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In the morning Astrid woke up. It had been a dreamless, vaguely restful sleep; it always was when she remembered to pack the sleep potions that they were permitted, in unlimited amounts, from the Assembly's stores. Forgetting the potions, these days, was taking a good chance at losing all those resting hours to dark dreams of sorrowful eyes and weeping and being chased and whatever else her brain conjured when it was undisciplined.
The sun was shining fairly brilliantly through her bedroom window. Even with the shudders closed the slats of bright light left columns across the floor. This much light worried her, that perhaps she had overslept something. Ikithon wouldn't have woken her, if she had missed some meeting. They were the Empire's top force in all things; should they be so lackluster there was only punishment to be had for it.
She took a deep breath and cast that aside, opening her spellbook. Her own neat handwriting, perfectly even, gave her a measure of calm. Even if there was punishment, Ikithon would not expect her to appear, bed-headed and messy, for it. If she was already late, she might've well been prepared for whatever she was late for.
This was always her favorite moment of the morning. No matter anything else, the magic flowed through her. The pulse of and hum of it in her chest sparked a single warm note of joy. There were no decisions to be made, no lives to be decided, no force to be applied. It was a calm, still moment of absolute numb. Spell-notes sunk deep into her memory like carvings on her bark.
After that she needed to think again. Despite ransacking her brain and checking her journal-book she could see nothing that she had been late for.
A flick of her fingers.
Wulf, have you been awake long? I've missed nothing?
Eadwulf's voice, perfectly familiar in her mind, almost immediately: Nothing yet. Would have woken you for it. Come over if you want breakfast at Keepswell.
There were morning exercises, done rigorously. Another blissful moment of not thinking, and even more blissful because thinking now would be thinking about the dinner with Br-Caleb last night, and worse the firbolg's directness to her master, and worse the tiefling pretending to be her friend, and worst of all, the way Ikithon had looked at her when Caleb had talked about her plans.
Somewhere in there, not quite as worse as anything else: Caleb's intensity, the way he pushed. He'd been on adventures seemingly all over the world. He must have forgotten when to stop pushing, in all those adventures, and his, ah, sabbatical at the sanitorium. He had been an expert back then, knowing exactly how far to go.
She went through another round of morning exercises, harder this time, contorting her body and flexing the power of her magic until she felt her soul strain. The residuum-enhanced dunamancy crackled under her skin; the sharpness of it, like ice in her veins, always brought clarity to her mind.
A third round of exercises, and then she was sweaty and heaving and shaking, and only barely managed herself into the bath that had been drawn for her.
The punishment would be creative. Would it combine Caleb's impetuousness? The firbolg? The admission of her own plans? Old lashes on her back beat in time with her heart. Scarred-over lines she'd made in her skin, to prove her strength when she had been weak, seemed more visible against her bathwater-reddening skin.
She dressed in something normal, a black blouse and a grey skirt, and her boots, and a few knives, and a necklace of red beads, just in case. Her appearing in normal dress would not make the punishment any worse, not at this scale. She could at least have a normal breakfast without attracting Brand or Crownsguard attention at Keepswell, probably her and Eadwulf's favorite breakfast inn, before it came.
Eadwulf lived four houses down. She knocked twice on the door. It was really closer to lunch than breakfast, at this hour. His housekeeper, a pretty half-elf, opened the door and let her in. She brushed past them without seeing them; whether Eadwulf had intentionally picked waitstaff that was dumb as stonework wasn't clear.
Upstairs, he was sitting at his desk in his bedroom, looking at a map and making notes. Without looking at her he folded the papers shut, put them in a drawer, and locked the drawer with a key and then with magic. He was wearing a slightly more military outfit than hers; when he looked at her he made a small noise of thoughtfulness and said, "I'll change."
It wasn't quite admiring, what she did, when he peeled the uniform off and selected something more on-rank with her clothes. She had seen Eadwulf's body too much to be surprised by it. But it was pleasant. A delay to consider before the inevitable. Some of his scars were similar. Others were different. A few she had laid there.
When he was finished they walked down street to a different little corner within the Shimmer Ward where Keepswell was located. A few nobles, older academy students, and a couple of off-duty crownsguard were loitering in the front. Had she woken at a reasonable hour, they wouldn't have had to wait in line.
"Want to go somewhere else?" Eadwulf asked.
