Dishonesty
Creak
A second breakfast, a radio show, and three laps of Rieli around Etrika’s legs later, she and Emil have left the Walbravir household, and are on their way.
The outdoor air is filled with a gentle warmth, balanced by the vestiges of last night’s storm. It’s the perfect hour for younger population to run headlong through the cobbled streets, for the older population to tend to their gardens in peace… and for adults to cram themselves into crowded streetcars on their way to work. The university students imitate this behavior, in preparation for that life.
At this moment, Etrika and Emil are awaiting the school trolley to arrive, alongside a handful of other students. Emil notices they sport black robes, similar to Etrika’s but not quite the same; while some have the same blue accents, others are adorned with ochre and crimson hems instead.
There are also a variety of enamel emblems pinned to their chests: signets composed of evocative symbology. An alembic. A map. A gear. Each one is underlined with a variety of bars and dots, which Emil interprets broadly as a hierarchy.
Even in learning, these people have a caste system.
…Emil? You hear me?
Etrika thinks they were staring off into space, but they were actually looking at her own insignia. A shield adorned with a square cross, two bars and a dot. In either case, they indeed haven’t heard a thing.
Sorry. Et–
Ahlrik.
That’s right, their strange way with names. They clear their throat.
Sorry, Ahlrik.
Stick close to me, alright? You don’t have a transit pass, and I imagine you’d rather not get… uh… jostled. Well, you know what I mean.
They nod silently. Remembering their words on the subject, she asks a risky question, ensuring that the other students aren’t paying too close attention to the both of them (the eyepatch is noticeable).
You… your hands and eyes. Are those ‘kayal’?
Emil nods again.
It happened on the way to here. Suddenly.
Etrika swallows involuntarily. You bet. What kind of spell scars you so deeply? In fact, she knows very well, but it’s still so hard to accept. That someone who could’ve been a childhood friend or a neighbor went through the horrors of war.
I understand it’s quite a shock for you. But the worst you’ll get are weird looks. And fewer than with your old clothes, if I can be honest.
Sitting at the end of a bench at the trolley stop, Emil gazes longingly at the tracks that disappear and divide further down the streets.
You told me yourself that there is no shame in being kayal.
It’s… different, they mutter.
Why would it be?
They discreetly indicate the group of students, embarrassed.
People here aren’t kayal like me. When they’re very kayal, they are similar, you can see.
Etrika looks to the group a few meters away, blinking so hard you can almost hear her eyelids smacking together. She turns back to them with obvious confusion and replies in a low voice.
Emil, are you… are you shitting me?
‘Sheet’?
She moves to in front of them to conceal their faces from the other group of students (still chatting away), and grasps their upper shoulders with such force that for a moment, they think she’s gonna tear them off.
What did you they teach you in school?! Other sophonts aren’t teratraumatized! What kind of mentality is that?!
Her cheeks are red with a highly specific cocktail of shame and anger. Emil does not move.
So what is, then? What is ‘so-fuhnt’?
She pulls their hand and places it on the translator next to hers, determined to clarify the subject before they embarrass themself any further.
[Θ][!]{ ERROR. NO EQUIVALENT OBJECT. }
A shiver of pure surprise runs through her, but she intuits the underlying, bizarre problem.
You’ve never seen a xalaim? A vespen? A sylvite?
Ahlrik, they reply with the fear of a trapped animal. I don’t understand your words, and you hurt my shoulders.
Oh. Sorry.
She eases the pressure, but doesn’t quite let go. Emil’s eye darts between looking into hers and looking at her arms, seeking a way out.
You grew up only with uumans?
Yes! they exclaim at a restrained volume, recognizing the word. I grew in a horde with less than hundred uumans.
Holy shit, she mumbles, finally removing her hands from Emil.
She doesn’t have the time to give them a lecture, but she can control the damage until a more competent educator gives them one.
Those’re just different kinds of person. Different kinds of sophont. For you, it’s normal to have skin; for a vespen, it’s normal to have wings. Don’t go calling anyone ‘kayal’ or whatever. Please tell me you understand.
I understand, I promise! they reassure her.
The tension in the air persists somewhat as the school trolley approaches. At the bend in the road, Emil sees a vague, metallic shape painted forest-green. It quickly takes shape as a wagon just under ten meters long, bearing a frontal emblem identical to the one sewn onto the shoulders of the students’ robes.
After two rings of its bell, the vehicle slows, then stops with a screech that sends an unpleasant shiver through Emil’s spine. Without interrupting their conversations, apparently about the struggles of exam season, the students head for a doorless opening at the front of the trolley and take a piece of paper out of their pockets. Etrika follows suit.
Same story as before, she reminds Emil discreetly.
A uniformed figure sitting in front a panel of levers of varying sizes greets the new passengers one by one. This vespen, like the tailor Emil met yesterday, wears a sleeveless jacket to leave room for the membrane along his arms, so they remain usable as wings. His digitigrade legs, ending in powerful talons, rest impatiently on a pair of asymmetrical pedals, eager to press them and get back to the road.
Mhm. Mhm. Mmmhm. Oh? A new face. Your card, please.
Emil locks eyes with the driver and struggles for a moment to interpret his expressionless face, not unlike that of an atriarch about to reprimand them.
They don’t have one just yet, explains Etrika. Foreign student, not yet registered, but soon. I’m accompanying them.
The driver’s eyebrows barely rise, and his mouth barely cracks into a smile, but the pointed ears poking holes in his cap prick up, and the wings on either side of his head, his pinnae, spread wider.
Oh, I see! I hope you enjoy Presquile, then. Alright, sit down, you two.
Emil and Etrika express abbreviated gratitude, and settle down side by side on a seat whose fabric upholstery has faded from years of use.
As soon as they sit, the driver shifts into first gear, pulling one lever and pushing another in quick succession. Emil almost falls against Etrika in the resulting jolt, mumbling a soft curse in their language.
Sorry, Etrika says, dusting herself off. These things are never gentle when they start moving.
Once Emil’s upright again, they have the opportunity to take in every detail of the interior. The steel rings hanging from the ceiling, the shiny wood of the seats and tables, the almost-entirely-clean windows. Their attention turns in kind to the city beyond those windows, still awakening.
