Attovia

The Lehitrist

36 min read

Hitchbet 1

I do not know how to begin this tome. I do not know who will read it. If there is one thing I have learned during my life on the continent it is that Attovian’s are inconsistent and infuriating. They will tell you in earnest that war has not touched our soil for four hundred turns. They are blind. War did not leave. Yes it does not hammer at your door with the sound of ten thousand soldierly footsteps. But its form has changed from a violent Hakher to a slithering Kraken Spawn.

I distract already, I wish only to illustrate: Attovians see what they wish and believe whatever tale last filled their stomachs. The eyes set on my words now are just as likely to discover tastier morsels before the tome is shut. Will you heed this tale? It is slow and arduous, but it is mine. I share it not to convert as do the Sundered Priests. I share it for one reason only. When I should have known it, there were none to share it with me. So it is a gift, likely unwelcome or at least unprompted. Should it be accepted by even just one other than its giver it will have paid for itself a hundred fold. Not because it will change your world or mind. I do not purport to hold such a power. No, but because in the sharing of ideas we are made whole. In that transferring of concept from one Soul to another the greatest Working can be found.

There are exciting elements to my story. For I have traveled far under many banners. Attovia is a diverse land and even after four centuries of cultural progress the gaps between its peoples are not yet tamed. Equally my tale involves, subsumes, surrounds and is beget by the lives of others. In truth it is their stories which hold the greatest value. For this reason I request of you a single insurance before you continue: That you hold open you Soul to be influenced. It is more difficult than initially believed. You must understand that in our minds a trick is being played at every turn. We shall say “my Soul is bare, I shall see this through and examine it for usefulness.” Upon encountering that which requires this openness we continue “I understand what this is attempting, it is simple and base, easily conquered by the world I know.” Yet this part is said by the voice we do not hear and must be divined by the wise and clear of heart. I hope, for your sake, you hold such qualities.

Hitchbet 2

It is the 14th of the month, the harvest boom of Hajik entering Panjen meant it was likely Nelui. The earliest of my childhood memories in its uncertainty holds several aspects in sharp clarity. A room full of people. people my parents know. Large columns shaped like upstretched arms with palms pressed against a ceiling surround us. A man stands before us on a single leg, reciting things for what feels like hours. This scene occurs in repetition for the rest of my young life: The Sundered Sacraments. Something I would come to know well and love well as I grew with its regular mark pressed into the middle of each month. But before this maturation I spent each sacrament in perpetual boredom, craning my neck to catch a glimpse of Leg Toivo’s protruding bone and viscera just below his right hip: The permanent reminder of the sacrifice he made in return for blessings from Hormus. Mother and father would chide me for staring, but I knew they were looking too. The locals always tried to sneak glances, looking away quickly to appear polite. I always imagined Toivo wouldn’t mind, after all wasn’t it something he was supposed to be proud of? Why was I meant to pretend it a shameful act?

These questions of mine did not last consciously into later adolescence as I adopted these habits in turn. Not till much later in life would I recognize these internalized inconsistencies. For now, I was quite happy in my community and this was not a fact that would later reveal itself strange. The Bereaved are often at odds with their name; yes Hormus is to be mourned but they are happy folk and I was happy to be among them, to call them home, to call them family. Though we met only once a month, the community created by shared belief found sharing easy and each in it was to be benefitted. One evening during my 10th turn we were sitting down to a meal I knew well: Sorte1 pudding with boiled Tuya2. A tepid knock came at our front door in the middle of the meal and father answered it. Something like the following conversation occurred: “Why Shirin its good to see your face! What can we do for you?” My father asked.

A familiar set of sentences spilled into the small house from the front door “I’m so sorry to bother your beautiful family during a meal, but my husband, you know how Ulo is, he’s too stubborn to ask for help but I can’t abide starving my children for pride. Do you have anything to spare? Once Ulo gets his feet back under him we’ll be su-”

She is cut off by another well used set of phrases “Now there’s no need, ‘a sacrifice is no gift when it holds debt in its heart’.” Something I would hear my father quote thousands of times in my life, an adage taken from The Book of Nefiqaddis. Its meaning was clear and kind, our family was not expecting anything in exchange for the small sack of food my father gathered then passed through the threshold.

“Oh thank you Herman, seven blessings to your household.”

