The Trial of Steel (5k)

No one understood what Peturabo was thinking, Dameks thought.

After Peturabo's baffling act, Dameks's habits as a king made him observe his subjects at once: he could not help worrying whether Peturabo's spoiling of the occasion had damaged his authority.

He saw the priest raise his head high, kneeling so deeply that he seemed about to break his neck as he looked up at Peturabo. His face was stricken with panic, his lips muttering, his tongue trembling.

He saw the soldiers' lips part beneath the upper halves of their faces concealed by helmets, drawing astonished breaths into bodies protected by iron.

He saw courtiers clutching at their robe sleeves or standing taut as fish freshly hauled from the sea. Some lowered their heads to avoid trouble; others looked up at him.

At last, he looked toward the center of the crowd. Among the people gathered in a circle, envoys from foreign lands maintained their false courtesies, standing straight with expressions both refined and composed.

No one questioned Peturabo over his offensive and abrupt conduct, and Dameks forgave himself for his momentary alarm.

Then he realized that the pauses Peturabo left in his speech had been deliberately given for others to exchange astonished glances.

A thought stirred within Dameks: perhaps this was the talent of the all-capable son.

If his own son, ambitious Harkon, the child destined to inherit, possessed such gifts; or if his second son, weak Andos, that craftsman devoted to art, had such spirit, how fortunate would Lokos be?

How could the nations of other tyrants ever breach Lokos's steadfast walls, unchanged for six hundred years?

Though he himself did not particularly fear war, he also knew that peace was what the masses desired.

As for Calipha, his only daughter. Though she possessed an uncommon understanding of leadership, the Olympians would never permit a woman to become a tyrant—at least, not in Lokos.

"I forged a blade," Peturabo said.

When the truth left the boy's mouth, it acquired a decisive divinity. He merely had to stand there, with the forge fire blazing behind him, to become part of Olympia's ancient myths.

"I gave steel its shape and made metal submit to me. I listened to the songs of gold and iron, allowing creations to find their places beneath my hands, allowing sharp weapons to come into this world. A craftsman taught me this, and today I put it into practice. And I succeeded."

Mors listened quietly, his unkempt black hair concealing half his pale face. When Peturabo mentioned him, his eyelids lowered and rose again in a blink.

Peturabo's voice gradually sank. "I came here today to prove that I am the person you believe me to be. And from each of your eyes, I have seen that you have already given me proof."

"Though you do not speak, I hear every one of you saying that I am descended from gods, that I am the boy who came down from the peak of your mountains, that I am not ordinary."

Mount Tylephos, Dameks thought. He meant Mount Tylephos, snowbound all year round, whose summit no one could reach.

For so many years, the Olympians had been obsessed with conquest among themselves, seizing others' lands, taking, overcoming—yet no one had ever conquered Mount Tylephos.

That was no longer a realm for mortals.

"But!" Peturabo suddenly raised his voice, and it struck heavily against Dameks's heart.

"What did I use to prove this rumor? A hammer, a furnace, a bellows? A blade that any craftsman could forge if he pursued perfection? Is this the evidence I have presented? Is this all that you want?"

He looked around, and his solemn face carried a reckless sarcasm. Anyone who had spoken with Mors would have noticed that it was exactly the same expression Mors often wore.

"My body, my strength, my knowledge, my memories—none exceed the limits mortals can touch." Peturabo spoke coldly. "I am a mortal now, just like anyone present. Two arms, two eyes, one... one heart."

"And now you tell me that I have used something mortals can do to prove that I am not mortal. Think again, everyone. Is this how you think?"

He let his words drift lightly through the hall.

The priest raised his head even higher. Peturabo noticed him, and the boy looked at the priest with cold determination. Anyone capable of feeling could sense the profound mockery and forceful disappointment within that gaze.

"Is this how you prove that gods are gods? Tell me, priest. Is this how you steal the achievements of mortals and use them as proof that gods exist?"

Then he lifted his head again.

"You have proven your faith, and I have proven my principle," Peturabo said. "Namely, that your gods truly arise from fabricated fantasy."

Dameks gripped the wooden railing with both hands in urgency, even forgetting that he still held a golden scepter.

Peturabo's performance had allowed the boy to use the stage Dameks built for him to stand upon the heads of every Lokosian, and Dameks desperately wanted to defend his subjects.

A tyrant had to defend his subjects, or from this day onward he would lose face.

Then the golden scepter, which slipped from Dameks's palm and was about to strike the ground, abruptly floated in the air. A layer of frost crawled over the grapes arranged on the low table beside the tyrant's throne, coating the fruit in a delicate, beautiful veil of ice.

Mors drew the scepter backward into his palm, idly playing with it as his fingertips brushed the golden bird carved atop it.

