The splintered light, p.9
The Splintered Light, page 9
Her eyebrows rose at the strange ways of this eager boy, though she appreciated the circle of the panel.
Michael opened another vial, took one more glance at Dora, then poured six drops onto the tablet. This wouldn’t be like the horn on his prototype since he didn’t have time to make a proper mold, but he still thought it could be spectacular. The tablet grew, stretching outward, forming itself into a flat hexagon with sharp edges and abrupt points, taking its shape from the metal pins surrounding it. “Symmetry,” Michael said.
Dora, the Shape apprentice, smiled, happy that the Manufactory apprentice understood what she wanted to communicate in her simple shape. Order and chaos.
But Michael wasn’t finished with it yet. He turned back to the flat hexagon, as it continued to expand around the pins, its six points extending into rays. When he was satisfied with the length of the rays, he pushed six more pins right in the center of the rays and dropped more of the liquid onto the growing structure. The six rays multiplied into twelve rays.
Dora frowned. Her hexagon was now adorned with lines that sprouted from the original six dots, with more lines coming from them. Far too many lines.
He continued pinning the object and adding drops from the vial until the structure was so intricate and so elegant, so delicate and so enchanting that when he lifted the panel up to show the watching apprentices, they gave an audible gasp. Michael sprinkled some powder—more stardust—from the last vial over the crystalline structure, and it hardened instantly. He deftly removed the pins and held the flat crystalline figure out to Thaddeus, the Motion representative.
Thaddeus let it rest in his hands. It looked fragile, but he suspected it was stronger than it seemed. He balanced the center of it on the tip of his index finger and then spun it, trying to sense what would be the right motion. It slowed and stopped. Spinning had order to it, but not enough chaos.
A wave had both order and chaos, but this structure didn’t lend itself to the motion of a wave. He thought for a moment, unwilling to leave the wave behind. Perhaps he could combine the two: a fluid spin and a rhythmic wave.
He held the structure high and took a deep breath to mingle with the air already circling inside his lungs. When he couldn’t take any more air in, he sent it charging toward the structure in his hand. The powerful gust gave the figure loft, and it went whirling upward, spinning end over end before it gradually descended to land back in his hands. He took another deep gulp, filling his whole self with breath and blew three times in succession, a wave of air, sending the figure upward spinning and swirling and swooshing, before it floated gently down in a slow topsy-turvy dance. Spinning order. Chaotic wave. The form fell lightly onto the head of Gabriel, the Gustation apprentice.
“All yours, my friend,” Thaddeus said, and sat down.
Gabriel balanced it on his head, the site of his favorite flavor profile on his elevation map of tastes. “Sweet!” he declared loudly. The gathered apprentices laughed, and this annoyed Gabriel. They didn’t know about his elevation map of flavors. He tipped the structure off his head and into his waiting hands, making a snap decision that he would not squander the best flavor profile on this bunch of ignorant apprentices, even if it meant the Hall of Gustation would lose this challenge.
He’d hand it off without taste to the Scent apprentice if the other Gustation apprentices wouldn’t throttle him. But they would, so he decided to feature a bland flavor instead, just for spite. Gabriel pulled a small container from a bag at his feet, twisted it open, and sprinkled a fine white powder over the intricate structure. When he was satisfied, he presented it to the next apprentice. What was meant to be sweet was bland instead.
Keturah, the Scent apprentice, took the structure in her hands, holding it gently and studying the structure’s delicate arms. It looked nothing like the baby she had dreamed of, the scent she was hoping to use. It looked nothing like anything she had ever seen before. Of course, she had been trained to add scents to all sorts of things that were beyond her imagination. This structure at least had a beauty about it. She balanced it lightly on the palm of her hand and dabbed a thick salve on the very center of it. “Ethereal,” she said. Then she grabbed a small bottle from a partitioned tray and misted the entire thing. When the mist rose to her nose, she frowned and lifted the bottle. It was labeled Cold. Cold? Where did that come from? She had meant to use Warm. The newborn babe spoke of warmth to her, not cold.
