Vincent
The sun had set hours ago, and as the world cooled with the coming of night, the winds had picked up. It always did; the hours after sunset were called the whistling hours in the fields. As the heat in the air faded, the difference in temperature from the air near the Spire grew, and the winds rising up and away from the City's inner districts grew.
This close to the City, barely ten miles from the outer districts, the Spire itself was a solid bar of light so wide it took his entire hand to cover the breadth of it. The shadow behind Vincent was pronounced and had clear edges, a shrunken thing hiding in his wake, barely extending half a foot from where he stood. On this cloudless night, the Spire's long arc was visible, bowing west as if it were chasing after the setting sun.
Vincent had been staring at it for the last few minutes. He could hear the single note of its roar even from where he stood, a single constant note that likely hadn't changed its tenor or volume since long before he was born. Starting at the Spire, listening to the call of its fire, helped keep him from thinking about a feeling that had been gnawing at his stomach in the recent hour since his master arrived.
It was partly because he felt guilty about feeling it. He had, just today, witnessed people getting chopped to pieces because they were trying to do the same to him. He had caused Barleybarrel a lot of grief by saving them, and then by letting himself be saved. He had comrades to grieve, and an unrelenting enemy that had proven itself even more dangerous than just Golems or Gloamtaken. And even with those griefs weighing on his shoulders, it wasn't what occupied his thoughts.
And it wasn't until he started listening to the Spire, that he could stop thinking about the fact that he now needed to leave the Rangers. He knew what would be expected of them now, that he had spent some time with them. They would be the vanguard in any offensive action, the rearguard of any retreat. And Vincent had a sense that whatever lurked in the Gloam recognized them now. Perhaps, if it was as conscious and deliberate as Vincent feared, it remembered the red coats or white scarves from previous invasions. But despite their courage, even Poe and Cadmus, Volenski, Varnell, even Redgrave, were all just flesh and blood. They didn't have a will to oppose the ruinous powers the Gloam could bring to bear.
Vincent didn't realize how much being a part of the Rangers meant to him, until now. When he had to give it up.
"Garland liked to claim that thing was perfectly straight," Olivia Polden said.
Vincent blinked, and shook his head. It took him more than a couple of seconds to realize what his master was talking about. He pointed up to the long bow in the sky, before the Spire either ended, or was obscured from even his sight, empowered as it was by the Craft. "He thought that looked straight?" he asked, and laughed a little as he stared up. "Not that it's my place to second guess Crafter Kohl, but..."
"He said the only reason it doesn't look straight is a trick of our perspective. The world turns, and so our perspective of that tower of fire is distorted to make it look like it bends. He believed our eyes were never meant to take in something as massive as the Spire." Vincent's master took off her glasses and brushed the thick glass on her coat. Given all the dust she tended to carry, the lenses had already developed several scratches. But despite how little the glasses helped, his master kept using them, despite how easily she could conjure up eyes that worked far, far better.
"He was also fond of saying our imaginations were attempting to devour reality. That our minds could someday devour all that was real, and begin to consume everything that was possible," Vincent recalled. "I think that point deserves to be recalled, considering what he did for us."
A hand clapped him on the shoulder, and Vincent turned to see a Crafter he didn't recognize. "Crafter Kohl was also fond of saying that you had to strive to make a bad idea work, on the possibility that your opinion of it is wrong. It was his last lesson to me, just yesterday morning."
"Bernard, I don't think you and Vincent have ever met," Olivia said.
"No, I suppose we haven't yet. I've just heard enough about you, from both your master and hers, to forget that fact," the Crafter said, and he held out his hand. "Bernard Umver. And I suppose congratulations are in order."
"We haven't told him yet," Olivia said.
"As if he doesn't know. Especially after what he did for Barleybarrel," Crafter Umver said, looking around. "Were we waiting for anyone else?"
"No," A voice said. Firm and confident, just a little too loud for most conversations, and considerably more measured. Colonel Dremora stepped up beside them, and the quiet chatter from the soldiers nearby died off. The colonel didn't look around to confirm it, nor did she give any orders. She didn't have to. "I believe we can start," she said. And that was enough.
It became so quiet, that Vincent could hear the Spire even without using the Craft. In that silence, his master stepped into the impromptu circle, and turned to fade him. She held a bundle of something in her hands, wrapped up in black cloth. "Vincent Daramain Hearthsward. I have asked you here now to say, before my fellow members of the Guild of Flamecrafters, your apprenticeship is over."
And with those words, he found himself cut off from everything his life had been until now. He had been expecting it, been working towards this day for years. It wasn't as if he had wished to be an apprentice forever. But as his hands clutched at the scarf around his neck, he realized it wasn't his apprenticeship he was afraid to lose.
"Yes, Master Hearthsward," Colonel Dremora said, as she stepped forward with her hand out. "By the First Law of Reconciliation, when the Crafters and the City forgave each other after the First Invasion, no one with your power can hold any position of authority in the City. You are, with the end of your apprenticeship, discharged from the army."
Vincent nodded, and untied his scarf. His eyes stung a little as he pulled the white cloth over his head, and handed it to Colonel Dremora. She took it, and draped it over her shoulder as he took off his sword belt.
"Let it be remembered, Vincent Hearthsward, that your discharge is an honourable one. And you leave our company with our gratitude for all you've done," the colonel added. She accepted his coat and sword belt, though she only handed the coat to the Rangers' quartermaster.
"Vincent," his master said. "I have submitted it to the Guild, and they have concurred, that you are deserving of membership within our ranks. That you have the strength to carry our burdens, and the restraint to hold your power in check. That you will use your power for the good of the City, and while your mind is your own shall not raise your hand against it. It is my distinct pleasure to be the first to call you as you are: Crafter Vincent Hearthsward. My peer. My fellow. My brother in the guild."
