The Constructor

Rodrik straightened from his stool with a wince, a familiar pinch flaring in his spine with the movement. He really ought to get a cushion for it. Or admit he was getting old.

He sifted through a tray of brushes and selected one with long, thin bristles. After dipping it in a vial of black paint, he hunched forward and resumed the bold, swirling pattern along the Construct’s muzzle. The black-on-white design, elegant and sharp, gave the horse a regal edge.

Satisfied with the face, he shifted his attention to the horse’s eyes and, with a practiced flourish, mimicked the stylized eyeliner favored by the more fashionable wizards in Limbus. Delicate and expressive.

He sat back to take it all in, letting the brush hover forgotten in his hand. A long sigh left his lungs as he stood and stretched, twisting this way and that until an audible pop brought some small relief to the ache in his back. He circled the Construct, inspecting it from all angles. Yak-hair mane and tail braided with black ribbon, iron hooves framed with matching fur, and a bone-white body that reflected the lantern’s light. He gave one of the ribbons a satisfied tug.

His best one yet. Though he’d said the same about the last one. And the one before that.

He grunted in approval. Nothing wrong with admiring one’s own work.

Constructing the caravan mounts had quickly become his favorite task. Monte Rathe, the caravan master, craved unnecessary extravagance, and Rodrik was only too happy to comply. Most of his commissions leaned practical: prosthetics, everyday tools, thread trackers for the Archmage’s Tetrads. But he could make a tracker in his sleep. It was good work, and it was good money, but it was refreshing to create something more fantastical now and again.

Maybe he’d Construct a stag next time. Or a lynx. An entire caravan of non-horses could be just the sort of outlandish display Monte coveted. Rodrik made a mental note to discuss the idea with him when the caravan returned.

Tidying up, he sealed his paint vials and cleaned his brushes with methodical care, lining them up atop a soft bit of cloth so they could dry out. As he glanced up at the clock, a tinkling chime announced a visitor, a cluster of bells he’d strung up near the front door. Well, at least this particular customer had come up with something fantastical for him.

Wiping his hands, he went out into the front room where a young noblewoman tapped her lacquered fingernails on the counter. He dipped his head in a bow.

“Good evening, Lady Saran.”

“Hello, Master Tempest,” the slight woman said, clasping her hands in front of her, brimming with excitement. “Is it done?”

Rodrik retrieved a small red velvet pouch from behind the counter and opened it, producing a glittering golden sphere that made her gasp in delight. He placed it gently into her palm.

Saran’s face bloomed into a wide smile as she lifted the sphere, turning it to catch the light.

“How does it work?”

He rapped the countertop with his knuckle and she set the sphere down.

“Press it,” he said, pointing at a flat ruby embedded in its surface.

She did as instructed. A faint click-whirr rose from the sphere as it unfolded. Stubby gold legs extended one by one, flopping out to display miniature clawed feet, followed by a long pointed snout and a pair of black pearls that served as eyes. Rows and rows of tiny spines unfurled along its back.

“A hedgehog!” Lady Saran breathed, touching her fingertips to her mouth.

The metallic creature gave a grating chirp as it waddled across the desk, scritching against the wood, then tumbled forward with mechanical precision. Saran’s laugh burst out, bright and childlike, and she clapped her hands.

“Oh, how delightful,” said Saran. “You’ve outdone yourself, Master Tempest. Lana’s going to love it.”

He retrieved his ledger, feeling his ears begin to warm. Her laughter rang out again as she watched the little Construct skitter about. He managed to twist his mouth into a smile of his own, but it felt like a lie. Once, he used to build things just to see someone else’s joy—someone just like Saran—and that had been enough for him.

“How do I close it?” She asked.

“Press it again,” said Rodrik, flipping through the ledger to find her project’s entry.

“Sleep, little one,” she murmured and poked gently at the ruby. The hedgehog folded itself back up into a golden ball. “What do I owe you?”

Rodrik checked his book. “You’ve paid me fifteen already. Another ten should do it.”

Lady Saran dug through her pouch and placed ten platinum spirals on the counter. Rodrik returned the hedgehog to its pouch, pulled the drawstrings tight, and handed it to her along with instructions on how to care for it.

“Thank you, Master Tempest,” she said. “Truly. You’ve made my little mage very happy.”