"It's fine," she said, as Eadwulf walked into the tavern to get them on the list for table, and leaned against the outer wall of one of the other storefronts. Her eyes drifted over the nearby rooftop and up to Ikithon's tower, looming. She was to tutor several of the stuck-up noble children tomorrow. Maybe Ikithon delayed just to make her simmer, make her wonder what his plan was. It wouldn't have been the first time.
"When do you think?" Eadwulf asked, coming to stand near her, his eyes following hers.
She shrugged. "Doesn't really matter," she said. They'd come when he called. She just hoped it wasn't in the middle of eating.
Outside the other groups were talking about politics, their families, clothes, studies. She closed her eyes and let her body rest against Eadwulf's side; he wrapped an arm against her, a familiar habit. These people, they didn't know. They didn't know the things that lurked in the dark. They had never seen, heard, felt, tasted the rage of insurgents or drow. They had never seen the stacked explosives or collected weaponry. They didn't know the dangers that they were protected from. A couple of years ago, Astrid had been part of a group to eliminate a faction of death-worshippers who had gotten a little too close for comfort to blowing up this very fraction of the Shimmer Ward.
They didn't know that the very force that protected them waited in line, either. It was best that way. They had easy lives, comfortable lives.
It was worth it. She took a steadying breath.
"I hope we don't wait too long for food," Eadwulf said, eyes flicking back to the tower again. She made a noise of agreement.
If she focused she could pick out the words of every conversation. It was an exercise they had done in training, to listen in, to read lips. The punishment for that had been being locked in the silent darkness, for just as long as you'd misheard the key phrase. In the beginning she had been terrible at it and sat in the dark for still-undetermined hours.
If you are not able to hear, Ikithon had said, then you do not deserve the privilege of it.
She had thought she would be abandoned there, and then he had opened the door and flooded the light in and oh, how good it had felt to hug him, to have his arms around her back, to hear his even-then spidery voice. There there, Astrid. You're so strong now, look at how much you've resisted, look how much quiet you can take. I'm so impressed. My little knife.
She couldn't even blur them away, these days. One group was discussing some friend they disliked the outfit of. Another was complaining about tax collectors. A third, high-level students, were complaining about their teacher. None of them seemed dissident or concerned. They were safe and loyal because of her.
She could imagine the tiefling in this line, maybe with the abrupt orc-blood or the halfling. She seemed like the type to be interested in trendy fashions. The absurd thought of the tiefling inviting her to brunch, chatting with her about hairstyles and her clothes.
She laughed, a breath, and touched her arm where the tiefling had touched her. When was the last time anyone other than Eadwulf and Ikithon had been so familiar? Among those who didn't know, her severe clothes and the new scar on her face tended to keep people away, intentionally. Knowing what she entailed gave that select few many, many reasons to avoid her.
"What?" Eadwulf said.
"The tiefling wanted to be my friend, I think," she said, and cast a doubtful glance in Eadwulf's direction.
"She's not worth you," Eadwulf replied.
"I know," she said. She tried to remember the last time that someone other than an archmage or vollstrecker had been catty at her. Even other vollstreckers knew better.
"It's good she apologized."
"You're right," she said. It had been a strange apology. She had wrought plenty of apologies from plenty of people. It was nice, how they looked when they realized they had made a grievous error in crossing her. The tiefling hadn't apologized because of that.
"Ead!" shouted a voice from inside the tavern, and they were finally led inside and served what was, in her opinion, the best bread and the best cheese in Rexxentrum. Eadwulf had extra slides of cured meat, and Astrid gave him hers, too. He put it back on her plate without speaking, and started to work on his.
The gnawing little hunger in her stomach was comfortable, familiar. She nibbled, even eating some of the meat. What had the tiefling said? You're not all bad.
What did the tiefling think she was? What had Bren - Caleb - told her, about the vollstrecker, about her past? I know some things.
It was worth it, to be all bad. Behind them a table of raucous crownsguard-in-training were hassling one of their group about his engagement. On their other side, several voices were discussing an upcoming placement. Academy graduates. One was assigned to a diplomacy committee with the Clovis Concord. The voice was discussing their affection for the Clovis Concord and how they were excited to move to Port Damali.
She was all bad so this excited person didn't have to know about the Myriad. It was worth it.
To her great surprise when she looked down at the plate it was empty, which was fairly rare. The familiar gnaw in her stomach had dissipated.
Maybe she could get another round of exercises in before Ikithon called her back.
"Take a walk with me," Eadwulf said, paying the bill.
