The sun shone brightly, and the soft breeze of the wind followed the wizard as he continued his trek home through the fertile plains of the Sigi Towns. The last two days of travel had been relatively calm due to the seclusion of the self-sufficient towns who did not need to bother themselves with outside affairs.
It was comforting for the wizard to travel in his homeland again, and he noticed how safe it all was thanks to the divine protection of Sigurd, the god of knowledge, who made sure no monsters or abominations attacked the major settlements. In fact, Thalon hadn't even needed to unfurl his sleeping bag. Instead, he had chosen to sleep at the Sigurdian churches in the towns that he passed through with other monks and pilgrims on their way to the Loreseed Monastery. The last leg of his journey was coming to an end when the wizard saw a familiar structure beginning to take form: the spire of the Loreseed Monastery. Thalon hurried along, excusing his way through the pilgrims he accompanied, running toward home. His eyes filled with tears as he finally returned to the home he had dreamed of in his past years of torment at the gods’ mercy. The road began to wind down, and the plain began to sink as Thalon stopped at the edge of the entrance to the crater. He opened his arms as he looked to the holy hole beneath him and yelled to the domain below.
“I'm home!”
The Loreseed Monastery, the first monastery of the world sat at the bottom of Sigurd's Crater, a great three-layered pit that broke the uniform terrain of the Sigi Plains. The pit was connected to the outside world by a road of stone made from the harvested quarry of the crater. The many buildings and the monastery itself were also made of stone. The road descended and ended at the entrance to the monastery at the very bottom of the hole. In the other two layers, small dirt roads connected various buildings and dwellings. The very top layer was extremely populated, holding a surprising number of buildings and people. Known as the Toll Layer, it was the level for merchants hoping to sell their wares to travelers and pilgrims and for monk administrators, who coordinated the handful of hired guards that manned the modest wall.
The second layer, protected by a great stone gate, was known as the Lay Layer. It was almost entirely made up of personal houses and dwellings and was reserved for the permanent, non-monastic inhabitants of the pit.
Lastly, at the very bottom was the Loreseed Monastery itself, a rectangular work of brown and gray brick. The tower that housed the Loreseed library started from the center of the crater and climbed upwards until it was barely visible from the surface. Surrounding the library in the crater were fields that fed the monks and serfs of the pit. Some of these fields were at the very bottom, while others were layered between the Lay Layer and the Monastery. At the very western edge of the pit was Sigurd's Tears, an underground spring that quenched the thirst of its denizens.
The wizard broke off from another approaching pilgrim group behind him, and descended through a great stone and wood portcullis, the “Gate of Curiosity”. There was a festive air all throughout the Toll Layer. Colorful flags dangled from the parapets of the various buildings and music from traveling street performers filled the air. The breeze carried the scents of the various foods from all cultures of Vaelia being sold to all manner of pilgrims and travelers from the distant corners of the known world. From local free humans in peasant clothing, to those dressed in the rich and wealthy fabrics of the Lenian Empire, the deer-like faun minar of the Federation, and the goat-like faun taurans of the Confederacy. Even a few kin from farther away could be seen walking about in the Toll Layer, like the squid-like gurel, or the mushroom-born jeru of the Free Republic.
Although he was home, Thalon felt nothing as he walked the cobbled stone roads and looked up at mixed grey and brown merchant houses connected by strings of decorative flags. He had only been in the Toll once. His life was further below in the monastery proper.
“Fressh cooked ssalamanderss, dipped in vinegar!” A distinctive sibilant voice called from a cind merchant, a member of the snake people ailing from the eastern petty counties, the birthplace of metallurgy.
“Fingers of Ivnir, and hairs from Fortuna, ten fingers for the price of two!” A poor human dressed in peasant clothes yelled as he tried to sell his holy relics of skeleton bones and human hair.
“You there, Sir!” A tall etla, the birdmen nomads of the east, stopped Thalon in his tracks. “You look like you are in the need of a new sword!” He pointed to the rusted old blade in his belt.
“Oh, no it—” Thalon tried to say, as the large bird placed his feathered hand on his mouth and interrupted.
“Oh, don't tell me. Sentimental gift, family heirloom, ‘I could never replace it,’” he mocked.
“Actually, I-
“Oh, but don't worry, my pointy hatted friend,” The bird interrupted again. "The great Endu, that's me, offers more than just a selection of martial ordinance. Behold, the marvels of ‘Nomad's Refuge’.” The great Endu opened his jacket to reveal a wide collection of iron tools, swords and metal trinkets.
