The iron sphere became lighter on the ninth day.
Not weightless.
Not floating.
Lighter.
After nine days of headaches, wasted mana, arguments, numb fingers and Marduk informing me with increasing creativity that I was an idiot, the magnificent result of my labor was that a four-kilogram ball briefly felt as though someone had removed perhaps half a kilogram.
I nearly laughed.
Marduk didn't.
"Again."
The sphere rested in my left palm.
We stood behind the forge before sunrise, where the ground was level and the air cold enough to sharpen attention.
No dramatic training ground.
No cliff.
No audience.
One old man.
One adolescent.
One iron ball that had acquired a frankly unreasonable place in my emotional life.
I breathed in.
Slowly.
The sensation I had been chasing no longer felt entirely alien.
Weight had structure.
That was the closest language allowed me.
The ball pushed into my palm. My arm supported it. My shoulder transferred that demand through my torso, down into my hips, through my feet and finally into the earth.
A chain of consequences.
For days, I'd tried changing the ball.
Wrong approach.
The previous afternoon, Marduk had become tired of watching me fail.
Or bored.
With him, the distinction was academic.
He had put the ball in my hand and asked:
"Where is the weight?"
"In the sphere."
He hit me.
Not hard.
Hard enough to insult.
"Wrong."
"The sphere possesses mass."
Hit.
"Wrong answer."
"I'm beginning to suspect the examination is biased."
He tapped the ground with his staff.
"Again. Where?"
I had looked at the sphere.
My wrist.
My feet.
The dirt.
And finally understood what he wanted.
"Everywhere it's being resisted."
He had grunted.
That was practically applause.
Now I stopped attempting to erase the sphere's weight.
I listened to the relationship.
The pressure in my palm.
The pull through the arm.
The floor answering beneath my feet.
Mana moved carefully through my channels.
Not into the sphere.
Around the relationship.
There.
A tiny distortion.
My shoulder rose before I intended it to.
The ball felt lighter.
I held the sensation.
One heartbeat.
Two.
Three.
My concentration slipped.
The full weight returned.
My wrist dipped.
But this time I was prepared.
I lowered the sphere onto the table rather than dropping it.
Marduk nodded once.
"Better."
I stared at him.
"Better?"
"Yes."
"Nine days."
"I noticed."
"Nine days for perhaps twelve percent."
"You measured?"
"Approximately."
"Then approximately stop complaining."
I flexed my fingers.
The skin felt normal.
Inside, the mana channels along my forearm carried a faint burning itch.
Too much repetition.
Not injury yet.
Warning.
I had learned to respect those.
Mostly.
"Again."
"No."
I looked at Marduk.
"You said again."
"That was before your hand started shaking."
I inspected it.
Steady.
"Imaginary."
"Hold out your fingers."
I did.
The tremor appeared after several seconds.
Very slight.
Damn him.
"I'm functional."
"You're done."
"I can improve the duration."
"Tomorrow."
"The sensation is fresh."
"It will remain fresh if you don't damage the channels carrying it."
"I need consistency."
"You need breakfast."
I sighed.
"Your obsession with feeding me is becoming sentimental."
"It's expensive replacing apprentices."
"There it is. I was worried you'd become human."
Marduk turned toward the cabin.
Halfway there, he coughed.
Once.
Then twice.
He stopped walking.
His shoulders tightened.
The third cough came deeper.
I watched.
He cleared his throat.
Continued walking.
I almost asked.
Didn't.
The cough had appeared intermittently for months.
Dry mornings.
Cold weather.
Forge smoke.
Age provided an extremely convenient suspect.
And Marduk hated concern almost as much as he hated poorly sharpened tools.
So I filed the observation away.
That was mistake number one.
Breakfast was oat porridge.
Marduk had burned it.
I stared into the bowl.
"Gravity was easier."
"Eat."
"I have eaten materials with better structural integrity."
"You volunteered."
"I was hungry."
"You remain hungry."
Technically correct.
Infuriatingly so.
I ate.
Afterward, he made me sleep for three hours.
Actually sleep.
Not meditate.
Not read.
Not lie down while secretly calculating adjustments to my mana routing.
Sleep.
He took my notebooks.
There are tyrants who seize land.
Others take political prisoners.
Marduk confiscated research notes and called it healthcare.
When I woke, my forearm no longer burned.
The tremor remained when I held my hand extended too long.
I wrote that down.
Duration of effect: approximately three heartbeats.