"If you insist," she said, even though they both very much knew he did so intentionally so she wouldn't go beat up a training dummy.
"I do."
He took her arm. Like the tiefling had. I wanted to give you a hard time because I thought you were mean like Trent.
No, little fool, no one was mean like Trent. How little could you know about her, to think such a thing? What had Caleb said about them, about training, about his friends from school, that the tiefling would think so?
Astrid, little knife -- said the voice in her head, that she expected, that made her blood cold, that was her guiding hand, that gave and took -- would you please come home?
"He only asked for me," she said. They had stopped and Eadwulf had guided her to the side of the street. She slipped from his arm resolvedly.
"Matron's blessing," Eadwulf said, and walked in the other direction.
She wasn't far from the grounds. She let her feet feel the neat stones under her boots, felt the cool air in her lungs. The breeze brushed back what hair she had that was real, caressed the visible skin that still had feeling in it.
The tiefling had even agreed, she knew nothing, and still she had taken Astrid's arm and apologized. First she had simply told Trent no, they were not going to talk about their business, and he couldn't ask. Then she apologized for her comment about Astrid's hair. Caleb's friends were insane. Perhaps he had not recovered from the Sanitarium as much as it had appeared. They could all project such impressive illusions about caring about things that were meaningless. Maybe that was it.
The grounds gates opened without her touch. The oaks made a soft rustle in the wind. It no longer touched her, with their protection, and only a few of the sun’s rays came down to touch her skin. The tower door opened too, and she let the room lift her up and up and up. Not down, at least; scars twitched from down.
The room stopped and the door opened. She stepped through and the door closed behind her.
She was familiar with this office. Not his main office, which was at the very, very top of the tower, with windows in every direction that he might review the city he commanded the ears of. This was a middling office, the sort of place you went to receive reports or hear notes. Ikithon sat in a high-backed chair with a red leather seat and backing. There was a marble desk to which she knew some, not all, of the enchments on it, and on either side were bookshelves, filled with their research and the occasional trinket.
The desk was empty other than a knife. It was a small knife, but the blade was wicked, curved with hooks along it. A ruby was set into the pommel.
A vollstrecker knife. Her vollstrecker knife, even if it wasn’t the one she currently had on her person. The familiar resignment settled, chill, in her chest. It was pleasantly, distantly hollow. Had she managed the situation more adequately, she would not have needed this.
“Hello, master,” she said, and bowed her head.
“Good afternoon, my dear,” Ikithon said, intertwining his long fingers on his desk behind the knife. He studied her with the familiar hint of amusement. “Did you have a pleasant morning?”
“Yes, master,” she said, “I slept late, and then Eadwulf and I went to Keepswell, and took a walk around the Shimmer Ward.”
“That sounds like a very pleasant morning indeed.”
“Yes, master.”
“Please, have a seat,” Ikithon said, gesturing to a chair that appeared in front of the desk. It was equally as tall as his, though without the leather seating. The chair was too big for her, she noticed, as she sat; the elaborately carved wooden arms were not even close to the right height for her, and even the seat was a little wide.
“Bren said a number of enlightening things last night, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Yes, master.”
It was muscle memory just as much as opening up an enemy was. Ikithon obviously wanted the chair to swallow her up, but her legs - boots only barely touching the ground - twitched with the thought of prostrating herself. He liked that.
“Such strange adventures he must have gone on,” Ikithon said, steepling his long fingers. His eyes crawled up and down the length of her chair, incidentally taking her in as well. “And now going on secretive adventures with Vess DeRogna. Our spark has certainly grown into a flame, hasn’t he?”
Eadwulf was the boot, she was the knife, and Bren had been the spark. Hadn’t those been good days, the three of them?
And last night, the first day in so long….
“Yes, master.”
“It will be a good test, to overcome her.” Ikithon glanced idly away from her, towards a bookshelf. “I will be so disappointed if he fails.”
She could not permit the thought or the ache that followed. Not here, not now. She could only be hollow, only be still, only be distant. There could be no sorrow or suffering or grief. Those things were all weaknesses. They were cracks in her armor. They were soft flesh exposed to be flayed. Forget about him, she chastised herself, loud enough she could feel it unspoken in her mouth.
“Although, should he fail, he obviously was not prepared well enough by his adventures. Perhaps if he had stayed he would have been stronger.” There was a pause. It wouldn’t hurt, she thought. Bren had been gone for so long and it wouldn’t hurt if he was gone again.