“Iron mined from the Jeru Mountains, worked by the greatest cind smith masters of the Petty Counties, and humbly brought to you by me,” The tall bird merchant said with a bow. “If you need anything iron, I'm your kin.”
The wizard examined the selection. Besides the expected swords and knives there were also a few sorted tools of iron. But what really caught the mage's attention was the miscellaneous selection.
A collection of various assorted iron figurines, baubles and what could only be described as ‘things.’
“Ah, I see you are interested in my ‘other’ collection. Yes, I make a deal of collecting various curious items made of iron. I also dabble a bit in my own forging,” the merchant said as Thalon began to inspect a highly detailed figurine of an ancient sage.
“This is quite intricate.” He couldn’t tell what was drawing him to the strange figurine.
“Ah, the Iron Scholar! You have a good eye, my pointy hatted friend.
Let's see. The normal price is about sixteen golden Aurelians, but because I like your hat so much, how about we make it five golden Aurelians and twenty silver Aurelians?” the merchant asked, expecting his first bartering battle of the day to finally begin.
The wizard smiled nervously. “I huh . . . well, I'm afraid I don't have any money.”
“What?!” The bird squawked and passersby looked to see the source of such noise. “I displayed my wares here for nothing! Stop wasting my time!” he said and snatched the figurine from the wizard's hands. “Leave! Get out of my sight!”
Thalon hurriedly followed the path to the lower layers in a disappointed silence.
“Damned pilgrims . . .”
The wizard followed the cobbled road past the serf's gate where guards stopped merchants and salesmen from entering the quiet holy grounds. The serf's layer was silent compared to the Toll Layer and its distrustful residents eyed the passing pilgrims, profiling them for any hint of danger. Thalon was overtaken by a wave of nostalgia as he breathed the familiar air. But something was off.
A large crowd of pilgrims, travelers, and monks waited by the gate to the monastery's layer. Some paced back and forth, while others faced the monastery, deep in silent prayer. A few had even set up camp and were relaxing with their fellow travelers.
“What the?” The wizard approached the large wooden gate and traced his hands along it. “Why's the gate closed?”
“That's what we've been asking ourselves these last few days,” A human monk slightly younger than Thalon said as he looked up to him from his stack of books. His short black hair accompanied his serene and stoic look as he sported a freshly clean shaven chin and cheek, proper of a man of the church.
The wizard noticed his grey habit and pondered. “You are a Sigist?”
He nodded. “Came from the northwest, from the Silvi Clans. Spent a good deal of time teaching the children of the various clans and families in the mountains there. You would be surprised how rare us inklings are in the Frigid Mountains,” he said with a boastful smile. “Name's Griff. Griff Favonius”
“Thalon. A pleasure to meet you, Griff.” The wizard extended his hand and the grey scribe stood up from his seat of books to shake it.
“Only Thalon?” he asked with a bit of suspicion.
“I'm afraid so. Never knew who my parents were, and I . . . didn't exactly finish my duties to earn a name for myself.”
“I see. . . .” The scribe began to eye the wizard's clothing.
“Your name though, Favonius. You're a Cloud Bearer? One of the clerics blessed by Ventum?” Thalon said, with both a desire to move away from the topic of his past, and admiration for one blessed by the gods.
“That I am. But I'm sorry to disappoint you — I never really served the Lord of wind and air. Just sort of inherited the name and the powers from my dad. He's the real decorated cleric,” Griff said and lowered his head.
“Powers?” Thalon said with discernible curiosity.
“The blessing from Ventus. My father got it from his lifelong service, and I suppose I inherited it.” The scribe lifted his palm and summoned a small orb of air that gathered the nearby dust and dirt and made it rotate gracefully atop his hand. “It's not really useful. Well, besides for dusting and cleaning my books and parchment that is.” He closed his hand and it dissipated into the air.
“So the stories they tell are true,” Thalon said, impressed to meet another kin with supernatural abilities.
“Yeah, although the strength of this power is always really exaggerated,” he said with a smirk. “I suppose that for the common folk who have never seen the power of the gods, even something small as this can seem like a world-moving power.”
“Well, I have seen the power of the gods up close, and I can guarantee you it's still amazing,” Thalon said.
“Well, thanks.” Griff turned a little red. “So, where do you come from? And why have you decided to come here, to the holiest hole?”
The wizard stopped for a bit to think. “I came looking for answers, I suppose.”
“Well, the Loreseed Library is probably a good place for that,” he said with a smirk. “I won't pry on which answers, but where do you come from? It's not every day you see a nameless traveler on the road.”
The wizard thought long and hard on what to say. He felt the urge to conceal his true nature and purpose; the urge to be safe. However, if he was to lie, he was no better than those he quested against.
