Touch Of Fate 170 Subject Matter

The Broker placed the scroll on his desk, taking a moment to revel in the elegance with which the disparate elements blended to form a composite whole, before removing the silver goblet from its hidden compartment.

Taking a stoppered vial from another, similar compartment, he poured its crimson contents in the vessel. Channeling a few fetid wisps of mana, all he could manage in his current state, he began to whisper. "Mistress, your servant calls."

After a few moments, a mature feminine voice emerged from the goblet, distorted as if the speaker was underwater. "What do you have to report?"

"He has sought us out in his quest for knowledge and power, just as you have antic.i.p.ated."

"Good," the voice purred. "Tell me, what do you make of him?"

The Broker's gaze briefly slid over to the scroll before he answered. "A young man of power and potential. One capable of creating miracles. He will be a force to be reckoned with, as soon as he learns to wield the authority his abilities gives him."

"Excellent. Make every effort to accommodate him, but don't tip your hand. He needs to depend on us if we want to succeed. We cannot risk him becoming to wary of us."

"As you wish, Mistress." The Broker spoke again.

"What did your appraisal tell you?"

The Broker remembered the initial look he'd taken before ever entering the negotiating room, as was his habit prior to engaging in business. With the exception of his unusual cla.s.s the youth's status had been disturbingly unremarkable. Especially so, considering what the Broker knew about the one known as Michael Rasmussen.

"He bears a cla.s.s called Skill Master, which is unknown to me. More troubling, however, is that he's found a way to hide his t.i.tles, and not merely with a high rank Appraisal Resistance, but in a manner that lets him display his current t.i.tle as None."

There was a pause, "Interesting. It seems the Hero has been blessed by more than just the G.o.ds. Keep me informed on this subject." The voice issued once more, as the crimson fluid in the goblet evaporated, leaving it spotless once more.

With practiced ease, the Broker replaced the items in the secret compartments, before once again returning his gaze to the scroll. He'd watched the young man make it, barely daring to believe his eyes.

The spell itself was impressive, but there have been a number of mages throughout history who could accomplish such a thing. Refining a base material through the application of mana, however, bordered on the realm of the divine. The Broker had understood immediately upon looking at the finished product. That youth had, to an admittedly minor degree, manipulated reality itself using only pure mana and willpower.

He felt the stirrings of an old excitement, long lost in the tedium of his service to his immortal patrons. Perhaps, this Mike was the key to everything he'd been hoping to achieve.

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A s.h.i.+ver crawled down Mike's back, leaving him momentarily wary of his surroundings. Scanning the nearby crowd, he didn't see anything to explain the sensation, and chalked it up to his imagination.

He'd decided that, after missing a few cla.s.ses, why not take the whole day off and use the time to accomplish some of his other goals. At the moment he was sitting in the market district, going over the Smithing guide. After reading about the optimal temperature variance used in the smelting and forging of different metals, Mike realized he'd underestimated the complexity of the skill.

Much like with the other crafting skills he'd acc.u.mulated up to this point, acquiring the skill itself was only the first step. Understanding the craft enough to use it seemed to be another thing entirely. Deciding that some more practical experience was probably necessary, Mike headed over to The Cracked Anvil for round two of Smithing practice.

After paying Gearhart two gold for two hours, and enjoying the crestfallen look on his face as he did so, Mike got right into it.

"Put some muscle into it. You got to hit it like your life depends on it." Brigitte was yelling from a corner of the crowded smithy, where she was repeatedly dunking a lump of coal in some viscous liquid, inspecting it, and then repeating the process.

He'd quickly learned that his smithing guide contained only a small fraction of the information necessary for a master smith to pursue their craft, and that a lot of that extra knowledge could only be acquired by experience. Although, that a.s.sumption might have just been a product of the kind of learning environment he was currently in.

"You'll need to heat it again when the metal starts going 'clunk' and not 'clank.' Make sure it's good an' hot before hitting it again." Brigitte continued to offer advice in her usual cheerful tone.

Sighing, Mike tried to interpret the sounds the steel was making, while he attempted to bludgeon the lump into the shape of a horseshoe. It was still glowing with heat, but it'd lost the brightness it had when he first pulled it out of the forge.

[Maybe it needs to be reheated again? I think the book mentioned that you have to carefully a.n.a.lyze the relative heat of the metal, and perform the majority of your work while it is at an optimal temperature.]

Thrusting the vaguely curved blob of metal back into the forge, he stepped on the bellows a few times to increase the heat. Almost immediate, Brigitte walked over and started explaining how to do it properly, in her usual confusing manner. It took him a few minutes to understand what she was getting at, but he adjusted his rhythm accordingly.

After a few hours he left the smithy feeling worn out. While his skills had definitely improved to the point that he was able to make something resembling a horseshoe by the end of it, he nevertheless had a long ways to go.

