The Hammer Unfalls

1.3 Burying the Needle

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Glim gripped his father’s hand as they walked along the ruin atop the slopes of the Hiemal Peaks. The wind sought every nook of the crumbling rampart and flicked up grit and ice that peppered Glim’s face with tiny stings.

The height made his stomach flutter. Though the battlements rose over his head, the crumbly parts opened into the air, over jagged slopes that stretched away until they disappeared into cloud. If Glim were pushed off by the wind–and some people had been–his broken body would slide down the walls of Wohn-Grab and be lost forever. That’s how Wohn-Grab had gotten its name: Living Tomb.

He’d rather risk falling than be with Master Willow.

“It is time to go to your lesson.”

Glim stuck out his lip. “Let me stay with you.”

His father dropped to one knee and looked Glim in the eye. “Don’t fuss, Glim. Eight years is old enough for you to take some responsibility.”

“I don’t want lessons. Anyway four eyes on the watch is better than two.”

“I’m the captain of the guard. I’ve been doing this a long time. I’ll manage. You have a chance to hone your gift. Take it!”

Glim’s gut squirmed. He let go of father’s hand and walked to the end of the rampart over a jumble of dark stone buildings with living thatch roofs. The stones had been pulled from the collapsed towers of Wohn-Grab. Turned into an inn, and permanent houses for the mayor and other important people. Steam stacks rose from the roofs, billowing vapor into the cold air. Broken columns, rivers of frozen ice, and rubble speckled the pathways of the town that had sprouted in the middle of this ancient fortress.

Glim trudged down the rampart stairs as slowly as possible. Each step increased his dread. Maybe he could fall, and pretend he’d hurt himself. But that wouldn’t work. Unless he were knocked out cold, Master Willow could still give him a lesson.

Make a run for it? Glim knew he’d never survive the mountains. All he had in the world was the man patrolling the rampart, and his father wanted him to succeed in this. To become an Icer.

The stairs ended at a plaza that had once been magnificent. Millennia of freeze and thaw had crumbled the mosaic of marble into an unrecognizable jumble. Brass edging, once bright, had tarnished and corroded under centuries of exposure. Many buildings in town had crumbled, cracked, or been repurposed. All but the imposing black tower, with the equally imposing Mage-at-Arms who awaited him.

Glim walked with Master Willow into his garden. Stone benches ringed low walls, with a fountain set into one wall. Purple vines trailed from trellises. Pale yellow flowers released a sickly sweet perfume into the air as Master Willow trod over them.

“Have a seat.”

Glim sat on a bench. His feet did not reach the ground, so he dangled them.

“Essentiæ obey us, and guide us. They feed us energy, and drain it at the same time. They are simple to understand, yet complex enough to drive us mad. Now tell me, what do you know of essentiæ?”

Glim thought hard. “There is wind essentiæ, which some girls have, and there is ice essentiæ, which some boys have. Wind can make things move, and ice can freeze them.”

“Surely your understanding is more nuanced than that?”

Glim said nothing. His tutor sighed.

“Fine. That’s not entirely correct. There are three essentiæ. I forgive you for not knowing of phyr. It’s nowhere to be found here in the Hiemal Peaks. Flame is the antithesis to our ice. Which is properly known as algidon.”

“What’s a thisis?”

“It is like this,” he said. He snapped a twig off of a nearby tree and scratched a symbol into the ground.

Glim looked at the three conjoined ovals with a dot at the center.

“We call it The Needle Theorem. This one here on the left is algidon. In the center, aeolia. Or ‘wind’ as you call it. On the right is phyr.”

“What is the dot?”

“An astute observation,” Master Willow said drolly. “Æolia is the center. Flame and ice ever oppose each other. Æolia mediates the two. Ice is stationary. It creates. Flame is also stationary, and consumes. Wind encourages them to engage with each other.”

“I don’t understand,” Glim said.

“Think of it like a balance beam. If algidon controls the balance, everything shifts to the left. If phyr takes precedence, everything shifts right. Æolia is neutral. She keeps both in check. The wind is always listening, and redirecting the essentiæ. Without aeolia, the two poles would repel each other. Balance would be lost and the world would descend into chaos.”

Glim thought hard about what he’d said, but it didn’t quite make sense. He could tell Master Willow was waiting for him to say something. Another stoot observation.

“How can I balance them if I only have ice?”

Master Willow raised his eyebrow, and his sneer lessened a bit. “Good question. Essentiæ attract each other. If you have one essentiæ, you have them all, to some degree. But one must be dominant within an individual. Otherwise the body would rip itself apart. It’s easy to test. If you mix the blood of a Phyrist with that of an Algist, the blood simmers in the vial.”

Glim shivered at the thought.

“Indeed. It is quite a sight. Suffice it to say, plyers can draw to a slight degree on their submissive essentiæ, but only in service to their dominant essentiæ.”

“I don’t understand. You’re saying I have three essentiæ, but I only have one essentiæ?”

