Wisdom Lost

by Michael Sliter

  The temple was unchanged. Rian, though only a couple years older than Hafgan, had been the Prime Offeir of a laborer caste temple for nearly ten years. Oletta had been the least worshipped of the gods among the Wasmer pantheon, especially among the lower castes. Her aspect was wisdom and knowledge, something that the physically-taxing and fairly routine lives of the miners and laborers had little use for. Why learn the histories and stretch the mind with logic when cognitive pursuits had so little do with swinging a pickax or clearing roads of snow?

  Given the sparseness of any given prayer service, Rian’s temple was small, containing only a dozen stone pews, a podium, and a couple of side chambers. There were no statues or intricate carvings of Oletta, nor any carved murals. It was as simple a temple as existed in Loch Creed.

  Rian sat on a pew, the only one with a padded cushion. From the looks of it—a sack of clothes in the corner, bedding wedged under a bench, some toiletries and a bucket of water behind the podium—she had been sleeping there for some time.

  “At least some things are unchanged,” murmured Hafgan, glancing around the room.

  “Yes, some things never change. Some people never change. They stay bleeding idiots,” she retorted.

  “If you brought me in here to continue insulting me, I might as well leave,” Hafgan told her, not particularly enjoying her constant rejoinders.

  “It’s something you are good at, no?”

  Rian looked fit to start attacking again, and Hafgan did remember… he deserved anything that she directed at him.

  “Rian, I’m sorry. How are things? How are things, really?”

  She sighed that familiar sigh, this one more regretful than anything. “That’s a loaded question, you oaf. When you left me…. When you left Hackeneth, things went sour. Your arrogance was astounding, to leave after having achieved so much through battle. It was so… contrary to the beliefs of the people that they took to the temples. They came to me. They came to Shryn and Ineryn and Wrys and the rest of us. The thousands of witnesses in the Cylch, and the thousands more that heard the story of your prowess amplified until you became almost a god in their eyes… it opened the door for doubt.”

  Rian’s gaze was far away, remembering things almost fondly.

  “For a while, I thought you actually changed things by leaving. It seemed, for a long time, that the people were questioning the caste system. It seemed that they were questioning how the right to live in comfort was granted simply because of the womb that bore you. The temple was full for the first time, Hafgan. I had people to listen to me… to learn of Oletta, despite certain truths that you sought to open my eyes to.”

  Hafgan slumped into a seat next to Rian. He remembered the day he’d emerged from his punishment in the pwoll, weakened, malnourished, and half-insane. He’d found books claiming that the gods the Wasmer worshipped had been imagined up by the Dyn Doethas, with the explicit purpose of controlling the people. The Dyn Doethas probably would have bled him, but Taern had been the one who’d discovered him. His time in the pwoll had probably been a fair trade for his life.

  When he’d returned home, he had told Rian, in his fevered, fearful voice, what he had found. That Oletta, who she had dedicated her life to, was imaginary. That Traisen and Enyll and Feroh had all been dreamt up by the supposed wisest among the Wasmer.

  She had railed against this, of course. She’d attacked his words with her own. She’d even attacked him in her anger, as she was wont to do. But, eventually, the logic that was so integral to serving the goddess of wisdom had led her to the truth. There was no Oletta. There were no gods. Hafgan’s fear had been what convinced her.

  And she’d hated him for it.

  “That must have been fulfilling,” Hafgan murmured. “Being able to guide the people toward wisdom.”

  Rian glanced up sharply, as if expecting sarcasm or mockery. Of course, Hafgan was being true to her. He’d always tried to be, for all the good it had done him.

  “It was, you concussed oaf. Even the miners listened to my words, bending their ears toward the beauty of learning. Toward the beauty of knowing more than just what bashing a pickax against a rock could yield. For six months or more, Loch Creed was filled to bursting, all one hundred temples knowing more pilgrims during that time than the five years previous. But then things changed.” Rian rolled her neck to the left and right. Left and right. She’d always had a nervous energy.

  “Leyr?” Hafgan asked.

