Chương 56: Chapter 132 - Clutching Fire

Rostal had instructed Mirian to learn from the elementary school, but since it was evening of Fifthday and they would be closed until Firstday, she decided to hire a tutor for the weekend to get a head start. The markets were all closing by then, so Sixthday she set out early. There were no certified tutors for Adamic like there were for the other languages, but some locals pointed her to a retired schoolteacher who was looking for a bit of extra coin.

With Cuelsin, Friian, and—apparently—Adamic, Mirian just automatically responded with whatever language had just been spoken to her. They first worked on getting her to intentionally recognize Adamic. Since she already knew the basics from her childhood, she made rapid progress. It was less learning, and more reconnecting old memories. That in turn gave her some hope. Not just that her memories might be recovered, but that the curse could be overcome.

Perhaps thinking in Adamic might further unlock those shadowy places in her mind. On Firstday, she took a letter of recommendation from the tutor over to the school, along with a few boxes of colored chalk and some fresh slates as a gift to the school.

"They always need more of those," the former teacher had assured her. Mirian attempted honesty, and told the secretaries working that she was trying to learn Adamic, and was willing to help out in the classrooms while she learned it. It turned out, there were several students whose families were from Urubandar, and had been in the city during an intense bout of skirmishing between the Baracueli forces and a rebel group.

The children had seen a lot of death, and struggled to control themselves in class, despite the best efforts of their parents and teachers. It just so happened that Mirian was an expert at dealing with calming strategies for violent students. After all, she'd been one. When she got to the classroom, she had to take a moment while her heart melted. The students were all first years—the same age as Zayd. They were preposterously adorable. Little Zayd, she thought. I hope you're doing well.

Maybe the time loop was the best thing that could have happened to him. He'd stay young and cute, going on an eternal adventure with mom and dad. Except why did I know Adamic? Dad speaks a little of it… but just a little. She tried to keep her mind on the present. The class was reminiscent of her own schooling. The two cute terrors she'd been assigned quickly sought to test her patience.

"See? I can do it too when I'm mad. Breath in. Count, one, two, three. Breathe out, count, one, two, three. Let's do it together, okay?" She had to practice Adamic, because that was all the two children spoke. The days passed at a crawl, and they passed in a whirlwind. Mirian had forgotten how kids behaved. They were little bundles of emotion, constantly looking for the next thing. And they had endless energy.

When it was break time, the children discovered that they could demand that they chase her, and she'd run for them. She jogged around the school's play park while a tiny horde of children careened after her. Every so often, one would pause, catch their breath, then the thrill of the chase would reignite their little limbs and they'd be back in the pack, shouting with the joy of it all. It was the height of absurdity, and Mirian couldn't help but smile at it.

The problem with the two children she was assigned was not that their tempers blew up at the slightest provocation. The problem was they were constantly prodding the other children until they reacted, and then everything escalated from there. Mirian remembered her dad taking her on walks in the fields of Arriroba to help set her mind at ease, since when she was in a building, she'd constantly been tense. She suggested the same thing to the teacher.

So, they started taking little walks before the two of them could get set off, or set themselves off. She sang them old nursery rhymes and taught them to sing along. Mirian had never been great at singing, and the voice change her male form caused didn't help matters. Fortunately, the fact that it took a bucket for her to carry a tune—and the bucket was leaking—didn't bother the children in the slightest.

They paraded around the grounds belting lyrics out off-key, then played "hide from the bog lion," a game where they had to be very very sneaky when returning to class, which was a trick Mirian remembered her own teachers playing to get the class to shut up. Well, it did work. On the weekends, Mirian met with her tutor and practiced the more academic words in Adamic. Mostly, they had conversations. They each told stories to each other.

Mirian left out the time loop, and changed the details a bit so that 'Micael' would fit in place of 'Mirian.' Occasionally, her tutor would correct her phrasing, or supply a word. Sometimes, Mirian would ask for a word. She kept track of the events through the newspapers, looking for any major changes. The Lowfort District felt like it underwent a siege itself as Alkazaria was surrounded by Dawn's Peace.

