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“Tis rude to spy on a lady. A Paragon should have better manners.” Y’shtola’s voice was cold as she scolded her observer, tho she did not deem him important enough to turn from her studies to actually face him. Emet-Selch no longer factored high on her list of threats to be concerned over.
And besides, they both well knew if he had intended her harm she would never have had the chance to sense him before he delivered on it.
The Ascian shrugged in reply, slumping out from the deepest shadows of her chambers. With no need for light–her vision based on aetheric signatures as it was–there were no few of them to choose from. The darkness suited Emet-Selch just fine, naturally. “I did not intend offence. I was merely attempting to ascertain if I would be interrupting something important.” He said.
“Why? So that you may do so all the more gleefully?”
Emet-Selch’s scowl deepened. Now that was downright rude. “I see the venomous tongue you are known for is kept well at hand. Honestly, what an ungrateful attitude to take towards the man who saved your life.”
“And then proceeded to threaten it once more, along with those of all that I hold dear.” Finally she looked up. “What do you want, Ascian?”
What a prickly feline, he thought, tho did not quite dare to say aloud. He would save it for later, when he did not require her cooperation. Thrusting his arms to the sides, he bowed in mock supplication. “I have come to beg a favor of you, oh wise and learn’d sorceress.”
Her eyes narrowed, instantly suspicious. “That you would ask so openly gives me even more cause for concern. Out with it then. I’ve better things to do than play your games.”
Shadow bless, she was no fun, was she? “Oh very well,” he sighed, slumping once more. “I want you to teach me magic. Mortal magic, I mean. I am already far more a master of the true art than you will ever be.”
The distaste on her face made it clear just what Y’shtola thought of his request paired with insult, but she could not hide the flicker of interest that wavered through her aether. Of all possible requests he might make, that was not one she would have guessed.
“And why would I waste my time teaching–or you learning–such inferior techniques? Your obvious and evermore grating superiority complex aside, I have sampled your magics firsthand, and there is naught within my skill set that can compete with what you are capable of.”
“True,” he agreed. “My natural talents far surpass your own, or those of any mortal. Not to even begin to speak of the heights to which I have raised them through eons of study and practice. However…”
Emet-Selch sighed, and shrugged, shaking his head mournfully before he went on. “You witnessed our battle, and with those eyes of yours, I have little doubt but that you at the least well know the full consequences. I am–quite literally–but half a man now. That leaves me with far, far less of an aetherical store from which to pull without placing my vessel in danger of decorporialization. Stifling as I find being confined to one, that is still yet… troubling. Compounded with the irritating little issue of being not quite certain, nor willing to test just yet, how readily I may now tread the Rift… I require additional means of accessing the arcane.”
He was honest about it, she would at least give him that. She knew it could not come easily to one so given to bragging of his own superiority to admit himself at a disadvantage. Nor was she blind to the knowledge that his very coming here and admittance of a need for aid was in itself a statement. A concession, an apology. An extension of the olive branch, and willingness to make an ally of himself not just to the token group of them, but to herself.
She did not for a moment trust him. “Go find yourself another instructor. You’ll find no shortage of those willing to take in novice apprentices. I have better things to do.”
Novice. Oh the gall of her. Emet-Selch scowled, glaring daggers at her. Taking childish advantage of her lack of sight, he stuck his tongue out at her before he answered. “That is not an option. Any mage worth their salt–and therefore worth my time–would know in an instance of opening my aetherical channels I am not mortal. They would ask bothersome questions, and I have not the patience to deal with them. Any who could not sense my nature would by that very test alone lack the credentials to teach me aught I could not learn from an evening with a tome. That leaves me few choices: You, the scholar, and the Exarch.”
“Then ask one of them,” Y’shtola answered, waving her hand as she turned back to her work.
“No.” Emet-Selch replied, crossing the room the lean against her table, disrupting several stacks of stone tablets she had been studying. “The scholar annoys me, and the Exarch is… likely still less than pleased over that whole ‘bullet in the back’ matter between us.”
“You annoy me and so I respectfully decline.”
“You owe me. I had naught to gain by saving your fool life, and in fact doing so did nothing but stack another enemy against us. All I ask now in return is a bit of instruction, and you would proclaim that too great a favor?”
“You pulled me from the Lifestream to curry favor with the Warrior of Darkness, and further weasel your way into our party. You did not do it through any charitable inclination,” she countered. While it was certainly true, she could not deny his words as well were not entirely false. He had not had to save her.
Emet-Selch smirked, watching as she wavered. Noble souls, the lot of them. And noble souls were very easy to predict. She was considering it.
Y’shtola sighed, well aware that he was watching her indecision. “And yet I am grateful, nevertheless. But what possible guarantee do I have that aiding you of all people to become yet more powerful is aught less than a terrible idea? Or am I simply to accept that you will gleefully turn my own spells against my comrades the very moment you master them?”
“You wound me!” He gasped, feigning offence. “I’d thought we were beyond that. Are we not friends now, hmm? Comrades in arms, bound together through shared struggle and so forth. Very well, if you require an oath, I swear not to use anything you teach me against your little group, specifically. Happy?”
That left him plenty still to use against them, she well knew. But then, it was unlikely he would be resorting to mortal magic regardless, were they to come to blows once more. Emet-Selch, she knew from personal experience now, was not one to hold back once he had decided upon a course of action.
She stood, still no where near his height, but close enough to wave a matronly finger beneath his nose. “If I agree to this tomfoolery of yours, I will brook no cheek from you, is that understood? There will be no speaking back to me, no going on about how very much better you think yourself to be. No snide remarks of how little we mortals know, or how we pale in comparison to your grandiose kind. If you come to me as student, then I expect you to act the part, and defer to me as the instructor. The very moment you disrespect me, you are on your own. Is that clear?”
He blinked at the finger wagging in his face, but soon enough grinned. “Yes mistress,” he chimed. “As you wish~”
Y’shtola’s eyes narrowed, utterly unamused. “And none of that either.”
“No fun at all,” he sighed, shaking his head. “But very well. I agree to your terms. What shall I call you then, if you are determined to be picky about it?”
“Master Matoya will suffice. The Night’s Blessed know me by that title, and I would keep to it while I remain here.”
“Master Matoya, then,” he echoed, giving a slight bow. That settled, he clapped, beaming at her. “With the matter decided, shall we get started? What will you teach me first, I wonder? To start a very small fire? To lightly upset a glass of water? Oh I cannot wait to learn to summon a slightly inconvenient breeze!”
Y’shtola groaned, pressing her fingers to her temple against the Ascian-inspired headache that was already beginning. She was absolutely going to regret this decision.