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
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
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