(270 years before the book starts)
As a Doësin, the pure, clean heat of the Forge is what Tharan Dardhä-ek lives for. Though he has not yet mastered his Forger’s Flow, in this moment, he witnesses the infinite potential it offers as he surrenders to the pulse, circling around the abstract metal sculpture with which he is currently playing. And it is play. Wonderment, joy, and a not insignificant ease join together in the work.
His Flow often overwhelms him. The wonder of the boundless possibility of creation is intoxicating. The hammer blows are rhythmic. Combined with the crackle of fire and blowing of bellows it creates a symphony of its own. It’s too strong for him to resist. And so he often forges and works and crafts until his body simply gives out on him. Master Eomin, as well as his fellow apprentices, had found him collapsed on the floor of their community forge more than once.
Tharan knows this flaw must be addressed before he can even hope to pass his Journeyman’s hearing. Truthfully, he had hoped to have it under control before he had earned the rank of Apprentice. It is such a glaring flaw to him that he is surprised the board had even granted him the title. He suspects Master Eomin might have had something to do with that. The revered Master had taken a liking to Tharan, which Tharan enjoys immensely. He encourages Tharan to experiment with other crafting media. Whether it be unyielding ores or overly pliant metals, he stokes Tharan’s curiosity not unlike the fire of the forge itself.
This had astonished Tharan. His mother, a master craftsbeing herself, had vehemently insisted that he commit to one craft and dedicate himself to it, or he would never ascend to the rank of Journeyman, let alone Forge Master. And for the son of Elisen onë-Naldo and Dardha Dohgre-ek-gar, that simply wouldn’t do. But Master Eomin had almost insisted, sharing story after story of techniques he’d learned from craftsbeings of other specialties. He’d never branched out himself, but he emphasized that there was value there to be had.
The perspective had been a novel arrangement for Tharan, who had felt nearly smothered by his mother’s unyielding insistence that he focus on one craft and one craft only. He remembers attempting to appeal to his father to intervene, but all he’d said was that mother probably knew best. She is the Bell Keeper after all. Even deep into his Flow, Tharan growls with irritation. One of his mother’s jobs as Bell Keeper is to listen to both sides and resolve conflicts peacefully among the clans. But she couldn’t be bothered to listen to Tharan.
Tharan lets out a slow exhale, trying to release the hot, simmering anger with his breath as he continues to put the finishing touches on his latest piece. He hears a nearby bell chime three times in quick succession, which means someone is here, and waiting to speak with him. Annoyed, Tharan quickly finds a place to stop and begins his closing ritual, slowly releasing and tapering the near blinding flow of energy that fuels his work.
He finally lets out a reluctant sigh, already missing the sensation. He composes himself while he finds a towel with which to wipe down the sweat. When he turns he’s surprised to see none other than his Master. “Master Eomin!” Tharan quickly gives a deep, respectful bow. “To what do I owe the honor?”
Master Eomin, a thickly-built, stocky Doesin, with the barest hint of blue in his fair skin, icy blue eyes, blond elf-locks swept up and tied back, and several tasteful piercings on his pointed ears, returns the bow with a smaller one. But considering Tharan is just an Apprentice, Tharan feels as though he does not even deserve that much recognition. “Your mother is looking for you; she deigned not to search here first, so I have. What are you working on here, hmmm? What is this, your fourth project already this month? We’re not even halfway through Fiëví.” He says with amusement in his voice as he steps closer to Tharan’s project, humming curiously as he inspects it from all angles.
“Fifth,” Tharan says a little sheepishly. He stands a respectful distance away, waiting for the instruction and critiques to begin, in spite of the premise under which his Master came. Summons from the Bell Keeper notwithstanding, Tharan wouldn’t dream of throwing away this opportunity.
“Ahhh I see now.” Master Eomin murmurs with admiration, “And these all…?”
“Yes, each strand, branch, and arm will ring Doe’s Sound in one octave or another when struck with the wooden beads.”
“Magnificent. Your craftsmanship is improving markedly. I wager you’ll be a Journeyman within the century.” Master Eomin muses.
Pride and satisfaction floods through Tharan as he bows again, “Thank you Master.” He waits patiently, but can’t help the anticipation for the feedback his Master surely has for him.
“Tell me Tharan. In five projects, how many of those support your learning in regards to the idea you discussed with me last Miëví? The proposition you created when you’d heard our miners had discovered an entrance to the Depths next to the new vein of mythril in Mt. Doe.” Master Eomin asks mildly.
