Chương 117: Apprentice

Fifty years did little to ease Onóra's malice. Eoin had moved from his small workshop in Cardivar to a bigger one in Shirren. The Fifth Ring city was coming apart at the seams, and Eoin had been around long enough to see when something worse was coming. He'd also had some ideas about mixing materials of varying fórsa density he wanted to pursue. Onóra despised being in the Third Ring.

Shirren at this point was little more than a trading hub for Pixies and Bodacs and she made it clear that going backwards in her goal to ascend was absolutely not acceptable. No one could become an Ascendant outside the Fifth Ring. Eoin would at those moments remind her that she was not indentured to him in any way. She was free to make her way back to the Fifth Ring whenever she liked. He had no doubt that she would…

except that she could see every single day that in spite of half a century of instruction and assistance at his side, he was still vastly her superior. Not in ways that anyone other than her would ever be able to tell. By anyone's estimation - by Eoin's own estimation - she was probably the second greatest gemcrafter in the Tír. She could easily set up her own shop and be fabulously wealthy. But she would know that she wasn't the best. It wasn't skill that was the problem.

Technically, she could craft gems at his level - which given the gap in age, was an enormous accomplishment she could not seem to appreciate on its own. The problem was inspiration. It was just like the water purification gem he'd remade when they first met - she could have wonderful ideas - brilliant ideas, even. But there was just some spark in Eoin he couldn't explain, much less teach, that could see an idea at A and jump right to G, whereas she had to iterate through B, C, D, E and F.

If that was something Eoin could pass on, he would. In the meantime he got his investment's worth out of her. No one had ever had an assistant as skilled or as tenacious as she was. She absorbed everything he taught her, from gemcraft to combat techniques. Her mind was orderly and process-driven in a way that he suspected was the main difference between them - he could make intuitive leaps, but he would never match her for consistency.

But it was in Shirren, fifty years after their first meeting, that things all went wrong.

"Why haven't you ascended?" Onóra asked bluntly. Eoin finished a facet on a prototype gem that would one day run a new class of ships by absorbing the fórsa of trapped criminals. It barely worked so far, but he was making progress.

"I'm not interested in ascending."

"That's stupid," Onóra spat.

"You're the most powerful Fifth I've ever met. It should be easy for you." Eoin looked at her, concerned. There was an edge to her voice that hadn't been there before.

"I have no designs on the Sixth Ring," he answered.

"Besides, I only have two Adept classes. It would be impossible for me, no matter how strong I am."

"No," she said, shaking her head.

"It's not that. You're too smart. If this was a problem you wanted to solve, you could. Are you telling me you couldn't gain a third Adept class if you decided you wanted to?" Eoin sighed.

"I don't want to yet. I may never want to."

"But why?" Onóra was almost begging him. She wanted this so badly, it was impossible for her to accept that he might have different goals. Eoin might have called what she had a superiority complex, but it wasn't really that. She knew when she was not the best. It's just that she expected that she should be, and every moment that she wasn't, the world was out of whack.

"Do you know what I love about making gems?" Eoin asked gently.

"I love staring at a pile of materials and figuring out what they could be. I love working on these projects, finding new ways to change the structures, new functions that can be added. Yet, when they're done… I feel very little for the finished piece. I am proud of it. I know its value. Yet… I just want to start the next one."

"What does that have to do with Ascendency?"

"I love the potential of things. And in that same way, I love the potential in myself. As of right now - I could be anything. I could gain any third Adept class I wanted. Be any kind of Ascendant I chose to be. But as soon as I do, all the varieties of what is possible just wink out of existence. I am no longer becoming … I have become. I find the idea terrifying," Eoin added, dropping his unfinished gem on the table.

"That is ludicrous!" Onóra declared, breathing angrily.

"You have only one life! The purpose of that life is to be as great as one can possibly be! You're saying that it is better to leave that gem you're working on unfinished so you can glory in all the things it might be rather than make it into what it should be - and call that potential. It's just stagnation!"

"I'm not the reason you can't Ascend, Onóra," Eoin said. He felt like perhaps it was time they had a frank conversation long overdue.

"You're not able to weave your fórsa dense enough to master a third Adept class yet. Onóra… I'm not sure you ever will."

"You think I don't know that?" she screamed.

"You think I can't tell when I've stopped improving? I haven't managed to make my fórsa any denser in the last decade, Eoin. Which is why it sickens me to see you sit there and waste what you have on cowardice masquerading as philosophy." The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

"I'm sorry, Onóra," Eoin said simply.

"We can try to work on it. Let me finish my work here and in a year or two we'll head back to the Fifth Ring - not Cardivar. There may be some ways to train you that will get you to where you want to be."

"I will get there on my own, Eoin Daithi," Onóra spat.

"I don't need your help. It's clear now that I never did!" She stormed out of the workshop and Eoin suddenly felt every single one of his many years settle on his shoulders. That night he awoke to a burning pain in his neck. He tried to grab the iron collar that was suddenly around his throat, only to find his hands similarly restrained, looped with rings of cold fire. He screamed, still groggy and unsure of what was happening.

"Master," Onóra's voice wafted down to him gently.

"Best to hold still. There's no position in which it will stop hurting, but you can definitely make it worse."

"Onóra!" Eoin snarled.

"What the hell are you doing?" His apprentice stood above his bed, a calm, detached expression on her face.

"You've come to know me well the past few decades. If I encountered a problem, such as say… an inability to weave denser fórsa? What would I do?" Eoin's heart sank.

"You'd find a way to solve it."

"Of course!" Onóra said, her smile wide.

