The Solune Prince
Book 1
The Solune Scholar
Chapter 2 (Part 1)
Syrr sat next to his good friend Gilleusz. They both stared into the fire.
It was neither a fireplace, a bonefire, nor a headting stove or even acooking stove.
It was a smelting furnace.
To each man, it meant something different.
Syrr sat in a wooden chair, scarred with black strikes and burns. A simple, rugged, unfinihsed hardwood chair.
For Syrr Anselm Wodnietz, this forge was his life. Too much heat, too much pressure, A cave of stone with charcoal burning hot within, a bellows to the side of the workshop. He spent every workday in this shop, running away from his passion. Music.
For Gillek, this was his home.
Gilleusz Kowalczyk, or Gillek.
This was his father’s smith, and something about it drew him forward. The Kowalczyk smith. But instead, out of sheer kindness, his parents had sent him to the university. And he had studied dilligently for the last year, to below-average outcome. He was not a good student, in his own estimation. He preferred to learn from experience, from hands-on work.
Syrr felt the opposite way. A tall blonde man with wavy hair that almost reached his eyes and covered most of his ears, he was an artist at heart, and he was only pretending to be a craftsman. And after the last few months, he couldn’t fool himself any longer.
Both of them felt like a slave to the grind, one to the life of a blacksmith, the other the life of a scholar.
Both had an idea of the other’s thoughts, so they spoke no words. They only stared, thinking of their own position, and also thinking what the other might be thinking.
“Term is almost done.” Wodnietz spoke first. His voice was niether high nor especially low, but it was clean. Or, it had once been clean. The ash and soot had added some gravel to his speech. But he felt, he hoped, that it could return to being clean.
“Is it?” Gillek had a deep worksman voice. “I stopped being able to keep track of these things. I barely know what’s going on in class or what day it is.” His voice came out with all the intonation of the frown that showed on his face.
He was a bearded man with mahogany coloured hair. He sat in a wooden chair that could move. He had built the chair. Gillek could build. He could smith, and he was a decent carpenter. He wondered if he should be working in his father’s shop.
Syrr stood and took two tankards of ale, filling them from a barrel. It was dark out. It was the end of the week. Tomorrow was secast.
“What are you going to do when term ends? Are you going to try to work here for the intermittent months?”
“Do you think my father would allow me?”
Syrr shrugged. He handed the ale to his friend and sat back down.
The furnace was well insulated with all the stone. It took hours to fully cool if it wasn’t quenched. And it was a cold spring, so on nights like this Gillek’s father left it hot for them.
Both knew that Gillek’s parents thought that his disfunctional legs affected his work too much. Maybe they thought it frustrated him too much, or got in the way, or slowed him down.
“It does slow me down,” Gillek admitted.
“Do you meet deadlines?”
Now Gillek shrugged. “Usually.”
No one in this shop hit deadlines, least of all Syrr. He was among the slowest workers.
“Gillek, I am going to leave this shop. I am going to resign soon. After this order, I think.”
Gillek gazed around. The skin on his face was taut and a little leathery, despite being in his early twenties, from all the work in the sun, and being burned by furnace exposure. His eyes focused on the heavy wood table running along the wall on their left, the hardened steel sheet covering one side. The anvil on the other side to their right, the hammer and other tools hanging on that wall. The furnace sat in a corner, making the table and anvil more accessible due to proximity.
“Good, good. Maybe they will need me.”
Syrr nodded.
They sat and watched the embers fade a little. They still had hours of heat.
“Wedding soon,” Gillek said. “Are you going?”
“Whose?” Syrr asked.
Gillek coughed, rolled himself to the embers, and took the iron rod, the fire poker, off its hanger. “Hoji.”
“Swonechzna’s daughter? The astral-philosophy woman?”
“The very one.”
“Tell me it’s to Chvali.” Syrr almost laughed. Through the hint of joy that came to his face and throat, he said, “Good man, they looked the absolute clumsiest of couples at the fall festival.”
