- Chapter 074 -

  Still an Idiot

  "You idiot."

  Sam's voice was a flat, unimpressed bark that echoed off the stone facade of Silver-Vein Terrace. He stood on the pavement, arms crossed, glaring up at Mark who was leaning, perhaps a little too heavily, on his cane.

  "I thought we established you had some level of basic intelligence!" Sam continued, his Scottish burr thick with frustration. "Walking to the funeral? Fine. Optics. Politics. I get it. But the sawmill? That's half a mile downhill and half a mile back up. Your back was broken a few weeks ago?"

  Mark shifted his weight, trying to look less like he was about to collapse. "I took breaks," he argued, though it sounded weak even to his own ears. "And I've been using the cane almost full time. It's good exercise."

  "It's not exercise, it's masochism," Sam snapped. He pointed a finger at the steam-chair parked just inside the doorway. "That chair doesn't make you weak, Mark. It makes you intelligent. It means you know when not to push yourself until something breaks."

  He stepped closer, his grey eyes narrow.

  "I will accept the funeral. You had to make a point. But the sawmill? Stupidity. Pure, unadulterated stupidity."

  From above, a rumbling laugh drifted down. Lothar was leaning on his balcony railing, a mug in hand, watching the dressing-down with undisguised amusement.

  "He's got you there, neighbor," Lothar called down. "You looked like a three-legged goat trying to climb a slope when you came back yesterday."

  Mark sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Fine. You've made your point. I overdid it."

  "You didn't just overdo it," Sam corrected. "You probably set yourself back. Now, get inside. We're doing floor work today. No standing." He glared at the cane. "And put that stick away before I break it over your head."

  Two hours later, Mark was draped over a plush armchair like a wet towel. Every muscle from his neck to his ankles was humming with a throbbing ache. Sam, infuriatingly energetic, was bustling around the kitchen.

  "Still no milk," Sam groaned from the chilled cupboard. "Civilization is wasted on you."

  He returned with two mugs of black tea, setting one down on the side table. Mark reached for it, his hand trembling slightly.

  "You're making good progress," Sam admitted grudgingly, taking a seat opposite him. "The core strength is coming back. The legs are stable. Don't ruin it by trying to be a hero."

  Mark nodded, sipping the tea. "Noted, no heroes here."

  Sam leaned back, the drill sergeant persona fading into something more casual. "You need to start deciding what you're doing, magic-wise. At this rate, in two weeks, you should be able to walk with only occasional support. If you're going to get a Heart, that's the time. The physical strain of the ritual is easier if you're mobile."

  "There are a lot of options," Mark said. He gestured to the stack of books on the dining table. "I've been going over the Collective's registry. And some other sources from the library."

  Sam's eyes narrowed. "Stick to the registry. It's official for a reason. Those designs are tested. Stable. You start pulling things from the 'other sources' section, you end up with unstable mana flows or a Heart that's useless in all situations."

  "I've already discounted the healing ones," Mark said, ignoring the warning. "It doesn't feel like a good fit. I don't have the temperament for it."

  "Fair enough," Sam said. He took a sip of tea, thoughtful. "I'm considering going for a second Heart myself. Been thinking about the Heart of Memory."

  Mark winced, the reflex immediate. The image of Clyde, of the violation in the mindscape, flashed behind his eyes.

  Sam saw it. "Relax. It's a great synergy with the Battle-Smith. The enhanced recall it provides is undeniable in the field. Remembering the exact stress points of a siege engine, the layout of a fortification you saw once ten years ago... it's invaluable."

  As Sam spoke, a whisper echoed in the back of Mark's mind. It wasn't a ghost. It was clearer. Precise.

  [Book 4 - Page 27 - Recall.]

  The voice faded as quickly as it came. It sounded... detached.

  "It's the user that defines how magic is used," Sam continued, oblivious to Mark's internal jolt. "I have no temperament for the telepathy side. I don't want to read minds. I just want to remember my own better. So the Heart will adapt to that. It shapes itself to the vessel."

  Mark nodded slowly, his mind racing. Book 4. That must be one of Clyde's notebooks. One he had transcribed some time ago. He hadn't understood a word of it. But now?

  "Right," Mark said, forcing his voice to remain steady. "User defines the tool. I'll... keep that in mind."

  Sam set his mug down, his grey eyes narrowing. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

  Mark let out a humorless laugh. "I have many ghosts to contend with, Sam. Including a new one called Alice."

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Sam raised an eyebrow but didn't press. He knew better than to dig into the head of someone who had been through what Mark had.

  "Is there a way," Mark asked, changing the subject, "to find out who someone was? An ordinary person. Not a Guildmaster or a hero. Just... someone."

  Sam leaned back, considering. "It's not easy. The Collective enjoys a certain level of privacy. Census data, employment records... it's all locked down. Official records are sanctioned by the Oracle of Secrets themselves." He shook his head. "Never met them. Don't want to. They say Secrets knows what you had for breakfast before you do."

  "This ghost," Mark said, choosing his words carefully. "She's from First Landing."

  Sam froze. The casual atmosphere evaporated. He gave Mark a long, hard look, suspicion creeping back into his expression.

  "That city is silent, Mark. The doors were closed centuries ago. Asking who's in there isn't easy. It isn't even hard. It's basically impossible." He leaned forward. "No one has managed to get a peek inside in three hundred years. And the last team that tried came back a wreck. The Silent City keeps its secrets."