Tharan looks down a little, trying not to let his disappointment completely wash away the pride and satisfaction he so rarely affords himself. This is not the feedback he’d been expecting. “I… none, Master. I am only an Apprentice. Surely another Master will be able to execute such a project before I will.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” Master Eomin says thoughtfully, now watching Tharan. “The project you described would require a staggering amount of determination to refine and complete to the satisfaction of the Council, who would then have to approve its use. Forge Masters are very selective about where they dedicate their focus. It is my estimation that there are few who would even be interested in considering the idea. Even fewer would pursue it beyond a few years.”
Tharan snaps his head up to meet his Master’s gaze, “The safety of our city and our people is paramount. The Wastes creep closer to our forest every year, bringing the aberrations with them. And now an entrance to the Depths will spew even more at our doorstep. How can this not be the highest priority?”
Master Eomin nods patiently, “Not every one agrees that measures beyond those which are currently planned are necessary. I suggest that if you feel so strongly about this, you focus at least some of your efforts in mastering the necessary skills to complete your project, as well as building the relationships you will need to account for the skills you cannot master yourself.” Master Eomin pauses, then offers a reassuring smile. “Who knows. In a few centuries, perhaps it will serve well as your Masterpiece.”
Tharan takes a deep breath, considering his Master’s advice, then nods as he slowly exhales. “Thank you Master. Your guidance, as always, is inestimable.” Tharan hesitates. “Have you any specific suggestions for improvement with this particular project?”
Master Eomin chuckles, “Always you ask for improvements. Let the creation be the best it can be before trying to improve it. We’ll speak on it once it’s finished. Now you’d best attend the Bell Keeper’s summons. Mustn’t keep her waiting longer than we already have. Even if she is your mother.”
Tharan presses his lips together tightly as he endeavors to hide his displeasure. He bows again, murmurs his thanks and respects, and quickly leaves. He fumes as he heads to his small apartments to wash up. He doesn’t appreciate his mother summoning him like this. He isn’t a child anymore, and hadn’t been for more than half a century. Alright, so he hadn’t technically come of age yet. But he’d secured an apprenticeship with one of the top Forge Masters in Afanen, on his own merit thank you very much, was well on his way to Forge Master himself, and had earned the respect and admiration of his peers and his Master. What more could she want?
He strips off his forging clothes and sets them aside to be cleaned later, then quickly washes and dresses in his best tunic and breeches. Before leaving, he stands in front of a mirror to make final adjustments, his blue skin now vibrant and clean. In his mother’s house, he had been expected to dress according to many of her preferences. He knows she’d have him dress in light grey clothing with blue accents. But over the years he’d grown to prefer darker and darker greys with silver accents. He smiles bitterly as he finishes looping the frog closures at his wrist and checks his hair. Platinum blond, short, swept to one side, and shaved on the other. He enjoys the asymmetrical style as much as his mother seems to abhor it. He glances at his pointed ears with some lament. He doesn’t really enjoy any of the Doesin styles of adorning ears, and he’d long since allowed his piercings to close.
As he finishes up, he stares at himself in the mirror for a little longer, and allows himself a heavy sigh. He draws himself up, pulls his good boots on, and heads out the door.
On the way to the Bell Keeper’s office, Tharan continues to work on burying the anger that burns like hot coals in his chest. Dirt is supposed to suffocate fire after all. And for the most part, he succeeds. By the time he arrives, he is calm, and now somewhat curious about the summons. What is this all about anyway?
After announcing himself, one of the attendants ushers him, not to the Bell Keeper’s office, but to a meeting room in which the Bell Keeper convened councils with the regional Principals of the Order. Tharan only just manages to suppress his surprise when he’s invited into the room and sees that all of the Principals are present. What is going on? He offers another deep bow, this time waiting to rise until told to do so. A devout member of the Order himself, this is an incredible honor.
“Rise, Tharan Dardhä-ek.” Elisen’s authoritative voice rings out.
Tharan rises and meets his mother’s gaze, but isn’t able to discern anything from her expression. Impassive as always, to an impressive degree. Something to which he aspires, that level of control. He is certain he can achieve it. He simply isn’t satisfied with his current pace. And given that he would much rather spend his days forging than at the meet and greets and parties his mother is expected to attend, it is likely that he would not master this particular art any time soon.
