Interlude 15: Conviction and Truth

Dust hung like a smog in Grandbrook’s temple library, clinging to every surface like a thick packing of the winter snow he found so uncomfortable. High vaulted like everything in the church was, the roof was dominated by crisscrossing beams that would have been old a century ago, and Arc found himself penned in on all sides by stacks so tall and rickety that he wouldn’t be surprised if they had killed more elderly holymen than he had beasts.

It had been an ordeal to even reach this place. Half a dozen flights of narrow and steep stone stairs, each seemingly designed to provide as much difficulty as possible for the monks and priests who tended to its archives. At seven strides tall, and a third again as wide as a tall human or half-elf of a similar height, Arc had to edge his way up sideways.

It had been monk Thrial that had been his highest concern. The aged Holy One had clutched onto his offered forearm like a lifeline, their ascent had seemed like a battle-trial sent by the gods themselves.

Thrice he had pleaded they stop — that he could return in the morning, when a younger Holy One could escort him with greater ease and convenience. Thrice the holy one had refused, rebuffing his attempts with nothing but another wise smile and a pat on the arm.

By the time they had reached the library, monk Thrial had been panting — his movements even more unsteady and slow than normal. Undeterred, the monk had led him into the winding labyrinth of the temple’s texts, soft yellow wardlights turning on as they entered. Well hidden, the lights had drenched the aisles in shadow — leaving only the rare alcove and reading table as islands of clarity.

He’d been lost by the time they made it twenty strides in, but monk Thrial was blessed by the providence of the Wayfarer himself. The Holy One had led them in, confident and unwavering, guiding him inwards at a slow shuffle.

They’d stopped at a reading nook — a low table surrounded by particularly plus armchairs. Arc knew not how the man had distinguished it from any of the two dozen others they had passed, not when the shelves lacked any sense of organisation that he could identify.

Monk Thrial had lowered himself into one of the chairs with a sigh, some of Arc’s nerves quieting as the holy one finally allowed himself to rest.

“I always liked this spot — my second favourite in this warren. Oaths, bonds, and honour are such an interesting topic of faith. It is a part of many deitys’ spheres of influence, so I’ve spent many an hour pouring over the tombs and scriptures we have been able to gather from around Vaastivar. This section has some of my favourites on the topic, and the ones we need.” the monk’s words had been soft, but fond.

Arc had only nodded slowly, before looking around at the precarious towers of books that surrounded them.

“Forgive me for my impudence, Holy One, but how do you find the books that you need? I have seen no system I can make sense of.”

Monk Thrial had laughed at his comment — a raspy dry thing — before he tapped his forehead.

“It’s all up here. Years of practice, and more than one Skill help. Now, I would much appreciate it if you could grab the volume that is third from the left on the bottom shelf behind you, the seventh from the right four shelves up, and the large black volume above me.” Monk Thrial pointed up to a massive tomb at the very top of the stack he sat by.

Arc, of course, heard and obeyed.

That had been hours ago. Finishing the last of the chapters that the Holy One had suggested, Arc closed the tome and leaned back, a frown on his face.

He was…conflicted. From the words of his own people’s prophets and Holy One’s, it seemed that his understanding of honour had been, if not incorrect, then incomplete.

It wasn’t an impossible thing. When he’d been young, he’d never had much interest in taking the path of the wise and holy — he’d only known what all knew. Most learned over lifetimes, consulting with the wise when their honour was tarnished.

He’d never gotten the opportunity — his first mistake had been grievous enough that exile was the only penance available.

That had weighed on him, when he’d first started reading. What if his exile was wrong? His honour maintained, through that moment of fear and grief?

That had been revealed early: his exile was just, and his soul was still blackened. The warring relief and old despondency at such a revelation had caught him by surprise. He was old by many people’s standards, and had long since thought he’d come to terms with the life of penance he lived.

A coward once, a coward always. The blood of his brother stained him still.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Yet…it seemed his understanding of the depths of being honour-bound had been incomplete still. A thousand infractions he had withered under — a century of accumulated weight — were not the chains he had thought, but guidelines to strive for. Tests, to prove your path.

His most recent dilemma among their number.

He thought of a passage from The Spirit of Sand and Bone, the first tome Holy One Thrial had guided him through.

“Honour and the bindings of the true are paradoxical. To live is to be stained, when the realities of our imperfect world thrust us into battles where victory in the war of ethic is unattainable. When all that is left is dishonour, turn inwards and seek the pyrrhic victory that blackens the world the least. Such stalwart conviction is honourable in itself, and the choice towards future betterment weighs much in the mind of Jorosh. Grieve your failings, and take comfort in the reality that without the purity of godliness, true honour, unbroken, is impossible.”