Wisdom Lost

by Michael Sliter

  “So, knowing what they seek, how do we prepare? How do we fight them?” Emma asked.

  “With faith!” Iolen laughed a bitter, mocking laugh. “I’m certain that your Ignatius fellow has spoken of this. The outnumbered, when faithful, have held strong against the many. And, you have no idea how outnumbered you are to be in this coming war. Now, if you would excuse me, my caretakers grow impatient, as do yours.”

  With a twisted smile, Iolen turned on his heels and strode to his pasnes alna sitter, arms wide as if greeting an old friend. Emma stared after him for a long moment, clenching her teeth against her frustration with the man. Against the emptiness she felt with Escamilla being finally and truly gone. Against the growing fear of what they fought, embodied by Disorder and the Feral. Against the compulsive urge to flee, to heed Disorder’s warning and run to save her own life, maybe taking up the well-worn guise of a serving woman in some distant country.

  And against this damnable headache.

  “My lady, is everything all right?” Havert was at her side now, while Nail limped up quietly, his face pale and laced with a hard pain. But, he offered no complaint. The man merely stood, stalwart, at her side, resolve burning in his fevered eyes. There was no give in Nail. He would be avenged.

  As would Emma.

  “Yes, Havert.” She eyed Nail and he met her gaze, almost as if they had an understanding. “Everything will be fine.”

  Chapter 20

  The budredda weren’t prisoners, strictly speaking.

  They were assigned a wing in Sebiant Rhisfel, the Warrior’s Respite. The bureaucrat assigned to them, Fel Jentin, had greeted them at the entrance near Enorry Falls, all politeness and politics, even praising Hafgan for his martial prowess all those years ago in the Cylch. No assassination attempt was mentioned, and nor was the fact that a human, Captain Rin Yanso, was a prisoner of the budredda. Humans weren’t banned from Hackeneth exactly; they just rarely found a reason or had the fortitude to make the trip. Occasionally, traders would make the trek and brave their fears of the Wasmer people, hearing that there was wealth in the mountains, that Hackeneth was carved from gold. Upon seeing it, and finding out that garrs had no currency exchange to yets, the traders would as often as not just leave their goods and make the trip home with all haste.

  After having seen his men settled and fed in relative safety, Hafgan had requested to see Taern. Jentin had raised a brow at that, but Yurin had taken him aside, whispering something in his course voice. Hafgan had thought, at the time, that Jentin was taken aback by Hafgan’s insolence, expecting to see the highest-ranking Dyn Doethas in the city upon his arrival. As it turned out, however, Jentin had only been confused that Hafgan would want to see a man worth less than nothing to the Wasmer. The last Dyn Doethas was more insignificant than even the budredda.

  The Dyn Doethas of the Carreg Da had guided the people for millennia. They may have lied and manipulated, but they were an institution. Above laborers, miners, merchants, warleaders, bureaucrats, and even priests, these men and women were the paragons of society, blending the ideals and strengths of all castes into one. Everyone bowed their heads upon seeing one of these wise and knowing leaders, the many hearts of society. They were the judiciary branch, hearing cases among the Wasmer and passing verdicts. They were religious leaders, guiding the priests in their devotion. They even led the miners and laborers, directing efforts toward the most beneficial public works.

  The only segment of the Wasmer that the Dyn Doethas had never truly led was the military. Of course, ‘military’ was too strong a word for the Wasmer warriors. It implied that there was organization or a single direction for the warrior caste. Their force was more like an assembly of gangs, each led by a warleader. The Dyn Doethas influenced, but could never quite conquer.

  And now, it was no matter. The Dyn Doethas, purged. The Laenor, raided and despoiled by common people and warriors who’d had enough of being manipulated by men and women who had no right to rule, no reason to hold themselves above others. When Hafgan had been young, he’d dreamed of a time when the caste system would be obsolete, when people like his parents would be able to expand themselves beyond being loggers. When a laborer could be a warrior and when a warrior could be a cobbler.

  And, with his martial prowess, coupled with his proclamation, he’d made it happen. The blood of the Dyn Doethas stained his hands crimson whether he’d intended it or not. With such blood-slick hands, it was a wonder that Hafgan could still grip a spear.