She inhaled deeply, disappointed. There was nothing she could do about it now, so she passed the figure to Anna, the Sound artisan.
Her lips moved silently. It looked like she was whispering “chaos” and “order” over and over. And, in fact, she was. She regretted having entered her name in the competition, because now that her work was done in the posticum, it seemed as if she was all out of ideas. She could have just spent these final days relaxing. Instead, she was up here with everyone’s eyes glued on her and, worse yet, everyone’s ears wide open with not a single idea of how to use sound to show order and chaos.
What to do? Order. Chaos. Chaos, order. She bit her thumbnail while staring at this object—this thing—before her. The Sound artisan looked up to see the watching apprentices shifting in their seats, growing restless with her inaction.
This thing looked chaotic enough on its own, a far cry from the simple figure the Shape apprentice had designed. So, she began with order. She tapped each of the six points with a fingernail, making a soft clicking sound, so that when any of its points touched anything, it would give forth a dull sound. When its points touched anything in succession, there would be a light patter. A simple sound: order. A random rhythm: chaos.
The Sound artisan let out her breath in a whoosh of relief. She picked up the figure and handed it to Head Master. “Here is order,” she said. “And here is chaos.” Then she sat down, her ears ringing.
Head Master looked amused. “Order and chaos: a creation to be remembered, thanks to the Hall of Hue. My congratulations to the competitors. The winner of this round is Michael, Hall of Manufactory, for building such ordered chaos.” Head Master’s eyes twinkled as he handed the figure to Michael. Dumbstruck, Michael took it, amazed not only that he had been allowed to tinker so much with the shape, but that his tinkering was actually appreciated. What a strange day it had been.
Head Master continued, “The Hall of Manufactory will host the challenge tomorrow evening. This challenge will be open to all apprentices, including novices.” His gaze took in the novices, settling on Ishmael. He winked, then dismissed them into the night.
THE STONES
The stones always knew when something was afoot. And something was definitely afoot. Deep down, something stirred. Something pushed against boundaries, fatigued and needing to stretch.
It was always this way, always this deep-down disturbance, all along the wall, the miles of it stretching around the perimeter of the Commons. Over generations, it had happened time and time again, and it could only mean one thing: relief was on its way. A posticum would be closing soon.
CHAPTER
18
Ishmael lay in bed that night, thinking. Nothing had gone well since he had arrived at the Commons. He tried to tell himself that it didn’t matter, but it did matter. Not only was he no closer to bringing Luc home, the guilt he felt from Papa’s death was compounded with the guilt he felt at leaving Mam. On top of that, he found himself more deeply entrenched here, part of a spectrum. He’d never felt part of anything so complete, and worse yet, it made him want to stay.
He wiggled out of his covers and tiptoed down the stairs into the night. Ishmael headed toward the fountain in the middle of the Great Courtyard and sat on its edge. The water splashed down in tinkling arcs, and he held his hand to the mist—a ghostly water that he felt but couldn’t see.
Three days ago, he didn’t even know this place existed. Now, it was as if the very stones owned him, as if the colors that were here had wrapped themselves around him, binding him to a future made of color. He belonged here. But he belonged back home, too. The sheep owned him as much as anything else did, and the needs of Mam and Jerusha and Simon had wrapped themselves around him first. He was being strangled, but he wasn’t sure who was strangling him. He put his head in his hands and groaned.
“Ishmael?”
Ishmael jumped. Hannah stood halfway between the entrance to the Hall of Hue and the fountain.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Can’t sleep.”
“Same.” She walked over and sat down next to him. “When I couldn’t sleep, my mother used to tell me stories,” Hannah said, her voice low. “Do you miss home?”