"We are both problem-solvers, aren't we? I must acknowledge your superiority in this skill, though, however much it rankles me. Still, so many of your recent innovations have come from the germ of my inspiration. So… let's just say you owe me this." Eoin tried to manifest Mist, but the fire of the cold iron scattered his focus. It was not only around his throat, but his wrists and ankles. She must have used Sleep Mist to sink him deeper into slumber while she trussed him up like a dead boar.

"What is it that you're trying to take from me? If it's skill, that's something I have given you freely. If it's inspiration… I fear that's something no one can take."

"Simpler than that," Onóra said.

"Power. Simply power. The reason I cannot force my fórsa any denser is a lack of power. A cruel cycle that stops most people from the outer Rings from advancing to the Sixth, I imagine. To gain more power you must have enough to start with."

"How will you take my power?" Eoin asked, confused.

"You can't process the fórsa of living things. The Mind resists." Onóra snorted.

"How indeed? Another of my innovations you would likely steal if you lived on past this night." From her cloak she withdrew possibly the crudest construction Eoin had ever seen her make. It was full of lumps and misaligned facets, off-color material. But inside… it was a maze of complexity that even Eoin's head swam to unravel. If Miriam had been there she might think it looked very familiar.

"What will that do?" Eoin asked, his curiosity overwhelming the pain for a moment.

"I had to collaborate with some shady Mind Natures - strange, isn't it, how more common they are here in the Outer Rings? That's the main innovation - not all fórsa is created the same! We might both strive to be lone craftsmen, but in the end fórsa may be built of the same stuff, but it doesn't think it is! You need Mind to restrain the Mind. Only then can you harvest the Mindless fórsa beneath."

"That is fascinating!" Eoin said. Onóra placed the gem on his chest and began to pour fórsa into it. Immediately Eoin felt an unbelievable tug on his own fórsa, drawing it into the receptacle. He recognized his own designs in the mechanism - similar to what he had made in the water-purifying gem fifty years before. He wished he could summon his lenses to study the effect better.

"So once you've extracted the fórsa, what do you do with it?" Eoin grunted.

"How do you integrate it?" Onóra shrugged.

"That part has been elusive, I grant you. When I tried this on other people, I was unable to hold on to their fórsa. I tried other Banshees, thinking it was a matter of aligning species. I tried Water Natures, thinking that would help me sync. But nothing. I get a brief boost in power, but the fórsa drains quickly to nothing. That's when I realized… the Mind! It might be the Mind that must be compatible. Unfortunately there are few people in the world with a Mind like mine."

"Ah," Eoin said.

"Now we come to my part in the story."

"Indeed. For however much I have despised you the past fifty years, your brilliance is undeniable. You are the closest to my own talents I have ever found. If it doesn't work with you, then, well… I will have to revise my hypothesis."

"Onóra," Eoin said sadly.

"What have I done that has so offended you? I taught you everything I know. I trained you. I am fond of you - perhaps not like a daughter, but perhaps… a favorite niece?"

"Oh, very flattering," Onóra sneered.

"And to be honest, I don't think you've been a bad mentor at all. You've done your best to help me. But you continue to effortlessly surpass me in every aspect of our craft. And I simply cannot accept that."

"Oh well," Eoin said.

"Also, it might be an exaggeration to say that I taught you everything I know." In the several minutes that Onóra had been talking Eoin had been adapting to the pain of the cold iron. His mind was so well honed that once he had the feel of it, he could filter it out of his sensations completely. The burns were still there, but he felt none of it.

But now, between the iron bracelets and his skin, a thin layer of Mist was constantly forming and dying, but he poured more power into it faster than the iron could destroy it. Under each band a tiny instance of Bonecutter sawed through. Then as Eoin spoke he thrust his arms upward with all of his Fifth strength, ripping apart the iron that was very nearly cut through already. Another touch to his neck and the collar burst apart.

It took an enormous amount of fórsa, but with the efficiency he was capable of he had more than enough to free himself. Onóra fell back in shock for just an instant before summoning Water blades of her own, but that was enough time for Eoin to break free completely. He disarmed her in seconds, pinning her hands to the ground with Mist so that she could not summon more. She didn't even bother trying to send needles his way; they had long ago established she was far his inferior with them.

"Again, I lose to you," Onóra spat.

"I don't know why I expected anything else."

"Honestly, I don't either," Eoin said, sighing.

"I'm not trying to be better than you, Onóra. I just am."

"I know," she said, seething.

"That just makes it worse."

"Begone," he said.

"If I see you again I will take it as a threat. Your life is a last gift from your old teacher. He will not be so generous in the future." She stood stiffly as he relaxed the Mist bonds.

"I only wish…"

"What?" She looked towards the lumpy gem, which had a faint glow inside now.

"I wish I could know if it worked." Eoin paused a moment, considering. Then he tossed the gem to her.

"Try it." Onóra's eyes grew huge and she hugged the gem to her chest. The glow faded as she tried to pull the fórsa into herself.

"Bah!" she spat, hurling the gem to the floor.

"It did nothing."

"Well," Eoin said coldly.

"I am glad I didn't die for a failed design." Onóra turned and stalked away, not even glancing back as she exited Eoin's house. Eoin sighed, feeling almost creaky. He had known Onóra was always only half a step from madness. It seemed he had missed her taking that final one. Then he noticed the gem, sitting on the floor where she had thrown it. He picked it up out of curiosity, summoning his lenses.

"Well, of course this wouldn't work," he mumbled, turning the gem so that it better caught the light.

"But you know what might…"