“And to yours Shirin.” The meal continued as normal as far as I recall. The family’s smiles were always a bit brighter after such an event, nothing brings light to the mind like a good deed. Such was the beauty I saw regularly as I grew. Selfless acts abounded among the Bereaved and my own family was similarly privy to the kindness we ourselves extended. One might mistakenly believe that a religion founded upon sacrifice would discourage the thought of receiving charity or gifts, but how else would we allow for others to live that same life? This much is well known to those inside the walls of the Church of Hormus tribe and it is indeed well abided by.

It is later in my adolescent life that I begin to develop a true, personal attachment to the life my family had chosen for me. Around my 15th turn I had developed a close relationship with our friendly Megi3: Leg Toivo. He was a tall Zoherian man with their typically pale complexion. His eyes were a pale brown and I remember their uncanny ability to hold contact for as long as you would grant it. When unmoving he stood with a strange grace for a man missing a leg. I would learn much later that this was common to those Sundered Priests who sacrifice a leg, the aspect of balance which it represented gifting them unmatched poise. I can still hear the steady clack… clack… rhythm of his white, knobby cane when I recollect on our time together. He must have paced a thousand Gohass4 as he listened to and attempted to answer my endless questions. The man I am today appreciates few more than Toivo for the time he dedicated to a small child’s ignorant… no… naive questions about the world, faith, Hormus and every manner of hard question most adults hope they are never confronted by. Always a steady, even answer which treated me like that which I wasn’t: an adult. My parents occasionally took issue with the candor he took with me as his honesty left them with troubling conversations at the dinner table.

I asked Toivo once about how we knew what the afterlife must be like. I had just learned the many tales which describe Shamayim and was fascinated by this impossible knowledge. Toivo simply told me “we don’t”. I asked for his elaboration and he gave me a soft smile.

“The greatest mystery dear Haruto, is the beyond. We can deduce much from the lives lived by the countless who have come before, but no one truly knows until their Soul is released from the Material World.”

This answer was unsatisfying in my youth, yet I knew better than to keep prying at the same question. Not for fear of Toivo’s impatience, but my own. The Sundered Priest was remarkably gifted in returning an answer with an order and structure of words I had not heard yet, but a meaning identical to the last. So I later put forth the query to my parents who told me such things were best left to ‘Elvish Philosophers’ and eccentric Wizards. I believe now that they were referring specifically to practitioners of Necromancy which they carefully sidestepped in order to avoid a new onslaught.

Toivo was my path towards the most honorable of Bereaved walks: The Sundered Priest. Certainly while the Church at large espouse the idea that all lives lived sacrificially are of equal worth it is clear to most that the most beloved of such a walk are those marked forever by The Tear. Few if any of the Megi were ever anything but Sundered for who else could prove the reality of their worship so well. It was the natural path for a young Bereaved as integrated with another Sundered Priest as I was, and I was excited to validate the lives of my family and myself. When I expressed my desire to Toivo his response was as ever measured, yet his mouth flickered from his steady smile to a proper grin. He was elated.

Every Sundered Priest carries with them The Life of the Sundered a small tome that held knowledge unknown to any outside of their ranks. The first step taken towards acquiring one of my own was facilitated by it under Toivo’s care. I sat on the same stone bench as always when Toivo and I had our conversations and lessons. It was close to the front, a few spots up from where my family sat during the Sundered Sacraments. Like all the others it was covered in woven Hajik stalk to ease the tail bones of its guests. Toivo opened his copy of the precious book, turning to a page with steady hands and began to ask me a series of questions. There were well over a dozen of them each asking about aspects of my life often simple, occasionally strange. While many of them pop into my mind as I go about my life I remember this one consistently: “You encounter three beggars, one is emaciated for lack of food, one is bleeding from broken limbs and many cuts, one has lips of blue and shivers for lack of warmth. To whom is your aid brought first?” I chose the bleeding man under the simple pretense that blood loss must be staunched early or death is close at hand. Several questions later and Toivo closed the book slowly and sent me home, he would need time to examine the answers and come to me with the recommended aspect of sacrifice, or in simpler terms, what body part I would give up to Hormus in exchange for his blessing.

I am convinced internally that the reason I remember the three beggars question so vividly is because of my answers direct correlation to the aspect Toivo announced to me the next day. I was most aligned with the aspect of the Eye, associated with Healing and Purity. After some brief discussion on next steps Toivo left me to spend the rest of the day telling anyone and everyone I knew and loved the news. I was only 13 turns old yet a glorious purpose unfurled itself before me and I celebrated it with my family that night. My father shouted and laughed and my mother grinned for days after. I swelled with pride and an eagerness to push on. I was inside the Temple for nearly 8 Praks every day for the next month, absorbing what I could from Toivo, reading from out limited library and attempting to get a jumpstart on the long road towards The Tear.