Did he miss home? Funny how he had been thinking about home, but it hadn’t occurred to him to miss it. The place in his memory was not the home that existed. The sagging laundry line, the broken door latch, the slumping stone wall, and the weedy kitchen garden were no longer tempered by Papa’s sturdy presence, no longer lessened by Luc’s cheer. The thought of home as it was now—with Mam and her tired eyes and rough hands, Jerusha with her twists of yarn, and Simon underfoot—seemed less like a safe haven and more like a sad habitat. There was work and there was responsibility and there were empty bellies. And there was guilt.
“That’s a hard question to answer,” he said. “Home isn’t really home anymore.”
“Because your father’s gone?”
“Yes, but it’s more than that.” He told Hannah the full story about digging the well, about leaving Papa to look at the glass in the barn and the well’s collapse, about the colors and the sheep, about the work and the want. “Papa’s gone, yes, but everything else has changed, too, and it’s my fault. The only thing I can do to fix it is to bring Luc back. But I’m not certain he’ll come.” He twisted the fabric of his nightclothes around his fingers, remembering what Color Master had said about apprentices entering their posticum.
Hannah put her hand gently on his shoulder. “Would his presence really make that big of a difference? He can’t bring your father back. He might take a share of the work, but would things really change?”
Hannah’s words ruffled Ishmael. “You don’t understand,” he said.
“No,” she said, “I don’t. I can’t, because I haven’t been there, but it’s possible that Luc might not make as big an impact as you think he would. I’m afraid you expect him to come home and save everything. I don’t think he can.”
Ishmael stood up, indignant. “You don’t know Luc.”
“Of course I don’t—not like you do. But neither of you can make things go back to the way they were.”
Ishmael sank back down onto the edge of the fountain. “It’s not that I want to go back to the way things were. It’s just that I feel responsible … if I had been there—”
Hannah interrupted him. “If you had been there, what would you have done? What could you have done?”
“I could have dug Papa out. I could have gone for help. I could have—”
“Maybe. But so often we only see what we might have done in hindsight. It’s just as possible that you couldn’t have changed the end result at all. Luc might not be able to change the end result, either.” She looked back toward the Hall of Hue archway and yawned.
“You go ahead. I’ll be on my way in a minute,” he said.
“All right. You’re sure?”
He nodded, so she stood and left him sitting by the fountain.
CHAPTER
19
The bell came far too early the following morning—at least according to Ishmael. He rolled over to see Thomas already up and dressed, though his springy hair stood out every which way.
Thomas poked him. “He who slumbers late, tempts fate. Besides, Head Master is going to announce the next challenge. Better get moving or you’ll miss the announcement.”
Ishmael groaned and sat up.
Beyond Thomas, he saw Jacob already up and dressed, too. “I’m entering the challenge,” Jacob said.
“But we haven’t learned anything about coloration yet,” Matthew said.
“Luc told me I’d have no trouble—that I just needed to get a few vials of color and sprinkle it onto whatever was given to me.”
Ishmael stretched, noting that Luc hadn’t told him to enter. He threw on his uniform and followed the others out the door.
One hour later, he retraced his steps from the refectory back to the Hall of Hue.
“The substance of that which is insubstantial? It sounds like the beginning of a bad proverb. How can that be the next challenge?” Thomas faced Jacob and Matthew as they walked into the Hall of Hue. “What does that even mean?”
Ishmael shrugged. Right after Head Master announced the challenge, each Hall master drew names for participants. When Jacob’s name was announced as the Hall of Hue representative, he looked as if he had choked on his courage. He still looked that way. Ishmael couldn’t blame him.
Matthew patted Jacob’s shoulder. “Manufactory was just trying to be clever. I wouldn’t worry, Jacob. Like Luc said, you just need to color whatever they hand you.”
Jacob gave a weak smile to Matthew as they walked into the smaller room in the back. There, they found Luc at the table with a crate at his side.