“The time has come to name the Ascendant.” Elisen says without preamble. She never had been the most eloquent Bell Keeper. But she still did her job well, and with honor. “You have been chosen.”
Truly dumbstruck, any attempt Tharan makes at masking his surprise fails miserably. His mouth even drops open. Some of the older Doësin smile with compassion, others give subtle signs that they are not pleased with the announcement. Tharan can’t say he blames them. But there is no discussing this decision. It is made by the Bell Keeper and the Bell Keeper alone. The Principals, the rest of the Order, and the clan for that matter, have to live with it, whether they like it or not. And much to Tharan’s irritation, it isn’t exactly something one could turn down either.
But that isn’t going to stop him from trying.
He clears his throat and tries to compose himself, “You honor me, Bell Keeper. If I may, might I inquire as to the reasoning behind this decision.”
“You are one of the most devout members of the Order, yet you hold no rank. Your understanding and insight into the ancient texts and chants is, in a word, illuminating. The reports from your Master indicate that your craftsmanship improves at a tolerable pace, but you still have yet to learn how to control your Forger’s Flow. Master Eomin believes this to be an indication of an astoundingly strong, though unrefined, connection to Doë.” She gestures to the Principals, “We agree. The Bell hums with vibrancy in your presence as if to confirm the theory.” Her eyes bore into Tharan, who can’t say he appreciates his current position. “Do you accept this honor, Tharan Dardhä-ek?”
Tharan hesitates, which brings a new note of surprise into the room. He searches his memory frantically for historical precedent for either his mother’s decision or his ability to refuse and finds nothing useful. He clears his throat again, “I would be honored to accept, Bell Keeper, but I do not believe I am fit for this role. I have no rank in the Order precisely because I have dedicated myself to my forgecraft. Naming an Ascendant such as I overlooks the many eligible candidates within the Order.”
Elisen smiles, but there is no joy in it, “Please do me the honor of assuming that I have done my due diligence, and have been observing candidates for some time now. My decision is made.”
Tharan’s mouth tightens, “And yet there are clearly Principals present who disagree with the decision.”
“Principals do not always agree with their Conductor. Nevertheless, they follow.” Elisen’s gaze begins to grow quite fierce indeed. It is becoming more and more difficult for Tharan to hold it.
Yet Tharan persists, “Should I accept, I will be among the youngest Bell Keepers. If the Principals disagree with your decision, I should like to understand why. Perhaps then we can come to an agreement that satisfies all parties.”
Tharan notes a few more subtle looks of confusion, furtive glances shared back and forth between the Principals, but dares not take his eyes off his mother, who now looks properly angry.
To him anyway. He’s fairly certain none of Principals noticed. Such mastery…
“What precisely are you suggesting?” Elisen asks cooly, her voice betraying none of her emotion.
“Additional hearings, and perhaps interviews with those who object the strongest. If I am to lead these esteemed Principals, then our working together will be paramount. Should that prove impossible now, perhaps another candidate should be considered.” Tharan endeavors to keep his voice calm. He knows that he is in danger of quenching the steel too quickly. His argument is reasonable, but his mother knows his intentions. The Principals’ favor would do nothing if the Bell Keeper vetoed the idea.
Thankfully, his mother is still a disciple of Doë, to whom discourse, not to mention compromise, is highly valued. After a few more long moments, she waves her hand, “Very well. You shall have your hearings. And then you shall accept your Ascendancy. You are only delaying the inevitable.”
Tharan gives a small nod, “Perhaps. Should the hearings and interviews go favorably, I will, of course, be honored to accept.”
Elisen gives Tharan a look that suggests their conversation is far from over, but merely says, “Excellent. If you’ll meet me in my office, we will begin scheduling these hearings of yours.”
Tharan bows again, and when instructed to do so, turns and leaves. At the moment, there are few things he desires less than meeting his mother in her office. Nevertheless duty and honor carry him straight there. As he raises his hand to knock and is invited inside, dread settles in the pit of his stomach. He and his mother hadn’t fought in decades, but he is fairly certain that that is about to change.
He sits in a chair in the waiting room until his mother arrives, at which point he rises and bows deeply again.
She walks right past him to her door, ignoring the bow completely. “Come, Tharan. There is much to discuss. Thank you [Verdä], that will be all for today.”