  "I'm not trying to get in," Mark lied smoothly. "Just... trying to understand what may be my history."

  Sam grunted, not entirely convinced. "History is one thing. Digging up the dead of First Landing is another. Be careful where you poke your nose. Some doors are closed for a very good reason."

  Sam stood up and marched into the kitchen, the distinct rustle of packaging signaling he was hunting for contraband.

  "Have you been to First Landing?" Mark shouted.

  "I'm not that old!" Sam shouted back, the indignation clear even from the other room. "And where the hell did you hide the biscuits?"

  "I meant the expeditions," Mark clarified. "The ones they run once a decade."

  "Ah." The rustling stopped. "Top shelf, behind the dried peas. You can't hide chocolate from a Battle-Smith!"

  Sam returned, triumphantly holding a packet of biscuits that were essentially chocolate-covered hobnobs. He sat down and broke one in half.

  "No," Sam said, dunking a piece in his tea. "I was invited to the last one. About nine years ago. But I chose not to go." He took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. "Witnessed a drunken altercation with a diplomat from the Sentinel State the night before departure. Decided if that was the caliber of leadership, I'd pass."

  He swallowed. "It's always the same story anyway. Three to six months travel there, dodging beasts and weather. Wait at the gate for a month, trying every key, spell, and plea known to man to open them. Then three to six months back, empty-handed."

  He gestured with the remaining biscuit. "Lots to see on the way, mind you. Ruins, old settlements. But the destination? Always the same result. The gates stay shut."

  Sam shook his head, a look of cynical resignation on his face.

  "They don't want us there, Mark. They closed the gates and kept their little paradise to themselves. Or their prison. No one knows which it is anymore."

  "Put the ghosts to bed, Mark," Sam said, his tone serious again. "And move on. That includes the sticky situation with Eric Chambers. He's buried. Let the incident stay that way, stop them from haunting you."

  Mark nodded slowly. "You're right. Maybe it is time to make an effort. To accept that this is my life now."

  Sam stared at him for a second, then burst out laughing. It was a loud, genuine sound that startled Mark.

  "You're still an idiot," Sam said, shaking his head. "And you're wrong. Don't accept this crap as your life. Do better!"

  He pointed a finger at Mark's chest.

  "Get walking. Get some magic. Make a real life. Stop just surviving, Mark. You conquered a mountain by walking around it. Now climb the damn thing."

  Mark smiled. It was the first time he'd heard Sam sound inspirational without threatening physical violence.

  "I'll try," Mark said.

  "Don't try," Sam grunted, standing up. "Do. And buy more milk."

  "Right, that's my quota of nannying a depressive masochist filled for the week," Sam announced, brushing crumbs from his tunic. "I have actual work to do. Things to hit."

  Mark grabbed his cane and followed Sam to the door. The movement was fluid, the pain a manageable background note. Sam paused on the threshold, eyeing the cane with deep suspicion.

  "You're leaning on it too much," Sam warned. "Use the muscle, not the stick."

  "It's a process," Mark said.

  "It's a crutch," Sam corrected. "Don't let it become a habit."

  With a final nod, the trainer marched off down the street, his stride purposeful and aggressive. Mark closed the door, locking it with a satisfying click.

  The house was quiet. Dawn was out, presumably being seen somewhere conspicuous. The silence felt different now. It wasn't empty. It was expectant.

  Mark turned and looked at the stairs. He didn't hesitate. He climbed them, one step at a time, the cane tapping a steady rhythm.

  He went straight to the original master bedroom, now converted into his study. The stack of notebooks sat on the desk, a monument to stolen knowledge. He sat down, pulling the fourth notebook from the pile.

  He opened it to page twenty-seven.

  The page was covered in his own handwriting, a dense scrawl of copied diagrams and runic sequences. He had transcribed it weeks ago, understanding none of it. But now, as he looked at the ink, something shifted.

  The voice in his head, the detached whisper, returned.

  Recall.

  Twice now.

  Mark stared at the page. The whisper wasn't a delusion. It was too specific, too alien to his own internal monologue. It was creepy as hell, but he accepted it. In a world where planets could appeared in pub windows, hearing voices was practically mundane.

  The diagrams were a mess of concentric circles and intersecting lines. He picked up his pencil and wrote Recall at the top of the page. It was a title, a hypothesis.

  He pulled the library book on Ritual Magic closer, flipping through the index. He started cross-referencing. This rune here, a stylized eye, matched a symbol for 'Perception.' That loop there, a Mobius strip.'

  He lost track of time. The sun moved across the sky, casting long shadows across the desk. Mark worked with the obsessive focus of a man solving a puzzle that might save his life. He transferred the design to a clean sheet of paper, labeling each component as he identified it.

  Ambient Power Intake. Clarity Filter. Memory Anchor.

  But there were gaps. Symbols that appeared in none of the reference texts. A spiral that seemed to turn inward forever. A jagged line that looked like a heartbeat. There were a dozen components that defied explanation.

  He was tracing the line of the spiral when a shout echoed up from the kitchen.

  "Who ate the chocolate crackers?!"

  Dawn's voice was of outrage and genuine betrayal. Mark froze, pencil hovering over the paper.

  He smiled.

  "Sam!" Mark shouted back. "Blame the Battle-Smith!"

  He looked back at the notebook. The mystery of the recall circle would have to wait. Domestic diplomacy required his attention.