“Do you see how all the shops have signs of about the same size? I’ll bet that’s a regulation so that no single sign overwhelms the street, but it’s also forcing each shop owner to be unique to catch the attention of passersby,” he noted as they walked through the merchant district.
“Mortalis merchants,” Joanna sniffed, staring straight ahead as she walked, her chin raised ever so slightly. Elena thought it a little unfair given that their family had always been Mortalis merchants themselves, selling all kinds of goods until she had come along.
“I had kind of hoped your mother would get lost so we could see more of the city before we reached the studio. She must’ve gotten her hands on a map,” Ele said.
Elena’s Aunt Jiani had visited them once a year every year before she had passed away, and she had regaled Elena with stories and information about the large city. Because of her Elena knew that the city was shaped like a gigantic wheel with the palace at its center. Eight of the wheel’s spokes were Milia’s artisan streets, home of the eight studios in which the Master Artisans of Milia lived and worked, the highest callings in the city.
Not that every Master Artisan was at the same level, of course. It was well known that there was a certain hierarchy to the Masters of Milia, that some were more favored by the palace than others. The merchant shops they passed now all seemed to be high-end, their storefronts decorated subtly and tastefully. Clearly the merchants who operated here on the artisan streets tended to play up that hierarchy.
“Look, look!” Ele had run ahead and was standing at the street corner, just beneath a small yellow signpost that marked the Street of Yellow Artisans. His face was alight with uncharacteristic awe as he called back to her. “It’s so beautiful!” Elena’s pulse quickened, but she maintained a dignified pace next to her mother as they made their way past the storefronts.
It wasn’t just beautiful. It was a painting, a sculpture, a song and a home all at once. Not a speck of dirt marred the surface of the street, and the few small homes and outer buildings that ran along either side of the street were a uniform light stone, but Elena’s attention was arrested at once by the giant studio that lay on the other end of the street; the workshop of Master Bernardo De Luca. Its tall walls of white stone seemed to shine out light instead of just reflecting it, every line of its arches and embellishments speaking of its purpose.
Even with her mother walking beside her, Elena couldn’t help but let an undignified skip slip into her step.
Finally, after so many months! she thought, I’m so close to meeting Master De Luca, it barely even feels real! She didn’t notice the other people that filled the street, and she wove her way around carts and crates without really seeing them.
“Elena, look to your left,” Ele interrupted her reverie. “It’s a Rhetor!” Even with the studio in front of her Elena turned to look. The woman was surprisingly normal, tall and delicate with pale skin and golden hair. If not for the contraption of black metal that covered her mouth, she might’ve passed for a regular human.
The mask she wore was thin. It covered the entire lower half of her face and was strong enough to hold her mouth shut firmly. Her vibrant green eyes, the only feature that could be seen, seemed to shine with mystery and secrets. Elena realized with a start that the woman was staring right at her, and a shiver went down her spine. If it wasn’t for the Rhetorguard who stood close by, identifiable by the armor that matched her mask, Elena would be terrified.
True, he was speaking to someone in front of the house, not paying attention, but if he wasn’t there, what would prevent the woman from taking off her mask?
“Her eyes are pretty,” Ele remarked as they walked past the woman and her Rhetorguard. Elena stopped herself from rolling her own eyes. When they were next alone she would have to tease him about finding a Rhetor attractive.
It happened in a single instant, so quickly that Elena almost missed it. The Rhetor turned her head towards the pair and winked at Ele. Ele froze in the middle of the street, staring in a mix of shock and horror, and Elena felt as if someone had poured ice-water on her.
There had been no one walking behind Ele, no one even in the general direction. In all her life, for the past eighteen years, no one had ever been able to see or talk to him. Elena had decided she was mad many years ago, simply accepting her friend as a part of her madness and living her life with it as best she could. The Rhetor’s green eyes were fixed on her now, and even with the mask it was clear that the woman was smiling.
“Are you well, miss?” Standing in the middle of the street, Elena had gained the Rhetorguard’s attention. He seemed friendly, but his gaze flicked back and forth between her and his Rhetor, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword.