The Tear is the simple, evocative name given to the ritual in which the Sundered Preist-to-be’s body part matching their chosen aspect is removed from them. This process must be done with force and no form of numbing agent in full consciousness. The part cannot be cut, it must be truly torn and the devices constructed for this purpose are supposedly wicked in appearance despite their holy purpose. Without the proper preparation of the Soul and body I was liable to faint simply upon entering the room where the ritual was to take place. In fact before then I would likely fail on my journey; to even enter the room required a successful consultation with the Torn Order in Morus who would undoubtedly reject any underprepared upstarts. The youngest known Sundered Priest took her place in history nearly a century ago at only 17 turns, a record I was not hoping to beat, but that contextualized my journey and expectations. It was a long, but rewarding road lying before me.

Hitchbet 3

It was the summer of my 16th turn in which I finally met our Minstrel Worker and my priorities began to shift. I did not realize it at first, it was a subtle movement, though it had deep implications for my future. I had only ever been able to observe the man from a distance, and in secret glances lest my parents find out my curiosities. It was not that Minstrel Workers were seen as a problem of morality among the Bereaved. Meyda-work in a majority of its forms is permitted and even encouraged by the Church. It was instead the function which a Minstrel Worker served in society that drove the pointed ignorance. A Minstrel Worker was a provider of aid to communities, for a subset of that community to live sacrificially they had largely determined that they should resolve to have no need of Fazel’s offers or contributions. Part of the code Fazel lived by would prohibit his receiving a place of rest or a meal without returning it in kind: A Trifling taught to children, a Working to aid the home or practical hands on repairs and advice. Let such things be given to those in the most need.

This summer was different though. I had lived almost as a hermit in my conviction, pushing my study and time in the Temple to a limit that might have otherwise concerned my family if it was any other pursuit. The security they must have felt left me to my own devices for the few moments I spent outside of the Temple. I had begun sleeping in one of the back rooms just past the common area so as to get a head start on each day. With my obvious dedication even Toivo didn’t pay much mind if I was gone after the 4th Prak and so I took to wondering Panjen into the mid evening. I saw the city in a way I never had as a younger child. The streets became oddly clean of beggars and orphans as each ran to an alley or shelter, tucking themselves away from the prying eyes of the Nattvakt5. It wasn’t the streets themselves I romanticized however, I hadn’t the older mind often necessary for such a thing. Instead it was the simple freedom, one I had not experienced as fully before those evening strolls. In fact, if anything the shape of the alleys and intersections which I knew so well served to dampen my feeling of freedom: Walls made of familiarity seemed to grow more solid as I continued to find and recognize them. But still, I soaked up those walks as often as I could.

It was on one such exercise of freedom when I ran into him. Stooping down in a small ring of children maybe 6 turns my juniors. They were mumbling and giggling with excitement as he showed them a number of alluring Triflings. A flame dancing in the palm of his hand. Frost crawling over any surface he touched. With each display they grew more excitable and I watched on only a few Hass away. It was a charming thing to watch, his gentle nature was clear. Crouched among the kids it was hard to tell he was a Biaban man, especially since he did not exhibit the long eyelashes so commonly associated with his people. He wore simple clothing, a shirt and pants with a brown vest. It was as if he was attempting to defy the mysticism associated with his line of work by reducing his appearance to the digestible. But his tattoos betrayed him, the dull gray circles and lines that covered every inch of his body, given to him at birth in the Twilight Desert.

I realized this was my chance, not only could I observe Fazel so closely, but I could talk to him as well! A new and very different soul would now face the bombardment of a child’s unfettered mind. Fazel surprised me though. Even then as a young boy I was unprepared for any adult to align with my curiosity so synchronously as to nearly outmatch me. To every question I put forth a fountain of wise and passionate words would pour as an answer. It seemed that without my interruption Fazel would continue to “answer” my first question until we both needed rest. I was grateful for the president I had set for myself as Toivo gave me perhaps more leniency than he should have when it came to my random exits during my typical studying hours. I wept when Fazel left this time. Toivo was confused, but I blamed it on emotions worn down by mental fatigue and he nodded as though he understood perfectly. To no one but myself I swore a life changing oath: When Fazel returned, I would go with him.

