Rizain Du Kava stood in the portal to the sanatorium.
Even from across the room, she could feel his eyes piercing daggers. The princess lay in a bed, her head propped up with a pillow. For how long she had slept there, she did not know. She still felt exhausted. Rizain, she knew, would not take that as an excuse. Weakly, she forced herself to sit up.
The gash in thigh shot jolts of pain all through her body as she moved. She ground her teeth, choking down the pain. A fresh bout of dizziness momentarily seized her. When she had control of herself, she met his gaze.
Rizain stepped into the room and moved toward her bed.
"You deserve that gash on your leg," he said, in a barely audible voice. "You deserve to be dead."
The princess did not respond.
"That was far too close," he said.
"He was a good fighter."
"I trained you better," he replied, his voice biting. "You allowed his blade to control the fight. His eyes, Shahra, you did not watch his eyes. You watched his blade."
"It was difficult not to watch when it was coming at my throat."
"Don't get insolent with me!" he stepped nearer, his eyes threatening.
The princess involuntarily gulped and straightened her back.
"Yes, master," she replied, humbly.
Rizain drew in a long slow breath through his nostrils, then exhaled with equal control. The harsh lines in his forehead faded slightly as he did so. And the fire in his eyes cooled to mere embers. When he spoke again, the edge in his voice had dulled.
"My sworn duty is to train you to defeat any opponent. How can I do so, if you ignore my training? If you had been fighting me, you would be dead."
He drew closer still, so that he loomed over her like a brooding thundercloud. She raised her head to keep looking into his dark eyes.
"If you fight like that again," he said, "you will lose. This is real, Shahra. Your opponents mean to kill you—they long to kill you. Do not let an opponent control you like that ever again."
"Yes, master."
She did not seek to defend her performance. Though she felt angry for being so chided, she knew Rizain spoke the truth. And she scolded herself for such sloppy execution.
"I concur with Du Kava," came her mother's voice from behind.
Rizain turned and stepped to the side, revealing the empress standing just inside the portal. A scowl of discontent, which the princess knew well, shadowed her face. Unlike Rizain, she did not come closer, but remained there with her arms at her sides and her tall figure drawn up to its full height. From the iron crown atop her head to the hem of her scarlet robe, she was the Empress, in full regal majesty and menace. Not an ounce of mother.
"You were careless," the empress went on. "It made me sick to watch you struggle out there like one who's never fought before. Need I remind you—again—how important these Trials are?"
The princess shook her head slowly.
"Good. I'll expect better from you next time. Now, tomorrow you shall attend Commander Roarde's burial ceremony. This shall endear you more in the peoples' hearts. The healers shall visit you at the castle to see to your hurts. Then, back to training. Rizain, I expect has some instructions for you."
"A thousand left-handed feints—your form was sloppy. Then, two hours of meditation. After that, report back to me."
The princess responded with a bow of her head.
"I return to the castle, now," said the empress. "Your carriage shall take you back when you feel your strength sufficient. Rizain shall return with you. Also, your serving wench is waiting outside, should you require anything."
With that, the empress turned around and sailed out of the room. Rizain likewise departed, no doubt to go wait stoically outside. When she felt sufficient time had passed for her mother to be out of earshot, she called for Icca.
The scrawny creature came scuttling in, gripping the edges of her apron, the way she did when she was anxious about something. The way she always did. The girl curtsied quickly before coming over to the princess' bedside.
"Yes, my lady?" she said, keeping her eyes fixed on the floor.
"Bring me some water."
Icca immediately went to one of the side tables and poured a glass of water from a vase. She brought it to the princess, who swigged it slowly.
"Are you much hurt, my lady?"
"As you see," said the princess, curtly.
The princess vaguely wondered what had become of her nurse. Probably scared off by Rizain.
Good riddance.
"Your next trial..." said Icca tremulously, "what is it to be?"
Rarely did the princess allow her wench to be conversational. She preferred the girl to be as silent as possible. And it was easy to keep her that way. Curiosity, she knew, got the girl's mouth moving, though. No one else spoke to the creature, except to order her about. None could blame them. The pathetic excuse for a Tor didn't deserve a friend. Despite that, the princess deigned to sate the girl's curiosity.
