“Clever, are we?” Sanbiorn snarled, glowering. “Well then, how do you summon a Shain spirit? How do you trap it?”
Tyrus knew the answer. He nearly let it trip off his tongue. His sister had explained the concept of trapping spirits a year before and had used that exact example to educate her brother. Yet something about Sanbiorn’s expression made him pause. He saw that proving his mastery of the craft at a young age only caused the other to resent him. In showing off his knowledge, he was creating enmity.
Sanbiorn mopped his sweaty brow. “Well? Shain spirits. Answer me, boy!”
The room was so quiet, Tyrus could almost hear the sweat trickling down his own back. He realized with dread that he had been a fool to reveal how much he knew to another man, especially a Paracelsus. Would it not be wiser to be deferential to men with power? What good would goading them bring ultimately? A momentary thrill of self-satisfaction? Was that worth a lifetime of the man’s contempt? Why not appease the man’s pride instead? Make him feel important.
Tyrus realized, in that moment, the danger caused by succumbing to pride. He realized he was enjoying the humiliation of a man who held so many advantages. What a costly mistake that could be.
Sanbiorn’s expression began turning from desperation to triumph. He perceived the young man being flustered. He misunderstood it, but his emotions were too enraged to consider the facts. “You do not know? Really, I would think a little braggart like you would know something so simple.”
“I’m sorry,” Tyrus said bleakly. “There is so little…about that topic…here in the orphanage. I cannot say that I know even a portion of what you do.” He felt his neck itching from the writhing emotions inside himself. Let the man win. Let him triumph. Do not let him understand what you truly know.
“Of course you don’t!” he practically crowed. “Then I suppose you know little of Beetleflicks. Or Sylphs. Or any of the myriad wonders that exist in the wilds beyond Kenatos. Beings that would steal your courage in vapors of mist.” His voice lowered theatrically. “You do not know these things, boy?” A smile began to curl on Sanbiorn’s mouth.
Tyrus knew of them all. He stared helplessly at the Paracelsus, shrugging apologetically, feeling the scarlet rise to his cheeks. “I would give anything,” Tyrus whispered hoarsely, “To know what you know.”
Sanbiorn looked down at him smugly. His expression was completely altered from what it had been moments before. He glanced around the room disdainfully. “Someday, some of you may have the opportunity to study in the Paracelsus Towers. It is a great privilege. Only the best are chosen.” He glanced down at Tyrus who looked at him with wide eyes. “I do not know if any of you will qualify. Probably not. In the meantime, keep studying. Work hard. The Arch-Rike is a worthy master to serve. There are secrets of power that cannot be shared in a classroom and must be foraged from the ancient books left down to us. Obey your schoolmasters. They will tell us which of you may be worthy someday.”
Tyrus licked his bottom lip, nodding with every word. Sanbiorn left the classroom with the same huff of self-importance that he had brought with him.
The next month, Tyrus found himself apprenticed to the man.
One of the secrets to holding power over others was never revealing how much you really knew. That insight and habit, which Tyrus attributed to the classroom scuffle with Sanbiorn, had served him consistently over the following years. He gleaned what knowledge he could of others, but rarely shared what he knew himself. He found that the Paracelsus in the Towers loved to boast of their discoveries or the projects they worked on with or without the Arch-Rike’s express permission.
Tyrus, on the other hand, mostly communicated the problems he was having and solicited ideas on how to solve them. He had already solved them himself, of course, but he liked to validate his thinking and see if he had missed an interpretation that he had not considered. He developed a reputation for a curious mind and one who tackled large, thorny problems. His peers sought him out for advice. He would often listen to their thinking first, offer to ponder the problem for a few days, and then return with an answer that helped. Even if he knew the answer immediately, he would adopt a pondering look and promise to think about it. Often the inquirer would solve it on their own before he got back to them.
His own work he kept expressly secret, only sharing his ideas with the Arch-Rike who encouraged the ambition of the scale of his projects. The Arch-Rike was one man he respected and admired, for he too was a keen observer of the nature of those with power. Tyrus shared much of his work with the Arch-Rike and made sure that he benefitted from Tyrus’s inventions. But Tyrus always made two of everything he constructed. For example, the Tay al-Ard device. The Arch-Rike was the only other person who had the fully functioning kind.
