Iron Binds

.2. The Troll

She adapts to the prosthetic quickly, though not without pain. At first, she hesitates to complain of it, but the Medic reminds her often that it is counterproductive for the arm to cause further damage to her shoulder. Her body can take significantly more strain than any human's could, but at the end of the second day, there are bruises beneath the collar and shoulder plates; it is the first time that the Medic removes the arm for maintenance.

It is very strange to see it stretched out on his workbench. The Architect hovers, observing how he adjusts the tension in the false muscles. The huntress sits on her cot; she wishes that she could watch, but the Architect is not so understanding of her rebellious streak.

Listening is one indulgence which she cannot give up.

"I'll have to temporarily drop the energy conversion," says the Medic. "It's clever, but it places too much strain on tissues that need a little peace and quiet."

"Would expanding the plates help distribute the force?" asks the Architect.

The Medic hums, considering it. "We can try it in a future build," he says. "I worry that they might restrict her movement if they're too large."

And so it goes. They adjust the mechanics of the arm, and by the fourth day, she is throwing daggers with only slightly less accuracy than she had with her own flesh arm. That is the day she meets the artist.

She has just sunk a dagger into the painted eye of a wooden dummy when a single pair of hands breaks out into applause from the observation deck above the training ring. Instinct carries her around to seek the source of the sound: a willowy young man dressed in rich ivory and cloth-of-gold as though to draw special attention to his foreign, milky white skin and hair.

The Medic calls up to him: "Come down, Tarquin. I know you're dying to get a closer look."

The man makes his way down to the ring, approaching with a shrewd measure of caution. As he draws near, she replaces the training glaive on its rack and stands square with her gaze lowered, as is appropriate for an Astami presented to a prominent human.

"Gods above and below," the man says. "It's so lifelike!"

"That's because it's alive," says the Medic. She and the newcomer both look up at him in surprise and, completely by accident, make eye contact shortly thereafter. The young man's eyes are pinkish red and lidded, and he is a white Cenocant—

She and he draw away from each other by a step, as though they are mirror images, both creatures caught somewhere they do not belong. Yet this Cenocant wears silk and fine brocade and presents as a member of the Valiera household at least. What's more, the Medic acts as though he knows the man, which means that he must be...

"Oh, I'm so sorry," says the Cenocant. "I didn't mean—of course you're..."

She is staring. She recognizes this, but she cannot stop. After a moment of suspended confusion, the Cenocant laughs, surprise and delight spreading across his milky face.

"Tarquin of Andecar, resident artist of the Valiera," says the Medic, "this is Nezetta Ferro. Nezetta, Tarquin."

Tarquin is not a title. It is a name, and not a Cenocant name, either. Should she think of him as the artist, then? Surely the Medic would have simply introduced him as such, though of course, he has developed a habit of ignoring decorum.

Tarquin the artist extends his hand as though he expects her to shake it. Unthinking, she offers the prosthetic steel hand; he shocks her by kissing it. While she is frozen in surprise, he turns the hand over, studying the smooth sinew and golden veining of the palm. Then, apparently remembering himself, he drops the hand and stands up, clearing his throat.