Construct

by Luke Matthews

  Samuel shook his head in annoyance. “But what difference does that make if we don’t even know what the ring does?” He immediately regretted his tone of voice.

  Mane took a deep breath and shot Samuel an admonishing look. “There are any number of crackpot theories about the purpose of these rings. Some say they create wealth, some say they bring amazing luck to the wearer. We know neither of those are true, because one of the museum pieces was acquired from a destitute trinket vendor for a pittance, who killed himself after seeing the ring on display. Some say they command the elements. One ridiculous musing would even have us believe the four rings together have the power to destroy reality itself. All that’s a load of rubbish.”

  Samuel tilted his head in a way he hoped conveyed confusion, so Mane continued. “One would have to be able to conceive of a way to destroy reality before being able to create an artifact capable of the task. Besides, why would anyone want to? Anyway… One of the more popular theories is they involve thought transfer, allowing the wearer to pull another person’s thoughts and memories into their own mind or giving them the power to occupy the consciousness of another person, effectively transferring one mind into another body.”

  Samuel perked up. “Maybe the person who I took it from was trying to transfer himself into my body? If he was interrupted…”

  Mane stopped Samuel with a wave. “No, no,” he said with a definitive tone. “A construct core doesn’t work that way—it wouldn’t have the capability to sustain the complexity of a human consciousness. And believe me, men have been trying to find a way to prolong life through constructs ever since the invention of the construct. I even tried to figure it out myself for a little while.” He looked down at the ring and shook his head. “No, even if the theory about these rings is true, it just wouldn’t be possible.”

  “Then why?” Samuel asked. “Why would I even find it there?”

  Mane chuckled. “Because Ferron was just the type of man to try it anyway,” he said. “Never in my life have I met a man more driven by the pursuit of artificial life. It got him into trouble more often than not, and is likely what got him killed. You probably just got caught in the crossfire.”

  Samuel shook his head in disappointment. This was the only reasonable theory about the presence of his emotions he’d heard, and Mane had just summarily shot it down. Even though he had grabbed the ring on something less than a hunch, the longer he held onto it, the more hope he invested in the idea of it being the key that would unlock his own mysteries. If not tell him who he was, at least provide some insight into a small aspect that would further his knowledge. He’d carried it around this whole time, and all for nothing. An interesting and powerful artifact, yes, but if it couldn’t help Samuel figure out his life, it was worthless to him.

  “Look,” Mane continued, setting the ring on the table, “just because the ring isn’t the answer doesn’t mean we aren’t making progress. It also doesn’t mean the ring has nothing to do with all of this.” Samuel looked up at the sorcerer. “If Ferron was trying to use this blasted ring to dump his own consciousness into your body, he could very well have mucked up the works in there, and that might be what caused the fragmentation.” He rapped his knuckle on Samuel’s chest.

  Samuel looked down on Mane, who was shorter than Samuel originally thought. “What do you mean?”

  “These rings are extremely potent,” Mane said. “If Ferron managed to unlock even a fraction of this one’s power, then tried to use it on your core, just the output of khet alone could have scrambled things around. Manipulating khet is more art than science, and when you get that much of it flying around, it’s easy to mess things up. I’m actually surprised you’re still here.”

  “So, if the ring isn’t the answer,” Samuel said, “then where do we go from here?”

  “It might not be the answer, but I think it’s a clue,” Mane said, moving back around the table and plopping down in his chair. “With some time to research the nature of this ring, we have a good chance of figuring out how the fragmentation occurred and working out how to fix it.”

  Eriane came into the room, her hair pulled back into a tight braid and tied with two green bows. Her eyes were red. She crossed the room to where Mane sat, leaning over him in his chair and giving him a tight hug, which he returned in earnest. He patted her on the back and she knelt beside his chair. They exchanged a quiet word and she nodded, wiping away a tear as he kissed her on the forehead.