By now, the broadsheets were astounded by how the small rebel group—a month ago near the verge of total annihilation—was now commanding a united Persaman force that had risen up all across the lands. Two of the pro-Baracuel princes had been assassinated, and somehow, Dawn's Peace had gotten a foothold in Urubandar. Rumor was, their leader sought a powerful weapon to take down Alkazaria. By now, the siege was no idle thing. Spell engines attacked the walls of Alkazaria day and night.

Only the fortuitous presence of the Arcane Praetorians had kept the siege at bay. For the first time, she saw a name printed: Ibrahim Kalishah. He claimed to be the Chosen of the Prophet, which the papers were quick to dismiss as a ridiculous title. Interestingly enough, despite the dozens of articles about the siege and calamitous rise of Dawn's Peace, none of the articles mentioned what they were fighting for. They did make sure to inform the audience what bloodthirsty barbarians the Persamans were.

A miasma of tension gripped Lowfort. Arguments were mixed. Many of the Persamans settled in Baracuel had fought against Dawn's Peace at some point, but it was hard not to see a divine will at work with how successful Ibrahim had been. They whispered quietly that perhaps something was different this time. Others made sure they proclaimed their loyalty to Baracuel loudly and often, as if that might stop it from being questioned. The students, though, worried about none of it.

Their biggest concerns continued to be who would get the balls during breaks, which tree was the tallest, who found the biggest leaf on the ground, and what was for lunch (it was always bread rolls stuffed with meat and vegetables. Every day). The worst fights between the children could be solved by separating them, letting them say their piece, then if watching the other kids at play didn't lure them out of their grumpy mood, they could be distracted out of it by getting a sweet cracker with fig jam on it.

So far, the cracker had a 100% success rate. Mirian wistfully wished more conflicts could be solved like that. Watching them bumble about the classroom, she wondered, how do these perfect beings turn into the monsters behind this war? It seemed like it shouldn't be possible. She met Rostal again on the 23rd as he exited the Sanctuary.

"I've done what you asked." He snorted.

"It's been two weeks."

"If we wait any longer, I won't get any lessons in." It was late enough in the cycle now, and from the zephyr falcons she'd gotten—only two from Torrviol, because there was something of a fight at the Royal Courier's station over them—Troytin was in no position to project force down south. Luspire had been much more cautious dealing with the Akanans as soon as he'd received the dossier, and Lecne had reported from Cairnmouth that the Deeps were entirely focused on the crisis down south now.

It seemed the conspiracy had a lot of momentum, but the magnitude of the problem could no longer be ignored.

"Why? You going to go fight in that war?"

"The one with Dawn's Peace, or the one we're about to have with Akana Praediar?"

"They will forgive one embassy being burned."

"Sure, but they won't forgive their Prime Minister being assassinated. Anyways, that's the small stuff. The leyline eruptions have already begun. We have about a week before one hits Palendurio." She was mixing in Cuelsin words with her Adamic, but at least Rostal wasn't nitpicking her about that. Rostal snorted again.

"Do you think what you're doing is impressive? Do you think these things bother me?"

"I'm just telling you the full truth of why I want to be trained now." She considered how much to tell him.

"A lot of people are going to die. I'm trying to stop it." A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

"Everyone dies." He seemed entirely unbothered.

"Tell me. What is the purpose of life?"

"What we make of it," Mirian replied.

"But I'd like to see an Enteria where people live good, peaceful, long lives. One where they share a great deal of good food with friends and family. And perhaps as our understanding of magic progresses, we can achieve things beyond our imagination." Rostal considered that.

"Your imagination is limited." Mirian frowned. The conversation wasn't at all going in the direction she'd expected.

"What do you think our purpose here is?"

"The Elders created this world at the direction of God. They built the bones of the world, the great continents. They built the blood of the world, the great Labyrinth. They built the eye of the world, the Luamin moon. They built the soul of the world, the myrvites, and the other life. Tell me, what happens to a soul when you die?" Mirian had to switch to Cuelsin.

"Entropic dispersal." Rostal sighed.

"Those are words. What do they mean?" She swapped back to Adamic.

