“Yozef, I would like you to accompany me to see someone.”
“Who?” Yozef knew no one in Orosz City, except for agents for his enterprises and the hetman’s family.
“It’s an old friend named Rhaedri Brison, a somewhat reclusive theophist brother who has asked to meet the mysterious stranger from the sea.”
Yozef groaned to himself. Although he’d much rather walk the city for a couple of hours with Maera, he owed the abbot so didn’t see a graceful way out once Sistian formed the request as a favor.
“Sure. Glad to.” Okay, that’s a small lie. So what? “Can Maera come, too?” If she wants to, which I doubt.
“It’s best just you and I,” said Sistian, piquing Yozef’s interest.
Yozef hadn’t thought to ask exactly where Sistian’s friend lived. He had assumed, incorrectly, it was within the city. The first hint of his mistaken assumption was when Sistian led him to where the party’s horses were being kept, there to find Carnigan holding five saddled horses, with Kales and Gowlin armed and standing nearby.
“Uh . . . and exactly where is this friend?”
“Only about forty minutes away. He lives alone in the hills northwest beyond the city.” Sistian pointed toward the cleft in the mountains into which Orosz City sprawled.
Yozef looked in that direction, and the “hills” looked more like mountains to him—and farther away than forty minutes.
“I’d thought just the two of us would go, but Carnigan insisted that these three would trail along, although they promised to stay aside once we reach my friend.”
The view was deceiving, and exactly forty minutes later, they finished following a small road that climbed into the mountains and led to a small valley perhaps a quarter mile long and wide. The valley branched off the cleft that continued higher into the mountains. Yozef admitted it was idyllic: forested slopes, groves of deciduous trees along a stream, birds and murvors of many shapes and colors, and quiet, except for the wind, an occasional avian call, and the gurgling of the stream along the path.
They rode to a neat little house in the middle of the valley. Yozef’s three companions stopped a hundred yards from the house and said they would keep this distance and walk around the area to confirm security. Sistian sniffed at the news, but Yozef’s experience with the attempted assassination of Culich had eliminated any qualms about excessive caution.
An old man, Yozef guessed seventy to seventy-five Earth years, sat in a rocker on the porch. A boy of about ten led their horses down to the stream to drink, then staked them out in the meadow to graze.
Sistian made the introductions. “Rhaedri, this is Yozef Kolsko. Yozef . . . Brother Rhaedri Brison, a theophist and old friend and mentor.”
Yozef vaguely thought he’d heard the name, but his mind was focused on the conclave and the Narthani.
“Welcome, welcome, both of you,” said the old man.
When he spoke, a sense of friendliness oozed from him. Some people had such a knack. When they said, “Welcome,” somehow you believed they meant it, as if they had waited days or years for you to come. Others could have said the same words a million times and give the opposite message. Whoever this Brison was, he fell into the first category.
“Pleased to meet you, Brother Brison,” said Yozef, wondering if “brother” was the appropriate address for a theophist whose appearance and location might best describe a reclusive monk.
“Please, please. Just Rhaedri. I’ve never liked the ‘Brother’ address. Makes everything seem too formal. Just Rhaedri, and I will call you Yozef.”
Despite still wondering what he was doing here, Yozef smiled and relaxed in response to the old geezer. Whoever this guy is, he’s full of charm.
The three of them made small talk for a few minutes—how is your health, typical mid-late season weather, common acquaintances of the two prelates, terrible news about the Narthani . . . on and on. Yozef was almost lulled to sleep when Sistian asked, “Is that young Vellen who took our horses?”
“Yes,” said Rhaedri, “his older brothers have helped me here, and now it’s his turn.” The older theophist turned to Yozef. “The Vellen family has provided helpers for me here for many years. I’m afraid this is the last of the sons. Either I will die when this one leaves, or I need to find another family.”
From the jovial tone, Yozef assumed it would be the latter option.
“You’ll outlive us all,” riposted Sistian. “However, in case I don’t see young Vellen again, I’ll go and ask him how his other brothers are doing.” With that, Sistian rose from his chair and walked off in the direction they saw the boy lead the horses.
Yozef’s warning sensors went up several notches. Sistian had not visited long with this good friend he’d supposedly not seen in some time—too soon before leaving Yozef alone with Brison.
“Yozef, Sistian has written me about you. Came from the sea from a distant land, bringing new knowledge to Caedellium? Sounds like a tale out of the legends my mother used to tell me to put me to sleep at night.”
As warm as the theophist’s eyes and grin were, Yozef had a hunch an interrogation was forthcoming. “Well, I don’t know if it’s one of the tales of the hero who comes to slay the beast, save the village, and marry the beautiful lady. I can honestly say it’s not a tale that I would have ever imagined for myself.”
“You have to admit the improbability of it—to be thrown onto a distant shore, likely never to see family and friends again? Sistian writes how you’ve become part of Keelan, a respected place on Caedellium, with family now. All this sounds like you’ve adjusted, or is it resigned?”