Rodrik thanked her and saw her out, then tossed the coins into a sturdy lockbox. He wished he could be there when Lana saw it for the first time. He remembered Lady Saran’s daughter. She’d begun studying magic at the Limbus Spire a full year ago, and the hedgehog was a gift to celebrate the end of her first successful year. Sweet girl, Lana. Just like her mother.

Now, time to finish the horse.

Blowing out his cheeks, he unhooked a set of keys from his belt and unlocked a small room tucked in the back of his shop. His supply room, where he kept his more valuable materials. Along the wall was a shelf lined with small drawers. He opened one of them and retrieved a narrow, flat piece of obsidian cut in the shape of an oblong star.

Back in his workshop, he approached the horse’s head and steadied himself with a few deep breaths. He reached inward and tugged on the central weave where his magic lay dormant and ready, drawing a thread of it to the surface. Guiding the thread through his arm, holding the magic ready at his fingertips, he flattened the star to the horse’s muzzle.

With the thread of magic he’d plucked from his core, Rodrik stitched the star in place. When he lifted his hand, the obsidian remained behind.

The Construct flared to life, fueled by Rodrik’s gifted thread. The horse tossed its head and stamped an iron hoof into the floor with a ringing clang, like a hammer striking an anvil. Glossy black eyes stared, awaiting a command.

“Come.” Rodrik walked across the room and the horse clopped along behind him. He led it into the back of his workshop.

“Stay,” he said. And the horse stayed put, flicking its ears contentedly.

Once the paint had sufficient time to dry, this Construct would join the others out in the stable where they would await their turn to join the caravan.

He cleaned and tidied his workshop, meticulously putting everything back in its rightful place. Then he locked everything up and walked out into the evening air, shrugging into a thick dark coat and drawing it tight against the early autumn breeze.

Firelight and laughter spilled out of the Moonlace Cup Tavern long before Rodrik reached the door. Rodrik ducked through the doors, rubbing his hands together as he sat at his table near the massive hearth. He hadn’t thought it cold enough for gloves yet, but it was definitely time to unearth them from his wardrobe.

Dena, the server, greeted him by name and brought him a plate piled high with roasted quail and potatoes, a tangle of wilted greens he couldn’t name, and a rosemary-crusted bun still steaming in the center.

He ate in silence, letting the warmth of the food ground him. Firelight danced across the lacquered wood. The smell of meat and smoke hung in the air, blanketing him in familiarity.

After he soaked up the last bit of sauce with the bread, he leaned back and sighed. Laughter burst from a nearby table. Cutlery clinked, and voices rose and fell. The general clamor of a tavern pummeled at him from all sides.

Yet none of it reached him.

He traced the rim of his wine glass with a callused thumb. Chatter ebbed into a distant hum. The tavern moved around him, but Rodrik sat anchored in a memory. A moment that no longer existed.

He didn’t have to come here. Limbus had no shortage of eating establishments. Every street offered a new inn, a new bakery, a new pub. Anywhere would have been better.

Anywhere would have been less painful.

But habit drew him back again and again, like a man pressing on a bruise just to see if it still hurt.

The Moonlace Cup had been their place. He and Aeiran sat at that very table several times a week, chatting and laughing over some of the best food to be found in Limbus.

For months after Aeiran left the staff had asked about him.

“Where is your love?” they asked. “When will he return? Is he well?”

Questions Rodrik didn’t have the answers to. Eventually they stopped asking.

The tavern itself hadn’t changed, not one bit. But everything it reminded him of had. He glanced at the empty chair across the table, half expecting—half hoping—to see Aeiran sitting there once again, looking up at him with gray-blue eyes full of unabashed adoration. Rodrik would give anything to hear him laugh over a glass of white wine. To feel him reaching across the table to touch his arm or tangle their fingers together.

The chair remained empty, an absence that even now, three years later, dug into his chest and sought to pluck out the last remnants of his heart.

Rodrik swallowed and stared at the gilded tabletop. He’d long since accepted that he would never let the memory go. The ache of that absence would enshroud him forever.

And he would deserve every moment.

A sudden stillness rippled through the room and he lifted his head. Through the open front door strode a tall red crane, carrying a scroll in its beak. Crimsonwing, the Archmage’s threadkin. It wove its way between tables, fixating a judgmental eye on those it passed. Patrons either dipped their heads in a respectful bow or looked away entirely.

The crane’s talons clicked on the lacquered floor as it approached. Rodrik knew its meandering path would lead to his table eventually. There was no other reason she’d send the bird specifically to The Moonlace Cup at this hour. He gulped down the last of his wine and watched, having no qualms about catching the crane’s eye.

