Surely as described, one end of the room has a tattered curtain with a spare, straw-stuffed mattress leaning up against the wall and a threadbare blanket folded atop a simple, wooden chair. It’s tidy, if not clean.
There are eight more mattresses arranged in two rows on the floor of the room. Three other men show up over the next hour, each more drunk than the last. I’ve closed the curtain and lit a candle to read by, and no one interrupts me. After some initial chatter, the room is quiet.
As I put down Psychoses and Their Diagnosis for the night, it’s clear that I’ll need to pick up another book soon.
I gleaned a new spell from it, although it isn’t a spellbook. Magic everywhere for those who understand how to look for it and how to understand it, so there are hidden gems all over that might unlock the mystery to a particular bit of magic. I am able to craft an observation about the internal thought process into a spell, and now I can read thoughts, were it not illegal to do so.
However, though the mental conditions in the book were clearly stated, it provided little practical application in day-to-day life. A practicing shaman might find some use in it but, in my line of work, it acts as little more than a series of thought experiments. Knowledge gained is never wasted, so perhaps it will be of use as I grow in power.
I blow out the candle and disrobe to perform my nightly routine—one-hundred each of squats, push-ups, side lunges, sit ups, and jumping jacks—getting lost in the rhythmic clinking of the metal I wear on my body. Using the bucket of fresh water and a rag from my own belongings, I clean myself. I bathed earlier, at the temple, but since I am to sleep in squalor tonight, I prefer to be as clean as possible.
I cast my ward, pushing out the perimeter beyond the curtain but excluding the other men. I put the mattress on the floor and lay down, still wearing only my jewelry and gorget, and begin my nightly meditation holding my dagger at my waist.
The gruff innkeep features in my initial thoughts. Though not a man I would be quick to emulate in most capacities, he is an unexpected reminder of my childhood and a devotee of a goddess he has probably never heard of.
The gods of my homeland are much more complex than the one-note deities of the west. Especially the old gods. The lessons I learned from my time spent as an initiate to the church of Chamat-Izad had been quite influential. Her teachings form the solid foundation upon which I now walk.
Respect. One must be discerning in giving or receiving it. Only a fool accepts vows or prostrations at face value. They are cheap to perform and possess even less value.
The Wheel of Nehs, an important part of her dogma, states that dignity is a function of the fear that drives one’s survival. Without fear, one cannot survive. Without dignity, one cannot fear. As for survival, there is no dignity in death.
Learning these stark truths as a young boy was a boon. I see their shape everywhere I travel. I’ve bowed to nobles who lavished me with gifts from such inauthentic displays of deference. I’ve lived when others perished because I accepted my fears and, with, disarmingly unexpected dignity, faced down those who might end my life. I’ve learned to question the words of people and, instead, become a keen observer of their actions, for what a person says only reveals what they want another man to know—not what truly is.
After so many years of practice, I take pride that I am not easily fooled and am unflinching in my demeanor. I fear little because I can look beyond the superficial moment and see the truth of the matter. I can nary be dominated by another because I understand the true value of my dignity, intrinsically.
I think on the teachings of Chamat-Izad and picture the church in which I studied. The image of its airy towers, cozy rooms, and high ceilings bears a bright sentiment in my memory. The church was nestled at the heart of the city, abutting the central square. My home was several streets to the south. The vizier’s tower to the north.
My mood darkens as my thoughts wander through my hometown. I turn my thoughts back to the aggravations of the day as a welcome distraction.
I review the conversation at the Adventurer’s Corps and realize that no one was tasked to give Vong the details of our meeting place and time. Since I’d prefer this interlude to conclude as quickly as possible, I make a note to stop by the restaurant tomorrow and deliver the message. Perhaps, if I am lucky, I can push him toward resigning.
Though it was supremely on my mind during my meditations last night—Rakatha’s encounter with his slaver’s sister-in-law—I can’t help but think on it some more. There are many unanswered questions that shouldn’t interest me, but do. The earring obviously is a symbol of station in his culture, so having it be possessed by another indicates servitude. It is possible it is used for marriage ceremonies as well, but I have never encountered his people and can’t say if the symbol has more than one use.
If the three of them are good examples of Rakatha’s people, they are aggressive, powerful, and easily controlled through their traditions. Perhaps I need to learn more of his people and start with them, instead of orcs, as my power base. This avenue has the added benefit of my own species not being a hurdle, although my race and visage still very well could be. Their tanned skin suggests they hail from the south and the weather is probably much warmer, something I have missed living in this temperate area so long. My own skin tone is more olive, but still darker than the average Elysian’s. It will darken as I travel, so perhaps I will of similar shade by the time I arrived.
I make a note to inquire with Rakatha about his home. Perhaps it is serendipity, not stupidity, that has put him in my proximity. The threads of destiny are woven intricately, after all.
Further, the gem he produced carries so many questions. It clearly fits into something, but what? It clearly is valuable beyond being a precious gemstone of significant size, but why? It clearly was kept by Rakatha for some purpose, but what?
Though the man seemed reticent to reveal it and ashamed to lose it, I surmise it will not be very difficult to get him to open up. A drink or two, or perhaps four or five given the way I’ve seen him drink, and an encouraging word will probably be enough.
My last thoughts are of Apul. I wonder how many more days until he dies.
I pull the blanket over my body and drift off to sleep. I do not dream.
The Wordbearer Chronicles is a dark fantasy web series with new passages on Tuesdays.
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