Reforging

Peturabo did not like his tone.

The boy believed he was suffering a tremendous humiliation. If the sharp awl in his hand could pierce Mors's throat, then Mors's windpipe ought already to have been swiftly torn out, like a wild dog shredding prey, snapping its neck, and tearing out its innards.

Mors had no doubt about that. He merely felt that Peturabo might do it more civilly. Those proud of their learning often found their actions constrained by it.

Peturabo's shoulders tensed and rose. The black pupils in his blue eyes dilated slightly, and his brows furrowed without concealment.

He glanced at the crudely forged sharp awl in his hand, then surveyed the little settlement of stone and mud around them, and suddenly relaxed.

"You envy me, Mors." The boy smugly tossed the awl to the ground. "You envy my knowledge and covet my abilities. Look at your primitive way of life, your failed craftsmanship. Your mud huts are far inferior to the high walls and castles I will build. Before me, you are a backward barbarian, dressed in ridiculous cloth, with disheveled hair and ragged clothes. Apart from your inexplicable strength, you are nothing."

Peturabo raised a hand and, without permission, raised his voice. "Where is your estate? Your workshop? Do not tell me you still use sticks to beat branches and trunks to knock down olives. Do not tell me you only know how to crush grapes into juice by stomping them in a basin with your feet. Is that why you use black cloth as footwear? Where are your books and scrolls? Your parchment? Are you still cutting papyrus stalks into strips, laying them flat on wooden boards, and painstakingly hammering them into paper? Mors, you cannot even build a proper sewer."

Mors lowered his head, covering the lower half of his face with one hand as he let out a soft breath.

Peturabo took that small gesture as proof that he had struck a sore spot. His fighting spirit rose further, and the expression finally made his manner match the childishness of his body.

"By humiliating me like this, are you not trying to crush my confidence so you can exploit me? That is all an ignorant man like you can do to me."

Mors was not sure how much longer he could keep his shoulders from shaking.

"You ask what I fear because you want to manipulate my fear? Then let me tell you: what I know is something loftier than anything you can see."

Mors watched an arrogant, cold head lift higher and higher. Perhaps, in Peturabo's eyes, the Vortex of the Stars deep within the clouds was converging and gathering.

"That is the Vortex of the Stars, the bruise and scar of the sky. My great destiny awaits among the stars, and my power and potential are beyond doubt. I was born for a realm far greater than Olympia. You will never reach my heights."

Peturabo became calm and proud. "I know all this," he said.

Mors raised his head and repeated a steady rhythm of breathing, waiting for the smile to leave his face.

Peturabo's counterattack was filled with assaults on weaknesses that did not exist. It sounded as though the child could not survive without looking down on others.

He feared the Maelstrom of Stars he spoke of so deeply that he had to overwhelm it with false self-consolation.

But Mors would not ignore the admiration he felt for Peturabo—not for Peturabo himself, but for his creator.

How had that craftsman created such a work of art, one that combined human and inhuman traits?

Mors did not know.

At the same time, he was certain he would keep Peturabo.

"You are not quite what I imagined." He made no effort to hide the mockery in his voice.

Peturabo stood close enough for him to place a hand on the boy's shoulder.

Then he pressed down.

"You!"

Peturabo's cry was choked off by psychic power, but he had no time to care. Every ounce of the boy's strength went toward resisting the crushing weight on his shoulder. He planted his feet apart to bear it. Frost condensed from moisture rising off the drought-parched earth, then melted under the heat radiating from his skin. He strained to keep his head raised and meet Mors's gaze, his face flushing red with exertion.

"Do you know what you remind me of?" Mors gently shook his head and held out his left hand. The awl flew into his palm.

He pressed the awl against one side of Peturabo's upper jaw, precisely the same spot where he had smashed the face of Perseus's statue.

His control was precise enough that he knew exactly how close he could come without hurting him. If Peturabo had the nerve to charge forward, Mors would not mind repairing him afterward.

"You remind me of children between four and twelve. Their families instill their first set of values in them. Their relatives tell them, 'You are unique little treasures,' and they believe it. Then, when they encounter one another, they try to preserve that belief."

"The first child says: I know more than all of you. I know fruit grows on trees, pottery comes from workshops, and salt comes from seawater."