Estimated change in apparent load: ten to fifteen percent.
Mana expenditure: low total, high local strain.
Fine control degraded after repeated attempts.
Recovery: hours, not minutes.
Potential error: perception may exaggerate actual reduction.
That last line annoyed me.
Which was why it belonged there.
The workshop contained a simple hanging scale.
Two bowls connected across a wooden beam.
Crude.
Reliable.
I placed the iron sphere in one bowl and calibrated the other with lead weights.
Balance.
Then I repeated the technique.
The beam shifted.
Only slightly.
But it shifted.
I stared.
Objective confirmation.
Interesting.
I added a smaller weight to compensate.
The beam leveled.
Less than I'd estimated.
Not twelve percent.
Closer to seven.
My perception had exaggerated the success almost twofold.
I laughed quietly.
Of course it had.
People are extraordinarily talented at improving their own victories during measurement.
Marduk entered behind me carrying a bundle of wet herbs.
His eyes went from the scale to my face.
"Seven percent."
I said it before he could ask.
"Six."
I frowned.
"You didn't measure."
"You used the wrong counterweight."
I checked.
He was right.
Six and a fraction.
I hated him.
"Still measurable."
"Yes."
"Repeatable."
"Maybe."
"Three successful attempts."
"Three is enough to become confident and not enough to become correct."
I stared at him.
"You keep a secret book of irritating sentences, don't you?"
"Several volumes."
He put the herbs down.
"Again tomorrow."
"I could test once more."
"No."
"One."
"No."
"For science."
"Science can wait until your hand stops twitching."
I extended it defensively.
Unfortunately, the fingers betrayed me.
Marduk snorted.
I changed subjects with dignity.
"What are those?"
"Moonwort."
"For?"
"Medicine."
The answer came too quickly.
I looked at the bundle.
The leaves were dark green with silver veining.
I'd used moonwort twice.
Fever reduction.
Inflammation.
Mild blood-thinning properties if overdistilled.
Marduk gathered it rarely.
He also had enough for perhaps twenty preparations.
"Who is sick?"
"No one."
"You've brought enough moonwort to poison a hunting party."
"Then don't eat it."
He moved toward the laboratory.
Chessmaster rearranged observations.
Cough.
Moonwort.
Sleep interruptions over the previous month.
His habit of sitting between tasks when he used to stand.
Reduced appetite.
A small reduction in his morning training intensity.
Each detail alone meant little.
Together—
"Marduk."
He didn't stop.
I followed.
He placed the herbs beside the mortar.
"What?"
"Show me your hands."
"No."
Interesting.
"That was a strange answer."
"You're becoming annoying."
"I've been annoying since infancy. Show me."
He reached for a jar.
I caught his wrist.
That was mistake number two.
Marduk moved without effort.
My elbow hit the worktable.
My wrist twisted.
Suddenly I was bent sideways with my shoulder trapped and my cheek approximately three inches from a bowl of dried beetle shells.
Even sick, the old man remained educational.
"Touch me like that again," he said, "and I'll use your head as a mortar."
"Your pulse is fast."
His grip tightened.
I smiled despite the discomfort.
"Very fast."
He released me.
I straightened.
Marduk resumed sorting herbs.
I rubbed my wrist.
"You've lost weight."
"You're growing."
"That doesn't affect your belt."
He stopped.
I pointed.
He'd made another hole in the leather.
Recently.
The cut remained pale.
His expression changed.
Only slightly.
That was enough.
"Sit."
"No."
"Then stand while I examine you."
"No."
"I wasn't asking."
"Neither was I."
There it was.
A wall.
My first instinct was familiar.
Find leverage.
Create conditions in which refusal becomes more expensive than cooperation.
Manipulation works wonderfully in business.
Less wonderfully when the target is the man who taught you manipulation.
"You've been treating yourself."
Marduk said nothing.
"Moonwort. Something for the cough. Possibly an anticoagulant—"
"Wrong."
"Which part?"
"Keep guessing."
He carried the herbs to the shelves.
I followed.
"What are you hiding?"
"A remarkable desire to work in silence."
"Old Man."
He turned.
"Enough."
No humor.
No irritation.
The word landed flat.
I stopped.
Marduk looked tired.
Not old.
I had seen old every day of my life here.
This was different.
There are tiny adjustments people make when their body becomes expensive.
A hand against furniture before turning.
A breath taken before lifting.
The fraction of a second spent gathering strength before standing.
I had noticed all of them.
Individually.
And done nothing.
