(new/retooled) Introduction

           Mother had always been a widow, at least for as long as I had been alive. Father had died long before my birth and, indeed, if the conventions of science are to be believed, significantly before my conception, as well. I had never known a Mother without widowhood, without mourning, without a deep sorrow masked by solemn austerity. Father had been a robust merchant of as'shelik, or silks, and by the time he was struck from this world, his son Yhako had become so knowledgeable in the trade that he was prepared to run his competitors the country over. But even as he was prepared to do such a thing, he actually had no intention of it. Yhako was devoted to his studies, and believed that his true purpose lay in advancing his knowledge and that of the people around him. He saw his as'shelik merely as a means to support the family, and it had done a good job of that thus far, so there was no reason for expansion. The business required a single man to manage it the day long, but two men together could have administered it in half a day.

           Like Yhako, our brother Ansidrion was devoted to his studies, and put nothing before them. He learned the as'shelik trade from Father--dutifully, it seems--but never intended to take part in it. Several years after Father's death, Yhako and Ansidrion came to an agreement:  both men would spend their days in the two activities they enjoyed most; Yhako in studying and supporting his family, and Ansidrion in studying and sleeping. They agreed that they would study together at night, and Yhako would spend his days working enough for both men, while Ansidrion would spend that time sleeping for them both. Although I was raised on it, I believed this to be a terrible arrangement. Ansidrion lazed about for half of his life, sleeping from five hours before noon until five hours before midnight, while Yhako labored his entire life, catching nary a nap. But even in my youth, I recognized Yhako to be the smartest man I had ever met, and even when I disagreed whole-heartily with his philosophy and lifestyle, I learned never to question his dealings. If he committed to something, there must be a wise reason for it, and if I did not understand it, it must be purely due to my own ignorance.

           It was my mother, naturally, who exercised the most influence over me in my youth. With my brothers' days both accounted for, Mother looked after my upbringing—and that of Qhema, when she was still young enough. Mother could be terrible, and I went in constant fear of her, although I suppose I must have loved her. But she was not a person to be trusted, and certainly offered little comfort, so I became a quiet, sullen child. Speaking was unsafe, for I risked provoking Mother’s wrath at any time. I learned early that it was best to remain silent as often as possible.

           At her best, Mother acknowledged and tolerated me. "You must listen to the priest and do as he says, and you shall grow to be a good young man," she would tell me. I would respond with a nod, and if she was feeling particularly generous, she would say "it is not too late for you."

           This was in reference to my brothers, for whom it was too late. "They are already corrupted by their own knowledge, already too sure in their own presumed brilliance to know the true way," Mother once told me. Her eldest sons Sirlay, Yhako, and Ansidrion were already lost to Mother, and I was to be nurtured in the image of Mother's new philosophy.

           In fact, Mother had not always been this way. I came to learn in my adolescence that there were two people contained within Mother. The first was an intelligent, thoughtful, perhaps even loving woman, who encouraged her children to question authority and seek their own answers. The second was that ignorant, arbitrary, cold woman, who had forsaken her eldest children and terrified her youngest. These two women lived in two differ eras:  the earlier was the enlightened Fulviya of my brothers' childhood, but she disappeared shortly after Father's death, leaving me to be raised by the later Mother.

           It was the very circumstances of Father's death and my birth that led to this radical transformation. Thirteen months passed between these two events, and the impossible length of time exacted a terrible toll on Mother. Years later, shortly after Mother's death, Yhako would explain it to me during a moment of peace in our otherwise turbulent relationship.

           “Mother had been a different woman entirely,” he told me. “She was among the few women in Ilepya to learn to read, as she had taught herself with scraps of letters and documents that she had, in her youth, scavenged from the alleys outside of aldermen’s homes. She passed onto us a deep curiosity and admiration for letters, as she believed these carried all the secrets of science and of men’s souls. It was Mother who, shortly before Father’s sudden death, encouraged Sirlay to study at the University of Grontinion.”

           “I do not believe it,” I insisted. “Mother hated that place, and condemned it to me many times. This does not sound anything like the Mother I knew.”