Once everyone was seated, he said, “Color Master asked if I would begin your training with light and prisms since my work is done in the posticum.” Luc withdrew a long, triangular piece of glass with a wooden handle from a crate on the table and handed it to Jacob. He then passed one to Ishmael and each of the others.
Ishmael ran his finger along the smooth edge. He lifted it level with his face and saw his reflection in it. Dark hair, light eyes. Small nose. He wished he could recognize what it was that made him see differently, but the prism didn’t show that.
When Luc finished handing out prisms, he said, “Prisms are your tools, but they only work if they are clean and if you have light. Without light, your prism is just a piece of glass. But with light you can create marvels.” Luc caught a ray of light and formed a spectrum. “Prisms up!” He directed them to raise their prisms. Ishmael was the first one to form a spectrum. Hannah was next, then Rebekah. As each novice caught a ray of light, the room became a wild riot of spectrums, colors bouncing off every surface.
Ishmael blinked, dizzy with the overload of color.
Luc let the unruly colors ricochet for a few moments before he said, “Prisms down!”
“Do we have to?” Jacob asked. “I just got my spectrum.”
“You’ll have plenty of time to form spectrums later.”
The novices reluctantly put their prisms down and the spectrums dissipated.
Luc patted a stone jar on the table. It had a wide lid and a spout that rose straight up from its side. “First law of color: All color is contained in pure light. This jar contains pure light given to us by the astronomae from the House of Light. It is precious and rare, very difficult to collect. They siphon it directly from the stars and give it to us with the understanding that what we create in the posticums will bring more light. Light begets light, they say.
“This is the light we use for color in the posticums.” He unstoppered the spout on the jar and released a tiny bit of light, then angled his prism to catch the light, and in an instant, the brightness transfigured into a spectrum so brilliant that Ishmael squinted in the sudden illumination.
Lilith held her hand up to shade her eyes. “Why is this so much brighter than regular light?”
Luc picked up another prism and caught an ordinary ray of light coming in the window. Another spectrum sprang up, but it paled in comparison to the spectrum hovering at his other side. “Regular light is ancient. It’s softened by the refining touch of millennia. It’s diffused and won’t provide the color we need when we’re creating a posticum. Light from the astronomae is new and incredibly powerful, as you can see.”
Lilith nodded.
Luc released the first spectrum. It was so strong that it held steady by Luc’s side. “Second law of color: In the presence of the complete spectrum, a color will always take its place among like kind. Let me show you.”
Luc lowered the spectrum of regular light. He separated yellow and formed a ball with it, just like he had in his posticum. The novices watched as he let the other colors in the spectrum fade. When there was nothing left but the yellow ball, Luc heaved it upward, hurling it toward the ceiling. It rose, spinning through the air, a golden glow radiating through the room. As soon as it began its descent, the yellow ball zipped into its rightful place between orange and green in the brilliant spectrum, leaving no trace.
The spectrum pulsed next to Luc. “You may be wondering about the origins of the color in the workroom since pure light is so difficult to obtain.”
Lilith nodded. “I was, actually.”
“We distill that color from regular light. This gives us processed color, which isn’t as true as color from pure light, but it’s close enough for learning purposes.”
“So that’s what all those machines are in there,” Jacob said, pointing behind him to the workroom.
“Exactly. We form a spectrum, separate the colors, and distill each color to remove impurities. The distillation process takes a few weeks, so this, too, is a lengthy process. A word to the wise, Color Master has no tolerance for wasted color.”
“No, she does not,” Color Master said, entering the back of the room. “Thank you, Luc. I’ll take it from here. While I have no tolerance for wasted color, no color is wasted if it is used to help you learn.”
She settled a large bag on the table. “Since you will be representing the Hall of Hue tonight at the challenge, Jacob, and I’d hate for you to go in unprepared, I’m going to show you all some rudimentary methods of color transfer. This afternoon I’ll work directly with you while the others can observe the work of the more senior apprentices.”