The light stirred within him, and he said to his brother in faith, “I came from the Holy Palace. I left.” He said is as a matter of fact and with a monotone inflection.
“I see. Wait, what!” The scribe said in shock, the words from the wizard not registering at first. “You left? What do you mean you left the Holy Palace?”
“It's a long a story. I'm not sure I can properly explain it myself until I get into the library.” He scratched his beard in embarrassment.
“Well, I just came here to restock and prepare for my next journey. But now I want to hear more about this.” The wandering teacher took out a notebook and pencil. “You better not be fibbing me about this. I heard about servants at the Palace going missing, but I always thought they were just stories.”
“Oh, it's quite true. I would be glad to share my story with you, but first we must get inside,” Thalon said and turned his attention back to the great wooden gate.
“Good luck, the gate is as solid as stone.” Griff pocketed his notebook and strapped up his satchel with parchment and the few sorted books he was seating on previously.
“That it is,” Thalon said as he knocked on the gate with his staff. “Luckily for us, I happen to know a secret way in. Come this way.”
“What? A secret way? How do you know about this?” The scribe inquired as he tightened his satchel's strap.
“I was raised in this monastery before I was sent to the Holy Palace,” Thalon said as he turned back.
“Well, you are full of surprises, aren't you? Very well, lead the way.” Griff rose and began to follow the wizard back up the path.
The wizard and the monk made their way up the middle layer while the line of travelers continued to grow as more kin set up tents, waiting for their chance to pray at the Altar of Wisdom.
“So, what are you, exactly? Besides ex-servant, that is,” Griff asked as he trailed behind the mage.
“I'm . . . a wizard.”
“A what?”
“A wizard, a seeker of wisdom,” Thalon answered with a proud tone.
Griff thought about the words of his brother in faith. “Well, I suppose I'm a wizard too then.”
“Maybe you are, my friend.” The wizard gave a shy smile. “See that?” The mage stopped on his tracks and pointed his staff to the monastery’s fields.
“See what?” Griff looked at the empty green fields below him.
“There are no monks tilling the fields. I noticed it when I came down the path,”
Thalon said with a worried expression.
The Sigist shrugged. “Maybe it's not farming season yet?”
“It is. First light of Flora happened only a few weeks ago. Now's the perfect time to start the seeding, and I know these monks. They wouldn't delay something like that unless they had a good reason.” Thalon leaned on his staff. “Something's wrong.”
Griff took his notebook from his satchel and checked the notes. “Now that you mention it. I don't think I've seen any Loreseed monks beyond the Toll Layer ever since I got here. Strange . . .”
“Well, only one way to find out what's happening. Are you ready?” Thalon turned to Griff and held out his hand.
“Ready? You mean, for the secret entrance? Huh, sure I suppose,” Griff said and took Thalon's hand.
“Whatever you do, don't let go.”
The wizard raised his staff into the air, closed his eyes and focused his mind. The air around the duo became heavy and cold. The light above the pit vanished as clouds began to form and blocked the sky and the hole. Suddenly, a great gust of wind circled the wizard and the monk. Warm air rose, and the Sigist held his brother's hand firmly, as loose papers flew from his satchel.
Finally, the wizard opened his eyes, pointed his staff towards the monastery's fields, and said under his breath “Parhon!”
A powerful gust of wind propelled the wizard forward, pulling him by his staff toward the monastery. Griff watched in horror as his feet left the ground and he floated in the wind like his pages. He gripped the wizard's hand, the only thing saving him from certain doom, as they flew from the edge of the crater into the center of the monastery's fields. The Sigist let out a horrified scream as air passed through his legs. Below them, travelers looked upwards to the great flight of the wizard and the fearful screams of the scribe. Many of them began to pray, thanking the gods for the miracle of the flying monk. With a few coordinated hops and steps, the air began to slow down as the wizard and the monk landed, the wizard more than the monk, who landed stomach first. The Sigist looked up to the mage and said with a tone equally astonished and fearful, “What are you?!”
“I told you, I'm a wizard.” Thalon looked back with a smirk. “That was my best landing yet too.”
Griff stood up and shook the dirt from his habit. “What was that? A blessing from the gods?”
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“You could say that,” he said as he helped the monk back on his feet. “The answer for it is somewhere inside there.” He pointed to the towering monastery in front of them.
Griff let out an annoyed grunt. “Well, as long as we don't have to do something as horrifying as that again.”
The duo began to walk through the tilled fields and towards the great library.
“Now that's odd,” Thalon blurted as they stepped through the dirt.
