Chương 80: Assistant

In the courtyard with all the other independent contractors, Sol became quickly separated from Róise and Cormac. The potential miners were being tested on strength and ability, which meant lining up to strike a piece of metal - not iron - with a bronze hammer. The resulting damage was good proof of what Ring you belonged in. They had decided not to hide their true strength - the more useful they were, they reasoned, the more likely they were to be deployed in the more difficult areas of the mine or foundry.

Miriam bent the metal plate to an almost one-inch-deep bend with a burst of fórsa, which incorrectly classified her as a Third. Cormac bent the plate a further five inches, granting him the title of strongest in the cohort. Sol had not bent the plate even one bit. Embarrassing, Ultán said. Sol tried to ignore the voice of the old bounty hunter. He wished he had someone to talk to about the voices in his head.

His first instinct had been to confide in Miriam, but her hatred of Solas was so absolute he worried she would lose trust in him again. As for Cormac and Róise… well, he didn't really have a good excuse. He just dreaded yet another example about how he was different from everyone else. Besides, it wasn't like they were anything more than annoyances. Sol was asked to wait in the courtyard alone as the others shuffled off to their duty assignments.

He stood patiently waiting, trying to ignore the condemnations of the two minds King Cianán had unlocked in his head.

"Sol, was it?" a deep, tired voice asked. Sol turned to see another Crockern, the first he had met so far dressed in the robes of an officiant. LIke the others of his race he was outrageously tall, with andesite skin - gray, with hints of silica catching the light. A thick wave of blue-gray hair merged seamlessly with a beard that reminded Sol of the lichen that could be found in some places along the river in Lathair Maol.

He would have been at least nine feet had he been standing upright, but his shoulders were stooped. Many of the other Crockern Sol had met were thin, but this one had a torso like an oil drum. He got the impression that he had been a man of considerable muscle in his younger years, gone a bit softer under the burden of administration.

"Hello Sol," the man said.

"I am the Regent-Elect of Teilgcheárta, Ferris Einion."

"A pleasure to meet you, Regent-Elect," Sol said, bowing.

"I can't imagine what I have done to earn the attention of such an esteemed official."

"It's not a pleasant achievement, unfortunately," Ferris said.

"You've earned my attention by being the weakest applicant we have ever seen."

"Ah," Sol said, looking down.

"That is… quite humiliating, if I'm being honest, sir."

"Hmm." Ferris walked around Sol, inspecting him as me might a piece of metal.

"My men think you have some sort of deficiency. No one able to live in the Second Ring could possibly be able to do so unless some accident of his birth were to blame." Sol ground his teeth together. Every part of him wanted to shout his value to the world. I can make material fórsa like anyone else can draw a breath! I'm not deficient! But that was one thing he could never do. Anyone would instantly seek to exploit him for such a prize.

"I was… born without a fórsa stream, sir. I cannot weave fórsa, and thus am no stronger than a First." The Regent-Elect stopped circling.

"That is also what my men deduced." He paused, looking away in thought for a moment, rubbing his left arm absently.

"At any rate, this is also what interests me. You see, I know of another person - well, people - who have a very similar condition to yours. No fórsa stream, yet still up and moving. I would like to keep you close, to try to understand better what the difference is between you and them."

"What is the difference?" Sol asked, nervous. He did not want to be a lab rat.

"Hmm. Well, we'll discover that together, and I'll tell you more when I have decided I can trust you more. Ten minutes of friendly discussion is not quite enough for that." Ferris nodded.

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"My… oh, can I read? Yes." Sol still wasn't sure how he had no memories from the two people he'd used to be but had somehow retained skills like basic literacy, but there was a lot about his existence he didn't understand.

"Perfect. From now on you will be my assistant. You will go with me everywhere I go. You will take notes, help manage my schedule, and perform tasks as required. When I declared to all in Shorinu that anyone who comes to Teilgcheárta will have a job, I did not promise idly." Ferris beckoned Sol to follow him.

"Your assistant? Oh… yes, of course, I am happy to help you in any way I can." Sol followed dutifully, completely dwarfed by the Crockern.

"But if I may… that seems to imply a high level of trust already, to keep me so close." Ferris snorted.

