Chương 155: Chapter 16: The Art of Being Without Being

The following morning, the workshop was silent and bathed in the pale light of dawn filtering through the tall windows. It was a vast, cavernous space, filled with massive wooden workbenches scarred by decades of use. Tools hung neatly on panels: chisels, hammers, saws, files, pliers, portable burners, and small crucibles.

Materials lined the shelves and baskets: raw stones of various colors and veins, blocks of damp clay covered with cloths, bars of common metals, fragments of crystal, sacks of fine sand, and planks of both noble and common woods. The scents blended into a complex sensory tapestry: the earthy aroma of clay, the dry scent of sawn wood, the faint perfume of resin, the metallic aroma of iron, copper, and bronze, and beneath it all, the light, pervasive smell of sweat, the scent of creative effort.

Selena went directly to the small adjoining office where Corvus awaited her, seated behind a desk cluttered with sketches and half-finished models. Today he seemed much more relaxed, almost casual. He wore a simpler tunic made of dark linen, and his sleeves were rolled up, revealing thin but muscular forearms marked by fine white scars, testimonies of decades of working with sharp tools. —Did you know that Valerian and I were great friends when we studied here? —Corvus said.

He spoke without preambles, his voice now closer, less theatrical— We both took a complementary course in theater. He was always excellent in the role of the jester, right from the start. The sarcasm, the exaggeration, the art of telling truths wrapped in antics... it came naturally to him. His face reflected a youthful memory; a nostalgic smile was born from that unique expression. —I, on the other hand, leaned more toward the poet.

A pity, because sometimes I too would like to play with sharp words with that edge that cuts and makes one laugh at the same time. But my talent was always different: to create things like the sun on a cold morning, or water in a desert. Beautiful, moving images, but... He paused, searching for the words. —They lack the weight of people's laughter, or the fear aroused by a truth spoken in jest. Poetry mostly achieves only three things: happiness, sadness, or reflection.

The jester, with his sarcasm, defines the entire emotional spectrum. For a king, a jester is as necessary as water is to us. He sighed, and his gaze was lost for an instant in the light streaming through the window. —He is the only man in the court who can laugh at the monarch without putting his neck in danger. The freedom of the jester... the art of being without being, the art of knowing what one is and hiding it behind a smile loaded with sarcasm. Valerian learned it better than anyone. And sometimes...

He added, looking at Selena with complicity. —... that disguise is the most effective shield to move pieces without anyone noticing you are playing. Selena nodded; she was a complicit partner, knowing better than anyone what he was referring to. —The marvel of freedom of expression —she murmured as her gaze swept across the workshop filled with silent possibilities. This time the master gave the same complicit nod; they were on the same frequency. You could be reading stolen content.

Head to Royal Road for the genuine story. —A pity that it is only permitted in an environment that takes it as a joke, and not in reality, where it should be given the seriousness it deserves. She looked back at Corvus, and between them a tacit acknowledgment was born—a thread of understanding that transcended words. She knew it was the moment to proceed with her goal. —I have come, as you know, to study something important for my arcane studies.

I need to create a resonant object, and since I do not know a master to guide me in that, I hoped you could at least guide me in choosing a medium. —She paused, striving for precision— I mean stone, metal, wool, silk, or even precious gems. Whatever it may be. The sound of birds drifted through the windows, but the melody was cut short as a light, almost imperceptible sigh escaped Selena's lips. —I have already read and searched for information.

But the unavoidable obstacle now is being able to create something mundane, something I master. The truth is... I have never been particularly good at creating with my own hands, beyond a basic drawing. Corvus observed her in silence, his dark eyes scrutinizing not only her face, but the posture of her shoulders, the way her hands closed slightly, as if they feared imperfection. —Indeed —he said at last, with a voice soft yet laden with experience— Creation demands talent or effort.

There are people blessed with both, perhaps by the grace of Aelthra. There are others who lack both, perhaps thwarted by a poor flow of their own sap. He extended a hand and took Selena's with a surprising naturalness. His fingers, calloused and sensitive, traced her palms, her knuckles, the line of her tendons. —But your hands are good. Strong, but not coarse. Long, with sensitivity in the fingertips. Women usually have a better talent for the fine arts; we men tend toward the grandiloquent, the monumental.

Do not worry too much. He released her hand and looked toward a window where the light was beginning to turn the floating dust to gold. —It would be interesting to see you, Countess Selena of Solendra, learn goldsmithing. —He looked back at her, and a spark of intellectual curiosity shone in his eyes— Did you know that your surname originates from the deity of trade? Solendri, the god of commerce, also known as the Son of Light. Your family has always been tied to the immense wealth of millennia-old generations.

Why not embody the essence of a Solendra in a way as elegant and poetic as a piece of jewelry? Selena looked at him, surprised. She was completely unaware of the origin of her noble surname, but a distant memory, like an echo between pages, resonated in her mind: the books she had read from Corren's library, the stories between the lines. She did remember something faintly a memory about Solendri. —It is the deity of the Order of the Lumen, isn't it? —she asked, with genuine curiosity.

Corvus nodded, a smile of satisfaction on his lips. —That is correct. The light that guides merchants, the clarity in transactions, the gleam of a fair trade. A deity of precision and value. The light filtered gently through the windows, almost demanding attention. —Perhaps it is destiny —Selena murmured. Then, instinctively, she brought her hand to the lobe of her left ear, where the blood-red stone and black silver earring rested as a silent testimony. —I had also thought of creating an earring. A twin.

But I would need an excellent goldsmith... and one who has patience with an absolute novice. Corvus let out a soft laugh, a warm sound that seemed to dissolve the last layer of formality between them. —Come —he said, turning on his heels—. Follow me. Selena followed him between the workbenches, navigating past worktables and piles of materials. At the back of the workshop, a carved wooden staircase rose toward the second floor.

The steps were carved with symbols: crossed hammers, chisels, stylized gears, as if each step were a tribute to the craft. Upon reaching the top, a narrow, well-lit hallway stretched before them, with light wood doors on both sides. Corvus walked with a steady stride to the last door on the right, opened it, and entered without knocking. Inside, the space was surprisingly wide and orderly, illuminated by large windows overlooking the university gardens.

Gleaming worktables, shelves with impeccably organized tools, and a faint smell of beeswax, polished metal, and linseed oil permeated the air. There was no one in sight. —Meilan! —Corvus called out, his voice projecting clearly but without harshness— I need you here.