           “She was not the Mother you knew,” Yhako agreed. “It was merely the same body. Mother believed in learning, in the sciences, but when you appeared, those sciences were thoroughly discredited. It shook her very foundation. Nothing she had ever believed could explain why she had either carried a child in her womb for over a year, or conceived you four months after her husband’s death.”

           “Then do you believe, as Ansidrion accused to me last week, that I am not Father’s own?”

           “Of Federan, you must not take everything that Ansidrion says seriously. I know that your relationship is troubled now, and certainly, both of you say things with the intent to hurt one another. But I do not believe he meant what he said. I see plenty of Father in you.”

           I smiled, a rarity in those days, especially when I was with my brothers. “So how did she change? What was Mother’s reaction?”

           “She had just lost her husband and she had already sought explanation of the world. So when this came along—when you came along—she cast aside everything that she had ever known. The only place to offer her any answers was the Church, so she transformed in an instant to a woman who believed it completely, and cared for nothing outside of what it offered.”

           I did not like Yhako criticizing Mother so, and I was feeling defensive about her memory. “Most men in the world would praise her for going to God when she had nowhere else to go. And yet you treat it as a foolish mistake. What else was she to do?”

           “She could have left us here in Ilepya, as a start. Instead, she dragged us to Kapabaj, that miserable country village in which no man was corrupted by his learning,” Yhako said, a touch of sarcasm to his description. “If she needed answers from God, she might have done so in moderation. Instead, she intended to correct Ansidrion and I, to clear from our heads all of the great knowledge we had accumulated so far. But we were too old at that time, and she had already lost us. So she turned her attention to Qhema, and especially you, whom she could mold from birth.”

           “And I am glad that she did, for I would rather live my life at peace with the world around me, rather than constantly questioning those who know better, as you always do.”

           “Federan, there is no peace in merely acceding to the world. What use are we if do not ensure its improvement by questioning it?”

           “You make no improvement of it, but rather seek to destroy it. I have had enough of your nonsense for the day,” I said, and stormed off and into my bedroom.

Reconsidering Sirlay

I returned to my chamber and gathered up a few of the letters my eldest brother had written to me. I did not have them all—I had thrown many of them out, usually to show my brothers that they had no sway over me. But I had kept a dozen of them, and decided now to read them in the order that they had been written.

The first was from spring of 1405, and Sirlay included a few kind words for my thirteenth birthday, and condolences over Mother’s death. Then he moved on to more substantive topics, but he did not speak directly of religion, as I had expected. Instead this letter—like most of the others, I was to learn—was political and philosophical in its content. I moved onto the next, and then read through most of the older ones. Slowly, I assembled the pieces of ideas from the many letters. In one, he had said:

"Federan, I have no wish to compel you to my faith. Indeed, I am wary of any man who would convince another of his religion by manner of force. I merely want you to understand how the political structure of your religion enables the oppression of many millions of people."

And yet, in the missive previous to this, he had noted in passing that:

"Times have never been better in Grontinion than they are today. We have succeeded in our revolution, and the people have won their freedom from tyrannical government. There remains a number of matters that we must sort out, but considering how far we had come, I am content."

These statements did not seem to match, especially considering that Sirlay's assassination had been due to the politics of religion. How could he be content, if he was wary of religious pressure in his own city--the very religious pressure that would soon cause his end? Perhaps faith did not matter as much to Sirlay as I thought it had. Perhaps his fight against Bishop Irat had not been an attempt to change the Bishop's religion, but instead to cause the Bishop to cease harming those who had already changed their religion. Sirlay had not fought under the flag of religious reform, but rather religious liberty.

I read the penultimate note—that which had described the death of the previous Iqharepur and the appointment of the next. But these were but minor details; Sirlay was much more concerned with the governing precedent that they set. “A man should be chosen to lead a people because he shows the greatest talent at it, and vision for it. Perhaps this young boy can become a great leader, but there is no reason to expect as much. Hereditary government, governance for life, it is all false and dangerous, and I fear for the people of Beautavus who must live under it.”