“Elena, come along.” Her mother was fixing both the Rhetor and Rhetorguard with a contemptuous stare, but for once Elena didn’t mind her mother rushing her. She hurried after her mother without answering the Rhetorguard. Her mind was suddenly occupied with much more than her upcoming appointment.
***
When they entered the studio, the overbearing autumn heat melted away, as did all of the noise from the outside. Walking into the cool quiet of the studio antechamber was like entering a god’s private world, which, Elena reasoned, it almost was. Two girls and two boys sat on the long marble benches that lined two walls. On the third wall was a single doorway and a large clock. The slow-turning cogs showed that it was half-past twelve stroke, a little after midday.
“Your appointment isn’t until thirteen stroke,” Joanna said briskly, her voice breaking the antechamber’s peaceful silence. “You wait here, and I’m going to go collect from that cart-driver’s master the money that he owes us.”
“Mother he doesn’t owe us any-” Elena began, but her mother had already left. She sat on the very edge of one of the marble benches, casting a sidelong glance at the other four in the room. They were all roughly her age, though they seemed much more comfortable in their city clothing. On the other end of her bench, a very tan young man with short dark hair leaned back against the wall, his eyes closed. A little closer to Elena, a girl with similarly black hair tied up in a ponytail fidgeted, her leg bouncing up and down restlessly.
The boy on the other bench wasn’t paying attention to anything around him, his head bowed over a sketch he was drawing with a nub of charcoal. Next to him sat a young woman with long blonde locks and a paintbrush stuck behind one ear, who was fixing Elena with a look of such frank and open curiosity that it made her smile.
“Hello,” Elena said. The word seemed to bounce off of the walls of the quiet room, and suddenly she had the attention of everyone present. Even the boy who leaned against the wall opened his eyes and fixed them on her. Elena felt very aware of herself again, and wished she hadn’t said anything.
“Hello!” the girl with the paintbrush said, smiling so warmly that Elena felt emboldened.
“My name is Elena. Are you here to petition Master De Luca as well?” Elena asked.
“Oh no, I’m just here with him,” the girl with the paintbrush gestured towards the boy who had returned to his sketch. “All three of us are with him actually, a bit of moral support on an important day. He’s more confident when he has other people around; it forces him to pretend he’s not terrified.”
“I don’t need to pretend,” the sketching boy muttered, “you three are the only ones who seem to think I won’t get in.”
“I’m Arta, by the way,” paintbrush girl ignored her friend, “it’s a pleasure to meet you, Elena. And what’s your name?”
“Um...Elena,” Elena repeated, “you just said it.”
“Oh, no, I heard you,” Arta laughed, “I was asking him.” She pointed next to Elena’s bench, where Ele stood with wide eyes.
Chapter III
Speaking to Echoes
Elena’s heart raced as if she had been running. She sat frozen on the cool marble bench, trying to fit Arta’s statement into a context that made sense. In all the
years Ele had been her companion, no one in the village had been able to hear or see him. When she was a little girl her neighbors and family would humor her, but the older she got the less endearing they found it.
“My name is Ele. I’m Elena’s friend,” Ele said slowly, searching Arta’s face.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you too, Ele,” Arta smiled, and Elena shook her head once as if she could snap herself out of a dream. How many dozens of people in Carpi had treated her with scorn until she had learned to pretend she couldn’t see him? How many inventive and effective punishments had her mother devised before the lesson had sunk in?
Elena rubbed her wrist; now that she was thinking about it the dull pain from earlier in the day had returned. The restless girl, the sleeping boy, and the boy who sketched with charcoal were all treating the conversation as if it were small talk, like they were discussing the weather.
“Can...can everyone in the city see him?” Elena ventured a guess.
“Everyone?” The restless girl at the end of her bench had stopped shaking her leg, and was instead staring at Elena with raised eyebrows. “Do you not know...you don’t know about Echoes do you? How small was your town? Haven’t you ever met another Stormtouched before?”