He spoke softly. "Look, Father! How warm the sun is, and how clear the sea. Icarus sang as he circled at heights he had never reached in this life, enjoying a freedom unseen in ancient or modern times. He saw everything upon the earth at a glance, and sometimes even believed Helios's sun chariot was within reach."

Dameks had no time to analyze Mors's work, even though his wisdom warned him that Mors's words were a distilled, artistic rendition of what was unfolding before him.

He had to focus entirely on Peturabo, whose gaze met his.

"Peturabo," Dameks said, doing his utmost to preserve both his magnanimity and majesty.

He said warmly, "Faith only reaches you when it stirs something within your heart. The gods do not compel their subjects' reverence."

"If that is what you think."

Dameks felt the weight of the iron crown upon his head and drew strength from it. "Everyone here has witnessed your talent, and gifted people deserve certain privileges of pride. Any wise ruler should act this way, should he not?"

"In any case, Lokos's gates will forever be open to you and the craftsman Mors. Though you threw the blade into the furnace with such resolve, I still hope to hear your answer. Why destroy your work, Peturabo?"

He quietly shifted the subject.

Peturabo glanced back at the furnace, then surveyed the hall—from the electric lamps decorated like candle flames on the ceiling, to the steaming automated gears around them, to the shields and armor held by soldiers beneath the towering stone pillars, and the garments and ornaments of the courtiers.

Then he spoke. "You are a rational man, tyrant, so I will speak with you."

Dameks did not know whether he should be pleased by that.

The boy said, "There are many things I do not know. I want to know where the electric lamps draw their power from, whether steel machinery can be better designed. I need to learn. Of course, I am not an impolite person."

"Mors told me that every gain requires a payment, and both sides should name the price." The boy's expression was somewhat subtle as he said this. "I will learn everything I can in Lokos, but I will also give my labor."

"Will you forge more weapons?"

"No. That is not where my talent lies. I burned the blade for precisely that reason. I have no intention of making weapons for anyone. I am a craftsman. Waterwheels, wooden plows, roads, millstones, sculptures, paintings, ceremonial vessels, bronze statues... those are what I will leave behind in Lokos."

At this point, the boy paused. "If I knew how to forge sickles and plows, I would have reforged that blade into tools for the people. But I do not know how."

"And war?" Dameks asked cautiously. "Child, war is necessary. The peace of Lokos alone will not purify the soil of other nations' thirst for violence like rain from snowy mountains."

The boy's indifference deepened. "Fortresses, walls, machinery, weapons. I do not favor such things, but that does not mean I lack skill in them."

Dameks was about to speak again, to soothe Peturabo with kind words, when he heard the priest below tremblingly force his limp tongue into motion. "Lord Peturabo, if you are a mortal, then where did your forging knowledge come from? Did Lord Mors teach it to you? And who is he?"

"Perhaps Lord Mors is a messenger of the gods. Perhaps the gods sent him to be your mentor, and he simply never told you."

Dameks felt anger rise in an instant. Yet with the golden scepter being toyed with by Mors, he could not strike the ground with it, and could only slam his palm heavily against the railing. "Priest Fedra, stop your provocations! Making reckless remarks before guests invited by Lokos—have you not realized how utterly absurd your behavior is?"

He should never have listened to the god cult today, fooled by Fedra's obedience into inviting these troublesome religious frauds to uphold some tradition!

Peturabo immediately glanced at Mors. Mors lightly tapped his lower lip with one finger and looked down calmly. Not only was he unmoved, he could not even be bothered to put on a reluctant show of encouragement.

That was the entirety of his answer, an answer that could scarcely be called one. Dameks began to wonder what conflict existed between the two—but he could not guess. Or was this simply how craftsmen got along with one another?

Peturabo withdrew his gaze and stepped forward. For a moment, Dameks thought the boy was about to raise his leg and kick the priest.

Thinking of the consequences, Dameks first worried deeply, then realized that he was actually looking forward to it.

Then he would have a reason to have a minor clash with the god cult priests who always spread dreadful prophecies, and to instead grow closer to the Pelekontia Nine Sages.

Peturabo did not do so.

"If you always pitifully cling to those tragic myths of sacrifice in your mind, forcing divine causes onto every event in the world, then reason cannot save you—you cannot be saved by something that does not exist in your heart."

As Peturabo spoke, he passed the priest, too lazy to waste any more words.

His attention was more focused on Mors.

At this moment, Mors's silence carried a more tangible weight. His gaze and his waiting had become an entity that could not be ignored; his attitude no longer required words to describe it.

Language itself was a measuring stick constructed by humanity to quantify the world, a converted unit of measure.

Peturabo clenched his teeth and abandoned further hesitation.

"Mors is an excellent craftsman. I have never seen a complete work he has left behind in reality, but his skill unquestionably surpasses the sum of Olympia's accomplishments. What I have seen and learned thus far is enough for me to make that judgment."