You travel like this every day? With this, um, cart? And to the university?
Not every day, but almost. Why do you ask?
Emil is still admiring the urban activity. At the end of a gently sloping street, they see the terminus of the river, preceded by a series of reservoirs and dams. The view is both superb and terrifying, a knife cut that brings a sudden stop to the flow of water. Beyond it, only indistinct cloudy masses and the ghosts of distant islands and islets remain, silhouetted in the haze.
No reason.
What does it feel like, to sleep cycle after cycle in the same place? To work in the same place? To be immersed, even in such an idyllic setting, in the same place?
Emil’s instinct tells them that such monotony must weaken the spirit. Certainly, their life so far has had its share of rituals, but at least they weren’t vegetative, like the people here.
And yet, does each horde not have the same childish dream to settle, one day? To build huts and homes, instead of tents? To find a place free from danger at last… and to stay there?
Etrika isn’t fooled. She can see Emil’s thoughts at work, comparing their then to their now.
She elects to help them forget.
What’s caught your eye? she asks, getting up. The river?
No. Above.
Etrika shifts closer to get a better angle.
Presquile-the-Younger?
It is the first time I see carts with ropes like that. I hope it is sturdy?
Of course. When the most recent lines opened, all of the lines were re-strung and reinforced. That’s what mom said.
Your mother? Ann – I mean, Venjir? Lady Ahlrik?
Yeah, she replies, bemused that they remembered her mother’s branch name, of all things. She works at… that one. The Eleven Line.
Etrika’s arm shifts slightly to point at a particular line. A beautiful building, almost a miniature from this distance, acts as a station on the Cascade side, linked to the ropeway with the pale red carts, reaching across the vastness of open sky.
A fall like that…
And anyway, she steals their attention back to the trolley, seeing some fatal intrigue on their face. That’s not where we’re going, don’t worry.
Emil pouts. No, they definitely don’t want to try the cable cars. That much is obvious.
Look over there, instead, she advises. That’s where we’re getting off: Soquis Plaza.
Another stop, another jolt. Emil realizes the purpose of the hanging rings when they see new hands grabbing them as they enter the streetcar, but they can’t risk lifting their poncho and revealing their kayal features. The vehicle’s nearly full.
Following Etrika’s index finger, they can make out the avenue where the tailor was. The scene is very different to the day prior, both in color and in crowd density, but Emil recognizes several landmarks; notably the candy store with its garish pink roof.
We’ll stop by the tailor’s, to see if he’s finished yet, by any–
Heyyy! Who’ve you got with you, Etrika?
She turns at the mention of her name, and Emil’s gaze follows.
Two fellow students, Emil surmises; their robes are actually identical to Etrika’s. But otherwise, the impressions they give off could not be more different.
To their left is an uuman with neat blonde hair, who looks at Emil with the energy of a child looking at a new toy, not a scrap of innocence to be seen in her large grey eyes. To her right is a… Emil does not know what they’re called yet, but they’ve seen this kind of person before. His skin and hair are charcoal-black, and his yellow eyes stand proudly on their rounded, nearly-featureless face. His sheepish expression is framed by thick, messy hair, most of which is tied back in a bun.
Emil, begins Etrika with a forced smile. Meet Trisha and Jalamil.
At the same time, Kenna steps through the doorway of the jeweler’s. With a gloved hand, he gently closes the glass door behind him, depriving the slowing mechanism of its pleasure.
The store, though well-lit already by the weather, appears to almost drown into the sparkles of its wares, cast all the way to the ceiling by impeccable glass displays. And yet, despite such an abundance of warm light, Kenna can’t help but feel chill and distance from the place.
Perhaps it is because he’s the only client at such an early hour. Or perhaps it is the gigantic, gold-plated eight-pointed star decorating the furthest wall, silently shouting at him that no less than the complete pantheon shall bless his every transaction.
So very humble.
Welcome, the owner greets him. What can we do for you, dear customer?
Kenna, unlike his sister, practices his speeches.
A recent inheritance. I’m looking to have the whole thing appraised and sold, but it’ll also need to be neutralized. You never know with items of this age.
Of course, sir, agrees the jeweler with a polite twist of his branches.
His client places the container on the counter, casting a shadow onto the pearl necklaces in the display case below. The sylvite’s hands carefully open the box, then bring a binocular loupe to his narrowed eyes.
Kenna has no need to offer further explanations; that’d be downright suspicious. Instead, he simply maintains his narrative through his appearance. The expected posture, the expected indifference, the expected slight disrespect. In elegant formal wear he’s only worn once before (for the inauguration of the factory where his father now works), he is playing the archetype of the young bourgeois, a rare breed in Presquile these days.
To be honest, this is actually the first time Kenna’s been to a jeweler. So when he looks at the silver frames and rose gold bracelets beyond the glass walls, he’s not playing a role: he’s genuinely admiring the craftsmanship.
He wouldn’t mind the experience, if acting didn’t displease him so much. But, whatever. He’s better at this job than Etrika, and it’s not such a high price to pay to get Emil the hell out of his life.
In superb condition, the jeweler comments, rotating a diamond in front of the loupe. Although the case leaves something to be desired, he allows himself to jest.
Kenna chuckles along. A wealthy heir must smile at a measured jab.
A poor transport, but one that’s served my studies well enough.
What major, if I may ask?
Theoretical Geology.
A prestigious degree not offered in any Presquilian university. And it’s not like he didn’t look hard for it. It’s precisely because he cannot afford to pursue it that Kenna still remains undecided about his course of study.
I understand your concerns about your inheritance, then.
Turning for a moment towards a desk behind the display cases, the jeweler takes a printed paper form from a drawer and presents it to his client, fountain pen in hand. A consent form.
A mere formality.
Kenna suppresses an anxious click of his tongue. He hasn’t used a fountain pen in… what was it, years? Why can’t this imbecile use a normal pen like everyone else? The hand in his pocket trembles, so the hand on the counter doesn’t have to.
No issue.
Oh, Jester. If You help my hand now, one of those damn gems is Yours, no doubt.
Kenna writes a fake name on the form, then holds his breath as he raises the pen. No mistakes nor stains. Now comes the hardest part.
Believe in yourself.
In a fluid gesture that genuinely qualifies as miraculous, he executes a beautiful curly scribble, which a contemporary artist might interpret as initials.