Tharan catches a glimpse of a reaction from the assistant. Wonderful. Even she knows I’m in trouble.
Tharan follows his mother into the office and attempts to release an inaudible sigh. Judging by the look his mother gives him when she sits at her desk, she’d heard it well enough.
“Would you care to explain yourself?” Finally allowing some indignation to color her voice.
Tharan meets her gaze as calmly as he can while attempting to smother the coals that apparently aren’t quite done burning. “I believe I already have. Unless there is something specific to which you are referring.”
Elisen sighs, “Stop it Tharan. You and I both know you could talk us in circles all day. What are you doing? Are you trying to shame the family? This is the highest honor you could receive and you try to throw it aside. You’ll undo all your father did and bring yourself down even lower.”
“One for which I have absolutely no desire, mother. A fact of which I believe you are well aware. The progress of my craftsmanship is not merely ‘tolerable.’ I am excelling. And I do not appreciate the misrepresentation of my ability to the Principals. Master Eomin stated just today that he believes I will be a Journeyman within the century. As far as I am aware, I am the top candidate to inherit and take over his forge when he retires. I will not abandon all of my endeavors simply because you have decided once again that you believe you know how my part ought to play out.”
Elisen presses her lips together, “Your desires are irrelevant. It is your duty as a Doësin to accept the role to which you are called in service to Doë and the Mystic Chord. And unfortunately for you, I have nothing to do with that.” She pauses and folds her hands underneath her chin, “There are several promising members of the Order that I still believe would serve the clan better as Bell Keeper. I would not have chosen you, Tharan Dardhä-ek, if I had had anything to do with the choice. The Bell sings with delight in your presence even now, the likes of which I have never heard. Can you not hear it? What do you think that means?”
Tharan clenches his jaw. Even with his efforts to disqualify himself, her words sting. But at least he knows them to be sincere. His eyes flicker briefly to the chain around his mother’s neck, at the end of which he knows hangs the Bell. Tharan had always been able to hear it, and it did indeed thrum more loudly than usual. All the same, “I do not presume to be able to interpret Doë’s will.” He says stiffly.
His mother smirks, “You will. You will have to. You will learn how. Your Ascendancy training will see to that.”
Tharan shakes his head and opens his mouth, but his mother cuts him off.
“I don’t care about the hearings Tharan. They are a waste of time. An assessment with which I believe you will begin to agree when they cut into your forging.”
“Mother!” Tharan’s outrage catches him off guard.
Elisen’s silver eyes glint, “Hold your tongue. This is by your own request. It is the price for your impudence. You are now at the convenience of the Principals until they are satisfied, which is never an expedient process. It will be weeks before this asinine proposition of yours is completed. Report back tomorrow for your initial schedule.”
Tharan feels something snap inside. The core of his self shutters and shuts down. His face smooths out, the angry tension leaves his body, and the calm that settles over him feels more like a numbness than serene control. He bows deeply and smoothly says, “Will that be all, Bell Keeper?” His voice light and dispassionate.
“That will be all, Ascendant. You may go.”
Tharan turns and leaves without another word, noting with some interest that he can hardly feel the rising despair and the dread that settle like a heavy weight on his chest. Hmm, he muses. Useful. Far more preferable than being at the mercy of his emotions. Particularly if he has two decades of training with his mother to get through. He supposes he will grow accustomed to this state. So long as it doesn’t compromise his Flow, he doesn’t particularly care if there are consequences. And as long as he doesn’t embarrass or dishonor the family or the clan, neither will anyone else.
As he makes his way out of the building and heads towards his apartment, he resolves to make use of this disastrous turn of events. Somehow. Forge Masters use every and any opportunity to learn. To improve. Even if this isn’t directly related to his craft, he can still behave like the Master to which he aspires.
And he will earn his Mastery. No matter what his mother has to say about his capabilities. Saddled with an ill-suited role or not. Nothing short of a manifestation of Doë would stop Tharan from realizing his full potential. He swears this to himself, the Mystic Chord as his witness, and opens the door to his small home. After lighting the fireplace, he crosses straight to his bookshelf, laden with tomes of theological treatises and histories, as well as poetry, plays, and philosophy. He quickly finds the books he needs and settles into his chair next to the fire, already reading with a focus that only his Flow surpasses. The time he has to build a case for why his mother’s interpretation of the signs is incorrect is extremely limited. But he is fairly certain he can do it.
Much work to be done.