The rest of that turn I spent thinking only of Fazel’s return. I remember little detail outside of the agonizing boredom that belongs only to a studying adolescent. Before he left Fazel gave me a gift and every chance I could I would practice the little Trifling he had taught me: Breeze, he called it. Trace a careful pattern in the air before bringing the index fingers and thumbs together to form a circle. Pronounce the ancient Abbaki words zrimat aviyr and air rushes through the circle from the side facing the Worker outward. I failed it most of the time, but the elation when my careful movements were rewarded served to push the Prak’s of boredom into obscurity until I inevitably sat before a dense tome at a hard desk and pondered all but that which I was ordered to.

Toivo quickly caught on to my sudden lapse in interest. It was impossible to hide really, how those brief days spent talking had upended my current focus. At first I deflected even as I saw the disappointment grow proportionally to my own disinterest. I was still enthralled by the old tales which The Book of Nefiqaddis held in its second book: Hormus’ Works and Wonders of Power and Sacrifice. The passages of unending wisdom in the first and the many rites and rituals in the third that once held my attention had lost all flavor. Unfortunately those two sandwiching portions were certainly the larger of the three and I was expected to read longer than skimming and reveling in my favorite bouts of “The Great Conflict.” So on most days it collected dust.

My parents were concerned, they wondered silently about me. I could tell of course, that it was about me. Their glances in my direction were most commonly paired with a puzzled look. I felt like a curio in a shop of oddities peered at by would be buyers but never pulled from my lonely resting place. I don’t know what they thought of me. I only know what they told me.

“You really ought to be taking your lessons more seriously Haruto. Toivo is sacrificing much to grant you an enviable education among Bereaved like ourselves.” My father would often begin with. My retorts were simple but came with the sting of faux teenage apathy.

“Well then I’m sure Hormus will bless him unendingly.” I knew well these words would hurt. I was still a child truly, yet the damage a child can do to its parents remains remarkable. If there is anything to be regretted in my childhood it would be such a careless weaponization of relationship.

Eventually I confronted my parents and Toivo together, telling them the reason behind my change of heart. Sort of. I beautified it for them as only a Bereaved from birth could. I explained how the dusty books and theory could only get me so far. If I wanted to someday be a Sundered Priest who lived by the code of sacrifice I must go out in the world and practice it! I had found such a way to do that safely, for who to better travel with than a Minstrel Worker. Never a target of bandits for they are not lucrative like a merchant or caravan, and many times more intimidating with the unknown Workings they might possess and release upon would be attackers. They new the ways of the outside world, its cultural swings across borders and the unique elements one must watch out for in each new city. I could both be safe and explore the people of the continent who I would one day give up my eye for.

To my surprise they ended up conceding so long as I would continue my studies after I traveled the circuit to its completion a single time. This should provide me with ample amounts of the experience I was after but keep me on the proper path towards The Tear. I could hardly believe it had been so easy and in my mind the roughly 3 turns I was getting to spend with Fazel were an eternity of bliss compared to staying here and maintaining the boresome habits I had quickly come to dread. Now I had only to bear it until Fazel’s next arrival.

Thus Time marched on in slow steps as I attempted to wait. No longer attempting to maintain the facade of my more studious self I took to a new pattern of things. I would study actively roughly two days out of a week when the motivation fell upon me and when it was lacking I explored the city and took most often to treading the grounds of the Silver Swords Administrative Core. For many decades now the border town of Panjen had become most well known for its ownership of this place and most in town knew or were related to someone employed by it. My father was a head bookkeeper there and many of his colleagues new me well. I was permitted an implicit freedom on the huge swath of land taken up by the campus so long as I didn’t force entry where I wasn’t allowed. This didn’t stop what was a young boy at the time from discovering workarounds of course. An unlocked window into an otherwise guarded room? What could it be other than an invitation? So I went many places I should not have been and found little but dusty parchment and tomes for my troubles.