Because my model had assigned them to age.
The model was wrong.
"How long?"
His gaze sharpened.
"Raymond."
"How long have you been ill?"
No answer.
I stepped closer.
"Months?"
He looked away.
That was answer enough.
"Years?"
Still nothing.
My stomach tightened.
"Marduk."
He coughed.
The first was dry.
The second folded him slightly.
He turned away from me and covered his mouth with his sleeve.
Then froze.
I saw the stain before he hid it.
Dark red.
Not much.
Enough.
Everything inside me became very quiet.
Marduk rinsed his mouth at the basin.
"Sit down."
"No."
"That wasn't a request."
He wiped his lips.
"Your authority is becoming tedious."
"You are coughing blood."
"Excellent eyesight."
I grabbed a stool and pushed it behind him.
He remained standing.
Stubbornness is often admirable from a distance.
Up close, it's exhausting.
"If you collapse, I'm dissecting you while conscious."
"You'd get the diagnosis wrong."
"Then sit and correct me."
That worked.
Barely.
He lowered himself onto the stool.
Not because I had won.
Because he chose to.
Important difference.
I brought the lamp closer.
"Breathing."
"I'm doing it."
"Deep breath."
"No."
"Why?"
"Because it hurts."
The answer was so direct that I stopped.
"Where?"
He touched the right side of his chest.
Then lower.
"Chest and abdomen."
"How long?"
"Long enough."
"That's not useful."
"It is to me."
I counted his breaths.
Too fast for rest.
His skin was cooler than expected.
Pulse quick.
Slightly irregular every few dozen beats.
"Fever?"
"Sometimes."
"Night sweats?"
Silence.
"That's yes."
"You're irritating when worried."
"And you become childish when cornered."
"I raised you."
"You should have planned better."
He almost smiled.
Almost.
I took a small diagnostic crystal from the cabinet.
Marduk caught my hand before I touched him.
"No."
I looked at his fingers around my wrist.
"Why?"
"No resonance probing."
"I need to see the channels."
"No."
"It's non-invasive."
"It still pushes mana through tissue."
"Minimal."
"No."
I studied him.
Not fear.
Certainty.
"You tried it."
His hand released mine.
There.
A detail.
"How many times?"
"Enough."
"What happened?"
"Worse pain."
"Bleeding?"
No answer.
Again.
I set the crystal down.
"Fine."
That cost me.
Accepting another person's boundary when you believe their life depends on crossing it feels very much like incompetence.
But forcing it would destroy information and perhaps harm him.
So I changed methods.
Blood sample.
He allowed a finger prick.
Urine sample.
He complained for five uninterrupted minutes but complied.
Sputum.
He supplied that without ceremony.
I spent the afternoon testing everything I could without pushing mana through his body.
The results refused elegance.
That offended me.
His blood coagulated too slowly in one test.
Too rapidly in another after mana exposure.
Inflammatory markers—at least the ones I knew how to identify—were elevated.
His sputum contained dark mineral particles I initially blamed on years beside the forge.
Then I found the same particles in the blood.
That changed the model.
I compared them under a crystal lens.
Not identical.
Close.
The blood particles carried a weak mana response.
The sputum particles did not.
I tried three reagents.
One dissolved them.
The solution immediately destabilized and produced a violet residue.
I stopped.
Marduk watched from across the table.
"You've seen this."
"Something like it."
"When?"
"Years ago."
"Where?"
"No."
I looked up.
"You're dying and still protecting geography."
"Very dramatic."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
"Tell me what this is."
"I don't know."
That answer hit harder than refusal.
Marduk didn't say those words lightly.
"What do you know?"
He rubbed a thumb along the edge of the table.
"That it isn't one disease."
I waited.
He continued reluctantly.
"Call it accumulation. Damage. Old mana work. Bad exposure. Some things I did when I was younger."
"Alchemia?"
"Among other things."
"Canal scarring?"
"Yes."
"Organ damage?"
"Probably."
"Infection?"
"Sometimes."
"Sometimes?"
"Symptoms change."
Chessmaster began organizing categories.
Respiratory damage.
Mana-channel degradation.
Systemic inflammatory response.
Possible toxin accumulation.
Unknown chronic exposure.
Multiple interacting causes.
Not one broken component.
A network of failures.
That was worse.
Much worse.
"But interaction can still be mapped."
Marduk leaned back.
"There he is."
"What?"
"The little engineer."
"I am not an engineer."
"You look offended when bodies refuse to behave like machines."