Yozef thought silently for a few moments. Though he needed to be careful how he answered, the question pierced to the heart of many matters. There were ways to answer truthfully without revealing details that would raise questions he couldn’t answer.
“You’re right. I’ve made a place here on Caedellium and made peace with doubting I’ll ever see my home again. However, here I have friends and family. Friends who in many ways are better friends than I had at home. Perhaps I was not as appreciative of old friends the way I should have been. Too wrapped up in my old life to see beyond my own nose.”
“Hardly something unique to yourself, Yozef. We all tend to focus on what is directly in front of us. One path to wisdom is recognizing we do that and trying to be more aware.”
Yozef nodded. “I sometimes wonder how many times I missed helping a friend because I didn’t pay attention to them,” he added with regret.
“And family? What family did you leave behind?”
“Mother, father, brother, two sisters, and all the other aunts, uncles, cousins, and three grandparents still alive,” Yozef responded sadly.
“Were you close to them all?”
“Some more than others. I was close to both sisters and my father. Mother was . . . you know . . . the mother . . . so there always that special connection, but she often seemed overwhelmed by life and struggles. For whatever reason, my brother and I didn’t get along.”
Brison nodded sympathetically. “It is the same in most families. We connect with some more than others, but they are still all family. In my youth, my two brothers and I constantly fought, both verbally and physically on occasion. Yet let anyone outside the family threaten one of us, and the other two were instantly at his side. How do you feel about never seeing your family again—or do you think someday you will?”
“I doubt I’ll ever see them again. I never thought about exactly where my homeland was until I wasn’t there. I’ve looked at maps at the Abbey and cannot identify where it is. While I suppose word may come someday that gives a clue, I decided I had to make a life here on Caedellium instead of waiting for something that might never happen.”
“A wise choice, my son. One must always look ahead.”
“Not advice that’s easy to follow. My people say the past is past, and you can’t change it. All you can do is live in the present such that the future will take care of
itself.”
Brison nodded approvingly. “And speaking of the present, the future, and the life you are building here among us, I must say you are building quite a life. Not just for yourself, but for everyone on Caedellium. The pieces of knowledge you have brought have already made major changes for our peoples. The ether alone is saving countless lives and preventing endless suffering, and if I understand correctly what you are teaching our medicants, that may only be the beginning. Thousands will eventually owe their lives to you.”
“My people believe knowledge should be available to all. Well, most of my people feel that way and that God wants us to help others. There are always others who will want to control knowledge.”
Brison watched closely. “Of course, by sharing the knowledge you help yourself, in case you come to need better medicant treatments.”
Yozef agreed. “I wouldn’t want anyone to look at me as some kind of saint. I help myself, and I help everyone else at the same time. My people would call it a win-win situation.”
“Win-win?”
“Yes. In some conflicts, it is a win-lose proposition. One party to the conflict gets something the other wants, either taking from the loser or getting something they both want. One party wins, and the other loses. Win-lose. There are also lose-lose situations, where both parties, by not working together, may both lose the goal. Best is win-win, where the parties work together to gain more than either could gain alone. My sharing medical knowledge is a win-win.”
“Win-win, win-lose, lose-lose,” repeated Brison aloud to himself. He reached toward the table next to his chair, picked up a quill and paper, and wrote for a couple of minutes.
The theophist put the paper down. “A very insightful way to consider the advantages of us all working together. Then there are all the other things you come up with. Some people wonder whether it’s all good. You are becoming very rich, which derives from the changes you bring.”
Yozef winced and shook his head in resignation. “I must admit I don’t always think clearly about the results. The liquors come immediately to mind. It was an obvious use of the distillation tools we used to make ether. I sometimes wonder if I should have shown people how to do it. There will always be those who find reality while being drunk preferable to the real world.”
Brison shook his head. “Those same people would find escape in beer or wine even without your liquors.”
“Probably true in most cases, but some may be seduced with the liquor acting different and faster. On the other hand, the process of making liquor also produces alcohol that the medicants use as a disinfectant, and it has uses in some types of lamps. And, of course, it is one of the two ingredients needed to make the ether. Knowledge is a two-edged sword.”
“Yes, Yozef. Knowledge can do good, and it can do evil. How do you think we need to balance the two?”
“Ah. Now you’re asking for an answer that is beyond my wisdom, if you want the answer. I want to believe that knowledge is almost always for the good.”
“Almost always?”
“A small child asks his mother if the father loves him. Maybe the father doesn’t. Maybe he isn’t suited to be a father and wishes the child didn’t exist. Should the mother tell the child he isn’t loved by the father? The child may come to realize this in his own time, but why burden a child who is still forming his being and views of the world? Or another case. An evil man wants to poison someone. He goes to a library to read about poisons. Is knowledge good in this case? One can always think of situations where telling the truth isn’t best. The problem is knowing when it’s one of those cases and living with the uncertainty.”
