Philip Athans - Whisper of Waves

“You’ll be at the reception, I hope,” Willem said.

“Reception?” Thurene asked as if it was the first she’d heard of it.

“Yes,” Devorast answered, his deep voice at once aloof and commanding.

Willem nodded at Devorast, then looked down at Thurene and said, “The college is hosting a reception for the recent graduates. We were told to bring some samples of our work to show to some important people invited by the college. It could mean a placement for both of us, if all goes well.”

Thurene put a hand to her chest.

“Oh, Willem, my dear, that’s lovely,” she said, not bothering to keep the tiniest part of the excitement she felt from showing in both her voice and her face. “A placement. With the Court, perhaps?”

Willem chuckled again and said, “From your lips to Tymora’s ear, Mother. Perhaps the Court or perhaps a private concern. Fortifications and such for me, I hope, and likely a spot with a naval architect for Ivar here.”

Thurene’s excitement faded from her face when she turned to Devorast and said, “Ships, is it, then?”

Devorast nodded, but said nothing. He still hadn’t moved a muscle.

“Ivar’s designs for shipboard weapons are … are already attracting a great deal of attention,” said Willem. “If he brings the sketches he has in his room, well, he’ll place for sure.”

They both looked at Devorast for a reaction, but he gave them nothing but a glance at their feet. Willem realized a second before his mother did that they were standing at the top of the stairs, blocking Devorast’s way up, and all he wanted was for them to move.

They stepped aside and he passed to the door of his room where he stopped, turned to them, and said to Willem, “Knock when you’re ready to go.”

Willem nodded, and Devorast closed the door behind him.

“A placement,” Thurene said as she followed her son down the stairs. “Gold and position enough to keep the house without the parade of student boarders I’ve had to endure since your bumbling fool of a father died. Gold and position enough for anything.”

Willem felt a heaviness in his chest, as if someone was standing on the space above his heart.

1 Mirtul, the Year of Shadows (1358 DR)

MARSEMBER, CORMYR

Willem was too nervous to eat or drink. He’d come with Devorast, but they quickly separated. Willem occasionally caught sight of his friend standing over his drawings at a table against a wall. His red hair all disheveled, his clothes a mess, Devorast stood like a statue, for all the world wholly uninterested in what was happening around him.

Everyone was there. The faculty, the graduating students, nobles, and dignitaries from Marsember and the rest of the kingdom. Willem mingled with other students but stuck as close to key members of the faculty as he could. He was introduced to a small delegation from Sembia-dour, unhappy-looking men who didn’t bother to feign interest in anything, and no one could figure out why they were there. The man from Waterdeep was the most popular and was so surrounded by solicitous students and faculty members alike that Willem didn’t even bother trying to get an introduction. He had a pleasant conversation with a wealthy architect from Silverymoon who was looking for help in building some sort of temple, but the look on his face when he leafed through Willem’s drawings made it clear that Willem wouldn’t be moving to Silverymoon.

It was one of the college administrators who introduced him to the men from Innarlith.

As they exchanged niceties, Willem racked his brain. Where in all Toril was Innarlith? He couldn’t help thinking he’d heard of the realm before, but there was no map of the place in his head.

The professor wandered off, and none of the other students appeared interested in the two strange men from some obscure place far, far away. They stayed in their circles around the representatives from the Court of Cormyr, Silverymoon, or Waterdeep instead. Willem and the two strange men found their way to the edge of the room, and Willem put his drawings down on the table next to Devorast’s.

“These are quite good,” said the man who’d been introduced simply as Inthelph.

“I work very hard,” Willem replied, doing his best to smile and to look the man in the eye, just as his mother had taught him.

“I can see that,” Inthelph said, then turned to his companion. “Have you seen these?”

The other man-the one named Fharaud-was looking at Devorast’s drawings instead while Devorast scanned the room, giving no indication he had even seen the man from Innarlith.

Inthelph was a stout man of middle years with jet black hair and eyes nearly as dark. His skin was like leather and a deep brown. He looked like a foreigner but didn’t seem out of place in the rarified air of the formal reception. His clothing was exotic, but beautifully tailored and made of silk and fine linen. He smelled of something that might have been perfume or some exotic spice. His accent was strange but not difficult to understand. Willem watched Inthelph’s eyes examine his drawings with great care.

But he couldn’t help sneaking glances at the other man from Innarlith, who was going from one drawing of Devorast’s to another, his mouth agape. Fharaud was taller and thinner than Inthelph. His hair was surely once as black as Inthelph’s but had gone gray. His eyes were gray too, almost as if they had aged along with his hair. Perhaps, Willem thought, that sort of thing happens in Innarlith.

“Yes,” Inthelph said, drawing Willem’s full attention again. “Yes, these are quite precise. Quite nicely done.”

“You have a very … inspired hand, son,” Fharaud said to Devorast, and Willem’s eyes flicked to his classmate.

“Thank you, sir,” Willem said to Inthelph, though he continued to look at Devorast.

“It’s an Art,” Devorast said, and both of the men from Innarlith gave him their full attention.

Willem was convinced he could hear the capital A in Art, the same way wizards spoke of spellcasting.

“In your hands,” Fharaud said, “it may well be.”

Inthelph looked over at the drawings, but for only a moment. Willem’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of the man’s reaction. Inthelph dismissed Devorast’s work out of hand and quickly went back to admiring Willem’s.

“You have a very precise hand and a solid exhibition of the basic mathematics,” Inthelph said.

“An art?” Fharaud asked Devorast, and again all three of them waited for Devorast’s answer.

“The design itself,” Devorast explained, “is as important as the function. The solution to a problem is greater than the problem itself.”

“You’re designing weapons,” said Fharaud. “One might consider the enemy the ‘problem’ that a builder of weapons must solve. Surely you take your enemy into account.”

“The only enemy I have is myself,” Devorast replied, “my own limitations. The enemy, the purpose of the war, if there is one, is of no consequence. If something that projects fire is required, my only concern is that my device projects fire in the most efficient manner possible. Should I be asked to fire arrows, my device should fire more of them, farther, and with more force and accuracy than previous devices.”

Inthelph looked doubtful, even dismissive, but Fharaud nodded and smiled.

“You have little concern for convention,” Fharaud said with a nod to the drawings.

“That’s not true, sir,” replied Devorast, “I have no concern for convention. I’d prefer to develop conventions of my own.”

That brought a smile to Fharaud’s face-one that Willem couldn’t help but think was a bit patronizing-and a scowl to Inthelph’s.