Siege State

On their short trip back to Val’s oak from Corin’s Grove, Tom’s heart felt lighter than a feather, lighter than it had felt in years. He had been well-versed in suppressing any outward

emotion, and he hadn’t realised how cathartic simply crying it out could be, even if he felt like he had himself under control.

He felt like his heart had been slowly ground down under the weight of the burden he had carried all these years, and standing up to his father had allowed him to set it down. Although he was free of it, and although he realised he had been labouring, stooped and crooked under it, all this time, and had now straightened, Rosa’s gentle support and understanding had soothed aches he had become long accustomed to and had not yet faded.

He and Val talked a little on their journey back. She didn’t ask him anything more about Rosa, but he detected a slighter wider margin in her smiles, a slight hint of motherly amusement in the crinkle at the corners of her eyes. It made him bashful, and he was glad to summon Sesame again to help share his torment. To that end, he also pestered her with questions, hoping it would forestall any of her own.

“Who is this Scriber fellow, anyway?” he asked of her.

“Scriber is an enchanter, and he’s half the reason we’re able to survive out here. The Hunters have almost doubled in size since he began his rounds,” she explained.

“An enchanter!” Tom exclaimed. “Surely not. I would’ve thought the Council would overlook anything to keep an enchanter safe!”

There were not many who manifested the Ideal of Enchanting, not in Wayrest, at any rate. Tom had heard tales that other cities had a higher proportion of them, though whether that was due to natural inclination or better training programs he couldn’t say. There were perhaps less than twenty in the whole of Wayrest, by his best guess.

Val chuckled. “He’s not a Hunter. Not technically, anyway. He’s been out here just as long as most of us though.”

“What?” Tom was flabbergasted. Surely no one would choose this life, especially not an enchanter. They could waltz into Wayrest and demand any accommodation - and it would be swiftly given with pleases and thank yous.

“The Scriber is …odd. He says the Hunter’s have the best Ideals to work with, and so he works with us directly.”

Enchanting was a complicated practice. In the simplest terms possible, they inscribed items with rune structures that carried out a function. Those functions were where the complications arose.

The most basic function of runes was to simply alter the material properties of an item.

At the next stage of complexity, they could act as a channel for mana whilst also providing a structure for that mana to follow, allowing Idealists to use a weapon as an extension of their Ideals by channelling mana through them. In this way, it allowed Idealists to use the mana from their Ideals for effects other than those provided by their skills. These were called ‘open’ runes. Tom could use an enchanted sword with an open rune to cause extra pain to enemies with Suffering, but in Rosa’s hand it might cause burning wounds.

The last major facet of enchanting was what was called imbuing. This was when an enchanter made a rune for a specific purpose, and had another Idealist imbue it with mana. They then ‘locked’ the rune, effectively trapping that mana. This would allow for Idealists, through enchanted objects, to use skill-like functions of other Ideals by channelling their own mana into the object. These were called ‘closed’ runes. With them, Tom could cause burning wounds with a sword, but Rosa would need a different sword imbued with Suffering to cause extra-painful wounds.

Whether or not open or closed enchantments were better was a topic of hot debate among Idealists of all kinds. Both types of enchantments had their own type of versatility. Open runes could be swapped between Idealists to produce different effects, or Idealists with picks or falls could produce different effects with each of their Ideals. Closed runes were exceedingly useful in rounding out an Idealist’s weaknesses, or giving them unexpected trumps to turn a close fight in their favour.

The materials used for enchantments added the final layer of complications to the trade. The base materials were very important. The better their quality, the longer the rune structure would stay intact for, and the longer the life of the enchanted item would be. Certain materials could even lend their properties to the item, creating a ‘built-in’ enchantment so to speak. The shadowy panther that Tom had fought might lend a slight obscurement to material made from its hide, for example.

Following that thought, an obscuring enchantment added to such material would be extra effective, however; the material just by itself would not produce an effect even close to as good as a rune for the same effect added to a neutral material.

Certain other parts of monsters, or essences, or particular natural treasures, could also all contribute to an enchantment’s overall effectiveness. It was for all of the above reasons that those who manifested Enchanting were so sought after; not only was it a rare Ideal, but it took a great many years for someone to become proficient, and even then, which skills they had exactly played a huge factor.