He was not the man I had always assumed he was. I felt ashamed. I had spent years rejecting him, denouncing him, only based on a false idea of his life’s work. Now I saw the brilliant man Yhako and Ansidrion had always praised, and I felt sorrow that I had only realized it now, once it was too late to tell him as much.

There was only one more letter. It was the posthumous piece which I had, of course, read but two days before. But now I had a new perspective, and I wanted to read the entire tale in sequence besides. So I found Sirlay’s recounting of the Noble Laborer, and read it once more.

To my surprise, the letter seemed to be entirely different than I remembered it. It was as though the words had changed since I last laid eyes upon it, and although the major points were the same as before, they seemed to carry new, different meaning. The letter was not a question of faith at all. It closed by saying: “think, if there is a man capable of fairly arbitrating between the many faiths, would he do so in your society? Would the Noble Laborer feel free in Ilepya or anywhere in Hihaythea to declare in favor of the faith the State opposed? There, then, you see the problem, for when the state chooses a faith, no one is free to find differently.”

He made no argument in favor of his religion. Rather, he merely wanted the same liberty for him to pursue his as I had to pursue mine. And given his case—and what I had witnessed that day—I had no means to dispute it. Had Ma’t not acted as the very manifestation of the State, influencing and silencing P’at before he had a chance to respond?

I could not stand the idea of facing my brothers knowing I had misjudged Sirlay. I wanted to remain in my chamber for an eternity, as losing my life for lack of nourishment appealed more to me than admitting I had erred so gravely.

But then I remembered what Sirlay had said in one of the letters: “you are a man now, Federan, and you must begin to undertake manly pursuits.” I had no choice but to go. At this hour Ansidrion would be awake as well, perhaps breaking his fast. I wanted to confront my brothers together, to avoid having to do the deed twice. So I found Ansidrion (in the kitchen, as I had expected) and I sat as he prepared some bread and cheese. I chuckled silently at the poignancy of the moment; I had undergone a major philosophical transformation, but Ansidrion had no idea. Yhako at least knew that some change was occurring within me, although he had yet to know the result. The two of them had greater things on their mind that morning, but I was sure to claim my bit of attention.

Characters weave their way through Fe'n's life

To my surprise, I was able to scavenge a few bits of sleep from the night, but they cannot have been particularly restful. I dreamt of Sirlay and of Bishop Irat, of Yhako and Ansidrion, and woke up several times with sweat escaping all parts of my body. I could not recall any of these dreams, only that they were haunted by the characters that had dominated my evening. Finally, when the sun began to rise some five hours before noon, I hastily dressed myself and stole out of the house. The night had provided no answers, no calm; my brain remained full of questions, and I knew that only Ma’t could answer them.

The little church on Eparam Street was quiet, as usual, but there was a candle lit within, as the winter dawn did not provide sufficient light. I found Ma’t in his chamber speaking quietly with another old man, but when he saw me, he shooed the man away. “Young Fe’n, be seated,” he smiled as usual. “What brings you here unannounced?”

“I am sorry if I have caught you off of your guard, Ma’t,” I began, my voice slow but firm. “But have you heard the word from Grontinion?”

Ma’t frowned. “Grontinion? What filth comes from that loathsome place now?”

“I have received word that some of Bishop Irat’s men have murdered my eldest brother, Sirlay.” I attempted to remain constant and casual, in order to evoke neutrality from the priest.

But neutrality was not something Ma’t seemed ever to have valued. “So they have finally stopped the heretic, have they?” He grinned, as though it was natural and obvious to be cheerful about such an event.

But I was, of course, not so convinced that my brother’s death was cause for cheer, although I maintained the evenness in my tone. “But this is murder, is it not?”

“Yes, I suppose you might call it that, but certainly this murder is warranted for all that he has done.”

"But is it not wrong?" I asked. "Has God not created all men? And, if that is the case, does God not condemn all acts of hatred against his creations? What God has created let nothing destroy!"

"Oh no, Fe'n, it is not wrong at all!" Ma't answered quickly. His voice was tight and excited with more enthusiasm than I had ever heard from him. "Think of this, will you not: Sirlay and the heretics seek to lead men away from God, into falsehood, do they not?”