“I see you’re starting to comprehend the arcane. Such puzzles are part of our discipline. Best get used to it.”

“How do you know I’m an Icer?”

“Algist. Don’t be so pedestrian.”

“How do you know I’m an Algist?”

“Because you’re a gruesome little boy. It’s easy to tell if the signs are there. But let’s test it now. Would you like that?”

For the first time, Glim felt a trace of interest. “Yes.”

“Wait here.”

Master Willow walked inside the tower. It gave Glim a moment to consider the new information. Three essentiæ existed; not two like he’d thought. The third could not be found in the Hiemal Peaks. Presumably, that means it could be found outside of them. Glim would never know for sure. Father had made it clear that he needed to stay right here in the mountains until he’d become skilled at plying. Something about the threat of losing his gift.

His tutor returned with a leatherbound box with an ornate clasp. He set it on a bench and opened it. Glim saw all sorts of cards and instruments inside. Master Willow took out a card and held it up so he could see it.

“What does this represent?”

Glim examined the card, which showed a pyramid formed of dots. Thirteen on the bottom, eight on the next row, then five, then three, then two, and one at the top.

“It is a pattern.”

Master Willow rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Yes, any clod could see that. What comes next in the pattern?”

Glim counted carefully. “Twenty one.”

“How do you know?”

“Each row has the same number of dots as the two above it.”

“Yes. A sequence, or a progression. Most children your age would not grasp that. It is in the realm of logic and deduction, and thus comes naturally to you. An Æolist would tell you that the pyramid represents leadership. Each level has more and more responsibility for those beneath it. A Phyrist would say something about a pattern too, but in the artistic sense. As a counterpoint to a square or circle, perhaps to represent something in nature, such as a volcano or a butterfly with its wings folded.”

He put the card away and took out a stick of white chalk and a stick of black charcoal. He scribbled a white patch on the bench, then a black patch beside it.

“What would you see if I scribbled white over the black and black over the white?”

“A dark patch with specks of white, and a white patch with specks of black.”

“What if I really mixed them up?”

“They’d turn into really small specks of white and black.”

“And if I smudged them into a blur, what then? Would the black ever become white, or the white black?”

“No. They’d stay as they are. The bits would just get tinier and tinier.”

“Just so. But a Phyrist would say: I’d see gray. And Æolist would say: I’d see compromise, or the exchange of ideas, or the merging of tribes. Now let me ask you: do you get along with other children?”

Glim thought of the boys who’d taunted him recently, and his sworn enemy, Gyda.

“Not exactly, no.”

“Not in any way. You stand apart from them. Avoid them, even. Were you an Æolist, you’d fit right in. Were you a Phyrist, they’d be in awe of your talents. But you’re an Algist. So you walk a lonely path.”

“But they make fun of me! They’re always teasing me and calling me names.”

“Children call everyone names, all the time. It is the way of things. Do you think Gyda has never been teased? I’ve heard it myself. They call her ‘Greedy Gyd-ee.’ She’s a merchant’s daughter. It’s quite clever. Does Gyda let it bother her? Or does he come right back with an insult of her own?”

Glim pondered this news, with a sinking feeling in his heart.

“Yes,” Master Willow said, watching him. “It’s all in your focus. You pick up on the truth in their words. It resonates with you, and you accept it as fact. So it makes you sad. The best taunts are based in truth. As Algists, truth is of extreme importance to us. You study things. Weigh them in your mind. The young rarely point out one’s strengths. If they did, you’d see the truth in those words just as easily.”

Master Willow reached into the box and pulled out a piece of metal with three equally-spaced lobes. Like a three-pronged snowflake, with a symbol engraved in each. It had a raised divot in the middle. He took out a stand with a spike and placed it onto the bench. Then he placed the metal pyramid onto the spike, fiddling with it until it balanced perfectly.

“Let’s be certain about it. Close your eyes. I want you to think about people. Just generally, think about the people in your life. How do you feel about them? What visions or fantasies come to mind?”

Glim thought back to his mushroom-fetching excursion. How he’d pictured Gyda flinging herself from a tower. Children burning in piles. Ravens plucking out his eyeballs and dropping them into father’s soup.

“Now open your eyes.”

Glim saw the metal triangle leaning to one side, quivering on the spike. One of the lobes had fallen towards the bench, lifting the other two into the air.

“As I said, you’re a gruesome little boy. Algidon is still and dispassionate. It tends to lower one’s mood. I can only imagine the macabre visions you have in your head. The trine knows. I thought it was going to fall right off its stand from the weight of your thoughts. Were you a Phyrist, this one here would have raised up. Were you an Æolist, it would be spinning.”

“Fine. But how do you know I have enough essentiæ to ply?”

“I don’t. You barely spark the divining rod. But Allora insists you have algidon flowing through your veins. She’s far too powerful a plyer for me to doubt her.”

Glim clenched his teeth at the news. The trine shuddered and fell off its stand.