21 – Indecision

I found Iron Ink to be a fascinating substance. Anyone who hasn’t read a text written with it cannot comprehend how world changing it is. Iron Ink is knowledge incarnate. The concepts flow from brain to page and inversely as if there was no intermediate.

I have yet to experience it, but it is said that Iron Ink can be used to record forbidden knowledge.

Learning this gave me a new perspective on my powers.

Excerpt from the notes of Raymond Ludval, The Iron Vein Magus.

Bamir closed the door behind Alexandra and sat listless in his chair. He was looking at the wall as if something would happen. Fog suffused his brain for a long time.

Invigorate.

A skill he seldom had to use, but every conversation with Alexandra was a challenge. He rubbed his eyebrows, and leaned forward on the table.

Curses. Was she destined for the service of Licaniel? Alexandra’s personality wasn’t suited to be an Arbiter. Furthermore, Licaniel already had a hero in his service. Then again, there were already seven heroes, for seven gods. Who was to say a god couldn’t have two heroes?

Perhaps Alexandra wasn’t the only new divine class holder.

There was no way for him to know. In fact, Bamir didn’t want to know.

He stood up, filled his kettle and set it over the hearth.

While it heated, he took down the small wooden box from the shelf above his medicines. Inside, wrapped in cloth, three dried stems of Calmbell, a pale blue flower that grew near the Mother-Well, the only place in Laika where it could be cultivated. The Hand issued it to stationed priests in small quantities, enough for the worst days. He’d been rationing his supply carefully since arriving in Lanterne.

He pinched two stems, dropped them in his cup, and waited for the kettle.

Today counted.

At first, he’d been excited at the prospect. Despite herself, Alexandra’s existence was a world shaking event, and he was standing at the very center of it. She was destined for greatness, and while he wouldn’t walk alongside her, she’d always remember him as her first healer.

But not anymore. His heart couldn’t take it. Bamir cast Diagnosis, worried about the cadence at which it was beating. Nothing serious. Just stress.

He sat down with his cup.

Fanon forgive me, but can’t the Saint hurry up and give an answer.

When he’d made his first report, Branch Head Arame had listened to his story, and believed him. They were all Hands of the Well, devout followers of their god, deceit had no place in their organization.

At least, within the organization, he thought, remembering how he was dancing around the truth with Alexandra.

Yet, something he should have predicted was that the news of a divine class was also above Esmera’s branch head paygrade.

Thus Arame had to report to her superior, who in turn had to do the same. Bamir wasn’t sure how long the chain went, but Arame seemed to think it would go all the way up to Saint Hakim.

Bamir had grown up hearing his name, something so constant and fundamental that questioning it didn’t occur to you. In seminary, they had studied his techniques, his innovations, the miracles he had performed in the early decades of his service. A man summoned directly by Fanon, given a divine class, sent into the world to heal it.

Bamir had never expected to speak to him. Priests stationed in villages like Lanterne didn’t. They did their work, filed their reports, and lived their quiet lives. That was fine. That was what he wanted.

Now his name was moving up a chain that ended at the Saint’s door, carrying a report that could change the world as he knew it.

He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

Proud wasn’t the right word. Terrified was closer. Not of the Saint, but of being wrong. Of having misread Alexandra’s class, of having set something enormous in motion over a mistake.

Perhaps being right was even worse.

He picked up his cup and drank.

He stood up, tapped his fingers on the table, and his foot on the ground.

Tonight, he would have to add to his now daily reports. A curse based skill quest… What skill could it be about? He shook his head. He hadn’t lied when he said he didn’t know much about curses. The higher ups would figure it out. Or not. Pinning down a specific skill within the myriad in existence wasn’t easy.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

He sat back down. His chest hurt a little.

Diagnosis.

Still nothing. He rubbed his eyebrows. He didn’t need a skill to understand where the pain was coming from.

Guilt.

Thinking about heroes and divine classes in abstraction was one thing, knowing one was something else entirely. Despite everything, Bamir could see Alexandra was lost.

He hadn’t chosen the path of the Hands because he lacked compassion.

However, for now, his orders were to stand by, and make sure that Alexandra lived. So that’s what he would do.

A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.

He already knew who it was before he opened it. Marick’s knock had a particular quality. Three measured impacts, the kind that expected an answer.

He opened the door.

Marick filled the frame the way he always did, shoulders level with the doorposts, having to tilt his head slightly under the lintel. He was still in his leather armor, dirt on his boots, orange stains on the axe strapped to his back, which meant he’d come straight from the plains.

“Bamir.” He looked past him into the house. “Got a moment?”

Bamir stepped aside.

Marick came in and sat without being invited, pulling the chair Alexandra had vacated not an hour earlier. He put both hands flat on the table and looked at Bamir.

“I’ve been patient,” he said.

Bamir closed the door and turned around. “I know.”