“Of course I have!” Elena bristled at the girl’s pitying tone, “Carpi might be small, but we’re not so small as all that. The General of our standing reserve is a low-level Lanisti, and my great uncle is a Faberi, just like me.”
“And neither of them could see Ele? Neither of them had anyone who always hung around with them? Are you really from such a backwater that no one knew anything about Stormtouched?”
“Isadora,” the boy next to Arta looked up from his sketch, “don’t be mean. If they didn’t have any Stormtouched before-Elena, was it? -then how would they know?”
“We did have Stormtouched, I just told you,” even though the boy had defended her, Elena was starting to dislike the entire group, ‘Isadora’ especially. “Uncle Chroli couldn’t see Ele, and I’ve never spoken to the General, but I’m sure he couldn’t see Ele either. You’re the first, besides...” Elena lowered her voice without thinking, “...besides a Rhetor we saw in the street today. Do you think a Rhetor could’ve done something to make Ele suddenly visible?”
“Elena, no,” Arta was clearly choosing her words carefully, trying to be gentle. “The Rhetor saw Ele because she is, by definition, a Stormtouched. If your uncle and General couldn’t see Ele, it means they aren’t Stormtouched.”
“But-”
“It makes sense when you think about it,” Isadora interrupted, “they picked the two Storms that are the easiest to fake. I feel bad for all the Carp who overspend on your fake Faberi’s fake goods and your fake Lanisti’s fake leading.”
“Now listen-” Elena stood up to face the girl, but her mother’s sudden sharp exclamation from the doorway broke her diatribe before she had even started.
“Elena,” Joanna’s voice was quiet, but it always seemed more dangerous that way. The single word conveyed volumes of oft-repeated lectures, scoldings about how a Lucciano should act, about never losing her temper. Elena’s wrist throbbed as she sat back down without a word.
“Hello, miss!” Arta said brightly. “You must be Elena’s mother! We were just talking about how Elena is the only one in your village who is actually Stormtouched. You must not know much about the subject since you never talked with her about it.” Elena sucked in a breath at the disrespect, but Joanna didn’t so much as blink. She sat next to Elena, sliding through Ele who scowled and moved to the other side.
“You see?” Arta said. “Normal humans. They can’t see us, hear us, touch us. To Mortalis, we Echoes don’t exist.” Elena had composed herself by this point, hands folded in her lap, mind racing. Arta was one of these “Echoes”, like Ele? How many others in the city were there? Would Elena have to be careful of everyone she spoke to from now on in case she risked making a fool of herself?
“Don’t look so miserable! Aren’t you glad to know you’re not crazy? Isn’t it vindicating, having proof that everyone in your village was wrong and you were right?” Arta’s voice was soothing, but Elena couldn’t quite muster the relief that the Echo-girl was expecting of her. Ignoring someone other than Ele felt strange, being in this huge city felt strange, and she suddenly wished that she could be back at home where everything was familiar and safe.
But if I did that, I wouldn’t be meeting Master De Luca today, Elena reminded herself. I wouldn’t have the chance to become his garzona. An apprenticeship was the first step on the road to the courts; first a garzona, then a journeyman, then an artist in her own right. From Milian courts she would work her way up, until finally the Queen of Italoza herself would be Elena’s patron.
I can handle strange, if it means reaching my dreams. She tried to avoid looking at Arta, who was fiddling with the paintbrush behind her ear. At least discovering that Ele is real is the strangest thing that will happen to me today.
“Miss Joanna and Elena Lucciano? I am Master De Luca’s page, Pietro. I believe you have an appointment to see me.” Elena looked up from her musing to meet the eyes of a young boy, and she cursed her thoughts. The boy was dressed in very fine clothes, a velvet cap with a feather sitting jauntily in it. Every inch of him, from his eyes to his skin to the perfect curls of his hair was carved out of fine white marble.
Chapter IV
Speaking to Statues
Pietro bustled around the small office, moving papers and letters from his desk even as he sat down. The excitement in Elena’s stomach that had been quieted by the people outside was starting to build up again, now that she was in the presence of a living sculpture for the first time. She marveled at the changing expressions on the boy’s face, so apparently mobile and flesh-like even though she knew if she touched him she would feel only unyielding stone. Pietro didn’t look bothered by her unabashed stare, though his busy movements seemed nervous and fussy.