As expected, Crimsonwing came to a halt next to him. It dropped a scroll beside his plate and tapped the table with its long beak, making sure it had his attention. Waiting, watching, it tilted its head to regard him with a beady eye.

Rodrik’s gut churned as he broke the wax seal and unrolled the parchment.

The Archmage requests your immediate presence upon receipt of this notice.

That was it. No explanation, nothing. Not even her own damned signature. He recognized the handwriting as belonging to the Archmage’s assistant, Brandei Fillary.

A summons from Tiedre Amada never preceded anything good. Not for Rodrik. He stared at the crisp black ink until the words blurred.

The last time she called upon him, she’d breached his boundaries unforgivably. Commanded the use of his magic in a way he’d made clear was off limits. A way she should have known was unacceptable. Being named one of the Archmage’s agents had once filled him with pride and honor.

No longer. He knew now that he was nothing but a tool for her to use as she pleased.

The last assignment—or order, more accurately—had been too much. Far too easy.

Most troubling was the fact that using his innate magic had felt… right.

That was the moment he swore, to himself and to the Archmage, that he’d never touch that part of his magic again.

Rodrik crushed the parchment in his fist.

“I’m coming,” he said through gritted teeth.

Crimsonwing bobbed its head and wandered out the way it came.

Rodrik stacked a few coins on the table and left. The warmth of the tavern and the comfort of his meal fell away behind him.

In its place, dread. For telling the Archmage “no” likely wouldn’t end well.

The Spire of Limbus rose from the city’s heart like a twisted blade spiraling into the clouds. Monumental and imposing, it was built long ago by elemental and thread wizards working together, named after the Weaver who ordered its construction. The Spire became a beacon, a meeting point for wizards all across Elima. More settlers arrived and built their homes around the tower, marking the birth of Limbus City.

Spiraling banners rippled in the wind, their colors shimmering back and forth between violet and silver. Around them, loose threads flitted like dragonflies, tiny luminous things of every color that danced along the stonework and chased one another through the air in erratic loops. Their inner glow reflected along veins of silver and amethyst that streaked through the stone. If he weren’t already filled with fury, Rodrik might have allowed himself to stop and admire the craftsmanship.

The Spire’s entrance towered over him. He drew a breath, heavy with resentment. On the way here, he reminded himself over and over not to let her coerce him again. Tiedre called his magic a gift.

She was wrong. It was a curse. A terrible ability that should never be used on another person for any purpose. To remove someone’s free will was an unforgivable violation of privacy and trust.

A robed attendant met him just inside the doors and silently led Rodrik through hushed, echoing halls. During the daytime, the Spire would’ve been lively, full of wizards and novices hurrying through the halls carrying out any number of tasks. This time of night, however, the Spire fell into a silence that landed somewhere between eerie and peaceful. While he was still training, Rodrik had always enjoyed wandering the halls at night, usually with Aeiran at his side. Throughout their years at the Spire, they’d made use of just about every hidden niche and shadowed corner in the tower, seeking a place to steal a kiss or two amidst the bustle of the Spire.

Anguish gripped his chest. Unbidden, he pressed his palm against his ribs, but that did nothing to lessen the pain. Rodrik snapped his mind shut and focused on the purple robe billowing around his escort’s ankles.

He didn’t bother to ask where they were headed. He’d been here before and had taken this exact route to this exact chamber countless times, with its violet upholstery and silver-trimmed shelves housing books and vials and other wizardly knick-knacks.

At the end of their journey, the attendant pushed the heavy door open for him, bowed his head, and scurried off down the hall.

Inside the chamber, Rodrik took two steps and froze.

He wasn’t alone in the room. Someone else occupied a plush armchair situated near the roaring fireplace. A man, with one leg crossed over the other, tapping his boot in an irregular rhythm against the front of the chair.

Rodrik’s stomach plummeted.

That braid.

The golden prosthetic.

His heart seized, constricting in his chest.

“Aeiran?” The near-whisper tore out of him, raw and unguarded, an old wound splitting wide open.

The man’s leg stopped bouncing. He clutched the arm of the chair, soft fabric bunching underneath metallic fingers. The spoken name hung in the air, thick and oppressive.

Shoulders tensed as if bracing for a blow, the man in the chair slowly turned his head and looked up.

Their eyes met. And for one long, panicked moment, Rodrik forgot how to breathe.