Chapter 132 – Clutching Fire

Rostal had instructed Mirian to learn from the elementary school, but since it was evening of Fifthday and they would be closed until Firstday, she decided to hire a tutor for the weekend to get a head start.

The markets were all closing by then, so Sixthday she set out early. There were no certified tutors for Adamic like there were for the other languages, but some locals pointed her to a retired schoolteacher who was looking for a bit of extra coin. With Cuelsin, Friian, and—apparently—Adamic, Mirian just automatically responded with whatever language had just been spoken to her. They first worked on getting her to intentionally recognize Adamic. Since she already knew the basics from her childhood, she made rapid progress. It was less learning, and more reconnecting old memories.

That in turn gave her some hope. Not just that her memories might be recovered, but that the curse could be overcome. Perhaps thinking in Adamic might further unlock those shadowy places in her mind.

On Firstday, she took a letter of recommendation from the tutor over to the school, along with a few boxes of colored chalk and some fresh slates as a gift to the school.

“They always need more of those,” the former teacher had assured her.

Mirian attempted honesty, and told the secretaries working that she was trying to learn Adamic, and was willing to help out in the classrooms while she learned it. It turned out, there were several students whose families were from Urubandar, and had been in the city during an intense bout of skirmishing between the Baracueli forces and a rebel group. The children had seen a lot of death, and struggled to control themselves in class, despite the best efforts of their parents and teachers.

It just so happened that Mirian was an expert at dealing with calming strategies for violent students. After all, she’d been one.

When she got to the classroom, she had to take a moment while her heart melted. The students were all first years—the same age as Zayd. They were preposterously adorable.

Little Zayd, she thought. I hope you’re doing well. Maybe the time loop was the best thing that could have happened to him. He’d stay young and cute, going on an eternal adventure with mom and dad.

Except why did I know Adamic? Dad speaks a little of it… but just a little.

She tried to keep her mind on the present.

The class was reminiscent of her own schooling. The two cute terrors she’d been assigned quickly sought to test her patience. “See? I can do it too when I’m mad. Breath in. Count, one, two, three. Breathe out, count, one, two, three. Let’s do it together, okay?”

She had to practice Adamic, because that was all the two children spoke.

The days passed at a crawl, and they passed in a whirlwind. Mirian had forgotten how kids behaved. They were little bundles of emotion, constantly looking for the next thing. And they had endless energy.

When it was break time, the children discovered that they could demand that they chase her, and she’d run for them. She jogged around the school’s play park while a tiny horde of children careened after her. Every so often, one would pause, catch their breath, then the thrill of the chase would reignite their little limbs and they’d be back in the pack, shouting with the joy of it all.

It was the height of absurdity, and Mirian couldn’t help but smile at it.

The problem with the two children she was assigned was not that their tempers blew up at the slightest provocation. The problem was they were constantly prodding the other children until they reacted, and then everything escalated from there.

Mirian remembered her dad taking her on walks in the fields of Arriroba to help set her mind at ease, since when she was in a building, she’d constantly been tense. She suggested the same thing to the teacher. So, they started taking little walks before the two of them could get set off, or set themselves off. She sang them old nursery rhymes and taught them to sing along. Mirian had never been great at singing, and the voice change her male form caused didn’t help matters. Fortunately, the fact that it took a bucket for her to carry a tune—and the bucket was leaking—didn’t bother the children in the slightest. They paraded around the grounds belting lyrics out off-key, then played “hide from the bog lion,” a game where they had to be very very sneaky when returning to class, which was a trick Mirian remembered her own teachers playing to get the class to shut up.

Well, it did work.

On the weekends, Mirian met with her tutor and practiced the more academic words in Adamic. Mostly, they had conversations. They each told stories to each other. Mirian left out the time loop, and changed the details a bit so that ‘Micael’ would fit in place of ‘Mirian.’ Occasionally, her tutor would correct her phrasing, or supply a word. Sometimes, Mirian would ask for a word.

She kept track of the events through the newspapers, looking for any major changes.

The Lowfort District felt like it underwent a siege itself as Alkazaria was surrounded by Dawn’s Peace. By now, the broadsheets were astounded by how the small rebel group—a month ago near the verge of total annihilation—was now commanding a united Persaman force that had risen up all across the lands. Two of the pro-Baracuel princes had been assassinated, and somehow, Dawn’s Peace had gotten a foothold in Urubandar. Rumor was, their leader sought a powerful weapon to take down Alkazaria.