“Yeah, the dirt has been prepared already. Well, some parts of it, anyway.”
“And yet, no seeds have been planted,” Thalon concluded as they arrived at the monastery’s wooden door. The great library tower loomed tall above the wizard and the monk. The sun crowned the tall spiral as it set behind it. Above it, through small windows and stone slits, the wizard noticed the hurried scurry of scattered flames and light. The spiral ascended as the sturdy gray brick gave way to the more common orange brick. Above the great wooden door were various stone reliefs and sculptures of iconic moments of the life of the god of knowledge, Sigurd. Some of the moments depicted were the first contact with the gurel kin and the sharing of astronomy, the debates with the first minar Psion, and the forging of bronze with the cind blacksmiths. The reliefs led to great wooden doors. One half was carved with the moment a human Sigurd discovered agriculture. The other half displayed his grand ascension to godhood at the end of his mortal life. Inscribed above the two doors was the motto of the Scriptorians, the monastic order of Sigurd, and the Loreseed monastery: Lux in Tenebris.
“A light in the darkness,” Thalon said as he looked at the great holy reliefs and icons above them.
“You said you’re from here?” Griff asked as he turned to the wizard, who nodded with a weary expression. “Well, let's hope you get a warm welcome.”
The wizard stepped forward and lifted the iron door knocker of the door of godhood. The sound echoed throughout the great pit as iron met ancient wood. Only silence followed in its wake. Thalon let out an annoyed grunt. He raised the door knocker yet again and knocked it even harder. Hushed steps patted on the other side of the door, but no one answered.
“Let me try something,” Griff said. “My brothers and sisters, would you please open the door? I'm but a weary Sigist hoping to find some rest from the road. Surely you wouldn't deny a fellow brother of letters?” The scribe waited for an answer of some kind, only to be met with silence again. Thalon let out a laugh. An annoyed grunt escaped Griff as he looked to the wizard and began to rummage through his satchel, pulling out an old book bound in reptile scales.
“I have acquired some rare manuscripts on my travels that I'm sure my fellow inklings would very much appreciate adding to their collection. Books such as this, “Twilight Fables Vol.2,” one of three in all of Vaelia,” Griff said and slid the book under the door. Almost as soon as it was placed, a hand shot out and pulled it beyond the door. There were a few moments of silence, but before the monk could admit defeat, a noise began to erupt from the other side of the door. Feet scurried about and the sound of wood being lifted echoed from the other side. Finally, with a great creak of the old wood, the doors swung open to reveal an uncomfortable darkness.
“Not bad,” Thalon said with an amused smile as the wizard and scribe entered the ancient monastery. The darkness was overwhelming. Not a candle was lit nor a window uncovered.
“Is it always this dark?” the scribe asked.
Thalon turned to answer Griff, but before he could, both were taken by surprise. The wizard fell into the ground. Shortly after, a great thump echoed in the darkness and the scribe was restrained as several hands grabbed him in the dark.
“Close the doors!” an old voice shouted from within the darkness.
A myriad of monks pushed the doors of the great monastery shut. As the light from the outside was sealed off, a new source of light emerged throughout the monastery walls as the candles and torches lit up. The scene finally became clear to the scribe; his captors were the monks of the Loreseed monastery, all wearing their light blue monk habits. The wizard was sprawled on the floor, dazed.
“Take Thalon away,” an old monk with a scraggly silver beard commanded.
“Let go of me. What are you doing!” Griff said as he squirmed about and saw a short monk climbing the stairs to the great spiral library with his gift book.
Thalon felt the embrace of the cold monastic floor, and as everything faded further into a mist, the wizard retreated once more to the realm of dreams, with a single thought floating in his head: “It's good to be home.”
The smell of dust was intoxicating, and as the wizard heretic slowly opened his eyes, he saw a too-familiar setting: his old room in the monastery. It looked unchanged, except for the chains attaching him to the wall. He tried to move his hands and test the rigidity of the iron. To his surprise, they were new.
“Ahem.” A lone cough echoed from the edge of the room next to the door. Thalon finally noticed of Griff, who was standing by the door looking worried.
“Griff! You are alright! What happened?” Thalon asked, still in a haze from the surprise attack.
“Is it true? The abbot told me what you did — they secluded themselves because they were waiting for you. Are you really a heretic?” Griff sounded afraid and angry.
Thalon’s face fell at the Sigist’s words. “Heretic? I . . .” Words failed him as the weight of the situation pushed down on the chained wizard.
“They said you destroyed an entire section of the gods’ Palace when you left and that you burned holy texts.”
“They what!” The wizard stepped forward in disbelief, and his anger melted his chains.