  “Not yet. Or maybe so. Around that time, there was a great earthquake in Prineth, collapsing the great caverns and destroying the majority of the crops. Starvation was a greater threat than ever before, and the influx of pilgrims into Loch Creed continued. The people were fearful and looking for someone to blame, especially when children started dying from hunger and flux.”

  Rian’s eyes had grown far away. Hafgan longed to hold her.

  “And then, Leyr,” he concluded correctly.

  “And then Leyr, Rinx, and Wiscon. Three of your bleeding Haearn Doethas. They focused the people on the Dyn Doethas, elaborating on your message. You were a living martyr, having given up your place as grand warleader to find freedom from tyranny. Walking away while opening the eyes of the people. Leyr and the rest were seemingly everywhere, visiting each temple and spreading their message against the Dyn Doethas. They had failed us in so many ways. Hunger. Isolationist policies. Strangled trade. Constant war. Hoarding their own wealth. With their seeming devotion to the gods and the simplicity of their message—of your message—the Haearn Doethas whipped the people into a hungry, righteous froth.”

  “And then the purge.” Hafgan could picture the people, faces pinched in hunger and muscles hardened from continued labor, raiding the Laenor. The wide passages could be held by small, skilled groups of soldiers for days. Weeks, even. But a constant and concerted push from a desperate and frenzied foe could eventually gain passage. The few hundred Dyn Doethas would have been destined to fall in the face of that. But it would have been hard-fought. Maybe one of the reasons for the empty streets in Hackeneth.

  Rian started to lean into Hafgan before hopping to her feet and turning on him violently, whipping him with her shining hair. Even with her standing while he sat, they were at eye level.

  “The purge. It was less a purge than a war, as you can imagine. No one relinquishes power lightly. When the dust cleared and the bodies were tossed downriver, starvation was no longer a problem.” Rian shuddered.

  “What of the other clans? Did they not sense a weakness?”

  “Of course, they did. These are the bleeding Tulanques, after all. But that’s when Leyr really made his move. With so many dead, with Prineth destroyed in the quakes, with the Flam Madfall and the Yearer Inos growing ever bolder, he moved against the gods. The message was the same—they had failed us. Hackeneth, once the jewel of the Tulanques, had crumbled. First, through the corruption of the Dyn Doethas, and then through the inattention of the gods.”

  Hafgan thought of Rian’s own reaction to his story of imaginary gods. “The people would not be so easily convinced.”

  “Of course not. But you must understand that Leyr had become something of a god himself. And that was when he introduced his new god. His nameless, single god.”

  “I heard there were theatrics,” Hafgan said, remembering Ulin’s story.

  “You can’t imagine. Enorry Falls halted its flow while shadows crossed the red-tinged sky. The earth shook, and avalanches fell to either side of Hackeneth, sparing the lives of all but a few goats. The walls of Loch Creed glowed red, emanating with a heat that I have never since felt! There was not a soul in Hackeneth that did not experience some impact of this god, the day that Leyr climbed to the top of the falls.”

  Rian turned away from Hafgan, walking slowly over to her podium. She leaned on the simply-carved wood, looking out over the benches. Hafgan knew her mind; she was wishing that her goddess could have instigated such miracles of nature. That her goddess was real, and that she herself
could have been the one to kindle the faith. She had always loved looking into the eyes of a true believer.

  “Do you believe in this god, Rian?” Hafgan stood, moving toward the podium. He felt heavy.

  “Ha. Who knows? Who cares? With Leyr, anything is possible. Though, it was a bleeding convincing presentation. Really bleeding convincing.” She dropped her head into her hands.

  Hafgan reached out to comfort her, resting his hand lightly on her back. It had been so long since he had touched her; it could have been a different lifetime. She tensed under his touch, though, and he snatched his hand back. It was stupid, to believe that she would want comfort from him, from the man who’d left her and Carreg Da during their time of need. Some might even argue that he was responsible for much of this. He certainly felt as if it was his fault; the burning, sickening knot in his stomach told him as much.

  “So, this god…” he muttered, moving away from his to-be-bound.

  “The Flawless God,” Rian said, straightening and turning away. Her posture bespoke of a renewed anger or a renewed grief. He shouldn’t have touched her.

  “The Flawless God… the people rallied around his banner, and Leyr, turning away from Oletta and the rest?”