"The Hishram Gauntlet," she replied.
* * *
"A new hand?" said Rolander in astonishment.
"And why not?" responded the professor. "As I see it, there is no reason to build something frivolous simply because you have never built anything before. I should think you would have many uses for a new hand."
"I would, I would. But...how can that be possible? I've never heard of using mechanics to rebuild human body parts. And even if it were, it would be far outside our capability."
Jonobar cocked his head to the side and looked at Rolander as if he had declared some interesting fact that the professor never heard before.
"Outside our capability?" he said. "Master Rolander, you seem to be under the impression that I am here to provide you a mediocre education. Quite the contrary. I intend to provide you a superior education. And that does not come without the stretching of one's mind and the expanding of one's capabilities.
"As to the possibility, I would have us speak in terms of feasibility or practicability. Should we have to spend the next twelve years in the pursuit, that would be infeasible for our current situation. However, I believe it neither impossible nor impractical. My colleague, whom I mentioned to you, has been pioneering a new field of study which he calls biomechatronics."
Rolander repeated the word aloud, letting it sink into his brain and take meaning. It was not a word he had ever heard or read about. But the mere sound of it gave him goose bumps.
"That's right," said Jonobar. "Simply put, it is the integration of living organisms and mechanical apparatus. But this is not merely the act of superficially attaching some mechanical gadget to an arm or leg. Rather the device being wholly connected with the nerves and muscles of the body, so that they act in harmony. So that the devices—in essence—receives commands from the brain, just as does a finger, toe, or any other member of the body."
Rolander could not even fathom such a thing. A man-made device being controlled directly by the brain? Impossible. There didn't exist any sort of medium to bridge the barrier between the artificial and the biological in such a manner. Did there? Rolander was neither an expert in biology nor anatomy. Perhaps this professor had discovered some way to interface the two. He yearned to know how.
"So, are you up for the challenge?" said Jonobar. "I will need to give special instructions to my colleague if we are to embark into this new frontier. I am sure he will be all too delighted to deluge us with his research and study findings."
Subconsciously, Rolander glanced down at his forearm, at the place where his hand used to be. A new hand. Was it possible?
Several weeks, Jonobar estimated would be needed for the new curriculum to arrive. He felt he would burst before then. With each day that passed, Rolander felt all the more anxious to begin work on his new hand.
During the interim Jonobar began to teaching him some of the basics of mechanics and automata. Most of which Rolander already knew.
One morning, a few days after their original discussion about Rolander's hand, Jonobar came in to begin their lessons. The professor had on his old poet's cap and a gray robe. His disheveled beard looked even more tangled and frayed than usual. But the dark eyes behind the spectacles looked sharp.
"I have something of interest to show you, master Rolander," said Jonobar with an unaccustomed hint of energy in his voice.
Rolander immediately thought of the new curriculum. Less than a week had passed, though, since Jonobar sent his inquiry. It couldn't have arrived already. Still, Rolander allowed himself to entertain the possibility.
"Come over to the lamp," said Jonobar.
They walked over to one of the walls, where stood a large table. With the help of a few servants and the castle's chief carpenter, they had built a crude laboratory out of an old butcher table, some phosphorescent lamps, and an assortment of hand tools Jonobar secured from a city vendor. Jonobar turned on one of the lamps and reached into the left breast of his robe. After a moment of digging, he drew out a small wooden box and placed it under the lamp light.
Rolander looked at the box inquisitively.
"Open it," instructed Jonobar.
Rolander took the little box in his hands and removed the lid. Inside, a metallic object caught the light and glinted brightly. He leaned in for a closer look. The object had silver wings, six jointed legs, and a silver body, with thorax and abdomen like that of an insect.
"What is this?" said Rolander, though he already knew in his heart the answer.
"Something I picked up from a small shop in the Dosser District. One of the finest examples of automata I've seen. It's called a Tracker."