"He taught me forging. He taught me how to live. He is changing me. Yet there is indeed no relationship between us beyond that. We merely often appear in the same places. He may leave at any time, not through divine guidance, but by his own will."

He paused, then continued. "I will never deny his help, nor will I call him my mentor against his will. I am qualified to respect him in that way, but what right do you have to speculate about him and diminish him into a messenger of the gods?"

Dameks hurriedly made his voice carry over any murmurs that might arise.

"Peturabo," the tyrant said, "you have already proven yourself, in both talent and ability. Lokos's city-state and fortresses await your designs, and craftsmen and scholars will gather before you. Whether knowledge, brick and stone, or earthly honors and flowers, whatever you desire, so long as you can bring glory to Lokos."

"And Mors?" Peturabo asked.

"How exactly should we regard the relationship between you and the craftsman Mors, Peturabo?"

In Peturabo's eyes, Dameks saw echoing emptiness, faint tremors, deep and somber shades, and hazy pain. Those emotions were not separate, but fused together like a lump of solidified molten iron, becoming one gray shadow. He understood emotion not through reason, but through shared feeling—and it reminded Dameks of his own father, whom he quickly forgot again.

"He has no relationship with me, tyrant. Though I have expectations of him," another pause, "and dependence."

The next second, Mors suddenly appeared at the center of the platform.

No one saw how he had abruptly shifted form beneath the eyes of the multitude. He was simply there, as though he had been standing there for a long time.

"Peturabo is my apprentice," Mors declared arrogantly, wrapping one arm around the boy's shoulders, "and I am a craftsman."

His behavior was severe and rough, sorely lacking in regard for others' opinions. Yet Peturabo accepted Mors with delight, allowing the black-clad craftsman to trap him within his arm as if he had been waiting for it for a long time.

Mors lowered his head slightly. "Do you want to remain here, Peturabo?"

"Yes," the boy said.

Mors smiled. "Tyrant, you heard him."

Dameks pulled himself together, suppressed his confusion before the unexpected turn, and immediately began handling matters in an orderly fashion.

He ordered the soldier Putrocles to prepare to remove the detestable priest, announced new decisions to the courtiers one by one, reinforced his authority with hearty laughter and occasional gloom, endured Mors's faintly smiling gaze, and began considering how he would deal with Olympia's alliance of sages from many nations in the future...

These matters consumed much of his attention. Though he was still in his prime, he could no longer be called young. His mood had risen and fallen several times today, leaving him truly exhausted.

Only after everyone had departed, the lights had dimmed, and Mors and Peturabo had left together—Peturabo had amusingly given the priest a real kick as he left—did Dameks relax onto his couch. He breathed in the sweet air of the empty palace and sighed over the mental strain of the past two days.

Then he saw a soft sheet of paper tucked beneath the filigreed fruit plate holding grapes still dripping with crystalline ice water on the low table beside the couch.

It should be noted that he was merely using the function of this "paper" to temporarily retrieve the most fitting term from his store of knowledge and explain it.

Upon that seamless, unbelievably smooth and light, thin white creation beyond the imagination of all people, was written the ending to the story Mors had told.

As Dameks read, he savored from the depths of his heart the fruit borne from ample, rich astonishment. When he finished the story, the juice of that plump fruit slowly brought him a strange sweetness.

He imagined several of the most common tragic endings in all the plays of the planet Olympia, savoring the artistic beauty of calamity in their flaws. He inferred the pair's doom from the clues in the preceding text, yet not once did he expect to find a complete and happy story in Mors's writing.

"I am about to touch the sun. My wings have caught fire, yet I am about to touch the sun, and I desire nothing more. Will you abandon me? Then farewell, Father. It is not the first time you have left me. Father, I am about to fall into the sea!"

"Do not panic, my son. There is a lone island ahead, and my wings still permit us to land there. Rest upon that island. I shall name it Icaria, and your name shall become a symbol of the land of craftsmanship."

"From then on, craftsmen enjoyed paradise. Though far removed from the world, living long upon the lonely island, hunting, building, and planting there, their works transcended mortal measure, allowing stone statues wrought by human hands to enter eternity like myths."

"When people describe the works of the craftsmen Daedalus and Icarus, they often say that they were the origin of artists who gave souls to their creations."

"When masters of old carved stone statues, those statues could only close their eyes, let their hands hang at their sides, and sleep softly in stillness. Only when the two first touched stone chisels did the statues open eyes shining like gilded light, stretch their hands far forward, step out, as though eagerly wishing to embrace the world."

At the end of the paper, a line of small writing had been penned in fine strokes.

"I did not create this story. I merely returned it to the world."

Thanks to the boss who cut the wallpaper with a knife, orz