Griff stood frozen in place as he watched the wizard effortlessly break his bonds. Thalon took a quick step back and tried to calm down the terrified scholar, keeping his hands behind his back to keep the illusion of his restraint.
“Griff. Listen to me. They are lying,” Thalon said as Griff firmly held the handle to the door, prepared to run away. “I didn't burn any sacred books.”
“Then what did you do? Mr. ‘I just left the Holy Palace,’” Griff yelled out of fear and anger.
“I was in the holy library taking care of the inventory and I found a book on the floor —one that let me do things like this.” He said as he brought his hands forward and showed the broken chain.
“So, you destroyed that book after you had stolen the gods’ powers from it?” Griff sounded like he didn’t believe Thalon.
“I didn't steal it! And I certainly didn't burn it,” the wizard insisted. “After I read it, the book disintegrated.”
The Sigist let out a nervous laugh. “I suppose the words were ‘too powerful,’ huh? Honestly, why should I believe you?”
“You believe the gods,” Thalon said seriously.
“What?” Griff answered half in shock, half with disgust.
“These powers were not the only thing in that book. I saw the world's history — the real history. I saw the gods for who they really are, and not who they claim to be.”
“No, you are lying. Trying to get to me,” Griff said as he stared in horror at the wizard's weary expression.
“If you don't believe me, go look for the truth yourself. Search for ‘Parhon’ in the library.”
“By the gods . . . I'll be sure to pray for your soul, Thalon of Loreseed. You should too. Maybe the gods will forgive you and come help you,” Griff said with a worried tone as he moved and prepared to leave the room and quarters of the heretic.
“As if praying ever did anything for me.”
The monk turned to leave, but something stirred within him.
The word of the wizard echoed deep in his mind. “Parhon, Parhon, Parhon . . .” He felt dizzy and as if all of the air in his body was being sucked out, but he focused his mind, reeled himself in with his discipline and focused on the word itself.
“Parhon,” he muttered inaudibly to himself as he grabbed the door and smashed it behind him, leaving the wizard to his now self-imposed arrest.
As the word left his body, he felt his strength and air returning to him. More than that, he felt invigorated and whole again, as if an entire section of his being had at last awakened from its sleep.
He stumbled, falling forwards, and as he did, he instinctively brought his hands forward to stop his fall. But one of the two ill-suited armed monks assigned to guard the wizard caught Griff as he fell. “Teacher!” His legs had caught up and stopped him from hitting the ground, but as he was lifted back to his own feet, he could not shake the feeling of what had happened. He was floating. For just a few seconds, for the first time in his life, his gift had actually done something.
“I'm alright. Where's the library?” He said with a curious look and a newfound determination.
The steps to the great Loreseed library gnawed at the shaking Sigist, the gravity of the wizard's words pulling him down as his faith wavered. Finally, he reached the top of the great spiral stone staircase and found a closed door. He wasted no time or energy, mustering his strength and forcefully opening the doors to the millennial monastic archive. The Loreseed library occupied the entirety of the tower. Rows of shelves with all manner of books and manuscripts reached the roof. Its floor was laden with an intricate maze of bookshelf corridors, and at the very center of it all was a single large pillar of purple Ubeonite stone that supported the entire structure and stopped it from falling apart. The purple pillar connected all of the wooden floor levels. Beside it, Griff saw the abbot descend to the bottom floor on a pulley-operated elevator.
“Brother Favonius,” The abbot said as he closed the elevator behind him and approached the overwhelmed Griff. “I see you found our famous library; may I help you?”
“Yes, Abbot Dravi.” Griff said with a fearful tone. “I'm looking for the truth, I suppose.” He said, incredulous that he had just parroted the heretic’s words.
The abbot raised a suspicious brow. “I see your meeting with my fallen student has left a mark on you. I warned you. Words from heretics can shake even the most pious to their core.” He placed a hand on Griff's shoulder, towering above him. With a stern voice, Abbot Dravi said, “Follow me, brother. Let me guide you back to the light.” He opened the elevator doors again.
Griff was weary but relented and followed the abbot. The metal grate shut with a loud clank and the abbot pulled down a lever by his side, sending the metal box back to the top. Books and wood blended together as the monk felt the air becoming thinner as his vertigo began to act up.
“You feel sorry for him,” Abbot Dravi said in a disapproving voice.
“Should I not?” Griff asked. He didn’t trust the abbot.
“Men like him are not forced to do what they do. It's not our place to offer pity to those who willingly destroy their own houses. Thalon's actions will leave a stain in the Loreseed for ages to come. If you wish to feel pity, feel it for your brothers and sisters from our monastery, who did nothing to deserve to be associated with a man of ill-repute like him.”