  Eriane rose and walked to Samuel, knelt beside him, and wrapped her arms around his neck. He swelled with surprised gratitude and was overcome with heartbreaking remorse. When she didn’t move, he returned the hug.

  “Thank you, Samuel,” Eriane said in a quiet voice.

  “For what?” he replied.

  “For telling us about Michael’s final moments. For showing us…” she swallowed. “For not letting us think he died for nothing.” She sniffed and let go, wiping a tear away with the cuff of her tunic.

  “Thank you, Eriane,” Samuel said.

  “For what?”

  “For not blaming me, like Pare does,” Samuel said, looking down at his hands.

  Eriane took in a deep breath and leaned back, looking Samuel in the eyes. “Pare’s angry and stubborn,” she said, “but he’s not stupid. I don’t think he blames you, really. But he’s so hurt right now he’d never say it, you know?”

  Samuel nodded. “I’m so sorry we had to meet this way.”

  Eriane tilted her head at him and smiled. “You really are, aren’t you?” Again Samuel nodded, and she sat back on her feet. “Wow.” She hopped up and moved back over to the worktable, sitting on the stool at the end and flipping through the piles of loose books. “So, what did you figure out about him?” she asked Mane.

  Mane grinned. “Not much, just yet, but we did find something interesting. Do you want to know what it is?”

  She smiled back and leaned forward expectantly. “Of course!”

  Mane held up the serpent ring.

  Eriane’s eyes went wide and her mouth opened like she was going to speak, but instead she snatched the ring from Mane’s hand and studied it with awe. “One of the Rings of Lorrem!”

  “That’s the one,” Mane replied. “Right here in our house.”

  “But what does it mean?” Eriane asked, confused.

  “Well,” Mane replied, “I think an artificer tried to use it on Samuel, but I don’t know why. I think it might be the key to why Samuel’s memories are in so much disarray.”

  Eriane jumped up from her seat and moved over to where Samuel sat, plopping down on some nearby pillows. “What do you remember? Do you know where you came from? How old you are? Who made you?”

  Samuel shook his head. “Nothing, really. The only memories I have are so broken I can’t make sense of them.”

  Eriane’s shoulders dropped. “What happened?” she asked.

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Samuel replied.

  “Hopefully Master Mane can help you.” Eriane hopped to her feet and smiled down at him. “I have to go study, so I’ll be in back. Call me if you need my help with anything.” With that, she handed the ring back to Mane and headed off to the rear of the cabin.

  “What do they study here?” Samuel asked.

  Mane tipped his head back and forth. “A bit of this, and a bit of that,” he said. “They both have an acute sensitivity to khet, but I’ve had more trouble than I thought helping them find their talents.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Each person is different,” Mane said. “Some people can’t even tell there’s khet in the world, much less find ways to work with it. Others, like myself, are good at using it in a variety of ways with very little training. Some people, though, have specific, unique natural abilities. The types of things a talented adept can do are as varied as snowflakes, which is why it’s so hard to pin it down with these two. I’m closer to working it out with Eriane—she’s much more connected to the world a
round her than Pare, but her abilities are rather unique. Pare’s got an instinctual aptitude to apply new uses once he learns them, but he’s so closed off it’s been a struggle figuring out what he’s truly good at.” He shook his head. “He’ll figure it out someday. I can only hope I’ve helped him along the path.”

  “Well,” Samuel said. “If you’re half as diligent with him as you’ve been trying to help me, I’m sure he’s on the right path.”

  “With Pare, it’s not his knowledge that worries me. He has so much anger in him. Sometimes he… control… …wonder if he’ll ever… …dangerous… ”

  • • • • •

  He can't tell how long he’s been out. It feels like he hasn’t moved in literal ages. A bright blur is all he can see at first, then the world in front of him pulls into colorless focus.