“Please, have a seat,” the boy made of marble sat heavily in the chair behind the desk, pulling a small neat pile of papers in front of him. “I do apologize for the delay, Master De Luca has decided to meet with most of his supplicants today, and it’s all I can do to keep up.”
“Are we not meeting with your creator today? Not personally?” Joanna asked politely. Elena hadn’t ever heard her mother speak in such a respectful tone. Apparently she was capable of manners when speaking with someone of higher standing than her.
“My creator?” Pietro furrowed his stone brow. “Oh, no no. Master De Luca isn’t a Caelator; I doubt he could even carve a non-living statue from marble. My creator, Master Malatesta, gave me as a gift to Master De Luca.”
“How kind of him.”
“Mother, Master Malatesta is a woman,” Elena murmured, “head of Studio Malatesta on the Street of Purple Artisans.”
“It says here that you hail from Carpi, Miss Lucciano,” Pietro glanced at the papers in his hands, “it would appear you’ve done your research on Milian studios.”
“Yes sir,” Elena said.
“Anyway, to answer your question, Madam Lucciano, your meeting today will probably not be with Master De Luca personally. As the head of the highest studio in Milia, you must understand that he gets quite a few supplicants, especially now just before the winter season. He has relaxed my duties so that I might evaluate potential supplicants in his place.”
“Mister Pietro, I don’t think your master understands the extent of the opportunity being offered him,” Joanna’s attitude began to slip back into her speech as she straightened with a look of pride. “While I’m sure a secretary is good enough for most supplicants, my Elena is Stormtouched.”
Elena wasn’t sure what reaction her mother expected from the boy, but he simply lifted both eyebrows and fixed them both with a firm expression, one that would’ve looked strange on a child if that child wasn’t already made of stone.
“Miss Lucciano, I believe it is you who don’t understand,�
�� he said patiently, “Master De Luca is one of the finest artisans in all of Italoza. There are far fewer Stormtouched than there are Mortalis, it’s true, but the master only accepts Stormtouched to be apprenticed to him. Every other supplicant who has met with me is Stormtouched.”
“All of them?” Joanna blinked, and the excitement in Elena’s stomach began mixing with nerves. She had known, in theory, that there would be other supplicants to Master De Luca who were like her, but her chances suddenly seemed much slimmer now.
“Every last one of them. The purpose of this meeting is to determine how the Storm touched your daughter, and whether or not she would be a fit in our studio. If and only if this meeting goes well, then Master De Luca will meet with her for a final decision.”
Pietro ticked off the steps on stone fingers that clicked quietly in the still office. “If the meeting with the Master goes well, Miss Elena will be taken on as a probationary apprentice. After some time spent on probation, Master De Luca will decide if he takes her on as a full garzona...and since he always has the same number of garzoni, that decision will be based entirely on whether or not she is more useful to the studio than some other supplicant, who will then be cast out of the studio. This process is repeated every year with every new set of supplicants who enter, which means that each year Elena must be one of the four most valuable garzoni of the studio.”
With each step the man listed, Elena felt like slumping further down in her seat. Far more hurdles than she had been expecting, and none of them a certainty. Her mother, on the other hand, was nodding.
“I’m sure you’ll see that the Luccianos are more than capable of impressing you,” Joanna said with a small, smug smile. Elena wished she shared her confidence.
“I’m sure I will,” Pietro said agreeably, “now, first things first.” With a grace that spoke of countless repetitions, or perhaps was just due to the magic that animated him, the marble boy dipped a small quill into a pot of ink on his desk, then wrote in a beautiful clear hand ‘Elena Lucciano, Supplicant Seven’ at the top. He hovered the wet nib over the surface of a blank sheet of paper. “What type of Storm does your daughter fall within?”
A Student's Dream (Twisted Cogs Book 1) Page 2