I had to agree that they did, although more than ever, I had begun to believe that they did it out of confusion, rather than evil design.

"Regardless of their motives, it is sure that Sirlay has helped lead dozens, perhaps hundreds of men astray from God. Do you believe this?"

"Yes, I suppose it is true."

And think of how man more men Sirlay might have led from God if he had lived another ten or twenty years." Ma't's excitement had continued to grow now, and he rose to his feet. "Think of how many hundreds or thousands might have abandoned God if Sirlay were allowed to live! Bishop Irat has prevented it!" He came inches away from my face. "In stopping one man, he has saved a thousand! I can think of few deeds more honorable in the eyes of God."

"But heretic though he was, Sirlay still had feelings. He was a human being, capable of feeling pain and sorrow. How can it be right to put an end to him that God has not wrought directly?"

"Well then what would you suggest?" The old priest shrugged. His mouth opened into a smile, and his tongue peaked out from between the old, yellowed teeth.

"Can he not merely use his words? If his faith was superior--and I believe it was--could he not convince Sirlay through reason? For if Sirlay were capable of leading a thousand men into falsehood, could the Bishop not just as easily lead a thousand to truth?"

Ma't clapped his hands so abruptly, with such force, that I jumped. "Fe'n, my boy! So young, so naïve! You have tried those same tactics with your brothers for years, and what has it yielded? Nothing, for they still actively preach heresy against you. Think how much more difficult it would be with Sirlay, who hated his opponent and who was of much harder head than Yhako and Ansidrion?"

I sighed and my head fell. I did not want it to be true. But how could I argue? And then I remembered what Sirlay had told me. The Noble Laborer! Would the world not be happier if we left it up to that peaceful being? Would we not put aside our acts of violence and hatred according to his unblemished discretion? After we found him we could live in unity, but until then, could we not be content in the knowledge that there was no certainty? Could there be peace if everyone carried a small doubt?

But before I could voice this idea, Ma't began to speak again in that high, quick voice. "Come, Fe'n! I will show you!" He made for the door, cane in hand.

"But Ma't," I tried to stop him. "What know you of the Miracle of the Noble Laborer?"

"There will be time for that later," he called, already nearly outside.” Come with me, boy!"

I did not want to follow him, but I was curious to see what he would do. So I stood up and walked quickly after him. He was halfway done the street when I caught up with him, walking at such a fast pace despite his limp that I was short of breath at keeping up with him. "Ma't, where do we go? Why do you walk so quickly?"

"I shall show you exactly where we mean to go!" He continued at his impossible pace, and I began to lag behind him. He rounded a corner and I was nearly an entire minute behind him. And then I saw him speaking with a man of about Ansidrion's age, standing in the street. Before I had come within earshot of them, Ma't placed a few coins into the man's hand. “The rest are at my home," I heard him tell the man. "Let us go now!" And then Ma't turned back down the way we came, and the man followed. The man wore a meek, plain smile upon a smooth, dark complexion. His clothes were modest--he certainly was not a beggar, but I could tell that the clothing had been worn for many consecutive days without having been washed. He walked calmly, and had the most upright posture I had ever seen. I wanted to ask Ma't what was happening, if he knew the man, but for once I found myself too curious to act. Nothing seemed like the right question to ask, and I knew that Ma't meant to teach me something, and so would not be forthcoming with details. Therefore, my best method of learning was through observation, so I watched the two of them carefully, following closely behind the modest, upright man.

But the two men said nothing to one another until Ma't stopped at the door to the church. "The coin is inside," he said, smiling. "Now as I said, this is all for a little bet I have with my friend, Fe'n." He pointed to me and nodded. The upright man looked my way and I forced a smile. "Fe'n believes that men of your generation are fools, but I know you to be wise, and therefore I will give you a bavdiyar coin for every question you answer correctly. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," the man nodded. He had a mild accent that had made the answer seem closer to "yeshur."

"Very well, let us begin. Do you believe in God?"

The man shrugged. "Yes. Of course."