"Machines are simply bodies designed by people with better documentation."
That earned a weak laugh.
Then another cough.
He pressed cloth to his mouth.
More red.
I hated the cloth.
I hated the bowl.
I hated that he had placed both within reach before I even realized why.
He'd prepared for this.
Without me.
"How long?"
He looked at the floor.
"Answer."
"Two years."
I stopped breathing.
"Symptoms?"
"Serious ones."
"Two years."
"Yes."
"You said nothing."
"I was busy."
I stared at him.
"Busy."
"Raising you was surprisingly labor-intensive."
"This isn't funny."
"I disagree."
I stepped away from the table.
Anger was useful.
It prevented something less manageable from arriving.
"You let me waste time."
"Waste?"
"Training. Hunting. Forge work. I could have been studying this."
"And done what?"
"Something."
"Excellent treatment."
"I could've developed—"
"What?"
His voice rose.
Not loudly.
Enough.
"What would you have developed at twelve, Raymond? At thirteen? You had barely learned not to poison yourself with marsh-root."
"I could have tried."
"Exactly."
The word stopped me.
Marduk stood.
Slowly.
"You would have tried everything."
"Of course."
"On me."
"If necessary."
"That's why I didn't tell you."
I stared.
He continued.
"You don't stop because something hurts."
"Pain can be managed."
"You don't stop because something fails."
"Failure provides information."
"You don't stop when people say no."
Silence.
That one landed where he intended.
He tapped his chest.
"This is my body."
I said nothing.
"I decide what gets done to it."
"If your decision kills you?"
"Still mine."
There are arguments that can be defeated logically and still leave you morally bankrupt if you win them.
I knew this.
I had used that fact against other people before.
It felt less attractive from this side of the table.
"We need options."
"Yes."
"Real options."
"Yes."
"And you'll accept treatment if the risk is reasonable."
"I'll decide."
Not agreement.
The closest thing available.
I took it.
We went through Marduk's private notes that evening.
Not all of them.
He refused access to several locked books.
Naturally.
I was beginning to suspect the man intended to die purely to avoid becoming transparent.
His treatments fell into three categories.
Things that had helped temporarily.
Things that had done nothing.
Things that had nearly killed him.
The third pile was impressively large.
"You criticized my experimentation."
"I had standards."
"You drank silverroot extract at triple concentration."
"It seemed reasonable at the time."
"You were vomiting for two days."
"Useful diagnostic result."
I looked at him.
He looked at me.
The hypocrite smiled.
For the first time that day, I laughed.
It lasted perhaps three seconds.
Then I found the reference.
A page near the back of an old pharmacological index.
The handwriting wasn't Marduk's.
Small.
Precise.
Several centuries old if the paper was genuine.
Aurelian Heart.
I had seen the name before in his notes, always crossed out.
I read.
Rare mana-bearing fruit.
High concentration of regenerative compounds.
Known to stimulate damaged channels in certain cases.
Variable response.
Severe overload documented.
Contraindicated in unstable core conditions.
No reliable dosage.
Several lines had been torn away.
"What's this?"
Marduk glanced over.
His face closed.
Interesting.
"A bad idea."
"That's not what I asked."
"The answer is the same."
I read the surviving text again.
Regenerative compounds.
Channels.
Systemic tissue response.
Not a cure.
Potential support.
Potential catastrophe.
"Where does it grow?"
"No."
I looked at him.
"Old Man."
"No."
"It may help."
"It may kill."
"So may doing nothing."
"Correct."
"You crossed it out."
"Years ago."
"Why?"
"Because I'm not chasing a story into predator country."
Predator country.
Location.
Useful.
Chessmaster filed it.
"You know where one is."
"I know where one might appear."
"When?"
Silence.
"Marduk."
He closed the book.
I put my hand on it before he could take it away.
He looked at my fingers.
Then at me.
"I said no."
"And I heard you."
"Remove your hand."
I did.
Immediately.
That surprised him.
Good.
It surprised me too.
I sat back.
"Fine."
"Fine?"
"Your body."
He watched me carefully.
"Your decision."
Still watching.
"But information isn't your body."
"There he is."
"I want everything you know about the Heart."
"No expedition."
"I didn't say expedition."
"You were thinking it."
"I think many things."
"Most are expensive."
"Information first."
Marduk considered.
Then opened the book again.
That was the negotiation.
Not victory.
Movement.
He told me very little.
The Heart was not an ordinary fruit.
