Heretic
Part Two
Chapter 6
“The followers of the Bound will hate you. Do you know why?” The voice of Szet was a soft breeze, wafting up from everywhere and nowhere. Isaand knelt on the floor of the cave, unable to feel his legs, but the kindness in that voice endured him. “They hate you not because of the crimes of the God you serve. They hate you not because their rulers tell them they should. They hate you because you are free, and they are in chains.”
“Why do they not free themselves?” Isaand asked. He thought of the hundreds of gods he had been taught to respect, to worship. All he could recall were the lies, the cruelties, the indifference. He thought of the paladin his tribe had met on the plain, and the blood spilled when they’d asked for aid. They do not deserve our loyalty, no more than our love, he thought.
“Because freedom is the thing they fear most, Isaand Aislin Laeson. A slave has only to do their duty, to shuffle along and let what will be, be. They need never take responsibility, because they can always blame their actions on the gods they serve. Freedom is a blank book, filled with thousands of pages that must be filled. Freedom is a long and painful walk across a road built of spikes. Freedom is the burning knowledge that you have erred, that you are broken, tainted, and that you will continue to err and fail for all of your days. Freedom is hard, Isaand, and most men have not the stomach for it. But you do, I think.”
“I do,” Isaand said. He drew in a breath, and with it, courage. “But not only for me. There are so many others that deserve it more than I. Where are their offers? Must the whole world be chained forever?”
“Forever? Little soul, your tiny lives see no more than a flicker of existence, and think it unchanging. In the eye of a god, seas dry, mountains crumble, civilizations spreads, roads like roots crawling across the planet, linking villages, then towns, then cities, until every corner of the globe is touched by your presence. There is no such thing as ‘forever.’ There is yesterday, and today, and tomorrow. And I assure you, when tomorrow comes, it will be as something unrecognizable in your eyes. A brand new dawn.”
“And will I live to see this new tomorrow?” Isaand asked. He expected the answer. His life was short, as Szet had said, and like to be cut even shorter if he accepted the offer of heresy given to him. Life would go on as it always did, and he would die in the same world he had been born into. But Szet laughed, Isaand’s very bones shaking in response, and his answer surprised him.
“Oh, aye. You will see it. You will make it.”
Ratha had excused herself momentarily, allowing the two men to get settled. The Heretic’s cave was warm and cozy, with a wall of hanging hide and a small fire smoldering on the floor, its smoke slipping out of a large crack in the roof. Woven rugs covered the ground, and as Isaand settled onto them Hahmn banked the fire and hung a pot of mulled wine on it to warm. The big man hummed cheerfully as he puttered around the little cave, setting things aside and drawing out foodstuffs from the baskets set against the back wall. He had a domestic air to him, this Lector, like that of an aged innkeeper who still loved his work. He did not look like a servant of the goddess known across the world as the Mother of Genocide.
“I thank you for your kind hospitality, Hahmn,” Isaand said. Hahmn responded with a humble sound, and he pressed on cautiously, as he once had done in conversation with his own god Szet. “I am rather new to the life of heresy, I must admit, but I have never had the honor of meeting another follower of the Unbound. As a bard of the Aislin tribe, I learned the tales of hundreds of gods and goddesses across southern Hrana and afar. I have heard many stories of your goddess, Awlta. They were not… good stories.”
“Yes, I heard them as well, growing up a plump child in Merasca’s temple,” Hahmn said. Unperturbed, he sprinkled spices into the pot and stirred. “You’ll have heard the account of the slaughter of the Qaur’tel tribe, I’m sure. The war of the Red Rivers, that bloody work is said to be her doing as well. The tale of the Blood-drenched Prophet and his skin-flaying plague was always a favorite of mine, growing up. Oh, it was a terrible tragedy, to be sure, but as a child such distant horrors seem only stories, and as a boy I quite enjoyed the scary stories. I used to collect them from the other boys around town, frightening accounts of shadow men and eye-thieving beasts and all manner of blood-chilling fancies, and repeat them to my sisters after dark. They could not sleep, and my mother was furious with me.” Smiling, Hahmn poured Isaand a cup, swirled it around a bit, and held it out towards him. A hint of steam wafted up from the liquid, and the cup was pleasantly warm in his gloved hands.