By now, the siege was no idle thing. Spell engines attacked the walls of Alkazaria day and night. Only the fortuitous presence of the Arcane Praetorians had kept the siege at bay.

For the first time, she saw a name printed: Ibrahim Kalishah. He claimed to be the Chosen of the Prophet, which the papers were quick to dismiss as a ridiculous title. Interestingly enough, despite the dozens of articles about the siege and calamitous rise of Dawn’s Peace, none of the articles mentioned what they were fighting for. They did make sure to inform the audience what bloodthirsty barbarians the Persamans were.

A miasma of tension gripped Lowfort. Arguments were mixed. Many of the Persamans settled in Baracuel had fought against Dawn’s Peace at some point, but it was hard not to see a divine will at work with how successful Ibrahim had been. They whispered quietly that perhaps something was different this time. Others made sure they proclaimed their loyalty to Baracuel loudly and often, as if that might stop it from being questioned.

The students, though, worried about none of it. Their biggest concerns continued to be who would get the balls during breaks, which tree was the tallest, who found the biggest leaf on the ground, and what was for lunch (it was always bread rolls stuffed with meat and vegetables. Every day).

The worst fights between the children could be solved by separating them, letting them say their piece, then if watching the other kids at play didn’t lure them out of their grumpy mood, they could be distracted out of it by getting a sweet cracker with fig jam on it. So far, the cracker had a 100% success rate.

Mirian wistfully wished more conflicts could be solved like that. Watching them bumble about the classroom, she wondered, how do these perfect beings turn into the monsters behind this war?

It seemed like it shouldn’t be possible.

She met Rostal again on the 23rd as he exited the Sanctuary.

“I’ve done what you asked.”

He snorted. “It’s been two weeks.”

“If we wait any longer, I won’t get any lessons in.” It was late enough in the cycle now, and from the zephyr falcons she’d gotten—only two from Torrviol, because there was something of a fight at the Royal Courier’s station over them—Troytin was in no position to project force down south. Luspire had been much more cautious dealing with the Akanans as soon as he’d received the dossier, and Lecne had reported from Cairnmouth that the Deeps were entirely focused on the crisis down south now.

It seemed the conspiracy had a lot of momentum, but the magnitude of the problem could no longer be ignored.

“Why? You going to go fight in that war?”

“The one with Dawn’s Peace, or the one we’re about to have with Akana Praediar?”

“They will forgive one embassy being burned.”

“Sure, but they won’t forgive their Prime Minister being assassinated. Anyways, that’s the small stuff. The leyline eruptions have already begun. We have about a week before one hits Palendurio.” She was mixing in Cuelsin words with her Adamic, but at least Rostal wasn’t nitpicking her about that.

Rostal snorted again. “Do you think what you’re doing is impressive? Do you think these things bother me?”

“I’m just telling you the full truth of why I want to be trained now.” She considered how much to tell him. “A lot of people are going to die. I’m trying to stop it.”

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“Everyone dies.” He seemed entirely unbothered. “Tell me. What is the purpose of life?”

“What we make of it,” Mirian replied. “But I’d like to see an Enteria where people live good, peaceful, long lives. One where they share a great deal of good food with friends and family. And perhaps as our understanding of magic progresses, we can achieve things beyond our imagination.”

Rostal considered that. “Your imagination is limited.”

Mirian frowned. The conversation wasn’t at all going in the direction she’d expected. “What do you think our purpose here is?”

“The Elders created this world at the direction of God. They built the bones of the world, the great continents. They built the blood of the world, the great Labyrinth. They built the eye of the world, the Luamin moon. They built the soul of the world, the myrvites, and the other life. Tell me, what happens to a soul when you die?”

Mirian had to switch to Cuelsin. “Entropic dispersal.”

Rostal sighed. “Those are words. What do they mean?”

She swapped back to Adamic. “The soul energy spreads out. It—goes away. At least, after a few days, the spreading out can’t be tracked anymore.”

“Matter and energy are neither created nor destroyed. To where does it go?”

“You should tell me.”

“Good. You do know how to learn. The saints tell us God values our souls. Why the soul, and not the whole body? Because that is what lives on after us.”

Mirian thought that was a bit ridiculous, but let him continue.

“Dying is not what matters. Everything dies. So I do not fear death. No one should. What a waste of time, to fear the inevitable.”

Once again, it seemed Mirian was running up against someone with a very different mindset than her own. “So what is the purpose of your life?”

“To understand God.”

“So why get good at swordfighting?”

“To get closer to God.”

Mirian raised an eyebrow. “Does God appreciate talent with the rapier?”