Chapter 131 – The Isheer

The Lowfort District of Palendurio turned out to be made up of a great deal of Persaman immigrants. A decade ago, they might have been welcoming and open. As the war with Persama had deepened, Baracueli citizens had trusted the people from that region less and less. Petty crimes and de facto segregation had made the Persmans wary of outsiders in return. No one she talked to actually sympathized with Dawn’s Peace or the various rebellions. Most were, in fact, former allies of Baracuel who had resettled there because they’d been allies, but they’d had to hire their own people to act as guards nonetheless. With the southern time traveler set to siege Alkazaria, the wariness of outsiders was likely only going to get worse the longer she waited.

Mirian hadn’t paid much attention to the district in previous loops, and had no contacts there. She went around learning about where to find certain shops and who to talk to. Ironically, it was Mirian’s transformation magic that impeded her ability to get information. As soon as she removed the bindings that had lightened her skin and hair, they opened up more. For once, being mistaken for a Persaman was going to be a benefit. They were also happy to speak Cuelsin with her, which was a nice change.

First, she found a nearby apartment she could rent for the month. Then she bought a new dueling outfit and rapier for an exorbitant price, making it clear she was looking for someone who could really tutor her in dueling to anyone she talked to. She continued to overspend on clothes and meals until someone suggested Rostal Bedeu.

“But you’ll have to convince him,” the man said, looking at her doubtfully. “He has no time for wet sand.” She vaguely recalled the Persaman expression.

“Sure. Where can I find him?”

“The Sanctuary on Fifthday.” The man hesitated. “You are Isheer?”

“No. Luminate.”

“Ah. You will have to wait outside the inner Sanctaury, then. The outer circles are open to all. You are welcome to attend and listen.”

“Do I really need to wait until Fifthday?”

He shrugged. “He lives alone. He keeps no guests. He visits no pejuen. Maybe you can find him.”

Pejuen, she knew, were the regular communal gatherings a neighborhood held, usually once a week after market day. She’d learned about them in Madinahr when one of her friends had been surprised they didn’t do them in Baracuel.

She asked around a bit more, but either no one knew where Rostal lived, or no one wanted to tell her. To pass the time, she practiced her dueling forms and bladework in the apartment, then worked on her leyline detectors. Ideally, Troytin would die, but still prevent the Divine Monument from exploding so that she could get new data.

On Fifthday, she headed to the Isheer Sanctuary.

The Sanctuary was in the middle of the district. Long ago, Lowfort had been just that—a small fortress linked by two walls to Charlem Palace and Ducastil so that the valley by the river had its own strongpoint. Several centuries later, the fort had been knocked down. Sometime after the Unification War, the Persaman mercenaries who had fought on the Baracuel side had settled there. They’d torn down the houses on top of the rubble and replaced it with an Isheer Sanctuary and a park that surrounded it.

The gardens around the park were meticulously cared for, though the winter months made for more shades of brown than green. Still, there were children playing ballgames on the lawn, or just running around chasing each other, while elders half-watched, half-gossiped. The children would behave while their parents were in the weekly ceremony, she knew. Her friend in preparatory school had told her that every child’s worst fear was being disciplined by the elders during the prayers. Mirian had at first thought that meant they would get a spanking to remember, but no, it was a threat to the family’s reputation, and they took that seriously. She supposed she sort of understood that. Family reputation had been important in Arriroba too.

The building was a strange thing. It looked like it should be made out of sandstone and plaster, like so many of the famous structures in east Baracuel and Persama were, but it was made out of limestone and painted brick. It still had the vaulted arches and honeycombed ceilings common to those types of buildings, and the strange mix of architectural styles and materials made it feel alien amidst the other buildings surrounding it.

The structure was open; it had no walls at all, only its complex ceiling supported by rows of evenly spaced pillars. In many ways, it was the opposite of the Luminate Temples that were designed to keep out unwanted light.

