The sound was concussive, rather like thunder, but concentrated. And coming not from the sky, but from the surrounding lands. Anrik had gotten over the need to clap his hands over his ears, but still they rang. The others said it would pass, but many of them could no longer hear whispers. I guess I could thank Alumina for this. He kept his word, sort of.

“Grinner!” the Shotmaster shouted. Anrik snapped to attention at the sound of the man’s voice. “You get lost in yourn head when it matters and the pretty little thing’ll get smart blown off.” The man spit on the ground and leered. His boy Vern was behind, trying to seem more than what he really was. Both of them had streaks of ash and soot covering their faces, forearms, and hands, permanent layers of grit seemed to live under their fingernails. Anrik would have expected someone like Vern to be, well, more like a woman, but despite the man’s slimness he was easily rougher than Anrik himself. Funny that.

“Yes, Shotmaster.” Anrik said, trying not to seem disingenuous. His task sustained him during times like this. “I will try harder.”

Shotmaster Povrin did not smile. He did purse his lips and spit again, this time in Anrik’s general direction. “See that you do boy. You ain’t too ugly to be someone’s pet, and if you get my men killed I’ll see you sold to them Vargs out east.”

The Vargs. I can hardly believe they’re real. Not that I’ve seen any yet.. I...

Vern sidled up as Shotmaster Povrin strutted away. The slim, muscular man grabbed Anrik behind the neck, his grip as hard as winter ice. Anrik saw the thick, corded strands in Vern’s arm and he knew what it meant. Da has arms like that. Vern knows his way around a forge and a hammer. But why is he so thin?

“I’m not a fan of children.” Vern said. His brown eyes were wooden and coarse. “And if you let Povrin into your bed I’ll cut your dick off after he leaves.”

What the holy orcfuck?

Anrik wisely kept his oath to himself. Vern squeezed Anrik’s neck, hard enough to bruise and then shoved Anrik away. “I can’t imagine any other reason you were sent here, except that some Father got tired of another plaything and wanted to be sure the other Fathers didn’t learn of his... proclivities.”

The way Vern’s features twisted told Anrik everything he needed to know. But Vern wasn’t done. “Don’t imagine I was one of them. You damn Mountain folk. So pedestrian. I was made for men, not women. Some child-fucking pervert didn’t twist me. If you knew anything about Tiris, about any real city, you’d know what it is.”

Why is he telling me this?

“The Mother Church has never held the torch for such intolerance. It is why her power tops the Nations and not that of the Father Church.” Vern said this with a form of reverence. Still, Anrik was confused. Vern noticed. “I don’t like you Grinner. You’re incompetent, slow, and country. Worse, you’re not even pretty, and you can’t seem to grow more than the pathetic scraggle of a beard on your chin. But you’re slender and dutiful. Men wander. It’s normal. Povrin likes you, I can tell. But trust me – you wouldn’t like him. So stay away, get me?”

“I would never...” Anrik began.

Vern waved the comment aside, uninterested. “Povrin has asked that you be taught the making of the powders. He seems to think perhaps this will be the thing you happen to be good at.” Vern snorted to show what he believed about that.

Days later Anrik’s arms, face, and fingernails were as sooty as Vern’s. He had only thought his hearing was at risk before. Six explosions in four days and an army could sneak up behind him and he wouldn’t notice. Vern had taken to sneaking up and lighting a cracker at Anrik’s feet to watch Anrik’s utter shock as the small charge exploded. How these men had managed to survive without blowing themselves to bit was more of a continual shock to Anrik. He could barely accept it. Thankfully he did not see Povrin again during those days. Vern seemed to be in charge of this group of men and women who ground and sorted powders used in the explosives. Each building was used for a different powder and the people who worked on different powders were forbidden from having physical contact with each other. The other apprentices told stories of two boys who had risked it, for a evening tryst, only to blow one’s cock off and leave one with ass that wouldn’t stop bleeding. They seemed to find this joke hilarious. Vern did not, but never made any effort to quash it. The more Anrik learned about Vern the more he found he had a grudging respect for the man.

More than his respect for Vern, Anrik had learned to fear the powders. While the others told fanciful stories about explosions and sex, they also told stories about what the powders could do when combined. They called the stuff shotpowder. Mixed in the right quantities it could destroy a stone building as large as the Alumina Tower in Ithengard. That the place was a secret installation run by the Mother Church was not a secret to those who worked there. Of course they all knew. That Anrik was not actually one of their own was his own secret, and he clung to it. It was like walking around all the time with a lit cord, which in this place was about the most dangerous thing he could do.

I wonder if Jester knew about shotpowder. With all his time spent up in the room, with those books, and out here this stuff is being made. What about Da? Does he know?

Anrik had no way to communicate with his brother or father, even if he had actually wished to do so. They were hundreds and hundreds of leagues away, across the Mordrin Mountains, over the Plain Vale at the base of the Mistyns. I wonder if I’ll ever see those mountains again.

