Sleep Well

The sun rose as usual, just as it did every day on Olympia, climbing from beyond the rocks and forests, mingling its light with every gust of wind on the empty morning streets. It passed over the grand walls of sand-colored stone and the bronze gates, brushed over the heads of workers coming off the night shift, and finally entered an utterly ordinary latticed window in Lokos, quietly blending with the electric lights that had burned all night.

Mors held a scraper and raised a piece of clay before his eyes, intent on refining its smooth surface.

Between his black cloth-wrapped palms, the brown clay had taken the form of a miniature sword blade, its body engraved with ancient, seemingly natural runes.

One end of the blade burned with fierce flames, from which several suffering skulls curled forth. Their already inhuman proportions warped alongside the heat haze, as though they were about to be driven away with the smoke rising from the fire.

It had been a long time since he had immersed himself so wholeheartedly in carving.

Mors set down the scraper and picked up a spatula, removing a little clay from the recessed areas to deepen the shadows where the flames dimmed.

He searched his memories for those hazy echoes, recalling that year—he still remembered which year it had been, when he had not yet known he would endure forever. The sword-bearer had worn a crown of turquoise leaves, beast pelts draped over his shoulders, and a long sword blazing in his hand. Mors recalled his endlessly radiant face, the sharp boundary between light and shadow around him, then brought those fragmented memories, like scattered gold, back into reality.

The original of that flaming sword had been a gift forged by Mors himself. Even after tens of thousands of years had drifted by, he could still remember standing before the forge drenched in sweat, his heart hammering against his chest as he desperately calculated the force and landing point of every blow.

Mors blew away some flecks of clay, then closed his mouth again, only to realize that the corners of his lips had curled upward.

He rolled his neck, let the clay sculpture float in the air for the moment, and turned to inspect the stone statue beside him.

The clay sculpture was the draft for the steel blade, and the steel blade was one of the stone statue's two components.

He needed the finished blade to fall correctly into the statue's as-yet uncarved hand, where it would be properly gripped.

Then someone knocked on his door. The knocks were heavy and brief, their faster-than-usual rhythm betraying the hidden urgency of the person outside. Mors glanced out the window and only then realized it was dawn.

He kept the clay sculpture floating in the air, untouched by any unnecessary force and maintained at the proper humidity, then said toward the door, "Good morning, Peturabo."

"Mors." The door was pushed open at once. Its well-oiled hinges were so smooth that they did nothing to conceal the boy's hurried footsteps.

Peturabo tried his best to walk in a straight line to hide how lightheaded he was.

Besides, although the fabric of his robe had been forcibly smoothed more than once, it had only stretched some of the cotton threads loose and distorted. It could not conceal the wrinkles in the garment itself.

Not to mention that it was the very same robe he had worn yesterday.

"When can you teach me stone carving?" he asked, staring at Mors. His voice was forceful, but uneasy.

Mors gently set his tools aside and studied Peturabo. "I saw today's sun for the first time ten seconds ago. I thought you would at least leave me time for breakfast."

Peturabo immediately pulled a tightly wrapped loaf of bread from the cloth bag in his hand, stretched out his arm, and practically thrust it beneath Mors's nose.

Mors snorted with laughter and accepted the paper-wrapped bread, opening it. Peturabo pressed on, rummaging through his little cloth bag again as he lowered his head and asked, "Do you want fruit?"

Mors gave his stone sculpture one last look. A thin cloth floated over and gently covered it.

Then he dragged over a wicker chair and settled into it comfortably, eating the bread that had remained completely intact thanks to its overly thorough wrapping. With one wagging finger, he indicated that Peturabo should stop stuffing greaseproof paper packages at him.

Peturabo tossed another round paper package aside, then began taking tools out one by one onto the table in Mors's room. Finally, an intact new block of stone appeared in the center of the table.

As he did so, his brows were knitted and his teeth clenched, his expression so solemn it looked as if he were about to eat the entire table alive.

But his hands were shaking.

"You have to teach me how to refine stone sculptures, Mors. In one week, I have to compete with Andos." Peturabo braced both hands on the table, trying to make himself look taller.

"Oh, I thought you had already sought instruction from the local stoneworkers of Lokos."

"I did!" His voice abruptly rose, then he swiftly regained his composure. The tips of his fingers pressed so hard against the table that his knuckles turned white. "But they are nowhere near as skilled as Andos. Everyone knows Andos is a genius craftsman. People say in private that he should not have been a Prince, because a stone sculpture can always outlive a family."

"And I am better than Andos?"

"Are you not?"

"Have you seen any finished stone sculptures of mine to prove it?"

Peturabo opened his mouth. His eyes flicked toward the nameless half-finished statue beneath the soft cloth, then toward the miniature clay model floating in midair. Clearly, the question had stumped him.

He drew a breath and said, "When I first met you, you had a stone statue that was finished."

Mors finished the bread, clapped his hands, and shook the crumbs from the black cloth. Before Peturabo could be knocked senseless by his own panic, he said with no small amount of sarcasm, "Now it has become raw material again. Guess why?"

"Because you wanted to carve a new statue. You strive for perfection."

"Completely wrong. It was because that last stone statue was by no means exceptional. It was no better than the finest work made by Lokos's best craftsmen."

"No, Mors, you are better than them!" Peturabo said. "That is absolute. No one can deny it!"

Mors covered his mouth loosely and yawned.

He did not particularly want to know when Peturabo had begun seeing him as such an enigmatic, towering figure. Nor was he particularly curious where Peturabo had stuffed the empiricist philosophy he had read yesterday—some nonexistent forgotten corner, apparently.

"All right, Peturabo." Mors tapped his heel against the ground, making the wicker chair rock back and forth. "It seems you have very little confidence in defeating Andos through your own studies."

"I am your apprentice, Mors. My studies are studying under you."

Peturabo raised one hand and clenched it into a fist. The unconscious grasping motion looked as though he were trying to crush an egg that could not possibly be crushed.

Mors stared at Peturabo until the boy showed an unnatural flash of irritation.

Peturabo did not accept failure.

Especially failure in a contest against mortals.

But he did not believe he could win.

When Mors spoke, he added a hoarse gentleness to his commanding tone.

"Find a chair and sit down, Peturabo."

Peturabo obeyed.

"Now close your eyes. Imagine your body becoming heavy, your feet planted on the ground. Can you feel the weight of the earth? Good. Your body is relaxing, relaxing even more. The chair supports your back, your legs, your body. Begin to breathe. Breathe deeply. Inhale, exhale. Draw in fresh air, and let the gloom drift away with every breath..."

Peturabo suddenly opened his eyes and sprang from the chair. "Mors! Are you hypnotizing me?"

He actually sounded a little aggrieved.

"Precisely. Rather than nervously chasing after me with questions, hoping to get a complete set of universal carving principles from me, I think you would be better off lying on the floor and sleeping for a while to restore your energy."

As Mors spoke, he mercilessly tapped Peturabo's nerves with psychic power.

The boy collapsed onto the floor and soon began snoring.

The child did not usually snore, unless he had gone two days without managing to close his eyes for more than ten seconds.

Mors adjusted his sleeping posture, straightening his awkward legs and arms. He placed a three-layered rug beneath him and threw a white cloth over him to keep him warm.

Once that was done, he calmly returned to contemplating his clay sword.