  A squat, balding man sits a short distance away, resting his hands palms-up on a table. Tears stream down his cheeks and he inhales sharply, gritting his teeth in pain. Blood seeps from raw, open blisters at the tips and along the lengths of all his fingers. The man stifles a scream and stares at his hands, sobbing.

  He tries to turn his head but can’t move and, in fact, he can’t even feel his limbs. Someone swings a chair into his view, and a stout man with cropped hair sits heavily into it. He tosses aside the small rag he’d been using to wipe his face, revealing the scar running from his nose to his jawline across his cheek. Even without the benefit of color, the man’s eyes gleam in an unsettling way as he leans forward to speak.

  “You weren’t easy to find, my broken friend,” the scarred man says, his tone almost amicable. “It took us a while to dig you out of this one’s scrap heap”—he jabs a thumb over his shoulder at the sobbing man behind him—“and even longer to get you back up and running.”

  Another voice scrapes across the side of his head, but he can’t see the speaker. “That was my idea.”

  “Yes, yes,” Scarface says, nodding in annoyance. “I wanted to do this quickly, but my partner here insisted you be…aware, so we had Corman back there get you all fixed up.” The balding man let out a strangled sob. “He’s been working for two days straight with no rest, but here you are!”

  Scarface licks the tips of his fingers and thumb and presses them into his chest, leaning in so close he can see over the man’s shoulder. His vision falters and coldness overtakes him. His hearing is the only thing left to him as the cold gives way to numbness. Over the constant sobbing of the balding artificer, a whispered voice ushers in the darkness. “With as long as you’ve been out, I’m not even sure you can understand me. After all that time waiting, I wanted you to know who it was that finally brought you to your end. And will bring all of you to your ends.”

  • • • • •

  The door of the shop stands a slightly ajar and the light of an oil lamp flickers within. He stops short of the entryway and approaches with caution.

  “Master?” he calls, pushing the door open further. There is no answer.

  Lamplight shines from the main shop at the far end of the hallway, but he sees no movement or sign of people. A few things are out of place, which feels strange for such a well-kept business. He calls out again, all but knowing he will get no response.

  Across the rear of the shop stands the door to the owner’s office. He hears no sound from within and hopes it might stand empty, its occupant away on other important business. He grasps the handle and the door swings open on creaky hinges.

  The office beyond is smashed. Shelves have been emptied, and the desk in the corner overturned. A shadow sways on the opposite wall, cast by the limp body of the shop’s owner suspended by a noose looped over one of the rafters. Something is pinned to the man’s chest, but he can’t bring himself to approach. He turns to leave, but feels a hand at his back and a chill rush through his body. He can’t move.

  “You shouldn’t have run, canner.” The voice is calm and measured, quiet like a crack forming in deep ice, felt more than heard. The hand on his back releases and he slumps to the floor, every faculty cut off. He can’t move or speak and his hearing dulls, but his vision remains so he can witness every vivid detail of what is to follow.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  * * *

  “Samuel?” The light, sweet voice drifted into his hearing. “Samuel, are you awake?”

  Overloaded bookshelves filled his vision as it swirled back to him in a blurry haze. What Samuel thought, at first, to be the bookshelves along the wall were actually those that lined the cabin’s ceiling, which told Samuel he was lying on his back in the main room of Mane’s cabin. As his sight snapped back into focus, he sat upright.

  “More memories?” Mane asked, kneeling beside him. Samuel nodded. “Tell me everything, starting with the first thing you saw.”

  Samuel’s mind swam, submerged in a deluge of imagery as they collided with his previous memories and he attempted to make sense of the jumble. He began rambling off descriptions, starting with the scene in the artificer’s shop. Mane took in every detail, the occasional earnest nod indicating he had taken note of something that caught his interest. When Samuel reached his fifth or sixth scene, Mane waved a hand to stop him.

  “It’s only the first few that are important, I think,” he said, moving to his worktable.