Griff felt dizzy as he looked down at his brothers-in-faith. Some of them were working on copying and sorting books, while others sat and read through the various manuscripts. He turned to the abbot. “He didn't strike me as a bad person.”
“The greatest monsters have the most appealing colors,” the abbot finished, as the elevator came to a halt and his imposing dark blue habit fluttered slightly as it stopped. “Come.”
Griff silently left the elevator and followed the old abbot into a corridor of bookshelves. The light from the scattered portholes beamed god rays into the start of each bookshelf row.
“I believe this is your first time in the Loreseed. Tell me, as a fellow inkling, what do you think?” A sly smile erupted from his tired face.
“It's impressive. I never thought it was so vertical.” Griff said as the mixture of the earthly wisdom of the books joined with the godly blessing of the sunlight. As they walked through the hallway of bookshelves, the monk looked up and asked.”Why here out of all places though?”
The abbot smiled. “Why the crater? This site holds the greatest known concentration of ubeonite stone in all of Vaelia.”
“You mean, the pillar?” Griff asked as he gave a quick glance back to the great central purple pillar that supported the structure.
“Yes. Lord Siggurd believes this crater was formed from the impact of the ubeonite pillar with our world of Vaelia. Being such a strong and rare mineral not to mention the obvious celestial symbolism of it, Lord Siggurd believed it would be a perfect place to found our monastery.
A strong rock to lean against, if you will.” The Abbot proclaimed with a distinct hint of pride.
“A blessing from the Gods and the sky, as all ubeonite meteors are no doubt.” Griff completed as he gazed to the colossal galactic wonder that served as the foundation and support of the entire library of earthly knowledge.
Slightly ahead, the abbot stopped to pull a grey book from one of the bookshelves.
“Tell me, brother, have you heard of Saint Kirsten?”
“It does not come immediately to mind, no.”
“He was one of our early abbots, and a revered saint and wiseman. You perhaps would know him better as the Iron Scholar.” Griff’s eyes lit up as he heard the title of the great Saint Kirsten.
“Oh, I know of him! He was the one who established the first Sigist school in the Petty Counties, in Ironden I believe,” Griff noted, proud of his scholarly knowledge.
“Not only that, but Saint Kirsten also created the first inkling gathering and wrote the Kirsten morals that many orders, us included, rule ourselves with today,” Abbot Dravi was clearly proud to be a descendant of the honorable tradition. “But more than that, the Iron Scholar was a follower and seeker of truth.” Dravi passed the book to Griff's hands.
“I want you to have this, brother Griff. A gift in exchange for your own gift to our library. Read the words of our patron dean carefully. It will help clear your mind from the fog created by the heretic. Remember, the greatest lesson of Saint Kirsten is that truth always prevails. Even in the darkest of lies, the truth awaits.”
“I don't know what to say,” Griff said as he held the gray book in his hands.
“You don't need to say anything, my brother. Just promise me you will read our saint's words and search for the truth yourself,” the abbot said as he placed his hands on the Sigists shoulder and spoke with a rare hint of compassion.
Griff looked into the abbot's eyes and saw the genuine worry for his soul in them. “Thank you. I will, I promise you.”
The abbot smiled at the words from the wandering teacher. “Good. Feel free to remain with us for as long as you want, brother. We will make sure you are well equipped for your next scholarly journey.”
“Thank you. I promise I won't mooch off you for too long,” Griff said with an uneasy smile, still unsure at what his new plan was.
The abbot let out a small laugh. “Don't worry brother, it's no bother at all. I will be going down now to take care of some work; will you join or do you want to search for something else?” The abbot began to walk back to the elevator.
The cloud bearer looked back at the mighty library and felt its pull. His mind still raced with the words from the heretic and his truth, but then he looked down to his hands and saw in it another more ancient, time-tested truth.
He looked back and forth to the grey book and the endless promising expanse of the earthly knowledge of the library. “Huh . . . yeah, I will go down. I think I found what I was looking for.”
Hours passed. The Sigist twisted and turned in the old bed for pilgrims. Outside, the light of the new morning peered through and flooded the still empty pilgrim barracks in the monastery. His mind raced with what would happen to the heretic he had met. The gods would come for him later that day, and even though he had the power to escape and leave, he chose not to. He wondered why. Why would someone that has already chosen to abandon the gods then submit themselves to their judgment? He looked to his bedside cupboard, the grey book “The Lessons of Saint Kirsten,” rested next to a cold candle. He thought back to the words in it, the examples of pragmatism, of humble virtue, but above all and the most important, the search for wisdom and knowledge as being paramount to life. But they did not comfort him. It still made no sense. Why would someone act so irrationally? What drove them forward?