  He wandered the halls of Sebiant Rhisfel mindlessly, conscious that two guards dogged his steps but not caring. He had not yet retreated into his hedwicchen, but felt a numb emptiness nonetheless. Home was nothing like he’d expected. Certainly, the tunnels were unchanged. He could hear the echoes of warriors laughing and boasting, swearing and fighting. The familiar sounds of the Sebiant Rhisfel. But, everything seemed off. From the crumbling, disused shrines of Traisen that littered the broad stone halls to the near-empty streets above, Hackeneth felt wrong to him. And he could scarcely imagine a world where Taern was relegated to being a prisoner while Leyr held sway.

  He and Leyr would certainly be meeting soon. There was no way that Hafgan would leave Hackeneth without a reckoning. This whole journey had been a mistake, however. He hadn’t even bothered to give his warning to Taern. The man could do nothing with the knowledge, and that would only bring him greater shame and regret. It was but a wonder that Hafgan had thought to spare him the added stress.

  No, he had to leave this place with his budredda. Leyr would never listen to him. Leyr would never heed a warning from the mouth of the budredda who’d shamed him in front of thousands. Though the gwagen had returned, being stolen from the very ranks of the Wasmer, his rival would assume that he was lying, making up a story to further shame him. He wouldn’t believe Yanso, a human brought against his will to share his story of that night.

  Without realizing it, Hafgan had wandered beyond the Sebiant Rhisfel to the Loch Creed, the religious district. It was the largest of the districts beneath the great mountain of Limner, its huge caverns hollowed out as if the rock had been eaten by great worms. It was also the brightest of the districts, screened vents honeycombing the ceiling to let in the light of the day or the shine of the stars. Mirrors were cleaned and maintained by laborers to ensure that light always graced the temples held within. Hundreds or thousands would cluster here daily, worshipping their god of choice and asking the Offeirs for divine blessings.

  Basically, it was a district of false hope.

  Now, it seemed nearly abandoned. Hafgan passed few others on the street during a time of day when you’d normally be barely able to walk without bumping another. He paused, taking a moment to consider another temple to Traisen, the stonework building in obvious disrepair. A lone Offeir, an old, old man, labored to drag away a chunk of statue that had apparently eroded. He was mostly unsuccessful.

  “Let me help you, Father,” said Hafgan in the Wasmer tongue, inclining his head with the respect due to a priest and an elder. Even if the man’s beliefs meant nothing, Hafgan would never insult someone who had conviction.

  “Pah, why bother? Traisen has fallen, and I’m unlikely to stand him back up on my own,” said the Offeir, flinging up his hands in defeat and slumping against the façade of the temple. It was, indeed, Traisen’s screaming, warlike face that the old man was trying to haul.

  “What has happened here? Where is the respect for your god?” Hafgan asked. Stepping in front of the Offeir, he heaved against Traisen’s head, righting the thing. At least the warlike god would be able to see his body, several feet distant, and remember what it was like to battle.

  “Respect for my god? Where in the bleeding mountains have you been, boy? And what in the name of Traisen happened to your teeth?”

  Hafgan clamped shut his mouth to hide his budredda dog teeth.

  “I’ve been away,” he said quietly. “Just returning.”

  “It’s been at least two years since the
purge. I’m assuming you know of that?” The Offeir eyed Hafgan warily. Hafgan nodded and gestured for the man to continue.

  “Everyone has their opinion on the purge, these days. At the time, the people were behind it, having listened to that fool Hafgan Iwan at the Cylch, having gotten behind Leyr and his ilk in the months that followed. Now? Can’t go far without someone swearing it was the best thing to happen to we Carreg Da, while someone two steps away would swear it was the biggest mistake ever made.”

  “What would you say, Father?”

  “First, call me Ulin. And second, look at my bleeding temple! I’ll let you use your imagination about what I think, boy, though I’ll wager you are just as dumb as the rest of them. Besides, if I were to say what I was thinking, I might be liable to disappear like half the other Offeirs around here. Traisen still merits some respect among our warriors, though many just look to their new god.” Ulin spat on the ground and gestured rudely at the cavern ceilings, revealing the passionate ardor that was so valued by worshippers of Traisen.