"Good, good." Ma't seemed to dance with excitement, but I could not figure out what was happening. "Then I suppose you are a Beautav?"

The man nodded.

"Very well, and how often do you attend a sermon?"

"But at New Year, sir."

It is fine, it is fine!" The old priest confirmed. "You seem to be the perfect candidate for this little bet. Tell me, boy: what know you of a moon ritual?"

The man frowned, his thick eyebrows gathering to meet in the midst of his forehead. "I do not know, sir."

"It is fine!" His eyes shone with excitement. "Let us on to the next one. Can you name the Seven Lords of the Occult?"

The upright man frowned again. "There is Galmosto, of course. And, I suppose Ringellen. And..." he trailed off, lost in thought. "That is all I know, sir."

"Two is not bad! Do you know any doctrine?"

"Doctrine?"

"Yes, religious documents. Letters written by bishops or the Iqharepur on important issues of God."

No, it could not be! I knew these questions. How did Ma't know them? Was this the Noble Laborer? Yes, it was the only explanation! Perhaps these questions were a well-known test, and Ma't had led me directly to the man. My heart began to flutter with joyful anticipation. I did not know what Ma't intended to do with the comely man with the smooth voice and sturdy accent, but I felt that something incredible, even miraculous, was about to happen.

"No bishop has ever written to me, if that is what you mean to ask!" The man laughed. "No, no doctrine, sir."

"That is good," Ma't was still as excited as ever. "Come in and you shall sign your name. Then the coin will be yours."

The man shrugged and smiled. He looked at me and I did the same, just as confused as he was. Then we walked into the church after Ma't together.

Ma't produced a small paper and ink. Then he gave the man a straw and, with which the man managed a few letters onto the paper. Pelatt, he wrote. I said it aloud. "That is my name, but I am called P'att. I do not know how to write that, though." I smiled at him. I had to find a way to bring this man to Yhako.

Ma't retreated to the back of the room and then, true to his word, returned holding three bavdiyar n his hand. "Put out your hand, boy," he commanded P'att. P'att grinned and did what he said, and the coins fell into his hands.

"I shall eat for a month with these!" P'att exclaimed, his eyes full of light. "This is marvelous, oh, thank you sir!”

But before he had time even to look up at the priest in gratitude, Ma't's heavy cane came battering down upon P'att's wrist, and the coins flew everywhere. I leapt out of the way, terrified. P'att, startled, fell to the ground. But that did not stop Ma't, who raised the cane once again and smashed it down upon the poor man's right leg. P'att shouted in pain. I shut my eyes as tightly as I could and turned away. I heard the cane crash down again, and the man screamed. I opened my eyes and the whole room seemed to be coming down around me. I turned to Ma't, flinching all along, and saw him lift his cane up in the air once more. He was laughing with pleasure, his eyes crazed and full of satisfaction. This was the most dreadful thing I had ever experienced. I had to do something to make it stop. I grabbed the old man's right arm and held it with all my might. "No, Ma't!" I cried. "Stop!"

Ma't turned to me, still holding the cane with that wild look upon his face. I wrested the cane from his hand and threw it to the ground. His eyes slowly returned to normal, but the crooked old smile remained. P'att was still on the ground, his arms lain upon his head. He was moving, groaning, and blood began to seep through the right leg of his trousers. "He is a heretic," Ma't explained, his words seemingly distant from one another; isolated by quick, shallow breaths from his excitement. "It is as I have told you; it is right to protect the poor, innocent people from him."

But I could not shake the feeling that Ma't had just attacked the Noble Laborer. "What says to you he is a heretic? He is merely an uneducated man, but everything about him has suggested that his soul and heart are pure. Why have we not but bothered to educate him?"

"He stood in front of a deshilva school, a heretic school. He knew nothing of the true doctrine. It is too late to educate him, for his mind has already been poisoned by the heretics. Now stand aside, that I may finish the task." He pulled free from my hand, but I grabbed him again before he could recover the cane. I held his feeble wrists together in my hand behind his back, and wrapped my left arm around his chest. His heart was beating furiously, and I could feel his lungs rapidly expand and contract.