He returns the paper and pen to the jeweler, who leans over the form for a moment.
…Excellent. Ah, and, while I take care of your goods; if you see anything you like, please don’t hesitate to ask my apprentice for anything you need, he says, indicating an employee busy cleaning a ring, whom Kenna hadn’t even seen until this second.
With pleasure.
I will not take much of your time.
Once the jeweler has vanished into the back room, gems in box and box in hand, Kenna exhales deeply and closes his eyes, thanking the Virtue of Luck.
Thank You, friend. I’ll set aside the prettiest one for You.
In the crowded streetcar, Emil feels like they’re suffocating, and Trisha’s incessant chatter is not helping at all. She keeps asking Emil and Etrika questions in rapid succession, without even giving one of them time to breathe while her attention flips to grilling the other.
Where are you from? Have you decided on going to the party? Hey, what happened to your eye? Hey, you finished your homework, right? Y’know, I only finally got it done last night...
This girl clings to the pair of them like a torment. And the poor sap accompanying her is as helpless as Emil. Stealing a moment, they whisper to their translator, searching for the right words to discreetly ask Etrika to slip away as quickly and quietly as possible.
They remember too late that the replika has no volume control.
[Δ>Θ]{ CHATTERBOX. }
All four of them fall silent. Trisha turns to Emil, her whole body tensed and ready to pounce in their direction.
I’m sorry? she inquisitively intones, her expression icy.
Other students in the car, surprised to hear the familiar tone of the translator, turn towards Emil and Trisha. Etrika and Jalamil, consummately, are frozen in surprise, staring at them with indecipherable expressions.
Oh, great. Quick. Another word.
No, I – I wanted to say, jashemelo, they stammer into the device.
A nuanced term that acknowledges someone’s talkativeness, while ensuring that their words remain interesting and appreciated.
Too bad the lab-slab doesn’t know what nuance is.
[Δ>Θ]{ CHATTERBOX. }
Trisha, already light-skinned, turns stark-white in the face of such an outrage. She looks for support from the audience, but only has time to see her schoolmates turning their backs to her, embarrassed.
She opens her mouth, but no sound comes out. Her face contorts with shame, and she hurriedly presses a button on the wall, signaling that she would like very much to get off the trolley. Lucky in her unluckiness, only a few seconds separate her from the next stop. She pushes through a pair of uumans without consideration and rushes from the vehicle, away from prying eyes.
Emil, Etrika, and Jalamil remain stunned for a long moment. This is not the time for them to stay frozen; they have to say something, anything.
Excuse me. I did not mean…
Without looking away, Jalamil gently places a hand on their shoulder, and whispers with obvious relief:
Don’t apologize. I owe you.
Emil has rarely been so baffled in their life.
A foreign national?
I’m taking them to Oskobel. They, ah… skipped a few steps on the administrative end.
No offense, but that’s obvious.
Etrika and Jalamil are leaning against the windows in front of the tailor’s shop, waiting a few minutes while the subject of conversation picks up their refurbished poncho.
Truly, thanks again. For the translator thing.
You don’t gotta thank me, she replies with a laugh.
Seriously, I couldn’t have been her stupid pet for another day. She can take her parties and her club to the schism, for all I care.
The two students glance to one another, smiling, not unhappy to have found in each other an understanding that usually could be out of reach. The enemy of my enemy…
Do you think she’ll pray to the Traveler to do damage control?
Oh, she’s gonna need the Jester at this point, I think.
They share a loud, hearty laugh. Once it subsides, Emil reappears.
What happen?
Nothing, replies Etrika. Just… oh!
Emil’s new outfit is now complete, catching Etrika off-guard a little. The tailor must’ve worked all night on such a beautiful piece of work: the seams in the thick, matte fabric of the new poncho are as perfect as they can be. The deep navy colors do match their gaiters as promised, down to the buttons.
A high-quality lacy string hangs from their collar, decorated with a trio of fabric stars on the left side: tasteful Baritzian fashion.
It really suits you…
You think that?
Emil slowly spins, getting used to the garment. The heavier fabric keeps them pleasantly warm, and falls more firmly on their arms, making it easier to conceal their unique silhouette.
I also approve, Jalamil adds, arms crossed.
The stranger smiles. Feeling the touch of the surviving fabrics underneath the poncho initially overwhelmed them with painful nostalgia, but it quickly became a source of strength, a blessing. Their people are with them. Their inner world comforts them through the cleaned fibers, tinged with a new, energetic scent.
With fists (the visible ones) on their hips, they ask their companions with a renewed vigor:
In that direction, the University?
The small group sets out again, dodging passersby under the clear blue of the sky. The clouds thin out, allowing the bright points of several stars to reach their eyes.
While conversing with Etrika on subjects beyond the stranger’s understanding, Jalamil finally notices that Emil keeps glancing at him.
What’s the matter? Do I have a button undone..?
No, Emil clarifies. I was wondering –
No loaded words, they remind themself.
–when did you change?
Emil’s gaze is fixed on his legs. Caught up in new situations and new sensations, it took them a while to notice that Jalamil has three.
Oh, my Alignment! Must’ve been… a few months ago? he replies cheerily, glancing at the rounded set of toes protruding from each of his shoes. Almost everyone in my family is tripedal, so I got used to it quickly.
His whole family is like this? Well, as long as they don’t suffer from afflictions like Sonya’s family’s.
...Sonya. Please let her and her family hold on. They cut these thoughts short before they weigh too heavily on their heart.
How was it?
Hm?
The temples, the spiritual retreat, Etrika rephrases. Was it good?
How to say it… It’s mostly peaceful? A bit like a stay in the hospital, but almost painless, and so relaxing. And the food, augh, excellent. …On the other hand, the first day of Alignment proper is really tough. I mean, everyone says that, but, y’know; there’s hearing about it and going through it.
Ah, Emil understands better. These people have fleshmasters, undoubtedly in abundance.
They’ve quickly noticed that the ‘changed’ are mostly adults; their children mostly retain an uuman appearance and bodily plan. Is it a rite of passage for them? A birth disposition? Emil would trade anything to have a book on the subject in their native language, but, they’ll probably have to start out with Rieli’s books. One of them is quite thick; perhaps it holds such an answer.