"The soul energy spreads out. It—goes away. At least, after a few days, the spreading out can't be tracked anymore."

"Matter and energy are neither created nor destroyed. To where does it go?"

"You should tell me."

"Good. You do know how to learn. The saints tell us God values our souls. Why the soul, and not the whole body? Because that is what lives on after us." Mirian thought that was a bit ridiculous, but let him continue.

"Dying is not what matters. Everything dies. So I do not fear death. No one should. What a waste of time, to fear the inevitable." Once again, it seemed Mirian was running up against someone with a very different mindset than her own.

"So what is the purpose of your life?"

"To understand God."

"So why get good at swordfighting?"

"To get closer to God." Mirian raised an eyebrow.

"Does God appreciate talent with the rapier?"

"Not in the slightest," Rostal said.

"Then why bother?"

"When our soul carries forth, it joins others. It should be ready for its transformation, and be both rigid and malleable. It must be a serene lake, and a ceaseless storm." Nicolus's book about social manipulation didn't have anything that covered conversations like these. She tried to think of what he was implying he wanted, and came up short. Instead, there was a vague spirituality, one that was not in line at all with her own religious understanding.

She could pick up on the Isheer beliefs—that of an unknowable God that existed even beyond the Elder beings like the Ominian—but Rostal seemed to be being deliberately obtuse.

"Will you teach me to strengthen my own soul?"

"You are not ready." Mirian gaped at him.

"You don't understand what's at stake. Everyone here is under threat. What's coming—it's death beyond anything natural or intended." She gestured to the crowds around them.

"Your neighbors, your community—do you care about their lives?" He shrugged.

"They will die. This is inevitable. But death is the start of a great journey. We should not weep for an end when it is also a beginning."

"So… why bother training Liamar?"

"He understood how little he knew."

"Oh, I know how little I know," Mirian said.

"I'd be leaving you to—" she switched to Cuelsin, "—rot in your smug sense of self-superiority if you didn't know something I didn't." There were people watching them as they talked, she realized. That, and plenty of people here knew who he was. Rostal was a recluse, but she didn't think he always had been. Even then, he had a reputation. People nodded at him when he passed.

"So you accept that these people care about you, but you care nothing for them?" That got the first glint of anger in his eyes she'd seen.

"Don't pretend you understand what I think."

"I don't need to know your mind to see your actions. Even given what you know, you stand passive here. War with Persama is brewing. Palendurio is a cauldron waiting to boil. Magical eruptions are becoming more frequent, and you know what just happened to the Akanan Embassy. You send me to go learn more Adamic. I do. Then you reject me anyways. Do you stand for anything?"

"God," he said.

"And the Ominian? And any of the people here?"

"Just God."

"And what does God want of you?"

"No one can know." Mirian felt her anger boiling over.

"I've wasted my time, haven't I?"

"Have you?" Mirian turned to face him, fists trembling. Rostal was infuriatingly calm. She wanted to punch him, but what would be the point? Instead she walked back the way they'd come, then sat in the park. She thought of Grandpa Irabi and what he would tell her. Just like she'd been doing with the children at the school, she took deep breaths and let that air stir in her, calming her. Eventually, she embraced her focus, and deepened her meditation, letting the sounds around her become distant.

She looked inward to her soul. It was a turbulent thing still. When she examined it, she thought perhaps she could even see her own fury within it. Her deep frustration was not just for Rostal; he was just another intransigent fool. No, it was the sum of all the things. She could see the crisis, and the immediacy of it made her desperate. But all around her, people slouched about, going about their daily lives as if nothing was wrong.

One of the Arcane Praetorians had told her there were at least 50 years of eruptions—and yet, what was anyone doing? It was always just her. Troytin was hellbent on Akanan domination of the world. Ibrahim seemed to be doing something similar in Persama. General Corrmier would continue his coup even as the ground spewed arcane fire, and even as the Akanans burned Torrviol, Luspire would be fretting about his ambitions and reputation.