"I will not!" I insisted. "P'att, you must leave this place. I know you are badly injured, but you must get yourself home before worse shall befall you. Seek comfort and care in the home of a friend if you must, but be gone!" I watched the man as he struggled to find his way to his feet. He stood upon his right leg, but it gave out, and he collapsed to the floor once again. "Take the cane," I instructed him, holding tight against Ma't's resistance. The old priest might have summoned all of his strength in his zeal to carry out this crime, but in the fight for what was right, I managed to be stronger. I knew that I could and would restrain Ma't for as long as was necessary to save this man.

Slowly, he managed to stand up once again, leaning on the wooden cane with the orb atop. It was a bit too short for him, and his once-perfect posture had now been replaced with a harsh slouch and a slow, pained gait. He called out in agony each time he set his weight upon his right leg, but I knew he bore the injury with all of the strength and dignity he had. He looked back at me as he neared the door. "I am sorry," I told him, sighing. He cringed and hobbled from the building.

I knew it would take poor P'att some time before he managed to get to safety, so I continued to restrain Ma't, although he had stopped resisting. "You are allowing a heretic to go free, boy," he began to taunt me. "You stand in the way of God's work."

"Ma't, I have trusted you with the world, exactly as Mother instructed. But this day, you have not done the work of God."

We remained there for several minutes more, as Ma’t attempted to shame me into releasing him. But I remained steadfast, holding him firm for what seemed a half hour or more. Then, abruptly, I released him and he stumbled to the ground. Without his cane, walking would be difficult, and I had no idea when another friend or pupil might come to him to aid his stroll, but I did not care. I left as soon as I let him loose, still ignoring his words.

I walked the streets for an hour, searching for signs of noble P’att. There were a few spots of pink snow that led west toward Turka Street, and then a few more that pointed north. But then they disappeared, and I had no clue as to where he might have gone. I returned to the deshilva school where Ma’t had first located him, but the men within knew no one by his name, and he was not amongst the wards that slept there.

Some of Qhema's untold tale

As a personal exercise (and perhaps the start of my next project), I'm allowing Qhema to write her autobiography. This is a piece from late in her story.

I thought I would write every day. I could think of nothing but him, even as I came to the place where Sirlay had lived, even as I was reintroduced to Yhako. There was no one in my head but Erom. I thought of his long, even jawline, his thoughtful eyes, his quiet warmth. More than anything, I thought about how great it was to lie next to him, to speak all of the many words I had to say, as he merely listened in peace. There was such great turmoil, such chaos in me in those days, and I longed for the restorative peace that Erom produced.

 But every time I went to write, I found that I could not produce a single letter. Writing reminded me of Erom. I thought of every moment along the way as I taught him to read and write. I thought of how he learned to love words so much that he wanted to write letters to his neighbors, to my brothers, to complete strangers. I thought of how he had changed the spelling of his name so that an “o” appeared in his representation, because he liked the idea of a picture that carried so much meaning despite appearing to have nothing inside. I thought of how he himself had taught little Fedorr how to read, needing no guidance from me. I could not write because there was too much sorrow to it. Writing represented the life I had left behind; I life I had loved, but that I could never return to.

Fe'n reconnects with the surviving members of the Ilepyan Brotherhood

    “Come along, Fe’n,” the second man said, and we began walking east toward Itaska.  “My name is Abhard Ahibari, and this is my brother Alimarr.”

    I smiled at once, as I knew who these men were.  What was more, when I provided them my family name, I would at once become familiar to them, although they had never known and perhaps not even heard of me before.  This made me feel at once important and poweful, as I knew my hosts, but they did not yet know their guest.

    “Gentlemen, it is good to see you alive and well,” I said as we hastened toward the coast.  “You have known my brother, although perhaps it has been so long, and so much has changed, that you have not thought of him in many months or more.  His name was Ansidrion Poniubiresh, and he toiled with you in the Ilepyan Brotherhood.”

    Alimarr stared at me in amazement, and Abhard clapped his hands together.  “Old Ansidrion!  That mountain of a man!  You cannot be Yhako; you must be the boy, Federan.”  Both men were smiling now.