“I would have expected you would have had your fill of daydreaming, Grinner.” Vern said, in a harsh whisper just at the edge of Anrik’s ear. Anrik held back from startlement by a feather. It didn’t matter that he daydreamed. The rock he was powdering was only explosive when it touch saltpeter. Otherwise it was just a blackish, fine grit sand. Carbonblack. I wonder who realized it first? That the stuff we use to make steel could be mixed with something else and blow things up? How could someone discover that and not die in the process?

Father could probably answer that, not that he would bother to let me in on such secrets. I wouldn’t be surprised if Jester knew as...

Something hard and unyielding clocked Anrik in the side of the head. The blow was not forceful enough to cause him to fall off his stool, but it was enough that he nearly lost control of the mortar and pestle. Though he was quite certain the powders could not explode without the proper combination, the mere fear of it drove Anrik’s pulse to fluttering.

Vern leaned over Anrik, a long stone pestle clutched hard in his hands. A nasty, feral gleam shone in his eyes. The pestle gently tapped in the hand, as Anrik stared at it. He’s going to hit me again...

Vern started to pull the pestle back, as though raising it for a swing, when an audible gasp ripped through the other workers. Quicker than it should have been possible for such a heavy object, the pestle was replaced upon a table as though it had not been a hair away from smashing in the side of Anrik’s face. Vern himself was already moving away, arms raised and a supercilious air taking over his tone.

“Mother Silva!” Vern said. Anrik was confused. Some people, particularly those far away from the concentrated urban centers where the Mother Church was strong and well-regarded, used the phrase as the milder of two curses. The other being “Mother Gold!” Even the roughest of the detractors of the Hegemony did not invoke the title of Mother Mithril in such a fashion. Most believed she could hear the thoughts of people, even at great distance, for she seemed to know the truth of things, even those far, far away. Thus it shocked Anrik so much that he knocked his mortar and pestle off the table when he saw a woman in plain, but shimmering raiment standing just inside the main door.

The woman had her arms crossed under her chest, each hand tucked into the large sleeve of the other. Her clothing shone like silver in the sun, it sparkled as though it were truly woven from silk made of silver. It was remarked that the Mothers of Silver could weave cloth of silver, but Anrik had never believed it was actually so, nor had he trusted anyone, even a Holy Mother, could walk about wearing enough silver to buy a city block, and not immediately be slain for the possession of it. The woman’s eyes were a dark brown, slightly tilted and immaculately clipped in drawn arches. Those eyes fixed on Anrik, though she spoke to Vern.

“I see you all are quite busy here.” the Mother said. Her voice was cold and brusque. Her chin was tilted just a bit upwards. “Do not let my presence interrupt the work.” She leaned down and whispered something to Vern, and though her eyes did not leave Anrik’s face, but they gave nothing away.

Maybe it’s just me... maybe I just don’t know what to look for.

As Anrik pondered Mother Silva the woman smiled at him. It was warm, pleasant smile, eeriely similar to the smile Anrik’s own mother had given him before he fell out of her favor. Vern looked at Anrik as well, his expression an attempt at being unreadable while covering rage. The pair began to walk over to Anrik, the rest of the workers going back to work while also trying to be snoopish and unseen. Mother Silva walked a half-step behind Vern but something about her posture, upright and firm, making it clear she was leading from behind. The nearer they came to Anrik the more he felt strange. As though the Mother Silva was inside his head, picking through his thoughts one by one. Searching.

She’ll figure it out. She’ll...

“I hear that you came to us all the way from Ithgard?” Mother Silva said, her voice even and warm.

Anrik swallowed hard. Though he tried not to imagine what Alumina had told him he could not stop himself. No matter what else you do, Anrik Grinner, do not allow yourself to be unmasked.

Mother Silva’s eyes widened the slightest fraction, unless Anrik was imagining it. She pulled an hand from the sleeve of her silvery robe. Palm down she presented her silver ring to Anrik, the opaline jewel on it gleaming in the indoor lighting. Rumors abounded about what powers those rings could grant, from invisibility to the power of Command to a life many times that of a normal Man, but though Anrik believed in magic he did not believe in magic rings. Again the slight crinkle of Mother Silva’s eyes implied she somehow could read his thoughts. Anrik kissed the ring.

“Yes, Mother. My parents were Roaders, Da was an Paver, Ma was a Planner.”

The story came easy enough, Anrik had said it now so many times. Even his low-ward accent sounded authentic to Anrik. Like someone else al... Mother Silva laughed. A joyful sound. “Yes, yes. I see. But how did they die, Sir Grinner?”

Alumina had insisted Anrik keep his given name. The Father had seemed to believe Anrik could not be convincing otherwise.

“Accident.” Anrik said, quick. “In Erdor.”

Mother Silva nodded, put her hand back into her sleeve, eyes locked upon Anrik, but not at all intimidating or unpleasant.

“How old were you?” she asked.

“Five.”

“Did you have any siblings?”

The question caught Anrik for a moment. Something about her tone was... strange. Still, his story had been well-rehearsed.

“No.” Anrik said. “I have no other family left.” As he said this his anger about Jester came through, he hoped seeming bitter. Because it was.

Mother Silva turned to Vern. “I would see the rendering houses.”

Nothing more was said to Anrik as they left. Anrik tried to go back to grinding saltpeter, but his mind wasn’t in it.

Next Chapter: Chapter 14 - Masaan