The extreme rarity of several of the other highly, highly coveted Ideals, like Space, or Time, for example, drove up the value of enchanters even more. Enchantments acted as a multiplier of sorts for those Ideals, allowing the general population a greater degree of access to their talents by imbuing runes on items, even if those items still didn’t meet the insatiable demand. They were the only way to produce things like spatial storage items that mimicked certain skills from Idealists of Space.

It made a certain kind of sense that an enchanter would come into the Deep voluntarily. The Hunters were one and all exiled due to the very nature of the Ideals they followed. Those Ideals could not be found in Wayrest because of it. Tom still didn’t understand why the man would choose to live out here, though. He voiced the question to Val.

“Surely he could just visit us? You make it sound like he simply wanders around the Deep, helping us out.”

“That is exactly what he does,” Val said, a serious cast to her face. “He moves in a great circle in the Deep around Wayrest, visiting each Hunter along the way. Like I said, he’s …odd.”

“Would it not be safer for him to simply live in Wayrest and journey out, though?”

“Oh, he’s not in any danger, believe you me. I’d back him to take the Lord General in a tussle,” Val chuckled at the thought.

“I know it’s strange, and like I said, he’s a strange man, but you will be respectful to him, you understand? He has meant the difference between life and death for all of us out here, many times over at that.”

Tom was quick to assure her that he would not offend Scriber. If the man could beat Lord General Steel in a fight then he would turn Tom into so much paste without even exerting himself.

They lapsed into a companionable silence not long afterwards. Tom spent the rest of the journey to the oak puzzling over the oddity that was this wandering enchanter.

When they arrived they unpacked their haul from the village. Val grumbled the entire time at her space being so cramped. Sesame, who sat directly in the centre of the room, supervising them with a placid expression, drew the most of her ire. Butter went into a wooden block enchanted for coolness. Bread was stacked in a larger box, lined with more tiny runes to keep it fresh. A large clay pot was filled with new oil for cooking.

As Tom stacked some new shirts and pants he’d purchased by his bedding he pretended not to notice Val surreptitiously sneaking Sesa a heaping spoonful of honey. Furtiveness trickled along their bond and the spoonful was gone in a few noisy licks. Overwhelming bliss followed down it a moment later, and Tom resigned himself to getting pestered for more in the coming weeks.

Tom and Val spent the next morning hauling water to refill their barrels. The afternoon, they spent travelling around to the north a ways, looking for drake tracks. Val had seen signs of a juvenile, and the Guards were understandably worried by the report. The great, scaled monsters were among the absolute most dangerous denizens of the entire forest, after all. They scoured the woods methodically, but in the end gave up after finding nothing. Val promised they would try again, though.

“Now that you’re not looking quite so much like a stumbling little lamb, I suppose I should get started on teaching you some woodscraft too.”

Tom agreed, enthusiasm writ plain on his face. It must have surprised Val, because she said, “Never seen a noble so eager to get their hands dirty before.”

He shrugged. “I like it out here. Ideal of Survival and all, remember?”

She grunted at that. “You’re a strange one, Cutter. Just remember, surviving and living are two different things. One’s not worth it without the other. Not for very long, that is, anyway.”

“Oh, I know. I spent a month out here, just surviving. If I’m to live out here, then I want to learn to live out here.”

She gave him a grin, tapping the rune that lowered the earthen ramp under the oak. They made their way down, and found one of their stools already occupied.

“Scriber,” she said, as she stowed her rucksack in its usual spot. “How are you? Glad you could make it.”

“Val.” he said quietly. “I’m good. You?”

“Better than ever, now that you’re here. This is Tom. He’s new obviously.”

Scriber gave him a small nod of greeting, not quite meeting his eyes. Tom took his cue from Val, not offering his hand, opting instead to draw a stool a little closer with a simple, “hello”. Sesame showed some unusual decorum and retreated to wedge himself in the corner next to the water barrels. Tom thought the proximity to Val’s cooking might have played as much a part in the decision as courteousness to their guest.

Val began her customary bustle in the kitchen. She flicked a rune on the stovetop and a flame flickered into life. Pots and utensils clattered as she set her station, and the steady tap of a knife on board soon followed. As she busied herself, Tom noticed a large pack near where the ramp lowered, obviously Scriber’s.