Etrika and Jalamil are still discussing the latter’s pilgrimage when the three of them arrive at the university.
Until now, Emil has only caught glimpses of the campus behind the trees in the park, and beyond the roofs of the shops. Standing before it now, the entrance alone already feels massive. Its steel gate, were it melted down, would easily make any horde a hundred ingots richer. And this feeling of immensity only multiplies once they lay their eye on the main building.
At the end of a paved path flanked by blue-brown conifer trees, under which groups of students congregate and study, stands the main hall of the Grand University; a building so large that Emil cannot see it in its entirety without looking about. Its light-gray brickwork and tall lattice windows call to mind the largest ruin Emil has ever seen, subjected to sudden restoration. Vines climb (or rather, descend?) along reinforcement columns from pointed roofs, between a crowd of chimneys and rooms in high towers.
And that but the front side of it all.
How many… study here?
Pretty much everyone our age in this city? Jalamil ventures, shrugging his shoulders. Exams are coming up soon, so the halls are largely unoccupied these days.
Putting aside the teachers, adds Etrika.
Maybe they could pull off one-on-one classes, he jokes.
Outside, an entire horde of students lounging around. And inside, a matching horde of teachers. Emil is now fully convinced: such a home of wisdom must be able to help them on their mission.
Emil ascends a flight of stairs to the massive double doors of the main entrance, with an almost religious slowness, looking above themself to the institution’s emblem over the doors. Detailed calligraphy, that they hadn’t noticed until now, accentuates it.
That says what? they ask, pointing.
Divine truth, in all of us.
…Oh.
After a moment of an unreadable expression passing across their face, Emil quickly loses interest in the establishment’s dedication and motto, and follows Etrika and Jalamil inside.
Like the Walbravir house, the luxury of this place is evident in the quality and care taken with the materials it’s made of. Here, there are stone floors, polished, waxed, tiled in alternating squares: half depicting winged creatures, half-reptile and half-bird; and half depicting soldiers in armor, standing off against them. Emil cannot tell which side is winning the battle.
Well, this is where we part ways, Jalamil interjects. Good luck on your studies, Emil!
He holds out his hand, which Emil takes a moment to shake, before stepping away. Etrika clears her throat as though to stop him, her voice too low for Jalamil to hear:
Excuse me; do you–
Ahlrik-Svan?
She turns back towards the tourist, then back to the darkened figure in the empty hallway, now a little further away. She doesn’t even know what she wanted to ask him, anymore. Doesn’t matter.
What is it, Emil?
The professor is in which direction? And I talk with him with what name?
He’ll tell you, don’t worry. Follow me, she concludes, with a hint of annoyance.
Emil follows Etrika closely as they pass through a series of gorgeous corridors and staircases, decorated in a sober but nonetheless impressive style. Between the solid wooden doors and the small signs with fine lettering numbering each classroom and lecture hall, the stranger slows down intermittently to admire the occasional portrait.
All depict stern-looking figures, but some faces seem a bit exaggerated for the artwork. Their regalia, very similar to the students’ black robes, are complemented by snow-white stole-scarves, decorated with medallions whose significance and purposes are lost on Emil.
After four corridors, two turns, and a flurry of stairwells, Etrika stops in front of the second door in a tight row of ten: some of the professors’ individual offices.
Here we are. Hope you’re not too nervous?
Emil shakes their head, but feels a strange exhaustion. Why? Is it the culmination of their journey? The idea of opening up to someone high-ranking? The monumental size of this space?
…Is it leaving Etrika?
The student raps three times on the door, a little nervous herself. A deep voice, more like that of a storyteller than a scholar, speaks.
Come in.
Etrika shoves the door open with a dull, heavy thud, its hinges crying out for oil. She motions her companion through the door she’s holding. They take a deep breath before stepping forward with all the courage they can muster.
Everything here smells of paper. Vellum, ink, the very aroma of literature. Endless shelves are stacked with books, binders, reports, theses, and gods-know-what else. The knowledge here is overwhelmingly dense, to the point it seems to leave no room for leisure, or any personal touch from its owner.
This place is a treasure trove, the kind of which Emil’s people would have killed for.
Professor Oskobel? Hello – this is, uhm, Etrika Ahlrik, Walbravir, sir. Second-year in First Response and Public Service. I’ve brought someone who’d like very much to meet you.
Of course. I’ll be with you in a moment.
Emil takes in the professor’s features, partially obscured by a light wood cabinet with a metallic frame.
The color of his plant-like flesh is dark, an earthy brown that seems oblivious to the surrounding light. A pair of rectangular glasses with crystal-clear lenses frames his narrow eyes, reddened by the first half of what must be a long life. Two pairs of thin branches grow from his cheeks and forehead, weighed down by brown leaves that give them the silhouette of feathers. Long, frail, rustling vines tumble down his back, as he leans over a document on his desk.
After a few moments more, grumbling with a wordless satisfaction, he grabs a stamp and an ink sponge from a corner of his workspace, marking it with an aggressive red circle of some kind. And he rises to his feet.
And who might you be?
Once the sylvite is standing on his eight heavy legs and turns towards Emil, they realize how tall he is: easily over two meters, even with his lower limbs bent by his gait.
I am…
Can they really trust him?
Ojzin would know what to say.
I am Emil Subarin. And… and…
And Ojzin is not here.
…I was born far from here, and I was told you can help foreigners to learn.
The professor leans towards, a little over them, adjusting his glasses.
The board didn’t inform me of any new arrivals; how is that possible? he continues with sincere embarassment. Is it…?
His gaze falls to the translator around Emil’s neck. For a few very odd moments, he wonders how a future student could have so effortlessly stolen such an important tool from him. But when he inspects a compartment in his desk, he finds his own, right where he left it.
Where did you get that replika? he asks Emil, turning around.
Emil does not know how to respond, and glances at Etrika.
They’re not a student. They’re a refugee. We – I mean, they need your help. To talk in private.
The atmosphere between Oskobel and Emil changes. Curiosity turns to calculation, and open hospitality turns to prudence. His pupils narrow. The muscles around his cheeks contract into a serious-looking expression.
Emil is not discouraged.
Please.