Tyrus knew the answer. He nearly let it trip off his tongue. His sister had explained the concept of trapping spirits a year before and had used that exact example to educate her brother. Yet something about Sanbiorn’s expression made him pause. He saw that proving his mastery of the craft at a young age only caused the other to resent him. In showing off his knowledge, he was creating enmity.
Sanbiorn mopped his sweaty brow. “Well? Shain spirits. Answer me, boy!”
The room was so quiet, Tyrus could almost hear the sweat trickling down his own back. He realized with dread that he had been a fool to reveal how much he knew to another man, especially a Paracelsus. Would it not be wiser to be deferential to men with power? What good would goading them bring ultimately? A momentary thrill of self-satisfaction? Was that worth a lifetime of the man’s contempt? Why not appease the man’s pride instead? Make him feel important.
Tyrus realized, in that moment, the danger caused by succumbing to pride. He realized he was enjoying the humiliation of a man who held so many advantages. What a costly mistake that could be.
Sanbiorn’s expression began turning from desperation to triumph. He perceived the young man being flustered. He misunderstood it, but his emotions were too enraged to consider the facts. “You do not know? Really, I would think a little braggart like you would know something so simple.”
“I’m sorry,” Tyrus said bleakly. “There is so little…about that topic…here in the orphanage. I cannot say that I know even a portion of what you do.” He felt his neck itching from the writhing emotions inside himself. Let the man win. Let him triumph. Do not let him understand what you truly know.
“Of course you don’t!” he practically crowed. “Then I suppose you know little of Beetleflicks. Or Sylphs. Or any of the myriad wonders that exist in the wilds beyond Kenatos. Beings that would steal your courage in vapors of mist.” His voice lowered theatrically. “You do not know these things, boy?” A smile began to curl on Sanbiorn’s mouth.
Tyrus knew of them all. He stared helplessly at the Paracelsus, shrugging apologetically, feeling the scarlet rise to his cheeks. “I would give anything,” Tyrus whispered hoarsely, “To know what you know.”
Sanbiorn looked down at him smugly. His expression was completely altered from what it had been moments before. He glanced around the room disdainfully. “Someday, some of you may have the opportunity to study in the Paracelsus Towers. It is a great privilege. Only the best are chosen.” He glanced down at Tyrus who looked at him with wide eyes. “I do not know if any of you will qualify. Probably not. In the meantime, keep studying. Work hard. The Arch-Rike is a worthy master to serve. There are secrets of power that cannot be shared in a classroom and must be foraged from the ancient books left down to us. Obey your schoolmasters. They will tell us which of you may be worthy someday.”
Tyrus licked his bottom lip, nodding with every word. Sanbiorn left the classroom with the same huff of self-importance that he had brought with him.
The next month, Tyrus found himself apprenticed to the man.
One of the secrets to holding power over others was never revealing how much you really knew. That insight and habit, which Tyrus attributed to the classroom scuffle with Sanbiorn, had served him consistently over the following years. He gleaned what knowledge he could of others, but rarely shared what he knew himself. He found that the Paracelsus in the Towers loved to boast of their discoveries or the projects they worked on with or without the Arch-Rike’s express permission.
Tyrus, on the other hand, mostly communicated the problems he was having and solicited ideas on how to solve them. He had already solved them himself, of course, but he liked to validate his thinking and see if he had missed an interpretation that he had not considered. He developed a reputation for a curious mind and one who tackled large, thorny problems. His peers sought him out for advice. He would often listen to their thinking first, offer to ponder the problem for a few days, and then return with an answer that helped. Even if he knew the answer immediately, he would adopt a pondering look and promise to think about it. Often the inquirer would solve it on their own before he got back to them.
His own work he kept expressly secret, only sharing his ideas with the Arch-Rike who encouraged the ambition of the scale of his projects. The Arch-Rike was one man he respected and admired, for he too was a keen observer of the nature of those with power. Tyrus shared much of his work with the Arch-Rike and made sure that he benefitted from Tyrus’s inventions. But Tyrus always made two of everything he constructed. For example, the Tay al-Ard device. The Arch-Rike was the only other person who had the fully functioning kind.