"Not at all. I'm a Fourth. If I decide you've betrayed me I will kill you with my own bare hands. That is the entire purpose of keeping your enemies close." ✧✧✧"I'm worried about Sol," Miriam said as she followed Cormac in a line leading down a dark tunnel.

"He'll be fine," Cormac said, but there was a tightness in his voice that made it obvious he was worried too.

"I've wrapped him up in as much Luck as I can, though it won't last if we're separated for too long. Perhaps we should worry about us, being marched into a dark hole towards an enormous deposit of the most toxic material in the world."

"My body will just get rebuilt in the Third Ring," she joked.

"If I mess this one up a little, no harm, no foul."

"That hand print on your shoulder would suggest otherwise," Cormac said, suddenly serious.

"However it is you do what you do is a miracle, but I don't want to have to worry about you the way I do about Róise."

"In what way?"

"It seems foolish to say this to a woman who's done it twice now, but I find the chances of survival go way up if they are preceded by a healthy fear of dying."

"I was just joking, Cormac," Miriam said.

"Believe me, my goal is to die as little as possible." The group walked quietly in darkness for a while, following their Crocken supervisor into the dark.

"This is the West tunnel," he explained.

"This is the only tunnel you go into. If you are found in another tunnel, you will be dead. Even a Fourth will fall to cold iron," he said, glaring at Cormac. Cormac nodded in acknowledgement. After an extremely lengthy walk that seemed to wend in corridors more like an ant's nest than a mine, they arrived at the dig site. The supervisor halted them before entering the chamber from the tunnel.

"This room beyond here is probably the most dangerous place any of you have ever been. Maybe the most dangerous place in the Tír. If you were to stand out in this room without protection for as little as an hour, you would succumb to iron sickness in less than four days." He opened a chest that was nestled by the chamber entrance. From it he pulled out what seemed to be an entire bodysuit made of chainmail.

"Is that… iron?" someone said in shock.

"Not exactly," the supervisor said.

"This is a new innovation, brought to us by our new Regent-Elect. He's an Earth Nature, Alloy Adept, and this is one of his creations. It's called steel." Miriam gasped a little. Steel was everywhere in her world, but she'd assumed she'd never see it in the Tír.

"Oh, someone knows what this is?" The supervisor lifted the bodysuit again.

"It's a composite of iron and other elements, like carbon and some other stuff. What that means is that as long as you're wearing it, the effect of iron will be lessened. Not gone - lessened. You will also work in shifts of one day on, and one day off - wearing the suit for too long will also give you iron sickness."

"Gods above, why are we doing this again?" someone muttered.

"Because we're paying you three gold a day!" the supervisor roared. Everyone seemed to agree that made sense and began to file forward to claim their chainmail. Miriam's suit seemed to fit just fine, but the supervisor had to wrap some spare chainmail around her horns, which stuck out of the hood awkwardly. Cormac's looked fantastic and seemed to hug his every muscle. He shrugged.

"Lucky fit!"

"You know, Cormac, there's something I've been meaning to ask you, but I never found a polite way to do it. But now that we're waiting in line to enter this scary toxic cave and I'm currently finding you annoying, I feel empowered to do just that." Cormac laughed.

"Go ahead. How could I refuse that?"

"I understand that Róise will get more… pixie-like as she gets older. And I've seen Banshees and Wisps and Crockern now - there is for all of them something different about their appearance. To me you just look like a human. What does it really mean to be a Bodac?" Miriam asked, shuffling forward as miners were released into the cavern.

"Ah, so this is what humans look like? Fascinating!" Cormac said.

"You've inadvertently stumbled onto my greatest fear. Getting old. Many races in the Tír start out looking like this, and then change to something I suppose you would describe as less human-like as time passes. Most Bodacs end up old and wizened in… let's just say exaggerated ways. Female Bodacs are sometimes referred to as 'hags,' though I've often found that to be a hurtful slur. Male Bodacs change in similar ways, but we also become creatures of shadow. Flit in and out like the wind.

I'm not looking forward to losing my good looks, but I am looking forward to that!" Miriam smiled.

"I'm having a hard time imagining you as a hunched-over old shadow monster." Cormac snorted.

"You know the funny thing? We Bodacs are often thought to be the bearers of bad luck. How's that for ironic?"