Oskobel crosses his arms, one hand raised to his chin, in complete silence. Even so, Emil knows what he’s thinking about: the pros and cons. What assisting Emil might bring to his front door, weal or woe.
Etrika retreats into her own suffocating silence. She would so very much like to speak up for Emil, but it’s no longer her place to do so. She wonders if she chose the right words, did the right thing.
The sylvite finally uncrosses his arms and places them behind his back. The same look as the portraits in the corridors, Emil notices furtively. He gives his verdict with a somber tone.
Miss Ahlrik? Would you mind waiting outside, please?
She nods and offers Emil an encouraging smile, placing a hand on one of their shoulders as she turns away.
The two of them lock eyes for a brief moment.
It’ll be okay, Emil.
They seem to believe it; and that's what matters.
Thank you again, Ahlrik.
Etrika’s hand leaves Emil’s shoulder, and she moves towards the door. As she closes it behind her, she finds herself staring through the gap, barely having time to see Oskobel gesturing to his guest to take a seat. It feels like she’ll never see them again.
Sir?
Kenna glances up from the display case he’d been leaning over. The operation went a lot faster than he’d expected. Unlike polishing the ring, apparently: the apprentice has switched towels three times and products two times, and still hasn’t finished making it shine by the time the jeweler returns.
You were fast.
The sylvite, carrying the gems in a fine velvet case, pursues with a polite smile.
You will be happy to know that your inheritance had no… hidden defects. The instruments left no room for error.
No enchantments?
Down to hyperfine readings?
Down to hyperfine readings, yes, sir. Rest assured, if these gems have seen some dark history, that time is long past. Would you like a certificate of inactivity?
Kenna has a bad feeling about this. But his disguise must remain in place a while longer. He files the information away in his head and pulls himself together again.
I must admit, such a document can only be useful to me if a colleague of yours can make a better offer.
Without losing his good-natured salesmanship, the jeweler pulls a small roll of paper from his shirt and unrolls it onto the counter. With the octagram behind his charming smile, he could almost pose as an eidolon. Hell; if anything, he probably sees himself as an honorary one.
You have yourself a collection of excellent quality. Some of my clients would be honored to give these gems a proper setting.
Kenna grabs the itemized estimate and skims through it without paying too much to the details of the stones’ weight, clarity, and carats. It is the grand total that interests him.
And what a grand total.
The number has enough zeroes to build a small house in any nice neighborhood in Cascade. And Kenna is more than aware of the margin this individual hopes to pocket once all transactions are closed.
…Stop thinking. Thinking can wait, he tells himself, for the first time in his life.
An excellent offer for an excellent collection. We have a deal, Kenna agrees, extending his hand.
The jeweler grips it with such strength that Kenna can feel his bones crack; but he doesn’t dare flinch.
The pleasure is mine, sir. Lexis? he calls to his apprentice. Please head to the bank and have them prepare a Treasury Bond.
Oh, no. No thank you.
That won’t be necessary, Kenna corrects, raising a hand. I would far prefer to exchange this set for cash.
The jeweler and his apprentice pause for a moment, surprised by the request.
Excuse me? Cash?
But of course. A Presquilian Treasury Bond? he scoffs with a forced shrug. Do you really wish to inflict such an administrative burden on my family?
Kenna sees him flinch. Gotcha.
The state of Presquile is not exactly kind to noble families. Oh, it’ll grant their requests, but nothing compels it to rush to do so. The island’s youth knows that this was one of the first forms of defiance, alongside the miners’ strikes, that led to the Fourth Civil War. The current administration is still resentful, and resentment is tenacious.
To operate here, this nostalgic fool must have significant cash in hand. But his clients are few and far between, and most certainly foreigners. And let’s not forget the ever-increasing technological use of such resources. He can’t afford to let some nouveau riche slip through his fingers; especially not a sucker who accepts his money without question, tallies another client, and despises accounting as much as he does.
He’ll bite. He chose to bite as soon as he saw the contents of the box.
…You’re absolutely correct, sir. My sincerest apologies. Please wait a few more moments.
Kenna puts on an annoyed pout, just arrogant enough to get this over with as quickly as possible. The jeweler returns to the back room, a tense gait about him. Kenna’s got some time to think.
Where did Emil really get these gems? If not their captors, who did they steal it all from? Kenna has a really hard time believing they actually belong to them. The suspicions he began to ponder when his sister first came clean are confirmed: if anyone they did business with talked, the people pursuing them would’ve caught them, long ago. But still, something about the story barely adds up, and he can’t quite put his finger on what.
One thing’s for sure: neither he nor Etrika will need to worry about them for much longer. And that’s for the best.
A moment, he calls to the jeweler, who quickly turns around.
Do you need anything else, sir?
Kenna delicately reaches for an emerald, the only one in the lot. Beautiful, but not untarnished. Closing an eye to see it clearer with the other, slight impurities float within the apple-green sparkle of the gem. Structural flaws that give it a certain charm.
I’ll keep this one. Remove it from the total, would you?
Emil’s interview seems to last a small eternity.
Etrika had to restrain herself more than once from pressing her ear against the door, pacing up and down the deserted corridor. The morning’s well underway now, and she should… she should… well, do something.
But as she takes out her notes, she realizes quickly that the formulas conjured up images of Emil and the day prior, rather than the spell she was supposed to be modeling. What seemed like a minute of daydreaming stretched into five, then into ten.
What are they even talking about in there…?
With her back to the tall lancet windows and the light streaming from them, and sitting in an uncomfortable position, Etrika has managed to write the first variation (and even then, only in draft form, and after many mistakes and suppositions) before the large door to Oskobel’s office creaks open. The last few words of their conversation eke through the noise.
–amined in the infirmary. Oh, Miss Ahlrik. Have you been waiting all this time?
Uhm. Yes.
That’s right: why did she wait? Emil is in other hands now. Well, almost, in other hands.
Would you like to accompany us? Your friend will need to be checked up, and I wanted to speak with you, as soon as can be managed.
Of course, Professor.
Emil remains silent during their brief exchange, and doesn’t seem likely to speak again anytime soon. They look gloomy, and walk with a heavy step. Etrika wants to comfort them, but without knowing exactly what happened in that office, her speech would seem hollow and meaningless. And the professor isn’t really the sort to make up for their silence.