Tom began to take off his armour, his breastplate, and newly-repaired hauberk, his greaves and bracers. While he did, he observed Scriber as unobtrusively as possible, trying not to be rude. He hadn’t been able to imagine what the fellow would look like. Enchanters were usually scrawny, bookish types, but a man who could defeat the Lord General conjured images of some striding behemoth.

The man who sat in front of him was, perhaps, a compromise between the two. He looked to be approaching forty, although it could be tough to tell with Idealists. He was too large of frame and obviously fit to be mistaken for a pure academic, but neither did he have the overt muscles of a fighter. He was just a little on the chubbier side, and his face trended round. The look was accentuated by his baldness.

A pair of spectacles with a thick metal frame sat over his eyes. They looped entirely around his ears as well. The stems there were also thick, but flat, and sat snug against Scriber’s skull. Tom could make out tiny, intricate runes inscribed on every inch of the frame. He was apparently completely oblivious to Tom’s scrutiny as he tinkered with a pair of small objects in his hand.

One looked like a pencil, but made all of metal, like a tiny spear. Tom would bet his life that it was a ritual tool. From what little he knew of enchanters, one of their skills was almost guaranteed to be a ritual ‘weapon’ to aid them with their craft. He couldn’t get a good look at whatever he was inscribing runes onto though, cupped as it was in Scriber’s hand.

As Tom watched him he noticed some small movements he’d previously missed. He was wearing a cloak, the hood thrown back, with a loose shirt and pants underneath. The cloak was twitching at his left shoulder, and his shirt appeared to be moving too. For that matter, there appeared to be a small, wriggling lump on his calf too.

The mystery resolved itself a moment later when a tiny, white, whiskered nose poked out from under the cloak near the nape of his neck. A mouse.

Another peeked from the hem of his pants leg, and another from one of pockets on his breast. The curious little things were watching him.

Tom was incredibly curious himself. This was the first time he’d seen a collective familiar. One of the more inane lessons he’d had at the Academy had focused purely on collective nouns for animals, and he dredged his brain for the right one.

“I like your …mischief?” Tom ventured to him.

The man gave him a small smile, though it was a warm one. He’d obviously taken his meaning correctly.

“They’re a handful sometimes,” Scriber replied. “Useful though.” He lapsed into silence again, seemingly engrossed in his tinkering once more. Tom was happy enough to let him, he wasn’t very chatty himself to be fair.

The mice seemed to decide that Tom was no threat, and the one poking out of Scriber’s pants leg dropped to the floor and scurried towards him. It stopped halfway to regard him with its tiny, intelligent eyes. Another two followed the first, each sitting at odd intervals, one brown and the other grey and white spotted. They all adopted the same seated posture, their tiny hands almost touching, as if about to nervously ask a favour of him.

Tom let out an involuntary gasp. Each of the mice had tiny bracers on each of their legs, smaller than a single link on a bracelet. Not only that, they each had a tiny leather jerkin on too. That was not what had caused his shock, though.

All of the mice’s tiny gear was enchanted, alternately inscribed or sewn with incredibly delicate runes. And even that was only the beginning. Each mouse had a few tiny pouches sewn into their jerkins, along the sides and belly. As he watched, one of them pulled a little round piece of wood from one of the pockets, small as a button. It then produced a tiny metal rod, exactly alike Scriber’s own ritual tool, from thin air.

Tom’s mind reeled from the implications. He had heard that when uplifting a ritual familiar skill, sometimes an Idealist would be given the opportunity to let the familiar use one or more of their other skills as an upgrade to it. The fact that Scriber was an enchanter, who had manifested a collective ritual familiar skill, and then been offered an upgrade to allow it to also use a ritual tool skill, well, it was …he had no words. Unique was correct, but it didn’t encapsulate the whole of it.

Scriber was very likely the only person, ever, to have ended up with this combination. And to get there, to have a familiar this powerful, to even be given the chance of the option… the man held a Flawless Ideal. At least one, likely more. Of that, he was certain.

Tom felt his jaw hanging open, and closed it with a snap. Just the fact that Scriber had enchanted gear for the mice to use was incredible. Or perhaps the mice had enchanted their own.

Tom caught an almost imperceptible grin on Scriber’s face as he brought himself out of his reverie. Perhaps the man was not so oblivious as he looked.