Gillek speared the embers, shoving them around. The poker was heavy. It had to be, to not heat up too fast or soften in the heat. He coughed again. “Yes it’s him. Good man.”
“Good carpenter.”
Gillek leaned back in his wheeled chair to laugh. “Hah!” It was abrupt and loud, a genuine laugh from the lung. “He is like you, I am afraid. He is leaving the business. Or has he left?”
“Has he?”
Gillek wheeled himself back to the spot beside Syrr, his chair rumblign over the uneven packed dirt floor. He nearly got caught on a stone, but carefully wheeled on top of it and pushed it into the dirt, flattening the ground down.
“He took one final big paying job, but after that trouble with the criminal bands, he moved away from working with those nobles.”
Syrr shook his head. He would never understand it. It shouldn’t be like this. “Half of those nobles are good men, good women. Good lords and chancellors. Good husbands and wives. They uphold the honour of the title szlachta.”
“Hoji is one, you know. But her family is not well liked because they work.”
Syrr shook his head. If you are wealthy enough not to work beyond managing your estate and attending parliament, you were considered by the more elitist of the szlachta as a true aristocrat. If you were not? You were no more than a commoner to them. Worse, in fact, because you still held the title of szlacta and could participate in parliament. “This is what I mean!” Syrr pointed his finger up. “Imagine, putting in a hard days work being looked down upon for it.” He shook his head. The cold was already getting to his outstreached hand, so he leaned in closer to the stone furnace, closer to the orange glowing coals.
Gillek finished his tankard and put it down on the anvil’s wood stand with a thud. “Well, I know the Swonechzna’s a lot better than I know Chval. I just know he has either quit or will quit his carpentry work before the wedding.”
“I should speak to him,” Syrr said, leaning back.
“You should.”
“And her friend?”
Gillek turned to Syrr to try to read his eyes, but he was facing away. “Which friend? Her sister?”
“No no, the attractive one. With the hair black as night.”
Gillek squinted, the alcohol beginning to make him tipsy. “Her? The criminal?” He paused, almost coughed, but didn’t. “My bad, the ex-criminal. I see her, we share some classes actually. Her name is Nitzi or something?”
Syrr faced forward, his face mostly red. He had a condition, he told people, but still. He was blushing and the ale made it worse. “Nitzachina Alixah Dirge Trenn. Nitzi? Who calls her Nitzi?”
“Chojica and her brother. I told you, I know the Swonechznas a lot better, but their circle? Beyond me.”
“Haha, good good.” Syrr laughed quietly.
“You’re going to leave this job, then talk to her? Oh yes, she will find that attractive I am sure,” Gillek chuckled.
“Hmm good point.”
They sat in silence again as the minutes passed.
Syrr refilled their ale for another round.
He felt useless in this line of work.
He felt useless as a musician.
He just felt useless.
But he had hope.
And many people didn’t know, but he also had a bit of fame.
“I just have to believe in myself,” he said quietly.
“Oh, I think she likes you too.”
Syrr’s eyes shot wide. “What?” he said, swinging around and sloshing a third of his drink onto his toe.
“I guess your eyes are too filled with cotton and wheat to see it, but oh yes.”
Syrr felt the ale sink in through the seams in his cheap leather shoe, dampening his foot in apparently random places. He felt like he’d stepped in a puddle.
Gillek continued. “She likes your music, actually. Remember you played at the fall festival?”
“My goodness. And she was gone, I mean right gone then.”
Gillek frowned, one edge of his lip tightening.
Syrr continued, not noticing. “I am surprised she remembered me playing; didn’t she black out that night?”
“She did.”
Syrr shook his head.
He wondered what she would think if she knew of his taste of fame those many months ago.
And answer burst open in his head. She might not care at all. If she liked his music, what would the bit of money he’d earned from it matter to her?
He wondered. Then, for the first time, he wondered why he felt ashamed about it. Why he’d kept it a secret from nearly everyone, even Gillek. He wondered if she knew.