It wouldn’t hurt it wouldn’t hurt nothing hurt nothing hurt
“But enough about him,” Ikithon said, and then his eyes came back to her, undimmed by the decades that wore on the rest of his body.
Enough about him, she repeated, in her head. She couldn’t care about him, not now. She never did. She never would. Plenty of people disappeared in DeRogna’s path. None mattered, not to her. Nothing mattered.
“So interesting, he thought I would groom you for this role,” Ikithon said, “What sort of knife guides itself?”
“I don’t know, master,” she said.
“What could have possibly given him that impression?”
Ikithon was looking directly at her now, now. His hands came to rest again on the white-red marble of the desk. The wooden seat made her tailbone ache.
“I don’t know, master,” she said.
One long hand extended across the desk, palm down. A ringed index finger pushed the knife closer to her. The soft sound of the metal shifting against the desk echoed in her ears. He leaned forward, just a little, letting his long hair waterfall against the rounded edge of marble. His voice was low and entertained. “Had you been capable, you would have picked this knife up and would be sitting in a much more comfortable chair.”
A little gasp slipped from her lips, overwhelming the clench of her jaw, which only began to ache at the moment she thought about it. Her eyes flicked from him, to the knife, and to him again. Her chest, carefully empty, flooded with something cold and solid, like she was a mold that had been filled with ice. She had felt perfectly nothing and now felt everything, uselessly. The hair that brushed against the back of her skin. The faint tightening of the scar on her cheek, newer, and then all her scars - old lashes on her back, the burn scar on her neck, wounds from a hundred missions. The residuum in her skin pulsed like hearts.
His gaze held her and then released her. He sat back in his chair, letting his hands intertwine back together in front of him.
The full breakfast rose like a dagger in her stomach. She deeply regretted eating anything at all. She thought of the dummy in the training room around mid level of the tower. She would give it the face of that gods-damn tiefling. How could she still feel the touch, no matter how hard she tried to feel nothing?
What would have been all bad, tiefling? She asked, in her mind - that her hands gripped the too-wide, too-tall armrests so that her fingers shook, muscles visible under her skin, nails white? Or would it have been her surging forward, spilling entrails and blood and cutting through papery skin? Would it have been all bad for them to return to this tower and see her sitting there?
“That is all, little knife,” Ikithon said. He flicked his finger and light flooded in where the office doors opened behind the high back of her chair.
She waited a moment, forcing herself to acknowledge that she had legs, feet, and that they would hold her. Then she pushed herself out of the chair and turned and left.
“Training,” she said to the center room, and it began to drop, and then stilled. A door opened into the room with a large weapon rack and a shelf of spell components. She took the dagger strapped to her leg instead, the original to the one Ikithon had put on his desk. It felt like home in her hand. She was complete now, whole, full, holding this weapon. There was nothing else. There didn’t need to be anything else. She needed nothing else, wanted nothing else. A flick of her hand to make the center, most-abused training dummy a blue tiefling in a pretty dress.
She screamed and it bounced off the low walls, echoing through her. Emptying her of Bren’s insane idea that there was anything other than this, scraping the scar of the tiefling’s touch from her skin, cleansing her of the near-hysterical suggestion that she could just leave. She let the scream hollow her out, take away the absurd plan she’d so stupidly put in front of Bren, she’d had the absolute insanity of considering herself. She let the image reflect her attacks, made the tiefling’s mouth a slash, letting an imaginary tongue hit the floor. Illusory blood spilled down her dress and imagined muscles went limp in her arms. She’d never touch anything again, most especially not a knife like her.
She left the knife in the heart of the dummy when her legs would no longer hold her, when she could no longer concentrate enough to keep the image of the mutilated woman, revealing only the ragged dummy underneath. She lay on the cold wood floor and felt the sweat soak through her clothes and plaster her hair to her face. She could feel and think of nothing but the pulse of her muscles. That was all that she was, and all that she was meant to be, and all that she had been built as.
Hi Astrid, it’s Jester! Hope you’re having a good day! Reminder that we’re still open to kidnapping slash rescuing you and Eadwulf! Caleb thinks you’re
Her whole body felt like ice. She longed to be able to put that exact image of what had been the dummy directly into the tiefling’s - Jester’s - mind.
The ice crystalized. For the first time, she felt clear, crisp, and solid. If you ever touch me again, she said, letting her mouth form the words even as she sent them through the temporary link, it will be the last thing you ever use that hand for.