“Brother Favonius?” A novice called as he walked to the Sigist turning in his bed. “Everything is ready. We have finished setting the supplies for your travels.”
“Ah, thank you. I will be on my way in a bit,” Griff said as he sat up in his bed.
The novice gave a short, courteous bow and left the room, his steps echoing loudly in the empty pilgrim barracks. Griff looked down to the floor, hoping to find the heretic's reasoning somewhere, but nothing came to mind. He raised his hand, reaching for the book in the cupboard, but he stopped himself. As his hand hovered in the air, a thought erupted from the depths of his soul. A single word, formed in the shapeless and vast infinity of his subconscious: “Parhon.” A sudden gust of air erupted from beneath the book and propelled it forward, landing right in his open hand. The noise reverberated in the empty room. Time slowed down as the Sigist realized what he had just done. It felt as if the weight of the world was crashing on him. He placed the book inside his satchel and stood up, doing his best to ignore what had happened. He strode toward the entrance hall of the monastery. All throughout his walking, the word echoed in his mind, and with it, the implications from them. But he drowned them out as he prayed in his mind and let the words sink again back into the forgotten oblivion of his subconscious.
“Brother Griff. I hope you enjoyed your stay here at our monastery,” Abbot Dravi said as he walked with the Sigist outside.
“It was most enlightening.” Griff sounded awkward.
“Do you have any destination in mind now?”
“I suppose I will go wherever knowledge and wisdom are needed,” Griff answered.
“Ah yes. Now that is the true calling of the noble Sigist, to spread the light of truth wherever darkness abounds.”
“Yeah . . . spreading truth,” The young Sigist said with a bit of resignation. “Farewell.”
“Farewell, my inkling friend. May your skies be clear,” the abbot said with a last pleased expression, as the Sigist saddled his gifted donkey and began the climb back to the outside world.
Outside the monastery, the waiting pilgrims and travelers carefully watched the leaving Sigist, none daring to speak. Griff kept silent, not wanting to upset the vast line of the faithful. But as the wandering teacher climbed the steps and layers of that holy hole, he occasionally glanced back to the monastery, and his mind continued to race with what would happen to the heretic. More importantly, it raced with what the heretic had said. He had not lied, at least it didn't seem like it, as the word of power still echoed in his mind and it revealed itself to be true. If that was the case then . . . no. It was best not to think about it. He pushed it deep into the back of himself and continued to ignore it. After all, even if it was true, who was he to go against his betters? He was no abbot or bishop, just a mere traveling Sigist. He arrived at the top of the crater and stopped his ride. He looked back to the great spiral, one final time. He sighed and, with a heavy heart, he turned forwards and began to leave. The Sigist was still deep in thought when he was forcefully pulled back to reality as he realized he had crashed into another kin. A grunt erupted from his donkey, as the teacher saw an etla merchant standing back to his talons. “Oh, I'm so sorry. Are you ok?” Griff asked as he stared at the etla from atop his steed.
“Ah, don't worry sir, nothing broken. Say though, since you are already here, fancy something to buy?” The merchant said as he bent to lay down and open a blanket filled with all manner assortment of iron items.
“Huh, no. Look, I really need to go,” Griff said as he tried to force his way around the merchant.
“Now wait just a second though,” The merchant said as he blocked the donkey. “I, the great Endu, know that a traveler like you can't go out without the appropriate tools!”
The Sigist glared silently at the merchant as he tried to fumble to find something to sell.
“Already got everything, eh? Well since you are a man of faith, how about this? A small memento of the Loreseed.” The avian merchant showed the monk a small iron figurine.
Griff reached for it and closely inspected it. “This is . . .”
“Saint Kirsten, the Iron scholar. A favorite of the pilgrims here,” the etla merchant said with a vibrant eccentric flair.
As he stared into the small iron figurine of the cind scholar, he thought of the Loreseed, and the most important lesson of the saint reverberated in his mind.
“Truth isn't always what we want it to be, but even when it hurts, we must uphold it and share the light of wisdom, lest we be cursed to eternally stagnate in the dark.” The words repeated themselves, over and over again.
The Sigist dismounted his donkey, and as he walked and looked to the Loreseed monastery below him, he felt an overwhelming sense of duty and determination. He looked to the great Holy Mountain in the distance, and. finally, he understood the heretic.
“Huh, sir, are you alright?” the etla merchant asked as he looked intently at his potential customer.