My father seemed to enjoy seeing me around the grounds even if I did not often stop to say hello. I had taken to avoiding my parents after their agreement to my leave. This way I would not be forced into possibly uncomfortable conversations or probing questions. Questions I held inside that I feared to ask even myself. My mother caught on in a way my father could not with his work. The frills around her ears always pulled back as they tightened in line with her brow when she would reprimand me for staying away from home or study for too long. “Compromise is sacrifice. If you never bend then someday you will break. And no one will be there to pick up the pieces.” Powerful words from a powerful woman. I did not recognize their true meaning or implication at the time, but I obliged a stayed night at home each time they stung my ears to placate her when possible. Afterwards I would always do my best to find myself elsewhere to her eyeline but it did me little good. She had the strange ability to find me almost without looking. Even as I grew increasingly excellent at disappearing she would casually “stumble into” my chosen hideout and haul me back home by the hand. To this day I believe she somehow, without knowing, used the Contract of Birth that binds all mothers to their offspring as a compass. An unfair advantage considering I received no such guidance from our Tether and she often frightened me with her sudden appearance.

So passed the three years, four months and 12 days it took for Fazel to return. I tracked the time then and noted it in a small tome that would eventually become my first journal. I hold it now in my hand as I write this. It is in no small part aiding my memory to regale you with these tiring tales. You must feel like my younger self, studying over superfluous, inane writings searching for something deeper you expect may not even exist. If so I urge you to place these words aside for now. Come to them later when they can be of some use to you else I be placed into your temporal debt.

Like a breath of fresh air Fazel returned. The breath was caught in my throat at first though as the anxious turns of waiting collided with deeper anxieties which whispered evil words of doubt. I didn’t fear that Fazel had forgotten me but worse: That his interest in me was a fabrication of my memory brightened by a slightly more adolescent self. I remember the first words he said to me when I finally approached him in 10 Praks Tavern: “Well, well if you aren’t half a Hass taller than last time! Twice as tall and twice as eyeful as expected!” He sucked his bottom lip in and squinted as he said it, a Baiban cultural gesture meant to suggest a jesting tone. The tension I had let strain me the whole week dissolved immediately. The following days were spent hastily catching up, I asked a hundred questions and Fazel gave a thousand answers. This time however, he had questions of his own and I, feeling far more grown up in my wise 19, was more than happy to let my growing mind weigh in with its outpouring of new thought, connections and revelations. I remain unconvinced there was anything I told him that was novel to a man as well traveled and thoughtful, yet the twinkle of wonder in his eyes never waned.

Fazel’s typical three week visit was coming to a close before I knew it and my stomach burned in further anxious rumblings as I worked over my next move. My family knew of my decision of course but Fazel was none the wiser, or at least that was what I imagined. I resign to myself today that the intuition of a Minstrel Worker likely set expectations I hadn’t imagined. I prevailed against the fear of rejection however and returned to the 10 Praks Tavern for the last time as a local.

I had done my research, discovering the old traditions of the early Minstrel Workers in Sovereign, Frosh, the Circuit and all Traditions of the Minstrel Worker. I bought the copy for only a few Clips from A Home of Tomes, a store of Flame Printed works I found myself frequenting after discovering the pleasure of reading material I chose.

“Oh Sovereign Minstrel Worker Fazel Darzi. I. Haruto Sato who you have shared meals, time and answers seeks a Minstrel life. Will you accept me as your Frosh? To follow and learn the wisdoms of the circuit as you find them?” I recited the passage perfectly. He sat quietly and respectfully as I spoke then, when I finished, he began to cry. I froze. I had readied myself for excruciating refusal. This was completely outside my preparations. Thankfully I noticed in moments that behind the tears was a beaming smile. After some composition he replied with a faux stoicism.

“Should you accept my tutelage and guidance may this circuit welcome both our feet.” I let out an excited shout, quieting quickly as my typically reserved self took back control. I had jumped the greatest barrier: simply asking. Here I was rewarded with a fulfillment of my hopes and plans. Next came a whirlwind of questions, this time from Fazel. ‘Do your parents know?’, ‘What of Toivo’s Role as your previous teacher?’, ‘Do you have your things ready?’ I stuttered through my answers though they were well rehearsed. After an embrace dressed in joyful tears it was time for me to tell my parents and teacher that the decision had been finalized.

I approached the Sato house, never having taken it in the way I did now. I felt like a stranger and this small Noren Wood6 structure an imposing obstacle, instead of a welcoming hearth. Four trunk posts supported its sturdy frame and a low, nearly flat, roof of wooden shingles sealed for rain and the cold with Siltling daub. The small eaves that overhang the door and only window cast sharp shadows from the half-sky Day Star. The dark Noren appears far more imposing in the near black made from contrast, and I approach the heavy door quietly. I struck the door once, loudly and my mother opened it almost immediately. I don’t believe I had ever knocked on the door to my own home and her face was a mother’s faltering mask of control as she grappled with that thought. “What are you here to say Haruto?”