"The second child says disdainfully: What do you know? I also know that those who defy the prophets of the divine faith are sent into the turning wheel by the dark judgment, and that slaves grow in the city-state across from us."

"The third child laughs loudly: There is one thing you definitely cannot surpass me in. Both my parents were executed by a tyrant. What about yours?"

His smile vanished as he said coldly, "Which one do you think you are, Peturabo?"

Suddenly, Peturabo raised both hands and clamped all ten fingers tightly around Mors's forearm, like an Iron Circle tightening. The boy's strength was astonishing. The instant Mors dropped his guard, a crisp crack of breaking bone rang out. Scalding pain surged from within his arm, and the black cloth grew damp.

Energy crackled at Mors's fingertips. Part of it struck toward Peturabo, drawing a muffled groan of pain from the boy and loosening the grip of those iron-circle hands. Another part spiraled up Mors's arm, repairing the broken bone.

"You are a combination of every one of those types," Mors said in a low voice. "You think you know more and understand more."

At the tip of the awl, a drop of blood seeped out and ran down its edge.

"You think yourself above mortals, so you disdain mortals."

"When you discover that neither of the first two may be true, all you can do is say: Look at me, I am a composite of misery and nobility! How great I am!"

The resolute expression on Peturabo's face cracked apart, as impossible to maintain as a hero's shattered statue. A sound more like a shriek than a roar burst from his mouth.

"You do not understand me at all!" he shouted. "You know nothing!"

The hand Mors had placed on his shoulder flattened more gently, rubbing the side of the boy's neck soothingly to signal that he should relax.

"Next, I want you to remain conscious, Peturabo. Though I will not hurt you." The awl flew from his hand. He did not answer Peturabo's question.

Mors cupped both sides of Peturabo's neck and forced him to look directly into his eyes.

Peturabo was right about one thing: he did not yet truly understand the boy before him. But that was not important.

"I will reforge you," Mors said.

Psychic power gathered within his body. For the first time in countless years, he summoned such immense strength. An electric tremor surged through him with a burning heat. Deep-blue and brilliant-gold motes alternated before his eyes, while nonexistent flames and the ashes of snow burned away together.

He plunged into the depths of his mind, drawing up echoes of power and emotion from a bottomless vortex. Layered noise drowned out the pounding pulse in his ears.

Mors could faintly hear the tearing howl of ravenous hunger from a storm more than a hundred years ago. As usual, he ignored it, avoiding the chance that the unseen thing might cast a passing glance his way.

He vaguely guessed the truth behind the Maelstrom of Stars Peturabo spoke of. Before the thought could take definite shape, he snuffed it out.

The first lock was like gauze over the eyes, severing the connection between Peturabo and what he feared. A golden thread snapped, and four filthy chains rusted away.

This was more difficult than Mors had first imagined. If this was the work of Peturabo's creator, then the range of possible candidates could be narrowed further.

The second lock wrapped around him like a length of silk, suppressing the boy's instinctive growth and extraordinary body.

Mors had no intention of returning Peturabo completely to mortality, so he did not recklessly touch the other's genetic helix. Within ten years, this miraculous creation's rate of growth would return to normal.

He drew a difficult breath. Beneath the black cloth, his skin was splitting open.

The third lock was shrouded in mist, obscuring the excess knowledge in Peturabo's mind. If the accumulation of knowledge came before the maturation of the mind, it was no longer a blessing, but a curse.

Likewise, this lock would be broken by the passage of time.

The more Mors understood Peturabo's construction, the more astonished and delighted he became. Even with immense power, he could not touch even a fraction of his essence.

Unless he paid a greater price, his psychic power could still only alter Peturabo's outward appearance.

Fortunately, that was enough.

Mors stepped backward until his spine struck the wall of the house. Blood flowed from the mural on its surface.

"Your creator did not finish his work. Peturabo, you are not a qualified tool."

He smiled sincerely.

"And how should a qualified craftsman handle steel that has failed in the forge? I choose to melt it back into molten iron, quench it, hammer it, cool it, and repeat the process again and again."

Once Mors released him, Peturabo staggered to the ground, his palm scraping open against the sand and stones.

He stared in disbelief at the scrape on his palm, which did not heal for a long time. True fear captured him with ease.