In the middle of the Isheer Sanctuary was the inner dome, and just behind it, the single bell tower. The Isheer adherents were kneeling in prayer, eyes cast towards a statue of the Ominian. Behind that statue was a large, malformed block of obsidian. A rector, dressed in fine robes the colors of a sunrise, stood to the side of the statue. That was so he didn’t block the worshiper’s direct access to the Ominian, she knew.

The rector leading the prayers was being watched by a Luminate Guard off to the side. He was there to make sure the Isheer didn’t preach anything directly blasphemous. The Luminate Order was tolerant, but only to a point.

The Isheer worshipers believed that the Prophets of the Luminates had no divine blessing, and therefore the institutions they founded—like the Luminate Order—were illegitimate. They believed that the Ominian was the singular Prophet, and it was They who interpreted visions of an even more remote singular God. While in Baracuel, however, they couldn’t exactly just say that.

That was about as much as Mirian knew. When she was young, she hadn’t thought much about it. Now, the idea the Prophets were regular people doing their best was… well, it made quite a bit of sense. The Ominian had given her dreams, but she had to interpret them. If all the Prophets were like her, then they all had their flaws and struggles. How did the Ominian pick who would join the time loop? she wondered, as she watched the prayers continue from a bench in the outer circle. I want to believe he had good reasons for who he chose… but then why would he choose a monster like Troytin?

The rector said a few words to those gathered. Mirian strained to listen, but some of the words sounded like nonsense. Is he speaking a mix of Adamic and Cuelsin? That had to be it.

She could get the gist of his speech though: do right by your neighbors, and look around you for clues to taking the right path. “We cannot see the shape of the whole world. It is beyond our —. But we can see the shape of our friends. The shape of our family. The shape of our —. That is enough.”

That was literally true in that humans could not perceive the fourth arcane dimension where magic flowed, nor could they perceive the entirety of Elder Gods like the Ominian. It was much like trying to view the Divine Monument all at once.

The rector led those gathered in a final prayer, then the Isheer rose and began to depart, and Mirian embraced her focus as they did. There was no rush to it. Most people began to gather in little circles, laughing and talking, while parents moved to sit by grandparents as the children continued to play. A few adults joined the children in their games, while couples wandered the garden, hand in hand.

A deep longing settled over Mirian as she watched it.

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Her attention was snapped to a man departing the inner sanctuary alone. As soon as she saw him, there was no question that he was Rostal Bedeu.

If Liamar’s soul was like white-caps in a windy sea, Rostal’s was like the thunderous waves of a thousand-year storm. His casual walk was that of a predator. She could also see his muscles beneath his white silk shirt. His dark hair was peppered silver, but his face was more weathered than wrinkled. Damn, she thought.

“Master Rostal Bedeu,” she said, striding up to him. “What do I need to offer you to get you to teach me?”

Rostal kept walking, so Mirian started walking beside him. Unlike him, she didn’t quite command the presence that caused crowds to part for him. His voice was deep, and his Cuelsin had an accent to it. “How did you hear about me?”

“I was buying a new rapier and your name came up as one of the best.”

Rostal considered that. His path took them into the tight cobble streets. With most of the locals still in the park, though, the streets were nearly empty. Since it was Palendurio, it still meant there were people everywhere, but less than usual. “How did you identify me?”

“It was obvious,” Mirian said. It was too early in the cycle for her to start drawing attention to herself. Saying she had soul sight was the same as announcing she had a focus. The likelihood a Deeps contact was listening was low, but not zero.

Rostal stopped and turned to face her. “And what has the Ominian said to you?”

Is this a test? Does he suspect I’m a Prophet already? she wondered. Her first instinct was to say he had commanded her to save the world, but that wasn’t quite right. There was only one command he had given; the rest was inference. “To grow,” she said. “The rest, I still need to figure out.”

The large Persaman man frowned as he considered that. “And what does it mean to grow?”

“To change. To become stronger.” Viridian’s ecology lessons were on her mind. “And to interact with the world around you. The flower that takes minerals from the soil might be taking away a poison for one plant, or needed nutrients for another. It might feed a sigil bee, or it might be the trap that lets a swift kill it. The tree that grows tall shelters many species, but also stops other trees from growing there.”