“The horrors laid at the feet of Awlta are nothing but fancies, then?” Isaand asked. He had heard the story of the Prophet’s Plague as well, and others. As a child, they had indeed all seemed very distant and fantastical, though he had preferred stories of brave warriors and star-crossed lovers, stories where everything turned out well in the end and goodhearted heroes were blessed by the gods ever after.
“I know the things they call my Goddess, Isaand. But surely you have heard as well the tales of Szet the Deceiver? Villains and monsters the Unbound are, every last one of them, so long as you ask the clerics who serve their foes. I should know. I was one.” Hahmn took a deep drought of his drink, letting out a satisfied sigh, and immediately poured himself another. Isaand followed his lead. The brew was sweet and strong, heavily spiced, and its warm loosened his throat. Had Hahmn been an innkeeper in truth, Isaand would have praised his wares.
“You were a cleric?”
“Aye. I served the Child of the Sands on the lake-shore, from the day I turned thirteen and for near forty years after. I tended the temples, taught the children their lessons, though I refrained from scaring them sleepless, and burned the offerings required of our god. I was fortunate in that the Child did not request live sacrifices of us. Such a grisly task would have been beyond me, I am certain. It was a fine life, in truth, peaceful and bountiful, and it felt like good work. But then the Goddess opened my eyes.”
Before Isaand could respond, the hide was pushed aside as Ratha slipped into the cave. She flashed him a quick smile and sat beside the fire, pulling a third cup and pouring it for herself, obviously at home in Hahmn’s presence. Hahmn sat, swapping out the pot of wine for a cooking cauldron.
“There is no truth to them, then?” Isaand asked.
“There is some truth in all rumor, but small truths are often more dangerous than whole ones. Very recently, we in Merasca have heard a certain story told, of a tall man with bleached skin who kidnapped a child of the wolf tribe, and then brought war and death to the village she was bound for. It is said that this man brings misery and death in his stead wherever he goes, and that he raises the dead as ghastly slaves bound to his will, to shamble along behind him and put fear into his enemies.”
“Your point is well taken.”
“There are other stories as well,” Ratha said, leaning across the fire. “The clerics and their messengers speak only ill, warning the faithful to watch for this villain so that his villainy can be stopped. But others, those in the shadows, apostates and travelers and free-thinkers, they swap other stories. We’ve heard of the healing done down Ittawa way, and the way you stilled the lynch mob at Carrahan.”
“And Ratha tells me there is indeed a little girl accompanying you, who looks quite vibrant and healthy and very much alive,” Hahmn said.
“I have heard much slandering of my own God as well,” Isaand admitted. “I suppose we are all outcasts here, and must trust each other.”
“Well said, well said. Awlta teaches peace and understanding, and freedom from bondage and lies. Honored Szet, I have been told, seeks only goodwill towards all men and women. I am pleased to have one of his servants among me.”
“And I am pleased to have a night’s amusement, among such a wicked assortment of men,” Ratha said, winking at Isaand.
“I have more questions than I know what to do with,” Isaand realized. “I never thought to find another like me. How is it that you knew I was coming? Why seek me out? Do you have some plan for me? Does your goddess?”
“Wise Awlta warned me. It is said a paladin hunts you, and Awlta would not let her approach my home without informing me of the danger. As for what to do with you, why would I not wish to speak with you? As you said, servants of the Unbound are rare, and we have so much in common to speak of. And in truth, I had hoped I could learn from you.” Hahmn met Isaand’s gaze, and his face showed a hint of a sheepish grin that made him look a decade younger. “I only pledged myself to Awlta a few months ago, and in doing so I abandoned the god I had previously served. I was perhaps not as careful in doing so as I should have been, and now my hometown Merasca is closed to me, the other clerics searching for me. If I am found, I will be killed, or turned over to this paladin who follows after you, to be taken to Ethka and tortured. If it were not for the kindness of young Ratha, I would be hard-pressed to survive out here. I learned to fish as a boy, but Maesa’s waters are not safe for me, I’m afraid. I have no designs on you, Isaand. Rather, I had hoped that you would share with me the secrets of your success. You have been traveling for some time now, have you not? And yet you live, free and unharmed.”
“Not quite unharmed,” Isaand answered. “Szet provides, healing any small injuries that I may accrue in his service. And I have served only a year. I would not consider myself a great expert by any standards, but I suppose I could share some experiences I have learned, if you think it would aid you.”
“I would be pleased,” Hahmn said. “I will cook us three a hearty meal, and we will swap stories, just as if we were children, yes? How did you come to meet this god of yours, Szet?”