  “New god?” Hafgan asked.

  “New god. The god of stone and sky. The god of blood and metal. The god of feeding and fucking and fighting. It’s like Leyr took all the gods that we’ve worshipped for centuries and blended them all into one in a sickening stew.”

  “And the people believe this?” It sounded like yet another fabricated story, even less believable than the rest of the lies the ancient Dyn Doethas had cooked up.

  “The people are dumb. You point at a pile of goat shit, say it’s a god, and they’ll worship it! The god of putrid feces!” Ulin chuckled for a second before breaking into a coughing fit. He leaned against the wall of his crumbled temple, wiping sweat from his brow. The man was obviously in a slow decline, age finally getting the better of him. A bad way to go for devotees of Traisen. Likely, it wouldn’t be long before he challenged some ox of a warrior to a duel and commited suicide in a very Traisen-friendly way.

  “Does this god have a name?”

  “No name. He’s called the Flawless God, and Leyr claims to have met him atop Enorry Falls. People claim to have seen the clouds around Limner clear, pure light shining down upon the summit at the time Leyr was supposedly dallying with the gods. People claim to have seen their shadows stretching across the sky—our great and wise leader and his omnipotent god of shit. People claim that the falls ceased to flow for an hour, though I didn’t see it. They claim when Leyr descended from the impossible climb, he glowed with a divine light.” Ulin again spit, his saliva tinged with red.

  “It seems things are changing in Hackeneth,” said Hafgan. “Thank you for the information, Ulin. I would offer you help in cleaning this rubble, but I know you would refuse, so I’ll not waste my air on the request.”

  Ulin smirked. “Maybe you ain’t so dumb as you look, boy. Come by again if you’re bored. Maybe I could get us talking about Traisen, eh? You seem like the martial sort; his blessing might do you some good.”

  “Maybe, Ulin,” Hafgan allowed, knowing that he’d not be back to the ruined temple of an imaginary god. Part of him wanted to reach out and convince the man of this deceit, that his god was nothing more than a fairy tale. But, the larger piece of him knew that could only bring harm. It was precisely as Taern had said.

  The people would never be ready for the truth.

  ***

  Ulin’s temple was representative of the state of Loch Creed. As Hafgan wandered, his guards still dogging his footsteps, Hafgan grew amazed by the state of this place. The figurative heart of Hackeneth had fallen into disrepair, neglected by both its disciples and its caretakers. The broad streets were filthy, almost as if the Wasmer had decided to use the religious center to store their trash. The hundred temples—ten to each of their ten gods—seemed empty and lifeless. Though he saw occasional Offeirs like Ulin, laboring in their yards to maintain what they could, or preaching to a few diligent souls, Loch Creed was not what he remembered.

  Leyr had somehow subverted the gods themselves, fake though they may have been. He had replaced the faith in the many with the faith in one. The man had always been brilliant, his mind quicker than Hafgan’s. Where Hafgan had been serious and stoic, Leyr had been witty and deriding, running circles around him with insults. Whereas a younger Hafgan had been content to grow as a fighter and perhaps eventually be a warleader under the tutelage of Taern, Leyr had always had greater ambitions. With his name on everyone’s tongue in Hackeneth, it appeared that Leyr had risen to the challenge. But to what purpose? Had he deposed the gods to put himself—or this so-called Flawless God—in their place?

  Lost in thoughts of both the state of Loch Creed and the machinations of his former rival, Hafgan almost missed the small rock that was hurdling through the air at his head. He reflexively twisted to one side, deflecting the small missile with his forearm and bracing himself for the inevitable attack. He fell into his hedwicchen with little trouble.

  When he looked up and saw his attacker, he lost his grip on his hedwicchen. More precisely, he released it. Rian deserved that much, at least.

  Rian, as small, compact, and lovely as he remembered, stormed up to him. Her shining black hair, seeming to contain all possible colors, bounced with her furious steps. He met her charge in silence, neither stepping back nor forward.