  “Aye, the bleeding Flawless God pulled people away. Seems that it doesn’t take much for people to leave me. Speaking of, perhaps you should go. I hear you’ve a bunch of budredda relying on you.” Her words were sharp, each one like a stab of a dagger.

  “Rian…” Again, she’d left him speechless. Perhaps he should apologize, though what would that amount to? He would still have left, throwing away her chance at a happy binding, at a chance to transform Wasmer culture. She would still have been forced to live through the famine, the purge, and the subsequent desertion of faith. His words would ring hollow, and her pain would still be there.

  Without a word, he started to walk toward the door. He’d hurt her enough; Rian was better without him. By Traisen, the Wasmer were better without him.

  “Hafgan, wait,” Rian said quietly.

  He half-turned to look at her. She was looking at him now, her eyes shining with unshed tears, like ice glistening on a newly-fallen field of snow.

  “Why did you come back? Why are you here, now, after so long?”

  A warning, was all. A misbegotten warning that he had yet to even utter within the confines of Hackeneth.

  “I’m not sure,” Hafgan said softly, before heading back out into the trash-covered streets.

  Chapter 21

  Fenrir absorbed the blow with his flexed upper arm and surged forward, connecting solidly with his opponent’s gut. With a whoosh of breath, the man staggered backward, but not without lashing upward with his foot to keep Fenrir from a quick follow-up.

  His opponent today was a neolate—the derogatory term that the Blue Adders bestowed upon their new recruits. New or not, this friendly-faced young man was a giant from Rafón, much bigger than Fenrir. Hane was more muscular, too, though he still had some baby fat on his body. The boy certainly lacked the wear-and-tear that had weakened Fenrir’s joints for nearly four decades.

  But, over the past six weeks, Fenrir had not been idle. Ingla had insisted, of course, but Fenrir hadn’t resisted her prodding. He’d found a core of motivation that he hadn’t felt since joining the military as a teenager. As a result, Fenrir was feeling stronger, faster, and more coordinated than at any other time in his life. In the past, he’d often deluded himself into seeing himself as a fine, skilled warrior. He knew now that that hadn’t been the case. Ingla had routinely beaten his ass, and he could barely hold his own against seventeen-year-old Hane.

  No, he could hold his own against this giant, dark-skinned Rafónese boy, he told himself. In fact, he could win.

  Fenrir began to circle to the right as Hane moved to the left. Without preamble, hoping to catch the boy off-guard before falling into a dance of feints and dodges, Fenrir surged forward, swinging a hard left hook. Hane anticipated the move and dodged it easily, agilely moving directly into Fenrir’s right foot. Guards and brawlers rarely fought with their feet, but Fenrir was no longer a brawler. His wrapped foot connected solidly, once again with the boy’s gut.

  Hane fell heavily to the ground, to a mixture of boos and cheers from the onlooking Blue Adders. Fenrir smiled inwardly at their reactions.

  Over the past two months, Fenrir had found himself with more freedom. Ingla either trusted him not to dart or otherwise expected him to get caught if he tried. Fenrir was often left to his own devices. Of course, he avoided the main manor and the stables, lest he see his daughter. He also avoided the great, steam-spewing brick of a laboratory—the Furnace—and the distribution centers, the heart of the de Trenton empire, lest he see his father. So, he’d fallen into the daily routine of the Blue Adders. He’d moved into the Adder’s Nest, into a single, narrow apartment that resembled a crawl space. He shared mass-produced meals with these men and women, and had slowly built from exchanging pleasantries with them to actual conversations.

  As a kid, he’d seen the Blue Adders as cobalt, untouchable gods, drifting around the estate as if they ruled the compound and beyond. Fenrir had been both awed and terrified of these warriors, particularly as the number and diversity of these guards had grown at the same rate as the trading empire. Those Adders from Sestria, Rafón, Poen—they’d seemed too foreign and brutal to the young boy, conversing and barking orders in strange languages as they did, eating odd foods and generally being different. Even as an adult, the Blue Adders had given him an uncomfortable feeling that he wouldn’t quite have called “fear,” but it was certainly far from “warm and fuzzy.”