The people with power clutched it like fire, letting the streams of flame drip down and spread across the world, heedless of how much it burned them too. The people without power looked at the flames around them and shrugged their shoulders, because what could they do? There was shortsightedness that was difficult to put into words. A selfishness that promised to let them all burn. She let her emotions swirl around, then released them with her breath. Perhaps she could find a way herself.

That was the hope she held onto. Someone sat down next to her, though she was only dimly aware of them.

"Hmm. So you are not just a creature of lightning," came Rostal's deep voice. Another wave of anger passed through Mirian. Was this just some bullshit test of his? She kept her eyes closed and gaze inward and took in another deep breath.

"You can control very little of the world. But one thing you should always be able to control is yourself." Mirian sat there, feeling the light breeze on her skin. Finally, she said, "I've heard it said that emotions are a thing of weakness. But they're not. Love and beauty are feelings that make life worth living. It is right to be furious at injustice. If you are trying to teach me to discard these things, I will not learn it." Rostal snorted.

"God did not grant us emotions to forsake them. That is not the lesson. What matters is what you do with them. There is a time to be like lightning, and there is a time to be like stone. You wish to always be like lightning."

"I thought someone like you with special knowledge might be different," Mirian said.

"But you're just like the rest of them. Everyone has their excuse for inaction until the evidence is overwhelming, but by then, it's too late. How many cycles will I waste trying to get you to cooperate even a little?" She was talking past him now, she knew. Except he caught her meaning immediately.

"You are a saint," he said simply, using the Isheer term for the Prophets.

"Yes," Mirian said.

"God did not choose me," he said.

"Despite all my dedication."

"Apparently not," Mirian said. Rostal got a forlorn look.

"Why not an Isheer?" he asked, not to Mirian, but to the sky.

"Oh, They chose at least one Isheer. Ibrahim Kalishah. He's besieging Alkazaria right now." Rostal was silent, but she saw a flash of pain cross his face.

"You know him."

"No. I knew him. That was a long time ago." He paused. Several children ran by, shouting at each other as a battered boar-skin ball rolled across the field.

"He was not like lightning at all, but like fire. I told him to be more like water." Rostal was silent again, then said, "You look Persaman, and you don't mangle the sounds of Adamic like most Baracueli, so perhaps I assumed you understood more of the cultural context of our conversation than you did." Mirian said nothing to that.

"May I examine your soul?" he asked. Mirian embraced her focus.

"Go ahead," she said.

"But no messing around with things in there."

"I am not a degenerate," he said, and put his hand on Mirian's arm. There was a strange sensation, like water running over her, only it wasn't a touch at all, but a different sense. She could sense a subtle energy brushing over her with a feather's touch. For several minutes, he kept his hand there, until it began to tremble, and he broke contact.

"Are you a hierophant?"

"I don't know what that is."

"You can use runes."

"Yes, then." There was another long pause.

"But there are no runes by the… hole."

"That's my saint-hole," Mirian said, feeling irreverent.

"The other saints have one too. You'll have to talk to the Ominian about that one."

"The runes you wear might interfere. I don't know. There are so few hierophants left. Fewer even than there are dervishes." Mirian shrugged.

"I can get rid of them then." Especially if you're implying you'll actually teach me. She undid the bindings, then used the techniques Marva had been teaching her to push her soul energy through what she visualized as deformations in her soul. She wasn't as fast as Marva, but over the next ten minutes, her body changed back to normal. She tried to ignore the weirdness of the sensations as her internal organs rearranged themselves.

Her clothes didn't quite fit right anymore, but they were loose enough not to be a problem. Rostal watched her as she transformed. One of the children who'd been playing also noticed the change, and stopped to gape. His friend, who had been chasing him, didn't stop in time. There was a crack! as their heads collided and they both tumbled to the ground in a tangle of limbs. The first kid sat up, dazed, while the second started wailing. Mirian rushed over.

"Hold still," she said.

"I'll make it better." Gently, she drew from the soul repository, sending soothing waves over the developing bruise on his head. Then she healed the second one, though it took him a moment to realize the physical pain had gone away.

"Be more careful," she told them, then rejoined Rostal on the bench. Rostal was still staring at her.

"Very well," he said.

"I have misjudged you. There is simply no other choice. You must be my student."