  She twisted backwards and brought her hand across his face with a great, burning slap. She’d had to stand on her toes to reach his face, and lost her balance. Hafgan stuck out a steadying arm. Rian recovered, and then slapped him again. And a third time, even more fierce than the first two. At that point, she stuck her own stinging hand in her armpit, her gray, slim-fitting Offeir robes concealing the appendage.

  Hafgan said nothing; he merely looked at her and battled away his shame. Or tried to.

  “Hafgan Iwan. You should be dead,” Rian hissed, her eyes barely more than furious slits. She leaned toward him as if she were ready to strike him again.

  “Were there rumors of my death?” he asked, his voice quiet.

  “No. But you should be dead.”

  The two stood for several long moments in the middle of the nearly abandoned street. Hafgan’s guards, two hulking monsters from the warrior caste, were not anywhere to be seen; perhaps even they feared Rian’s anger.

  Her gaze was unwavering, cutting into Hafgan like the sharpest spear. She had every reason to hate him.

  Though Hafgan had stared down the spear of Leyr, the sword of Taern, the daggers and blades of dozens of cutthroats, and the tearing claws of the gwagen, he lowered his gaze in the face of Rian. His to-be-bound.

  “Rian, I…” he began, not sure where to start. He’d started to build his own pyre when he’d decided to return to Hackeneth. Running into Rian was simply the torch to be tossed onto the dry kindling.

  “You always were a fool, Hafgan. A great, hulking, bleeding fool,” she spat, leaning back on her heels.

  “The Offeirs of Oletta are wise,” he muttered.

  “The bitch be damned, we are wise! But it doesn’t take an Offeir of the goddess of wisdom to see that you are a half-wit. You were given everything, you blood-soaked animal. You were given a chance to rule! A chance to actually change things, to address the inequities that plagued us. And what did you do?”

  “Walked away,” he said, answering her question as candidly as he could. “I walked away and left Hackeneth. I left behind the lies and the deceit, the memories and the pain. I left behind everything that I knew for the hope of something better. And, yes, I walked away from you, Rian.”

  She made a choking sound. “You did, and you know it. It was a singularly stupid thing to do. We were to be bound, you stupid, bleeding beast. Aside from your chances to change our world, you left me. You left me to pick up the pieces of the damage you had wrought with your little duals and your big fucking words.”

  “I know,” Hafgan said, looking away. His bluntness and self-deprecation seemed to disarm Rian more than any story he could have woven. It wasn’t a calculated mov
e on his part. Though he’d been taught to read emotions and could do so fairly accurately, viewing Rian was like staring into the sun. She was bright as the ten hells and gave him a splitting headache.

  Rian sighed. “Why are you here, anyway? What lingering head injury convinced you to come see me here?” She gestured at the small temple of Oletta he’d most recently approached, carved humbly from rock and illuminated by a seemingly stray beam of light. The effect was very intentional. The simple arches of one of Oletta’s many homes within Hackeneth were clean and well-maintained. Rian, at least, maintained her vigilance, despite knowing the truth.

  In truth, Hafgan had just been wandering and thinking, not realizing that he’d had any destination in mind. Or had he? Had Rian still been among the Carreg Da, of course she would be residing in this temple. His muscle memory, lingering despite a five-year absence, may have brought him here. Or, maybe it had been an unconscious desire to see Rian. If so, his unconscious was a goat-fucker.

  He said nothing. She sighed again. Certainly a familiar sound to Hafgan. He never had been good at expressing his emotions, even before the hedwicchen had dulled them.

  “Your teeth look stupid,” she said with what almost sounded like affection, the forgotten remnants of a smile crossing her face. Maybe she was thinking of the awkward day when he’d asked her to be bound, where he’d stumbled over his words and actually attained his hedwicchen before he could finish in his monotone. He almost smiled at the thought, at the incredulous look on her face followed by her booming laugh, far incongruous with her small stature.

  Half a year later, he’d left her.

  “Rian, tell me what happened. I already know of the purge, of Leyr’s new Flawless God.”

  Rian glanced around. Seeing only a few wondering Wasmer, lonely pilgrims or worshippers, she ushered him into the temple. Hafgan’s guards kept their distance, neither seeming to care much about their charge.