Griff began to walk back. “Keep the donkey,” said to the merchant. He pocketed the figurine and grabbed the grey book of the Iron Scholar. The scribe closed his eyes, focused his mind, and filled his lungs with a fresh batch of air. He felt himself becoming lighter and lighter, then he opened his eyes and with a certain and unwavering voice he proclaimed, “Parhon.” The Sigist began to sprint, the grey leather book still clutched in his hands as he jumped into the holy pit below him.
The etla followed quickly to see if the Sigist had survived, but as he looked down, he stared in awe; the Sigist's monk habit flapped in the wind as he maneuvered and propelled himself through the air, guided by the grey book that he held in his hands. Down below, pilgrims and travelers pointed as they witnessed another flying monk miracle. The light of the sun illuminated the flying Sigist from behind as he dove toward the monastery. He brought the book closer to him, and the merchant and pilgrims watched in horror and confusion as the monk crashed into the walls of the monastery and landed in the cell of the heretic.
“Griff! You came back,” Thalon said as he moved towards the crashed Sigist within the rubble of his cell walls and helped him back on his feet.
“I did. But not for you. I came back for the truth,” he said with a dizzy expression, as he got back to his feet with the grey book still in his hands.
Thalon simply smiled as he heard the words from the wandering teacher. “The truth isn't always what we want it to be. I'm glad you were able to face it.”
The Sigist waved his hand in an embarrassed dismissal and spoke. “Ah, save me your heretical truths for later. Right now we need to get out of here.” The sound of scurrying feet and hurried key jingling became more frantic on the other side of the door.
“Right. Give me your book,” Thalon said. Griff raised his book and the wizard held on to it.
“What about your staff and the sword?” Griff asked, somewhat worried.
“We don't have time. I don't want to hurt anyone in here,” he said. “Grab onto the book too, and don't let go.”
The Sigist did as the wizard said. “Griff, do you trust me?”
The wandering teacher was silent for a bit, but as the knocking on the door became louder, it encouraged him and he spoke. “I do.”
“Grab on to my hand too. Don't let go of it, or the book,” Thalon said. “Close your eyes, think back to it. That word . . . parhon.”
The word echoed in the Sigist’s mind and coursed throughout his entire body. A great feeling of weightlessness surrounded his entire being as he felt a great gush of air beating against his body. And when he opened his eyes, he saw they were floating high in the air. A great vortex of wind formed beneath the grey book and pulled the wizard and the Sigist upwards to the skies, slowly ascending through the great pit.
The wizard looked to the Sigist with a sly smile as he gazed in awe at their power.
“Griff!” A shout echoed from slightly above them. The abbot, standing at the edge of a window in the great library spiral, held out his hand as the flying duo approached.
“I got you!” the abbot said with a worried tone. “Let go of him, brother! Don't doom your soul!”
The vortex suspended them in place as the abbot grabbed the Sigist’s leg. The strength of the wind threatened to pull the entire line of monks holding the abbot up into the air.
“Griff! Get him off you or the vortex will destroy the library!” Thalon shouted, his voice echoing in the great whirlwind.
“Don't go, brother! He's doomed!” The abbot's voice pierced through the vortex.
Griff’s mind raced with possibilities of what to do. The rushing winds drowned out any form of critical thinking. Deep below, the mass of travelers and pilgrims began to scurry and look for safety from the imminent fall of the ancient library and monastery. Closer to him, monks and fellow inklings pleaded for him to let go of the wizard, as their strength began to wane. But above them, something else called. Griff looked to the wizard and then above, and saw the great Holy Mountain and the Gods’ Palace, as a feeling that had never crossed him before flooded his entire being. As he contemplated the ancient seat of power, a surge of determination filled his soul and he looked to the wizard. “Parhon,” he said with a hopeful smile. As soon as the word left his mouth, he geared up his foot and with a powerful channeled gust of wind, he kicked the abbot back, who let go and fell back into the monastery. The duo was now free.
With a newfound vigor and power, the vortex quickly climbed up to the top of the holy pit. Now outside of the Loreseed and continuously climbing up to the clouds, the monastery stabilized and monks, pilgrims, travelers, and merchants from all layers stared in awe as the great spinning cloud of wind climbed ever upward to the skies.
As it climbed above the clouds and began to get dangerously close to the Holy Palace, the resolve of the wizard and Sigist was tested, as an unexpected gust of wind from the north pushed the duo southwards.
“Hold on!” Thalon shouted to the Sigist, but it was not enough. Their formation was broken and, with it, their concentration gone.
The wizard and the Sigist began to plummet down into the world of Vaelia once again.