Vincent's master stepped up to him, and put the bundle in his hands. Vincent looked down at it, and smiled. "Master, I don't know if I'll ever stop calling you that."
"Most of us don't," Crafter Polden agreed. Olivia now, as he now ranked among the members of his guild. But really, Vincent doubted he could ever work himself to calling her by her first name. "Now open the damn thing. I've been carrying it around for hours and only just kept myself from peeking."
Vincent obliged, untying the cord holding the bundle together. The wrapping fell away, to reveal something quite a bit more familiar than he had expected.
It was red, of course. The same rust-red his master wore, the mark of membership within the Guild. As obtuse as his master had been, he hadn't expected anything less than graduating. Especially since the last thing Crafter Kohl had said to him was a cheeky question about seeing a tailor.
The surprise, the sudden shock of familiarity, was apart from the colour, it felt exactly the same as the coat he had been wearing until just a moment ago.
Vincent unfurled it in a hurry, to discover he was almost right. It was longer than the standard army coat, coming all the way down to his knees, but everything from the feel of the outer shell, to the thickness of the linen packed inside, the stiff collar, and even the clasps that closed at the front, was exactly the same as a regulation army coat.
Vincent felt his heart soar. Even his master's frown didn't diminish the feeling. What he held in his hands, an army coat in red, was a validation of everything that had happened since he left with the Rangers. To be able to hold this in his hands, for it to be the coat he'd wear to mark himself among the Guild's membership, was a gift more profound than anything else in his life.
"I think I gave Madam Malkin too much liberty," Olivia said.
"I disagree," Crafter Umver said. "Madam Malkin has outdone herself."
"I'll second Crafter Umver," Emily said. Vincent turned to her, and saw that along with Valen, with Mack and Gwen and even Roderick, she was smiling as if she had won something important. "That's the right coat for the Rangers' own Crafter."
Vincent put it on. He knew, as soon as he stuck his right arm through the sleeve, that it had been tailored for him. It was heavy, the linen was denser than even the regulation coat he had been wearing, and the outside fabric was so stiff it was almost metallic. As armour, it would work at least as well as what he last wore.
"As a member of the Guild, you are trusted to use your power as you see fit. To serve the City and its denizens by your own leave," Crafter Umver said. "No one who cannot Craft fully understands the extent of our strength, and the danger of reaching our limitations. Your Coat is proof of that trust, one to carry with you though every corner of the world we have managed to reclaim. As your master said, welcome to the Guild, Crafter Vincent Hearthsward."
Olivia started clapping. Varnell let out a cheer, and the Rangers around her followed her example. Crafter Umver shook his hand and clapped him on the shoulder, and looked like he was about to steer him away, when Colonel Dremora stopped everything with a single snap of her fingers.
But it was Lieutenant Volenski who spoke next. "There is one last honour to leave you with, Crafter Hearthsward. The Rangers are distinguished from the rest of the army by the white scarves Lord Captain Andre Cadavalan had his chosen soldiers wear during the First." As she spoke, she picked up the scarf Colonel Dremora had left on her shoulder, and held it up. "By our traditions, only those who currently serve can wear them tied. Those who leave us, so long as they didn't leave in disgrace, can wear them loose, or secured with a pin. Vincent, you might no longer be tied to us, and your time with us was barely a single day. But the Fifth has only one name that should come before yours in the annals of its heroes. We would be honoured if you would carry our memory with you."
She then draped the scarf over his shoulders. "I'm afraid, Crafter Hearthsward, that this scarf is also a responsibility for you. Because, should we call for the aid of those who can Craft, your name will be the first we ask for."
"I will answer, ma'am," Vincent promised.
"We have no doubt, Crafter," Lieutnenat Volenski said. And she tapped her fist against her chest, twice.
As did every other Ranger around them.
Vincent began shaking hands then, as Crafter Umver congratulated him again, and the Rangers came to clap him on the shoulder, and wish him well. The only people who didn't join were his master, Colonel Dremora, and Emily, where were standing slightly apart.
He started to step over to them, but he stopped first to shake Valen's hand. "Crafter Hearthsward. That title goes a lot further to explain who you are," Valen said.
As usual, whatever Valen said carried a lot of weight. Like he managed to fit more meaning into a sentence, it sank quick and deep into Vincent's thoughts, drawing his meandering attention into chasing after the implications. Vincent nodded, not sure how to answer, but Valen moved on after clapping him on the shoulder.
As the well-wishing died off, but before anyone could treat the moment as an idle one, Colonel Dremora spoke. "Commander Volenski, I've assigned the Rangers guns twenty-three, twenty-four, and twenty-five. Make sure they're checked-over before you let them sleep. I'm not sure how many hours you're getting, because you have until the Golem gets here."
Vincent smiled at the thought, and turned to ask where he was bunked. But his master was speaking to Emily, and waved him over to join them.
"The three of us are heading down to the field," his master said. "Miss Varnell witnessed Master Kohl's battle, or at least some of it. Between the three of us, you and I are going to try to piece together what he did."
"I'll admit, master, sleep is fairly tempting," Vincent admitted.
"Just hold onto the Craft. Fire doesn't sleep, and neither does the Gloam," His master waved her hand dismissively as she turned to the entrance. "Any hint, any clue. The more we understand what my master did out there, the better our odds of replicating it. There are still seven Golems out there, and the one we're about to fight could be the last one we get to prepare for."
"Sleeping might not be optional for me," Emily protested.
"True. But I need what's in your head, Lieutenant," his master said. "I doubt it'll take too long."
Emily scowled at the insult, and Vincent laughed. It was how his master taught, no matter the circumstances. And this was a lesson, just one where if he didn't succeed, none of them might live through the coming battles.