    “Yes, it is I. Fe’n, if it pleases you.”

    “Ansidrion was a good man,” Alimarr spoke.  “Although it has been a while since I thought of him, please know, Fe’n, that Abhard and I never cease to think of or work in the honor of our old fellows.  I remember and cherish those twenty-six other members of the Brotherhood, the men who lost their lives that night.  We have since spent every one of our nights in the streets, have enforced the tarbhasht, the parebhur and the evatarr, have and will risk our lives that they have not died in vain.”

    I smiled meekly.  Would that I could say the same, but at least I had been there for the fall of the Apgha, and at least I had been active today. “Sirs, we are close to success, thanks in no small part to your hard and brave work.”

    “Success is at hand, Fe’n,” Abhard nodded.  “And no single person deserves the success for it, but rather anyone who has sacrificed anything, including you and your brave brothers.”

    I disagreed that I had done much at all, but I decided against saying anything of it.  When we arrived at the Ahibari home, Alimarr generously offered me his bed, but I refused it.  “I have spent many hours in bed of late,” I told them. “Tonight I shall accept nothing less than the floor of my gracious hosts.”

    “Very well, Fe’n, as you shall have it,” Abhard agreed.  “We have a small parlor in the front of our home, and we offer you a few extra blankets to keep you warm through the night.”

    I thanked the men and followed them into the parlor.  I took no time to look around the room, but rather placed my body on the ground, expecting that I might want sleep after such a long day.  My hosts departed for their chambers, leaving me in the dark with my thoughts.

    Of course, the moment I laid myself down, my mind began to race.  I had had my night’s restoration in the streets, of course, and now I did not need sleep at all.  It was not as though I would be able to find it anyway, as I had so much to give my thoughts to.  Reform had taken the day.  The guilty had been willing to shout their names publicly, at the building that had represented their oppression.  And that very building, the Apgha, had fallen to the people.  It was all a marvel to me.  Had so much happened since I had last protested?  Or had we already been this close to success when I retreated to my bed?

    I began to think of Yhako and Ansidrion, of Nidath and of Etiar, and all of the many people who might have different thoughts about the events of this day.  Soon I found myself sitting upright upon the floor, and then, as the weak light of dawn began to creep in through the window, I took a brief stock of the room.  It was nothing of particular remarks, and had I not looked to the shelf over the small stove, I would certainly give no word of the room at all.  But even under the winter morning light, I could see that the brothers had a few small books resting upon this shelf.  I was feeling both curious and restless, naturally, so I stood and looked through them.

The cover of the first book, to my great surprise, bore the words asdelma Galmostaya—the Song of Galmosto.  I knew this book, of course.  I had read it many times in my youth, had placed great faith in it for my first eighteen years, and had since given it great criticism.  This was a prayer book, which had been denounced by the reform.  What was it doing in the home of two honored opposition leaders?

I looked to the next book.  Perhaps they merely owned it to better understand their opponents.  But all of the books were similar—books praising the Lords’ Occult and the Iqharepur, books that no one in Grontinion held in any esteem.  Might the Ahibaris follow the old religion?  Had they lured me into their home to do me harm?  Had they been spies within the Ilepyan Brotherhood all along?  Did they merely have the books as research of their opponents, or as relics of a past life?

My mind had been filled with questions, with contradictory explanations.  At that moment, however, I heard a great commotion from outside of the house, and I heard footsteps just beyond the door.  I rushed to the small window in the room to see men and women running northward.  What could this be?  An attack?  But after a moment of observation, I noticed in the dim light that the people smiled and waved their companions along; they were running toward something.  I made my way to the entry of the house, where I saw my hosts standing in the doorway.  Just as I arrived, a man addressed the brothers as he ran by.  “Abhard, have you heard?  The Yiffens arrive by sea!  Their ships are come to port even now!”  The man summoned us with his right hand, and then disappeared beyond the door in the direction of the Itaska Port.

Last thoughts on the Noble Laborer

            “And what of your noble laborer?”