It developed only in particular mana conditions.
It could remain dormant for years.
When mature, it attracted predators sensitive to concentrated mana.
Several recorded attempts to use one medically had failed.
Some patients improved.
Others deteriorated.
One had died from channel overload within minutes.
No certainty.
No miracle.
Just an option with teeth.
Perfect.
I hated it.
"How soon?"
Marduk looked toward the window.
"Before what?"
"Before I lose the option."
He didn't answer.
That was the answer.
I recalculated everything.
Training schedule.
Food.
Mana use.
Herb reserves.
Time.
The world shrank into variables because variables were easier than fear.
I could control his workload.
Control smoke exposure.
Control meals.
Control medication timing.
Reduce unnecessary mana expenditure.
Monitor symptoms.
Prepare treatments.
Gather data.
If I controlled enough—
Marduk snapped his fingers in front of my face.
I looked up.
"Stop."
"What?"
"Doing that."
"Doing what?"
"Turning me into a ledger."
I almost denied it.
Then saw the notebook in my hand.
Columns.
Times.
Pulse.
Meals.
Cough frequency.
Mana usage.
He smiled without humor.
"I'm still here."
"For now."
His expression hardened.
Wrong answer.
I knew it the instant I said it.
Marduk rose from the table.
"I'm going to bed."
"You need the tincture first."
"No."
"It's scheduled."
"No."
"You took it yesterday."
"And today I'm not."
I felt irritation flare.
"Why?"
"Because it makes my hands numb."
"Temporary."
"I need my hands tomorrow."
"For what?"
"None of your business."
"Everything affecting treatment is my business."
He stopped at the doorway.
"No."
One word.
A boundary.
Again.
I disliked how many of those the day contained.
Then he went inside.
I remained at the table.
For perhaps an hour.
The house was quiet.
The Aurelian reference lay open beside me.
My gravity notes sat underneath it.
Six percent.
That morning, six percent had felt important.
A crack in the rules of the world.
Proof that persistence worked.
Now the number looked ridiculous.
I picked up the iron sphere.
Held it.
No mana.
Just weight.
Four kilograms remained four kilograms whether I understood the relationship or not.
Marduk's illness was similar.
Observation did not create obedience.
Understanding did not guarantee repair.
And love—
I stopped that thought before it finished.
Unhelpful word.
Poorly defined.
Difficult to measure.
I preferred responsibility.
Responsibility could be scheduled.
At midnight, Marduk coughed in the next room.
Once.
Twice.
Then a long silence.
I stood.
Waited.
Another breath.
Good.
I sat again.
Chessmaster offered no revelation.
Only possibilities.
Monitor.
Research.
Reduce risk.
Find better information.
The island did not contain enough answers.
That became obvious.
Marduk possessed books about places he'd never properly described to me.
Catington.
Arcachon.
Valos.
Names scattered through margins, maps and sealed letters.
Somewhere beyond this island were physicians, alchemists, archives, markets, people who might know more.
And somewhere on this island—or near it, if Marduk's evasions meant what I thought they meant—an Aurelian Heart might eventually ripen.
Might.
The uncertainty scraped at me.
I closed the medical index.
Then opened a blank notebook.
On the first page I wrote:
MARDUK.
Underneath:
KNOWN.
Then:
UNKNOWN.
Then:
OPTIONS.
I stared at the categories.
A chessboard with most of the pieces missing.
Fine.
You don't need every piece to begin.
You need enough to determine what information matters next.
At the bottom of the page, I wrote one final question.
WHERE ARE WE IN RELATION TO THE PEOPLE WHO KNOW MORE?
That one required a map.
Marduk kept his maps locked beneath the forge.
I'd known that for years.
Previously, curiosity had been insufficient reason to force the issue.
Now the situation was different.
Or perhaps I simply wanted it to be.
I looked toward his bedroom.
Another cough.
Quieter this time.
I could break the lock before dawn.
I knew exactly which tools to use.
I knew how long it would take.
I also knew what Marduk had told me only hours earlier.
You don't stop when people say no.
My hand remained on the notebook.
For once, I didn't move.
Tomorrow I would ask him.
Properly.
And if he refused—
Well.
I would deal with tomorrow when it arrived.
For tonight, the iron sphere sat useless beside an old medical text, and the most important problem in my world had a pulse I could count but no solution I could command.
I had spent nine days learning how to make weight yield.
Marduk was about to teach me something harder.
Some things resist you precisely because they belong to someone else.