“I can see many of my colleagues would have interesting discussions with you on such issues. I agree with your last words . . . the uncertainty. However, back to the two-edged sword of the knowledge you bring. Kerosene is another example. It’s certainly a better source of light than either tallow candles or whale oil, but it has taken away the work of many men who hunted the whales or made the candles.”
“That is unfortunate, and I worry about those consequences, even though they’re a natural result of change. I’m sure there were more candle-makers before we learned to use whale oil. Yet no one now worries about those candle-makers who lost their work. We always see only what is directly in front of us. In this case, there may be fewer whale hunters, whale oil processors, and candle makers, but there are also new workers needed to collect the petroleum, distill the kerosene, and make the metal lanterns, which means there is more need for the metal and consequently more mining and refining.”
“What about the men who lose their trade right now?”
“I believe we must try to take them into account. I’ve certainly tried to do this. As far as I know, no man is without work because of what I started in Keelan—unless he chooses it. In fact, I believe records will show that more men have work and at higher wages than before. A whaler might work producing fertilizer. A candle-maker now makes kerosene. What is lost is the attachment some men have for their previous trade. If a candle-maker regrets having to make kerosene, I’m afraid that’s one of the costs of knowledge. We can sympathize with the candle-maker and make efforts to be sure he has work and can support his family as well as before, and in many cases better, but we can’t hide knowledge or stop changes.”
Yozef paused and looked off at the surrounding hills. “Does God want us to never make changes, in case anyone is negatively affected? I don’t believe so. Should I not have shown how to make the ether, for fear of poppy traders losing business? And what of the poppy farmers in those distant lands where the poppies are grown? As knowledge of ether spreads to those lands, as I know it will and believe it should, should we ban ether so as not to harm those farmers?
“The kerosene lanterns? The light they give off is better than from whale oil or candles. Medicants can operate at night, while before they might have waited for the next sunrise. Everyone, and not just scholars, can read more and easier after sunset than they could before. Should we ban kerosene so that we don’t hurt the workers and their families who make candles or hunt the whales? I can’t believe that would be God’s preference. Everything in this life cannot be based on fear of harming someone, as long as we keep others in mind and help where we can.”
Brison had quietly listened to Yozef. “Then we come to a central question. How much are we responsible for helping others? There’s no clear consensus here on Caedellium.”
“It is the same with my people. I would say that most would agree with the wording that we are all ‘our brother’s keeper.’ A problem is that there is no agreement on what to do. I see a hungry child or woman or man. Am I obliged to feed them? The easy answer is yes, I should give them food. However, we live in the real world. What if my own family has little food and to give any to another reduces my own family’s chances of living? What if the hungry man is a Narthani soldier who, if I give food to him, will someday kill Caedelli? What if there are many hungry men and I can only give food to save one? Am I playing God to decide which one to save?”
“Fortunately, such decisions are not common,” said Brison.
“Not in such extreme cases perhaps, though every day we make little decisions that come with uncertainty. I believe all we can do is the best we can do and hope for God’s understanding, in case we make the wrong decisions.”
Brison smiled and leaned back in his chair. “Such weighty issues and problems. I share with you that I believe God is understanding, as long as we carefully consider our decisions and do the best we can to help others.
“Let’s move away from such deep philosophical thoughts. What about yourself? How do you see the rest of your life? You have great standing among the clans. You also have great wealth, and all the signs are that you will gain even more.”
“Coin is a tool,” Yozef said. “It allows us to do things not otherwise possible. When I made the first ether, I could only have done it with coin provided by the abbey and an Abersford tradesman. It was
my knowledge, the abbot’s support, and their coin that made it happen. Most of the gold I make is plowed back into the new trades, into shops working on new products, and into helping scholastics in their work. All these are important, although I will say that the last of the three is more where my heart is. I would have likely become a scholastic in my nation, if not thrown here on Caedellium. My life there was well settled. Not only with my studies, but with my family. At home, I had a betrothed. We were to be married in two months. She was with child. I will never see either of them again. A child of mine will grow and become an adult without me ever knowing anything about them. That’s hard. Yet here I am, with a wife whom any man would be fortunate to marry, a son born not many months ago, and another being raised in a good farm family. If I could design my own future, it would be working with scholars and my shops and enjoying a rich family life with many children. I would leave all the fighting and blood behind and never touch a weapon or be party to so many deaths again.”
Brison sensed the heartfelt core of Yozef’s last words, and it pleased him that Yozef did not relish his position of influence in Caedellium politics and society. At the same time, he was sad that he didn’t think Yozef’s wish for a quieter life would be possible.
Yozef obviously does not foresee it yet, thought Brison. He will be drawn ever deeper into politics—both within Caedellium and, if my intuition is right, external to Caedellium. Then there’s the tragedy and waste that every second Yozef spends on such issues will be seconds lost to the real treasure of Yozef—his depth of knowledge and his willingness to share it. As Yozef said earlier, all we can do is all we can do. God has a mission for Yozef, and it may be one that neither Yozef nor anyone else understands.
Forged in Fire (Destiny's Crucible Book 4) Page 15