            My breath stopped.  I had not thought of P’att for several days.  But to my surprise, I felt no anger at him.  My lasting vision of him—or, that is, the one that came to mind first—was not of P’att standing over Ma’t’s battered body, but the sad man, crippled in the street, begging my forgiveness.  I did not like his crime; I could never excuse it.  But the battle was over.  When the dust settled, how many Ilepyans would find blood on their hands?  I would have to forgive them as well to go on living in this city, because they were my brothers.  In fact, I began to feel as though I already had.  Making amends with a former criminal did not excuse their crimes any more than making friends with a former enemy justified their hatred.  Perhaps P’att had not been the man I thought he was, but that was no more his doing than mine.  I had ascribed characteristics to him, equated him with a fable, and refused to see him as a human being, capable of flaws.

            “While P’att was not the noble laborer, but he was a special man whom I loved and took into my home.  He is alienated from me now, but were our paths to cross again, I would treat him to a new shirt and give him a meal, just as I would any other Ilepyan in need.”

Ma't on personal liberty

            To my luck, Ma’t was not occupied at the moment, but welcomed me into his chamber with a “Fe’n, my boy!  Let you come and be seated!”  I positioned myself on the stool as usual.  “What has brought you to me this fine afternoon?”  The old man asked.

            “I have quarreled with my brothers once again, although I suppose that is nothing new.”

            “No, of course not!  It means to me that all is right with the world.  Let you always seek to be in conflict with those two!”

            “Yes, well this afternoon a letter has come from Sirlay, and they read it aloud to me.  I care very little for what he has to say, but they continue to insist that I am ignorant merely for disagreeing with them.”

            “Ah, but that is always the way, my boy,” the priest rasped.  “Those who have spent their lives in pursuit of vain knowledge think themselves superior to all others.  It is the way they must be; if they do not diminish you for being like them, their pursuits will have become purposeless.”

            “I suppose that is so, for I hate the disdain with which they describe the Hihaythean people.  I know that we Hihaytheans are good, noble people who follow the Iqharepur in all things.  Yet to Yhako and Ansidrion, the Hihaytheans are foolish things, poor, directionless souls.”

            Ma’t frowned.  “Tell me, my boy.  What is it that they have said?”

            So I recounted to Ma’t the conversation I had overheard between my brothers about the need for a Hihaythean awakening.  “How can they wish for a content people to realize their anger?  If we are happy, why would they trouble this?”

            “Your brothers are, indeed, quite foolish.  The people do not need to be awoken from this slumber.”

            “That is exactly as I felt.  We are merely content.  Why must they insist that we must be asleep merely because we disagree with them?”

            “The people do not need to be awoken to any such disagreement!  They do not need to learn from your brothers; it is the role of the people to be humbly led.”

            “Led?”  I asked.

            “Yes, led.  It is my task, as given from God, to direct the people away from wrong.  Men like your brothers have interfered with this task, by complicating the public mind and sowing dissent.  When uppity men like them offer so many choices, it is only natural that the people will drift down the wrong path.”

            “But why can the people not be given choices?  If our way is the correct way—and I believe that it is—should most people not choose it if let to their own devices?”

            “Perhaps they should, Fe’n, but they will not.  There are too many corrupt forces; too many men who are eager to deceive the people away from our faith.”

            “Then we should educate them.  If the people can be so easily deceived, we should fill their minds with truth, so that there will be no space for lies.”

            “Fe’n, you are a bright young man, and adhere to many pleasant ideals.  But unfortunately, these ideals are not the way of the world.  The only way we can protect people is to shield them from these sinful alternative ideals.  Education is not the solution.  Think of your mother, Fe’n.  When she was perhaps the most educated woman in all of Ilepya, she was at her most sinful.  It was only when she abandoned her worldly learning that she opened her mind to the proper way.”

            “Hum.  I suppose you are correct on this matter.”  He had his facts correct, at least.  And yet it felt wrong to me.  How could the pursuit of learning lead a person to foolishness?  If knowledge were bad, why should I come to Ma’t with questions?  But, as usual, I said nothing of this, nor did I act upon it.  I continued to see Ma’t just as much as I always did, because he was the only person who gave me the answers that I sought.