The encounter with Sanbiorn Paracelsus happened when Tyrus was twelve years old and lived in an orphanage in Kenatos. Even though Tyrus was young, he was uncommonly clever and quick to comprehend the world of adults. Though he lived in the orphanage, he was unlike the other orphans, since he still had family in the city. His older sister had brought her two brothers from Stonehollow when Tyrus was just a little baby, and so he had no memory of his birthplace. She loomed large in his life, a sister-mother who worked hard as an Archivist and was eventually chosen by the Arch-Rike himself to begin training as a Paracelsus. His sister was the most important person in the world to him, and he studied with iron will to master the lessons in the orphanage school so that he might be selected someday to become a Paracelsus. He was fascinated by the powers they manipulated. Occasionally, members of the order would come to observe the progress of the young. They were not easily impressed. Sanbiorn Paracelsus was one of those.
That autumn day, Sanbiorn arrived unannounced and began interrogating the students. He challenged them with material higher than their abilities and scoffed when they could not answer his questions. Sometimes he would withdraw a trinket from his voluminous robes and ask them to explain the swirling mist contained inside a gemstone. Some he would begin speaking to in Cruithne or Preachán to see what languages they had mastered. One could never anticipate the kind of questions he would ask. His intent and purpose was to make the students feel ignorant and unworthy. Tyrus hated him for it.
On that visit, Sanbiorn had begun quizzing other students but with lackluster enthusiasm. He was bored of them, he declared. No one had advanced very far since his previous visit. He chided the schoolmasters for producing such an inept crop of students. He roamed the room, skipping several completely with only a look of distaste to signal his rejection. Tyrus clenched his fists, feeling his fingers tingle with heat.
Suddenly, Sanbiorn Paracelsus was standing in front of Tyrus, gazing down his long nose at the boy. “What hour does the south bell toll?” he asked in the Vaettir tongue.
Vaettir was Tyrus’s biggest strength. They did not teach it at the school. He had learned it from his sister. “Dusk in the winter. Dawn in the summer,” Tyrus answered.
The response caught Sanbiorn off guard. He switched his language to Cruithne. “What is the best stone used to harness emotions?”
“Diamond, for it will not shatter,” the boy replied in Preachán.
Again, a startled look. He proceeded in Aeduan. “What device do Lydian sailors use to navigate on the seas?”
“A lodestone compass, sir.”
“Describe the principles of the lodestone magnet, boy.”
Tyrus did, launching into an extensive treatise on the subject. Cartography and navigation had always fascinated him.
The Paracelsus’s eyes were gleaming. Not with pleasure, but rage. Sanbiorn started on another series of questions, all of which Tyrus answered without hesitating. His mouth went dry with the effort, but he kept the older man’s gaze, challenging him to test the depths of his knowledge. He would show him that he was not an ignorant little orphan to be intimidated.
Sanbiorn was growing flustered. Every question, regardless of the difficulty, was being handled by a mere child. There was a sickening pasty color filling his cheeks. His eyes bulged with animosity.
“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.