48 – Reaping Shades

With the outrageous list of materials Rhek gave to Stellan—a list he almost felt guilty for handing over—he had expected not to hear back for weeks if not longer, except perhaps a revision insisting he be reasonable with his demands. Five days at the very minimum. But it was later that same day that the Leatherworker’s Guild contacted him. Apparently, the client had gathered the necessary resources and was heading to his workshop, wanting to complete the job without delays. Rhek had cleared his schedule, not that he had much of one these days, as a requirement for the commission, so he hurried out the door the moment he received the news.

Grumpily, though. Because half a day? He knew what that meant. The way the job had been sold to him was that, while the gear would be low-rank, the client sought quality above all else. He’d thought the majority of the materials—though not all, since that would be impossible—would be hand-harvested. It hadn’t been more than six hours. He’d be surprised if she’d had time to gather any of the resources herself. Presumably, she had gone down the list and simply purchased everything.

Which would still be impressive, he would concede. Not just for the speed with which she’d managed it, but the rarity of some of those items. He wasn’t sure whether some were even available in Meridian.

Thus, he doubted his material list had been fulfilled in full. If it hadn’t, and the client had nevertheless dragged him out of his home rather than submitted a revision, he would be justified in canceling the commission, and would give the woman an earful for wasting his time. Not that Rhek did anything but waste his time these days. It was the principle of the matter.

The client was, he had been informed after accepting, the demonic noblewoman Nysari Keresi. The name seemed vaguely familiar, so the Keresi family was likely somewhat important, but not especially so, because it rang no bells in his head. The demon lands were one of the few places he hadn’t called home at one point or another.

Despite his so-called retirement, he’d been having someone stop by weekly to maintain his workshop. A damning indicator that even from the start, he’d never intended on abandoning his life’s work. When he arrived at that familiar building situated in the Crafter’s District, the demon woman was already standing outside, thankfully without attendants, an apprentice, or any other add-on nuisances. She was clearly scrolling through a system screen, pale finger lazily flicking up and down to navigate, but red eyes drifted to him well before he’d neared enough to alert a regular person. But that was normal; all Titled had freakish perceptiveness.

Rhek was never one to filter himself, so the first thing out of his mouth when he saw her was, “Well, you’re a little runt of a thing, aren’t you?”

Which was an idiotic way to address an unknown Titled for the first time, without knowing whether she was the sort to return such comments with brimstone and hellfire, but Rhek was old, and it was a gods-given right of the old to not care a whit what people thought. Though admittedly he’d been that way in his youth too. In any case, being splattered across the cobblestone by an overly touchy Titled sounded like an amusing way to end his four centuries.

Not really, though. He should hold his tongue. He wasn’t suicidal.

She didn’t visibly react to his words, to his relief, and striding up, he got a closer look at the woman.

He slammed to a stop.

Those pale features. The long white hair and curling black horns. The image took a moment to place, as a hundred years had passed since that memory—a long time, even for a dwarf. But he had laid eyes on a face just like hers once before. Nobody would forget seeing, in the flesh, one of the most legendary figures of history. And while this person wasn’t her, surely couldn’t be her for any number of reasons, the resemblance was too uncanny for that fuzzy memory to have triggered falsely.

A powerful unknown Titled…one looking to keep a low profile…and a mage, by the dark robes she was wearing. His mouth worked soundlessly for a moment as he came to the obvious conclusion.

“The damn Sorceress had a daughter?”

The words bounced around the empty, secluded streets of the Craftsman’s District his workshop was nestled in. The small demonic woman stared at him, not reacting to Rhek’s accusation beyond a slight twitch of, presumably, surprise.

They held each other’s gazes for a long moment.

Finally, she responded, voice cool and disaffected, “I’m not that short.”

His mouth worked on instinct. “A dwarf is looking you in the damn eyes.” Not actually, but he didn’t have to crane his neck nearly as much as usual. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, you’d have to be daft to think short is an insult from a dwarf. You are what you are, and what you are is a runt.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed. It didn’t take long for most people to find out the kind of person Rhek was. He said what he thought, and if it wasn’t what others wanted to hear, he didn’t see how that was his problem.

“What makes you think I’m the Sorceress’s daughter?” she asked coolly.

“Saw her in the flesh, back when she was still making a name for herself.” And by that, he meant back when she’d only killed one world-ending threat. “That’s how. You look just like her.” He snorted. “If even shorter.”

Despite his words, his certainty grew weaker by the moment. He’d only seen the Sorceress from a distance. He’d only just reached Expert. Hardly the sort of status that would have him rubbing shoulders with legends.

The woman met his gaze evenly. “You are mistaken. I am Nysari Keresi. You are Rhek Verontell? The leatherworker?”

“Master Leatherworker to you, brat.”

He didn’t respond rudely, because he didn’t go out of his way to be abrasive. But Master Leatherworker was a title he’d worked his hands to the bone for over centuries, so a client better use it when addressing him for the first time—in the same way he’d have used her title, if she had provided one. If she was going to drag him out of his retirement, however temporarily, she better show respect. He didn’t care how important—or unimportant—she was.

“Master Leatherworker Verontell, then,” the demon said, which raised his estimation of her, because most people, especially higher-rank adventurers, would have gotten all sorts of pissy about being challenged. But while she seemed annoyed—though it was difficult to tell; the girl’s inexpressiveness rivaled a statue’s—she accepted the reprimand without comment.

He grunted. “Come on in, then, Lady Keresi.” His sarcastic tone made it clear what he thought of her cover story.

Why was the Sorceress’s daughter masquerading as some foreign noble? He supposed the name Vexaria came with too much baggage. So fair enough.

More and more doubt trickled in, though. The realization had struck him like a thunderbolt, and he’d been totally convinced, but it was a rather ridiculous conclusion to draw, no matter how strong the resemblance. People could look alike without being related, and a hundred years dulled the strongest memory.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

But he’d never bought that the Sorceress had croaked. The woman who’d cut down all seven Cataclysms and lived to tell the tale? Even her allies could only claim six. She’d been seen alive after that final confrontation, then disappeared. Of course she hadn’t tripped over a rock somewhere, hit her head, and died. The passing of the Sorceress would come with far more fanfare, likely with the cracking of the earth itself.

So obviously she was alive, somewhere, lying low. Enjoying retirement. And getting busy, he thought, stealing an amused glance at his client while he undid the locks on his workshop’s door. Was this her only kid, or were there a whole legion of mini-Sorceresses out there?

Then again…if the Sorceress had lived…how could a woman who could uproot forests with a flick of her wrist just disappear? Moreover, there had been a number of smaller calamities left in the wake of the Cataclysms, and it seemed unlikely she would have let them run rampant. Even purging the dregs of those monsters had taken a bloody toll. For the Sorceress at the peak of her career, it would have been a triviality to squash the lingering remnants of the Maw’s hordes, or the Regent’s minions, or any of the other threats that had persisted past the Cataclysms’ deaths.

So there was reason to believe she really had died. Magical experiment to bring back her teammates gone wrong, to name one grim, but plausible, theory.

In the end, he wasn’t sure what to think. He’d just never fully bought that the living force of nature Vivisari Vexaria had slipped the mortal coil without an explosion to shake the world.

In any case, he had a commission to concern himself with. It didn’t matter who his client was. Sorceress’s daughter included.

Inside his workshop, familiar smells hit him like a sledgehammer: rich and earthy scents of tanned leather and sharp chemical tangs of liquors and dyes. Nostalgia washed over him, then annoyance, because he was retired, damn it. This project was going to massacre his resolve to stick it out at least a year.