  The windows behind Mane were black and the room dark, lit only by the small, artificial candle and the fireplace. Pare reclined in a chair on the far side of the room, near the hallway, having a quiet conversation with Icariascus. Samuel turned to Eriane, who sat on a small stack of pillows at his side, leaning forward.

  “How long have I been out?” he asked the girl.

  “Most of the day,” she said, her brow scrunched in concern. “It was early morning when you…when you passed out. Is that the right word? Can constructs pass out?”

  Samuel shrugged. “Apparently I can,” he said. “This isn’t the first time.” He pushed himself to his feet and moved over to where Mane was flipping through one of his books. “What did you mean about the first few?” he asked.

  Mane leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath. “Well,” he started, reaching up to stroke his beard, “What’s the first and brightest memory that comes to you every time you have one of these bouts?”

  Samuel thought back over the times he had passed out, recalling every piece of imagery that flashed into his mind. In every single instance, the first memory had been the strongest, most intense feeling he could imagine. “They’ve all been of my own death,” he said.

  “Right,” Mane said. “But not your death. Not really, anyway. I think the memories you’re seeing are of major memory wipes. Times when you’ve been put down and…reset, as it were.”

  That made some small bit of sense to Samuel, but there were still pieces that didn’t add up. “Then why am I seeing the same man in so many of my memories… hearing the same malicious voice? And why do they always seem like they’re chasing me… fighting me?”

  Mane was nodding, with his hand over his mouth. He removed it to speak. “Because, I think, your pursuers keep trying to wipe your core, and keep failing. Keep trying to put you away, maybe because of something you’ve seen.”

  “Or something I’ve done,” Samuel said.

  “Perhaps,” Mane replied.

  “Then why wouldn’t they just destroy me?” Samuel said. “And who keeps putting me back together?”

  “Destroying a construct isn’t as easy as it seems,” Mane said. “At least, not destroying the core. Oh, sure, the act is simple enough, but doing it without causing collateral damage or bringing attention to yourself is almost impossible. A wipe, at least most of the time, is much easier and quieter.”

  “So,” Samuel said. “They’re trying to keep me quiet.”

  “Wow,” Eriane said in a quiet voice. She leaned back and clutched a pillow to her chest, listening as Mane continued.

  “That first image is important to us,” Mane said. “First off, it’s powerful enough to overcome whatev
er’s mucking up your works, coming through vivid and clear even though the rest of the memories are incomplete. Second, it lets us know someone’s been tampering with your core and your memories for a long time, maybe enough times to be the cause of the fragmentation.” He slapped the book on his workbench shut and stood.

  “Last, and probably most important,” Mane continued, “it tells us you’re being pursued by someone, and we might be able to use these visions to figure out who.”

  Samuel searched the imagery that tumbled through his mind for similarities, and one face was almost too easy to single out. “There’s a man who shows up every time,” Samuel said. “Short, blond hair. Angular features. Nondescript, except for the scar. And his eyes.” Mane raised an eyebrow and Samuel continued. “He’s got a long scar running across his cheek from the bridge of his nose to past his jawline. And his eyes…they’re silver. Not grey, but a bright, almost polished silver. Piercing.” Samuel paused. “Cold.”

  Mane leaned back on the table, burying his mouth in one hand and looking downward, lost in thought. None of them dared interrupt. After a moment he raised his hands in the air, shaking his head. “I don’t know who that is,” he said. “And I know just about everyone of note, sheriff to charlatan, from here to Cinth. I’d remember someone with silver eyes and a scar like that, but I don’t know who this man is. You say he’s shown up in every flash?”

  Samuel nodded. “This is the man that’s following me. And I can’t be sure, but I think he’s got a partner.”

  Pare stood from his chair, no longer talking to Icariascus, and crossed in front of Samuel to sit on the stool next to Mane’s worktable. “Why do you say that?” he asked. A slight smirk crossed Mane’s face as he watched his apprentice take on the demeanor of investigator.