy murmur of those that had chosen to shed their leaves, praying for healthy green garments when the life of spring wakes them.

Merley stepped back, suddenly drawn away from the mountains and to the little alarm clock. Her eyes caressed its matte face and silvery hands, but her own hands kept away from an object that belonged to another. She knew how it had felt when her fellow novices had touched her own belongings.

The old man was watching her, the sharpness more eminent than before, and once more she drew further away, then glared at him. He was waiting.

"Do not worry, Adept Darius, they have not forced a dumb student upon you, whatever else they might have told you about me. I know my lessons." She folded her arms before her chest again. "With my inner eyes, I see the treasures that the mountain hoards for us."
So sure is everyone that the mountain does not have any other purpose.
"I see the fire of the Sun transforming the rock into ores of iron, gold, silver, and copper, and I see the Mines cutting deep into the bowels of Mierenthia, helping bring the ores to us—"

"Is that what you really see, Merley?"

Somehow the old man's voice was even kinder, the gaze behind his pince-nez twinkling not with sharpness but with curiosity and with something else that suddenly made her want to slump into another soft chair and cry while a wizened hand clumsily patted her hair.
Oh, Master.

There had been a wizened hand, more than a year ago. A kind old man had helped her then, when she had not yet been a Ber—when she had run away to the Edge itself, knowing that if she did not, they would burn her. She had known the Edge wretch Old Man Vlas and his donkey Magda for only a day. She had saved the donkey's life for the price of what perhaps was her own life. For the price, perhaps, of the old man's life
and
the donkey's life. The three of them had been betrayed; the Bers had come for her soon enough. Merley did not know if Vlas and Magda still lived.

"No," she whispered to Darius, the defiance that she had tried to muster abandoning her for a silent tear. "I do not see what they tell me I should see, Master Darius." Great, now she had called him "
Master,
" as if she had started to trust him.

"I see things nobody else can see, and all the time I wonder if it is what I should be seeing indeed, and what the reason is—what the reason is behind everything." Merley stared at the sweet little alarm clock again, its tiny hands ticking in a constant motion, as if telling its own story. She wished she knew the language. "Explanations. Truths. I do not believe in them, master Darius. All around myself, all I see is questions."

"Then they have not forced a dumb student on me, indeed, have they?" The old man rose from his chair, his white hair fluttering like a horse's mane as he rigorously shook his head. He gave her a smile as gentle as the soft caress of morning sunshine.

"Explanations. Truths. What are they, child, if deep inside your heart they do not ring true? What are they if there is no place for them in the system your own mind is constantly building for you?"

For the first time in at least a quarter of a year, lady Merlevine—Ber Acolyte, former lady and runaway, bright, difficult, lonely, defiant, and a greater fire commandant than many adepts—was rendered speechless.

"Do you really mean that?" she breathed, her legs heavy and barely succeeding to carry her towards the old man, her eyes pleading, her whole body trembling as she stood before him. "Do you?"

"Fatuous buffoons, what have they done," the old man murmured as if to himself, as he once again rummaged through his pockets, this time for a handkerchief. "Brainless creatures who call themselves teachers. Here, wipe your eyes, child. And do not wane now." He tsk-ed disapprovingly, then awkwardly patted her shoulder.

"Merley, it is only the keen who ask questions even though day by day they are fed with ready replies, and only the wise who seek the replies that are true
for them.
Well, well." He pushed his pince-nez up his nose. "Ouch, I did tighten that clasp, didn't I. What was I saying now? Ah, yes." He smiled anew. "Asking questions and seeking answers is what separates the wise from the fools, I was to say. Now, I see you would like to touch that little clock scamp here, and I know you liked his hourly singing. He is not a normal alarm clock, he is not. See now how his hands move in a shifted pattern ..."

Merley's fingers caressed the fragile piece as she listened to its creator's explanations about the powers of metal and the Magic and craft of delicate forging. Oh yes, she would learn. She would do it, even though she had never liked fine details. She would learn all there was about Ber Adept Darius and his craft. But not now. Now, Merley felt the tinge of a story about mountains, ores, and more, which the clock seemed to emit through its caress, then she flung her arms around a mildly surprised but seemingly content Old Man Darius.

Merley

Morning 13 of the First Quarter, Year of the Master 706

Many decades had passed since her new master Darius had earned his adept's robe, but he had taught few acolytes. Of them, even fewer had followed the arduous Artificer path, and those had been gone for a long time. Adept Morten had chosen the Sunset Lands, where the mountains was tall and the ores and rocks many, pledging his fire and craft to the Mines. Adept Brelle had gone to the forests of the North, her own spells breathed into the metal of tree-felling tools—axes and the wretches she selected to wield them.

They hope that I, too, will go away some day.
It was said that the first adept to teach a newly-made acolyte was special, that if Merley had any adept potential at all, she was more likely to follow the path and even habits of her first master than the paths of masters who came after. She would study all paths in her time—Artificery, Catechism, Sagacity, Humanism, Scrivenry, Physicka, Treasury, and Transformation—until she proved she was ready to be an adept herself, or until ten years had passed with her skills and actions not sufficient to make her more than a generalist.

Henna was a generalist. Merley would not be one! She would be an adept, and in more paths than one. She would be a High Adept, as only the most skilled of Bers could be. No, not even that—she would be an Adept of All Paths, as only Adept Endarion had once been. Some history books—books with real history, not the easy, digested truths served to those not blessed by the Master—said that he had quenched the Great Fire of Year 400 by himself, that without him the other Bers might have not succeeded. He had become an Adept of All Paths then, at age thirty.

If he could have learned and done so much, certainly Merley could, too. Only ... two hundred years was a long time. Ber knowledge and Magic had not stayed still for two hundred years, and neither had perceptions. What was deemed a Great Fire then was no longer great and was more easily quenched, and perhaps if she had the same knowledge of all paths now that Endarion then had, she would be more of a generalist than an Adept of All Paths. She was born later. She had more to do and prove.

Brighid, Keagan, Henna and the rest of them expected her to wane in old Darius's high, remote tower, perched on a hill on the eastern edge of Mierber. It was half a city away from the Fireheart with the Head Temple, and almost a city away from the Firemind, where most Ber towers, including the Acolyte and Novice towers, stood.