Tyrus knew of them all. He stared helplessly at the Paracelsus, shrugging apologetically, feeling the scarlet rise to his cheeks. “I would give anything,” Tyrus whispered hoarsely, “To know what you know.”
Sanbiorn looked down at him smugly. His expression was completely altered from what it had been moments before. He glanced around the room disdainfully. “Someday, some of you may have the opportunity to study in the Paracelsus Towers. It is a great privilege. Only the best are chosen.” He glanced down at Tyrus who looked at him with wide eyes. “I do not know if any of you will qualify. Probably not. In the meantime, keep studying. Work hard. The Arch-Rike is a worthy master to serve. There are secrets of power that cannot be shared in a classroom and must be foraged from the ancient books left down to us. Obey your schoolmasters. They will tell us which of you may be worthy someday.”
Tyrus licked his bottom lip, nodding with every word. Sanbiorn left the classroom with the same huff of self-importance that he had brought with him.
The next month, Tyrus found himself apprenticed to the man.
One of the secrets to holding power over others was never revealing how much you really knew. That insight and habit, which Tyrus attributed to the classroom scuffle with Sanbiorn, had served him consistently over the following years. He gleaned what knowledge he could of others, but rarely shared what he knew himself. He found that the Paracelsus in the Towers loved to boast of their discoveries or the projects they worked on with or without the Arch-Rike’s express permission.
Tyrus, on the other hand, mostly communicated the problems he was having and solicited ideas on how to solve them. He had already solved them himself, of course, but he liked to validate his thinking and see if he had missed an interpretation that he had not considered. He developed a reputation for a curious mind and one who tackled large, thorny problems. His peers sought him out for advice. He would often listen to their thinking first, offer to ponder the problem for a few days, and then return with an answer that helped. Even if he knew the answer immediately, he would adopt a pondering look and promise to think about it. Often the inquirer would solve it on their own before he got back to them.
His own work he kept expressly secret, only sharing his ideas with the Arch-Rike who encouraged the ambition of the scale of his projects. The Arch-Rike was one man he respected and admired, for he too was a keen observer of the nature of those with power. Tyrus shared much of his work with the Arch-Rike and made sure that he benefitted from Tyrus’s inventions. But Tyrus always made two of everything he constructed. For example, the Tay al-Ard device. The Arch-Rike was the only other person who had the fully functioning kind.
One of the inventions he did not tell the Arch-Rike about was a soul-trapping stone. Since the craft of the Paracelsus involved trapping spirits into performing acts for a specified duration, he wondered if it would be possible to trap his own essence in a stone. His own spirit, for lack of a better word. He discovered the proper charm, a stone that was suitable for such an exercise, and crafted the small sculpted rock with the ancient Vaettir runes of power etched into it. He kept it always in his pocket, easily within reach.
When the Kishion had prepared to kill him, Tyrus had gripped the charm in his hand, squeezing it with all his strength. The force of his fingers had activated the magic. It was not instantaneous. It was not designed to be. But when the dagger had plunged excruciatingly into his back, he released his spirit into the stone, causing his body to collapse in the dirt. Just like a dead man. Any attempt to feel his pulse would indicate he had died.
From inside the stone, he was aware enough of his surroundings to feel the Kishion leave. He waited for good measure, just to be sure. Then deliberately, knowing the pain would return instantly, he used the charm to bring his spirit back into his body again. The agony nearly made him black out. He could feel his blood starting to flow again, sending dagger-pricks all over his body. The wound was deep in his muscles. His pumping heart would soon leave him dead. There were no lesser spirits of Mirrowen in the Fear Liath’s lair. As his eyes fluttered open and he felt himself dying again, consciousness fraying around the edges, he summoned the Tay al-Ard from the bottom of the churning waterfall into his hand and invoked its power to bring him deep into the woods of Silvandom. A memory of the place was all he needed. It was a peaceful part of the woods, thick with friendly spirits.
Please, he beckoned with his thoughts. Please save me. I am a friend of Mirrowen. I release your trapped brethren.
The spirits of Mirrowen attended him immediately, healing the deadly wound.
Tyrus lay in the feathery growth, breathing deeply again, experiencing the fading of the agony in his back. The gash closed. The blood ceased to drain. He lay still, panting from the effort.
He wanted the Arch-Rike to believe he was dead. It would provide him time to set in motion the rest of his plan to conquer the Scourgelands and the Arch-Rike himself.