Etrika has never visited the university infirmary, now that she thinks about it. She knows the nurse, like everyone else; future sappers like her must take care of their bodies to take care of others, after all. But each time, mandatory checkups occurred outside of the university, in a wing of the largest hospital in the region, and with the assistance of other health professionals.
Back to the ground floor, Oskobel guides the student and stranger out of the main building and across the central courtyard of the campus. Emil, walking ahead of Etrika, stops abruptly in their tracks, almost falling when she then bumps into them.
Ow!
Ah, I am very sorry, Ahlrik-Svan!
It’s fine, it’s fine, she mumbles, adjusting her dress. What’s the problem?
That person, they indicate with a digit.
Their companions turn towards the monument in the center of the courtyard. There stands a huge bronze statue, the top of which must be as high as the floor of the office they just left. It depicts a proud sylvite, its root-like legs firmly anchored to rocks, carved with colorful lettering. Enveloped in a large, intricately draped coat that elegantly spills over the base (decidedly not the University’s regalia), he holds a telescope in his left hand, and a tome as large as his torso in his right. His face, addressing the book, radiates a sense of concentration.
The statue is covered in verdigris; but through a subtle lacquering of the surfaces, the lantern, face, book, and other nooks appear spotless, rendering the unique illusion of the lantern ‘illuminating’ the scene.
The Wizard?
Emil’s eyes dance to Etrika before settling back on the statue, one eyebrow raised.
It’s a statue of the… god of wisdom? I thought He looked… different. The others are very different too, I guess?
The Virtues have malleable appearances, Oskobel comments pedagogically. You were raised with certain images of Them, and you will see others, but none of them are false.
Etrika feels a bout of pity for Emil. Even the Eight are exclusively uuman in their land. Talk about culture shock.
Led by Oskobel, they trek on, eventually entering a wing of smaller, single-story structures. The administrative section, where release forms, student club management, and registrar services are handled.
Etrika only participates in mandatory excursions, and has never deigned to join a single club. Not her thing.
Towards the east, they cross paths with a few other members of the university staff, whom Oskobel takes a moment to greet without getting caught up in small talk.
Emil discreetly tugs on Etrika’s dress during one of these breaks, the professor listening patiently to a secretary’s vacation plans.
Etri – Ahlrik? You think the doctor will be able…?
They seem pensive.
Able to do what?
Reverse my changes.
She… doesn’t know if she should be honest with them. That sort of thing isn’t impossible, and the chances of success are beyond her amateur estimation. But they can’t be very far off the number that comes to mind: a single-digit number, very easy to write down.
I… I don’t know. That will take time, in any case.
Their good eye remains fixed on the ground.
I hope I have enough time.
There’s a knock at the infirmary’s door. Gideo, flipping a page in his journal, dog-ears the corner a little quickly, and nearly knocks over the hot tea on the corner of their desk. Gosh. That was close.
If he hadn’t straightened it up just a bit ago, his entire stock of prescription-writing paper would’ve been ruined. He grumbles off to one side; who got injured at this hour in the middle of exam season? Some poor kid cut themselves turning their notebook, or what?
Come on in! he shouts coldly.
The nurse first sees the familiar silhouette of the professor, then a second-year girl. Who’s she, again? She looks exactly like… Oh, yeah, the Walbravir twin! He’s about to ask what she’s managed to do to herself when Emil enters and flouts his expectations. A new student? An apprentice?
What brings you here?
My dear Gideo, the professor replies in a serious tone; I’m going to need an unconventional favor from you.
He adjusts his shirt and crosses his arms, looking doubtfully at each of his guests.
Meaning what, exactly?
This young person is not part of the student body, or at least not yet, Oskobel clarifies, looking at Emil. They need a complete check-up.
Gideo stands up, sighs, smiles a little. He rolls his white sleeves up his black arms, putting a pair of clean gloves on. Checking that the hair on two of his heads is properly pinned up, he continues talking with the third, raising an eyebrow.
But? I’m detecting a but.
I would appreciate it if you did not keep a copy of the paperwork.
The xalaim nurse freezes still, more than a little surprised. Oskobel, asking him to overlook something? That Oskobel who’d readily demand a written record for lending a pencil?
…What’s the story, here? he asks, turning his side heads to the professor, with the middle fixated on a frightened Emil. You’re not putting my ass on the line, here, are you?
Etrika is about to answer, but the professor beats her to it:
Not at all. Eventually, I hope that they will be able to join the ranks of this institution. However, their legal situation is unusual. It requires certain precautions.
Gideo’s gazes merge towards Emil. An undocumented migrant, with a helping of trouble on top. He sighs inwardly. Perhaps this happening was inevitable on Oskobel’s part; he does like welcoming in students from all around the world. But we can’t welcome in all the world’s misery, either.
But, well; once misery is at the door, you can’t exactly ignore it anymore.
Fine, fine. As long as all this stays in confidence.
Of course.
Gideo clears a throat, grabs a stethoscope, and buttons his collars. Pulling back a white curtain at the back of the room, he reveals a room about twice the size of the office, where Emil and Etrika can see simple camp beds and an army of cabinets, all with glass doors. Inside: the essential instruments, countless bottles, and endless boxes.
He turns two heads towards Emil, gesturing within.
This way, please.
Is there really nothing else you can do for them?
I’m afraid not. And having Gideo give them a physical like this is already enough of a breach of the rules.
Etrika finds it really hard to take this helplessness.
But they have nowhere to go!
Miss Ahlrik, Oskobel reiterates, raising his voice exactly one decibel. I am a teacher, researcher, and lecturer. I am not a diplomat. I trust you did not involve me in this matter without being prepared to take responsibility yourself.
That cut deep. These are harsh words to be thrown, but that doesn’t make them any less true.
I’m sorry, professor.
Are you satisfied that I am agreeing to help this young person circumvent the authorities?
It’s already taking a chance on–
Wait, what’d he say?
Circumvent? I thought they wanted to make what they know public…?
Oskobel’s branches, until then rigid with assertion, unfold in response to Etrika’s confusion.
They did not tell you everything?
No… not really.
The professor’s expression darkens, as he sits down best he can on one of the chairs in front of Gideo’s desk. They can hear him telling Emil to stop moving and breathe slowly while he examines them.