“Fazel has accepted me as Frosh. I will leave with him in two days time on his circuit. I came to tell you.” Her shock hurt me more than her tears. Had she not believed I would succeed? I had spent turns agonizing over this choice and one of the few comforts had been her acceptance. It was of course, the dying hope of a scared parent. I’m sure that despite reason and truth she had clung to the idea that I would be rejected and remain here. Here I had confronted that hope with bare truth. A blazing light burnt away the mask of control and the veil of doubt. She held me close as though it would be the last time. Despite my stubborn way I clutched at her, almost scared of letting go, of allowing myself to be released into the world of the plans I had made.

Eventually our embrace ended and I set to gathering my things. Even though there was a night between now and my departure it felt right to spend it at the 10 Praks. In a simple Hajik sack I packed the three sets of clothing I owned, a Kasaaki Bladder7 and a small journal of scrap parchment bound in cheap leather. As I passed over the threshold where my mother was waiting she pressed a parcel of cured Hakher meat into my hand and said “Go. Tell your father.” I looked her in the eyes and nodded, not knowing what to say. And so I left. My entire life mother was never more than a Prak away, always in reach of my meandering feet. Now I would not see her again for at least three years.

Hitchbet 4

For decades Panjen has been known for its place as the home of the Silver Swords Administrative Core. The heart and bones of their operations which span the continent, directed via an organized mass of information that is gathered and distributed in this compound of busywork. Living in Panjen most of the children I grew up around had family who were Silver Sword Bookkeeper’s and Scribes. There was a strange classism that surrounded those employed by the mercenary company that spread to their offspring. My father being a Head Scribe of the Administrative Core lent me an in with the “upper crust” if I desired it, but my family’s rigid adherence to the ways of sacrifice scrubbed that opportunity away before I could even properly process it. Instead I spent time with other children of the Bereaved where cliques formed around knowledge and pride in sacrifice. Such things were against the fundamental fabric of the religion our parents had passed to us but children can be crafty when understanding does not elude them. Because of this I was quietly thankful of my father’s position which lent me a voice among the “betters.”

None of that mattered now as I approached the Administrative Core. Those friends would be continuing on in their parents foot steps whether it was in the glory of the Silver Swords or the stench of tanning vats. I was stepping away from all of these things. First I had to step towards my father’s place of work however, and his position, being highly mobile, could complicate that goal. Even when I returned I would again be flung from similar paths by my choice of sacrifice, none of my childhood friends had chosen to become Sundered Priests and that choice grew more unlikely as age rooted the humors.

[Haruto searches for his father by asking a Silver Sword (a proper mercenary) where to go. Haruto finds his father and tells him his decision. His father is sad, but suppresses his emotions behind the need for work and tells his son “The path of a bereaved awaits you here at home”]

Now thoroughly exhausted in mind and body I returned to the 10 Praks in a slowly dawning euphoria for the next chapter of my life. I stifled the tiny panic that rose when I first missed his presence but after several minutes in the small common room Fazel returned from his room. I don’t think we exchanged any words about my conversations with my parents. Something like an understanding nod passed between us certainly thanks to my haggard appearance and puffy eyes. Instead we set our words to the glorious discussion of anything and everything as we had in all our time together in the past. Even though everything that surrounded me was going to change I could be confident that this would remain steadfast.

The remaining 16ish Praks I spent in Panjen were simply in enraptured following of Fazel as he wrapped up his time in the city. He visited nearly eight homes during that last day ministering to the problems and questions of families and individuals. One aspect of his duties that I was unfamiliar with previously was a purveyor of wisdom. I was surprised at how many of the houses we visited did not need a patched pot, repaired fence or some minor Working. Instead they simply desired to question his more “worldly mind”. I sat through discussions on political movements in other towns and countries, recipes and food, religion, conspiracies, rumors, worries and simple town feuds. At the end of the day I asked him how he was able to help in so many diverse fields. He told me simply “Help, in this case is not the granting of correct or new information. While I am skilled enough in many fields to grant simple advice or maintain a topic’s discussion, the real need I find and attempt to assuage is that of loneliness and fear. The quiet fear of uncertainty that is quelled when the fear makes its way from the mind to the tongue. In return, I receive knowledge about the world from its most humble and revealing source: The common folk that drive its spokes.”