He caught a carriage back to the University, using the time to scan through the rest of his newly acquired books. Coupled with the ones from the library, he had a lot to work on. With the tasks ahead of him, and the amount he would need to do in the next few days, he decided to work an all-nighter, something he'd been a little hesitant to do prior to this.

While his regeneration eliminated the physical effects of fatigue, the mental stress remained, and as a result, he had come to see sleep as vital to maintaining his sanity. This was something he'd never really put to the test, so if rest truly proved unnecessary, then it would open up a large amount of time to pursue his various interests. However, he'd unconsciously s.h.i.+ed away from taking this step so far.

With all his various skills and abilities, he'd long ago entered the realm of the superhuman. Something that he enjoyed a great deal, but recently he was beginning to feel the separation it caused, especially in the case of his companions. Every time he gained power or accomplished something seemingly impossible, he felt the gap grow a little larger.

If he didn't need to sleep anymore, how much longer before he pa.s.sed some invisible threshold and ceased to be human altogether? Would he even notice? Would he even care?

These thoughts were still rumbling around in his head when the carriage pulled up to the front gate. The walk back to the dorms gave him time to think it over, or at least it should have.

"Excuse me. Can I have a moment of your time?" A breathless female voice called out to him while he was crossing central campus.

Princess Andrea was standing there, panting, as if she'd just run a great distance. Mike could see a retinue of bodyguards moving swiftly to catch up. A golden-armored female knight was in the lead, and was already glaring at him intensely.

He briefly resisted the urge to flee, not wanting to deal with any of this right now, especially after everything that had happened with the elves. However, he figured that expressly insulting the Princess by running away would cause more trouble than it was worth, so finally he replied. "What do you need, Your Highness?"

She took a moment to fully catch her breath, and waved off her guards, who reluctantly formed a perimeter around the two of them. Leona took some convincing, but eventually the two of them were left more or less on their own.

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"I needed to speak with you, but first, please let me apologize for the troubles you experienced while you were the guest of my uncle. I hope that you do not hold him accountable for my inept.i.tude in handling the situation." She replied quietly, while her gaze searched his face for something.

Sighing, Mike shook his head. "I understand that you were in a trying situation, and were forced to play along with the elven envoy's demands against your will, so I will not hold it against you nor your uncle. While I might wish that you had taken a different path, you were acting in the interest of the nation, and I cannot blame you for that."

She bowed slightly, "Thank you." Straightening, she gave him another hard look, but remained silent.

"Was there something else?"

"Yes, although I'm having a hard time phrasing my question in a manner that won't sound crazy. Do you, by any chance, have a habit of running around in a mask?" Andrea asked while scratching at her cheek, a slight flush of embarra.s.sment plain against her pale skin.

[Ah, so it looks like my secret is finally starting to be revealed. Now, how should I play this?]

Deciding to tease her a little, Mike responded politely, "That's a deeply philosophical question, Your Majesty. Don't we all wear masks? Forced to hide our true thoughts and feelings deep inside as we go about our daily lives. Unable to reveal ourselves, save to a precious few who may accepts us for who and what we are." He spoke dramatically while nodding, as if her words had given him an epiphany. "Indeed, an astute observation on the human condition, Your Majesty."

Andrea blinked at him, obviously confused and a little fl.u.s.tered. "What? No, I mean…uh…were you the one that…you know…rescued me that one time?"

"You'll have to be more specific. I have rescued many people at many times." He answered with a straight face.

Her expression was calm, but a bulging vein in her forehead revealed her burgeoning anger. "Let me put it this way. Are you the Dragonknight that saved me during the Tennundian attack?"

Supposing that he'd had enough fun for one night, he gave her a serious look. "I never claimed to be a Dragonknight."

Her breath hitched, "You're so young, but when I saw you at the party, I thought…and then the way you fought…G.o.ds, I've caused you nothing but trouble."

Mike laughed at that. "Trouble has a way of finding me on its own. Don't let it bother you."

"That doesn't change the fact that you saved me. I need to do something to thank you." There was an insistent tone to her voice.

Remembering his advisor's off-color joke about joining the royal family, Mike cut her off. "I've already been rewarded by the Prime Minister for my actions. There is no need for you to do so as well."

"Still, it would be the height of ingrat.i.tude to do nothing for one who spared me from a fate worse than death." Andrea spoke while taking a step forward.

Thinking quickly, Mike answered while backing up. "Why don't we say that you owe me one?"

She frowned, "What do you mean?"

"Well, I don't really need anything right now, but I might in the future, so why don't we put off all of this talk of rewards until then? It'll just mean owing me a favor. Does that work for you?"

"A favor?" Andrea repeated, as if mulling over the answer. "Very well, I shall, as you say, owe you one."

"Great, now if you'll excuse me, I have some things to take care of." Mike began channeling mana into his Air Magic, suspecting that a quick exit was going to be necessary soon.

"Wait! There is so much I want to ask you!"

"Another time, perhaps. See you, Princess." Mike gave a quick wave while launching himself into the evening sky.