This Emil, he continues in a low voice, told me in detail about the conditions in which their people live. Isolated communities, actively hunted down, steadily declining in numbers. They claim that magic is ineffective in the desolate lands they called home.
Ineffective…?
That can’t be right. That would mean…
…Weapons like that really exist?!
Neither she nor Oskobel want to accept it, but the worried look on the sylvite’s face, his chin resting on his crossed branch-like fingers, leaves no room for doubt. Etrika stumbles into the seat besides him, unable to stop trembling.
The theory behind them is not new. But their development may be. Military spells that have been used for decades are already reviled as they are, and I wouldn’t judge the development of such an atrocity beyond the capability of, say, Amotet or Saulesud.
That’s where… I thought they came from.
Although they remained silent about where exactly, that is what I believe, too. In this year, indigenous monosophont communities are rare indeed, and to my knowledge, there is only one place in the world where they still are threatened with extinction by the campaigns of tyrants.
Etrika feels utterly surreal, floating between two states of existence. She doesn’t have the emotional detachment, the professionalism, that Oskobel has acquired with age.
Emil told me they have written documents linking it all to high-ranking figures. The type with enough power to cover up the entire affair, should they use official channels. These are grave matters, Etrika.
Until now, war had seemed to Etrika a very distant thing, something that only happened to other people. A misfortune obscured by inimitable distance, which can’t be helped, but in turn remains too far to affect you. A subject of news, conversation, or history, easily sidestepped without risk to oneself.
The idea of an anathemic weapon in the hands of some power-hungry empire has suddenly utterly abolished this distance within her. Her mind paints Cascade engulfed in a ball of white, all that she has ever known, gone, gone beyond repair.
Miss Ahlrik?
Her brain skips the panicking part, obeying an impulse to shut it all down. Her vision blurs, and she plunges – far from these thoughts, far from thinking itself – without control, into dark waters.
Emil, meanwhile, is trying really hard not to collapse either, since removing most of their clothes. Gideo’s inquisitive gazes observe every part, every detail from every angle. In a notebook, he meticulously records everything they have (almost) managed to hide until this moment.
It’s not me he’s looking at.
This is a disguise.
I’m dreaming.
This is an illusion.
This is not my body.
Hey.
If only the doctor would stop distracting them.
You’re gonna have to cooperate a little, bud. If you keep quiet and I miss anything, I’ll look like an idiot.
Would you mind making that effort for me?
Emil briefly reopens their eye. The xalaim nurse raises his three heads towards them, holding a small wand with a rounded tip in his right hand. With his other hand, he’s holding Emil’s left leg.
These hands have the right number of fingers. The right color, the right texture. But no sharp claws. Paradoxically, it’s the absence of danger and the professional care that makes them feel foreign, unsettling. Threatening.
You’re gonna feel some small shocks, okay? Tell me if it hurts, or if it’s hard to feel. Got it?
I understand, Emil replies in a sheepish voice.
Alright. Let’s begin.
But before he can even lift the small tool, Professor Oskobel violently pulls back the curtain, drawing everyone’s attention. His tone, though flat, conveys urgency:
Miss Ahlrik just fainted.
Etrika?! shouts Emil as they straighten up.
Gideo stands up twice as fast and stops their momentum with a single finger on their chest. At the same time, he shoots a pair of irate glances at his patient and asks the professor for details.
You stay put.
Is she breathing? Any convulsions?
Her breathing is shallow. She’s trembling.
As the sylvite steps aside, Gideo rushes into the next room, stuffing the tool he was about to use on Emil into a pocket. Despite doctor’s orders, Emil comes rushing in seconds later, still in their underwear.
Their left hands pressing against the curtain, Emil can see the nurse and the professor leaning over Etrika, her back turned to them. She’s breathing hard, as though she needs all the air in the world to cling to life.
Gideo takes her pulse, then puts his stethoscope back on, quickly taking a set of vitals.
It’s a nervous shock. Impressive, but not dangerous, thank gods.
Stay with her. I’ll go get what she needs.
Turning back towards the medical bay, he frowns and shoves Emil aside without qualms.
I told you to stay put, moron!
The nurse approaches a cabinet, pulling a set of small, labeled keys from another pocket. Unlocking it, he promptly locates a specific drawer, and retrieves two light yellow marbles with a waxy texture.
That is what?
Without answering Emil, Gideo approaches a sink and places one of those marbles into a syringe, loading it like a tiny cannonball. Pressing a button on the plunger, the glass tube begins to fill with an opaque, swirling substance that defies gravity, its viscosity eventually settling into a translucent yellow hue, the same as the bead, now vaporized.
That is what?! insists Emil, grabbing the nurse’s arm.
A SEDATIVE!
You want a dose, maybe? No? Then let go of me!
Emil swallows. He’s not kidding. Without looking away, they slowly withdraw their right hand. The pair of them stare at each other for a microsecond longer, before Gideo turns his back on them, huffs, and kneels over Etrika once more.
With Oskobel’s help, keeping the young woman’s shoulder stable, Gideo rolls up one of her sleeves, then fumbles for a suitable vein and inserts the needle. The substance quickly spreads through Etrika’s bloodstream.
Syringe still in her forearm’s flesh, the xalaim pulls back the plunger with a small click, loading the second dose just as fast. Deeply worried about her, Emil cannot look away from Etrika’s face.
Her face is pale, as though she’s seen a ghost. Her pupils are unfocused, haunted by images beyond their understanding. Her mouth, faintly open, mutters sometimes wheezing breaths, sometimes distant sobs.
A short minute later, her eyes close, and her tremors subside. True, restful sleep takes her in its arms.
Since the professor and nurse have moved her to a bed, Emil refused to leave her side. Gideo was able to carry out the rest of his assessment without further concern, but Emil’s obedience came at the cost of their gaze, stuck on Etrika.
It’s their fault. It’s still their fault that she’s like this. They have no business being here. This is what awaits everyone who gets too close to them, if they continue as they are. They have no business being here. Only their mission matters, and everything else should only be grazed. Never touched.