I remember having trouble sleeping that last night before leaving. Fazel’s words bounced around my head; obviously deep but infuriatingly beyond the grasp of my maturity. In the morning I groggily followed Fazel through the Panjen Thoroughfare to the north. Our first main target was the Port of Helva stopping anywhere souls could be found making homes along the way. A life secluded to one locale is prone to leave anyone with many assumptions about the workings of the world outside. I was introduced quickly to the harsh reality of one such assumption: Traversing the continent. The fluidity of which peoples came and went through Panjen left me with an image of well tended paths carving routes through a long tamed countryside. Instead I found the rough beaten paths of Attovia in all their broken glory. Wind and rain upon dirt pathways occasionally lined with stones made for countless pits to catch wheels and occasionally heels. On foot it was little struggle most of the time, but even then over a longer trek the knees grew weary, the ankles sore and the legs tense as muscles fought miniature battles at all times to keep the body upright. I could imagine the nightmare that would have been carting something across just a day’s stretch. My back ached from the thought of sitting on a wooden bench in a Juosta drawn cart as it stumbled along.

Our first day was strictly travel, the few farms outside the city that would have required Fazel’s aid had already been visited by him and our only stop was a charming homestead roughly 20 Gohass from the northern edge of Panjen at the end of our journey. Two aging Amodians and their daughter welcomed us excitedly and we were kept up late into the night amidst catching up, questions and some fence repairs.

My feet hurt from walking all day and after digging holes for fence posts the blisters on my hands vied for the attention my feet were receiving. I worked in quiet frustration that Fazel picked up on quickly “What’s the matter Haruto?”

“I’m just surprised that a Minstrel Worker, after walking so far, is asked to do…” I was trying to figure out how to phrase my next sentence so as to appear cool headed. “Mundane labor such as this?” was all that came to mind.

“Why do you think we might be doing something like this?”

“Well I—” Fazel raised his hand cutting me off.

“Think on it first, then answer.” So I did, continuing the slow monotony of hole digging. I tried to calm myself, to look at it logically. I was not surprised at the kind of work necessarily. I had seen Fazel do all kinds of simple jobs when those in need could not do it themselves. But the daughter of this family was spry and young, barely older than myself. I repeated a similar sentiment to which Fazel responded “Who do you think built this fence?”

“The daughter.”

“And who tends the garden beds?”

“The daughter.”

“And who must thatch the roof, care for elderly parents, fetch water, clean house, prepare food and earn enough Clips to pay taxes to the Visare8?” I was quiet this time as I began to catch on. “Yes, this work is not required of us. Should we leave it the people here would be no worse off truly. But a Minstrel Worker of real worth aids beyond the necessary and attempts to treat the fatigue. To forge real bonds we must lighten the load that seeks to break the back. When she sees the fence repaired as it is now you will see a special kind of smile.”

He was right of course. The relief that washed over the daughters face made me hide my hands and winces. She discovered these injuries anyway and spent some time in the late evening cleaning my hands as I grimaced and reflected. The mental strain she must have felt as new tasks piled on year after year. To remove but one brought a disproportionate relief. I thought at the time that perhaps this was why sacrifice was so important. Giving the gift of less burden. Burden oneself where you are light to reduce the load of the heavy laden?

Despite my fatigue I slept poorly that night as my mind reckoned with only my first day. Though I was in a kind of mental anguish I remember mostly my elation. This was what I had left for! Already things were being revealed to me and I was growing, and soon, Fazel would begin to teach me of Meyda-work.

Footnotes

  1. A thistle like plant with many tiny seeds which are often used as a thickening agent or eaten alone cooked with boiling water ↩

  2. A common root vegetable eaten by many thanks to its affordability ↩

  3. The position within the Church of Hormus (these are known as Komer) responsible for presiding over and taking care of Church of Hormus Temples ↩

  4. A measurement of distance based on the Tomhas or Hass popularized by the Rugadh Sliabh which is roughly equivalent to half a mile. ↩

  5. Ornsiirian guards which typically patrol and enforce city wide law and curfew ↩

  6. a popular construction material, a dark and sturdy wood that grows abundantely in the central portion of Attovia ↩

  7. Commonly used to store water for a journey ↩

  8. The title granted to the current ruler of the Ornsiire Empire ↩

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