  But, over the past two months, he’d learned a surprising truth: the Adders were human. They had thoughts and goals and fears and insecurities, as well as cliques and favorites. Granted, each one of these men and women were trained killers, but even killers had hopes and dreams.

  Hane, for instance, in his thick, Rafónese accent, expressed a thorough homesickness, speaking of hurricane-ridden Polanice and its harsh winters as if they equated to the fields of Harmony. Eanor, a skinny Ardian from Hunesa, worried that his wife was cheating on him with his brother, and vowed to commit fratricide if he were to catch them at it. Ill’Polomo, a pale Pintan islander covered in a variety of piercings and tattoos, was lovelorn, as well, lusting after the daughter of one of Darian’s mercantile partners. Of course, the father wouldn’t countenance such a relationship, though Ill’Polomo was well-learned and well-spoken. Appearance, it seemed, could not be overcome by things as simple as love and intelligence.

  Despite years of conditioning, Fenrir found himself not only liking the Blue Adders, but fitting in.

  Ingla, however, was a cipher. The fierce, diminutive woman stood aloof, not joining the Adders for meals or engaging in the small talk and ribald joking of their masses. Rather, she simply spent her time training… and apparently resenting Fenrir. Even after abdicating some of her duties and allowing Fenrir to train with the rest of the snakes, she’d said little to him aside from insults and commands. Any flirting or attempts at conversation were met with chilly silence or a razor-sharp glare, and his attempts to learn about her from others were generally unsuccessful. Say what you wanted about the Adders, they were loyal to each other. Gossip was a behavior that simply didn’t happen.

  As Hane staggered to his feet, wiping grime and sweat from his brow, Ingla neither smiled nor grimaced. Instead, she reached into a nearby barrel and drew out two half-edged swords, tossing them to the ground between the man and the boy. Fenrir barely flinched as he twisted to the ground, grabbing the sword in an easy grip. His knee was feeling strong again; Martis insisted on a tedious array of exercises first thing in the morning and last thing before bed. And—damn him for being right—his joint was feeling decent because of it.

  Hane was a bit more restrained, scooping up his blade more slowly, likely buying himself some time to recover. The blade seemed small in his dark hands, and Fenrir felt as if he sho
uld be intimidated. But, he wasn’t.

  Sword work was something that he was well-versed in from his time as a guard, and, though he had learned more in the past two months, he’d already had a strong foundation. Immediately, he came at Hane with a great overhand strike, forcing the boy to parry the blade with a teeth-clenching clang. Fenrir leapt back and then immediately lunged forward, his precise blade aimed at the boy’s chest. It wouldn’t kill, but it would leave a hell of a bruise.

  Hane, though, was not as beaten as he’d appeared. He slapped Fenrir’s strike aside with the palm of his great hand—which would have sliced him, had they been using real blades—and came around with his own sword. Fenrir managed to get his blade up in time, but not with the stability or strength to completely deflect the other weapon. Pain blossomed against his shoulder, and a numbness spread into the fingers of his left hand. By Ultner, this Rafónese boy was strong!

  He wasn’t out yet, though. He punched out with his pommel, catching the boy in the cheek and creating some space between them. The warriors eyed each other warily, both waiting for the other to make the first move. Hane—in the throws of youth—had little patience for such a contest, and sought to end things with the strength of juvenescence and giant arms. Fenrir parried his first attack. And the second. And he sidestepped the third, as parrying made his hands sting like gripping Ultner’s spiked arms. Hane had some grace, but he was used to winning with muscle and tended to over-commit himself.

  Fenrir used this. As Hane leveled yet another powerful swing at Fenrir’s side, Fenrir dropped flat. Hane staggered at the lack of resistance and Fenrir managed his feet quickly enough to jab Hane in the kidneys. Not too hard, but enough to score an obvious point.

  “Ah, fuck!” the boy exclaimed in his Rafónese accent, to the laughter of all involved.

  He smiled and winked up at Ingla, but felt his face drain of color upon doing it. Standing next to Ingla, arms folded across his simple but fine, silken clothes, was Darian de Trenton. His fucking father, overseeing the entire affair with his typical brand of disdainful judgment. His father, savior, and current owner.