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.