Lost in unbound thoughts, they barely pay mind to Gideo reading out the results of the physical. They had to be reminded to get dressed, or they probably would’ve remained standing there, half-naked. The xalaim insisted that they wait for him in the office, but Oskobel sided with the stranger. They have the right to understand what afflicts them.
And, the professor also thought, the poor sap has the right to show their concern for Etrika.
Well, this is the first time I’ve examined someone – I won’t mince words here – so deformed, hisses Gideo.
But at least everything is functional. Except for the right eyes, he adds, pointing toward Emil with the end of a pen. As far as I can tell, they’re fully formed, it's just that the eyelids are stuck together.
Terasthesia could mess them up even more. They’ll have to go under the knife, if they ever want to use them.
Oskobel remains silent, one of his large slender-fingered hands resting on his chin. He knows many people, from all walks of life, but no surgeons.
I’ll do some research. Please, go on.
Gideo clears his throats.
Some good news: the darkened areas of skin don’t seem to be tumorous or malignant. Just discolored and dis-textured.
The legs and arms are working as expected. Normal nerve responses, good range of motion. Aside from the asymmetry, their skeleton is unproblematic. Even the lower-right pectoral muscle is properly developed.
Gideo hands the professor a pair of small-format phantographies, barely filling his large palm. Oskobel glances to Emil, then at the images, then at Emil again.
And their overall health?
Mentally, everything seems fine. I’m hardly a neuroscientist, but I didn’t notice anything truly unusual. No dispersal syndrome or other crap of that sort.
That’s lucky, considering the rest, he comments with a pair of lower voices.
A long pause follows, during which the xalaim and the sylvite watch the students gathering outside the doors of the university’s dining hall for a few moments. It’s not quite noon yet.
I have diseases?
Turning back, they notice Emil has raised their good eye to the pair of them, with visible anxiety. It’s hard to know how much of this anxiety is about themself, and how much is about Etrika’s situation.
You are a doctor. Doctors always tell diseases at the end, like good things remove them. That is annoying.
Hey, if you–
Oskobel’s hand falls onto his left shoulder. Enough clamor, my friend. Gideo grimaces but accepts it, resuming his detached tone while keeping his side heads looking to Emil.
…No, you’re not sick. No infections.
But your internal organs are another story. Respiratory, digestive, circulatory systems are all stock; they barely changed. Your teratrauma chose the path of least resistance.
His patient raises an eyebrow, confused, disquieted.
It is not good?
Answer this first. You tire out fast, am I right?
Faster than before you changed? And you eat more, or feel hungrier?
Emil, whose mouth remained open in incomprehension so far, closes it, and looks down to Etrika again.
I… yes.
Gideo sighs. Not a good sign.
I’m not surprised, he explains, lifting his central head from his notes. You can give a brain a bunch of new limbs, and it’ll adapt; but metabolism is different.
With controlled terasthesia, it would’ve changed with you, and all you’d need at the end is a bigger breakfast.
But, I won’t lie to you. I worry for your heart.
Emil takes a moment to calm their nerves, which seem to melt away at the news. It was a risk. Everything was a risk to get here.
They swallow and ask the question they shouldn’t ask.
I have how much time?
Things as they are?
This is just my estimate, but, well. If nothing’s done, you might make it to age 50, but not much further. Assuming you live a peaceful life, of course.
This time, Emil takes a moment to convert that number into cycles. And shudders.
More than half of their life is already behind them.
Getting here was an achievement in itself. This is the price.
Is it curable? Oskobel asks, concerned.
Oh, no doubt. Send them to a Xalar lodge, and they’ll know exactly how to get their body back on track. And maybe fix the fifth arm thing.
Guess they’ll have to decide if they wanna get three pairs, or settle for two, he concludes with a shrug.
The person in question expresses no preference. Their attention has turned back to Etrika, their expression as serious as before.
Let’s give them a moment, Gideo, whispers the professor.
This isn’t the first time Etrika has been put under, but it is the first time she has wandered in such all-encompassing, calm darkness. Here, fragile senses and deleterious emotions are kept at bay. For a brief eternity, her mind suspends its perpetual agitation, and there is true peace.
Consciousness returns to her first through her hearing, muffled, as though she lies at the bottom of a river. Everything is low and mixed together, save for the bells. She would count them to discover how long she’s been asleep, but that part of her is still snoring.
Her sense of touch yawns, stirring. Something… no, someone is holding her hand? Who…?
With a tremendous effort, she opens her eyes to a terribly blurry world; full of yellows, grays, oranges. It’s getting late outside. She turns her head and sees Emil-shaped mist leaning over her, wearing a shirt. But… why is their hair black now…?
Etrika?
She tries to respond, to utter their name, but the first syllable is so difficult to get out, it seems to have turned from an eh into an ugh on the way. The rest of the phonemes fall back into her throat, dry as a desert.
Etrika, can you hear me? asks Kenna.
Her eyes are now half open. Her brother brings his face closer, and she can finally recognize him by his glasses. She needs hers.
Can’t… see… Give, please…?
‘Course. Hold still.
The uuman fog recedes from her for a moment, during which the rest of her senses kick back in. She’s in the infirmary, and the stars are setting. Her muscles feel like molten metal, cooling to a solid state at an excruciating pace. She manages to lean on one elbow, only to feel it suddenly give way beneath her.
Ah–!
She bangs her arm on the bed frame.
Good gods, don’t move now! The nurse has injected you with enough medicine to put an imperial eagle to sleep, Kenna exclaims, rushing over with her glasses.
Etrika reaches out to grab them, but Kenna pushes her away, insisting on cleaning the glasses before giving them to her. After wiping them with a cloth, he places them on his sister’s nose, and the blurry world becomes clear again.
Can I… have some water? she manages to ask, running a hand as heavy as an anvil through her hair.
Kenna helps her into a sitting position, quickly bringing her a glass of cool water. Gideo, alerted by the metallic clang, pokes two heads through the curtain to the medical bay.
Everything good? Try not to move, Miss Ahlrik.
I’m fine… doesn’t hurt, she lies before taking two long sips.
Gideo would like to be with her while she’s waking up, but he has other things to attend to as well. Kenna reassures him with a glance and a nod. He can take care of her himself.
And so Gideo vanishes into his office. Etrika empties her glass, then addresses Kenna in a deep, trembling voice:
Emil… where is Emil?
Creak