“Well, I grew up in the Aislin tribe, who traveled all across Hrana…”
Hahmn was as good as his word, and soon had a delectable stew of fish, crab, and pepper parceled out for their enjoyment. Isaand talked and talked, the tension draining out of him slowly as he spoke. It had been far too long since he’d had the chance to speak with equals, and Ratha and Hahmn both made for pleasant company. The big man was enthusiastic and engrossed, hanging on Isaand’s every word and asking many a question, spurring him on until Isaand found himself telling much of where he’d gone and what he’d done over the past year. Ratha was quieter, listening, but from time to time Isaand would look over and see her laying on her side, her eyes twinkling in the warm firelight, the beauty of her form stretched out and enticing. His interest could not have been difficult to spot, but she showed no sign of discomfort. In fact, she was the likelier of the two to demand the more gory and sordid details out of his stories, and he soon found himself talking nearly as openly as if he were back amongst the fires of his own tribe, surrounded by brothers and sisters and cousins.
“My own tale is a paltry one by comparison,” Hahmn said, hours later, after Isaand told him of his arrival at the lake and how he’d healed the man injured by the Lsetha. “A dream the goddess sent to me, which I ignored, and then another, and another. I was always a diligent worker, but no one has ever accused me of being a swift thinker. It was weeks gone by before I realized the visions being sent me were miracles, and not sent by the Child. After I finally decided I must heed them, mostly out of curiosity, I purchased a boat and rowed out here, to the island I saw in my dreams. Feeling half a fool, I removed my clothes and dove in the pool you see outside, in natural water untouched by the lake-goddess Maesa. And there, I met Awlta for the first time. She pulled me down, into the dark, and I feared I would drown, but she filled my lungs with air and made me comfortable, and told me a great many things that made me question all the truths I thought I’d known.” Hahmn shrugged. “I did not jump to join her service immediately, I am afraid. Weeks went by, and I visited whenever I could, but eventually she won me over, and now here I am, her tool to be wielded.”
“A heartening tale,” Isaand said. Privately, he wondered. Hahmn was a friendly man, and seemed humble and goodhearted. Yet he could see nothing particularly special about him, nothing that would attract the attention of one of the Unbound. A tool, he called himself, yet for what end? Surely Awlta had not drawn him to heresy only to live a hermit’s life on an abandoned island, stewing fish and mulling wine. He had other questions as well.
“What do you know of this hidden beast, this Lsetha? I have reason to believe it may be a Sendra, but if that is so, then it must be in the employ of some Lector or god. Yet it seems to do no more than occasionally prey on the local fishermen, much as an ordinary beast would,” Isaand asked. Hahmn and Ratha exchanged glances.
“This is the first I’ve heard of such an idea,” Hahmn said, looking thoughtful. “It would explain much though. If some foreign god has designs on these peaceful people, then I am certain Awlta would wish me to protect them. I have had a thought of hunting down this Lsetha…”
“Hahmn is a Lector, like yourself,” Ratha said. “With his goddess’ miracles, we hope that he can slay the Lsetha and set things back to right. That said…”
“Doing so would out you to the lake-folk.”
“Yes, and then I must abandon my island and set out like yourself, traveling. But I have no experience as such. I have lived in Merasca all my life, and gone nowhere out of sight of this lake. I do wish to serve my goddess faithfully, but I fear she may have more faith in me than I do in myself.”
“In that case…” Isaand hesitated, then came to a decision. “Perhaps we can help each other. Szet wishes me to spread peace and heal strife wherever I find it. Ending this Sendra would surely fall in line with those goals. Perhaps together we can stop it, and then move on. You can travel with me a time, until you learn how to get by. Traveling is merrier with a larger party, anyhow.”
“You do not jest?” Hahmn let out a happy bark of laughter. “Oh, surely you have been sent to me as a blessing. Yes, I would be honored to travel with you Isaand Laeson.”
“I have kin and friends all over this lake,” Ratha said. “And I’ve been known to swim in it myself. Only good can come from ridding ourselves of the Lsetha. I’ll help in whatever way I can.”
“Good, then we are all in agreement. A toast, to Szet, to Awlta, and to the lovely lady of the lake!” Isaand declared, with a smiling nod towards Ratha. She took his compliment with a grin, tapped her cup against each of theirs, and they all drank deeply. No wine had ever tasted so sweet.
Heretic 