The Raiselig Dossier: On the Day of Celebrations
The House of the Horned Serpent was bustling that night, loud cheers for more wine and women flowed through the air as freely as the liquor. To call it mirth would be a disservice.
Raiselig was not taking part in the gaiety; or rather, they were not taking part in the noise. They were celebrating as loudly and as energetically as they ever did, which is to say they had a fresh and young bottle — young by their standards, at any rate — of a rich red Carménère, which they had been working through for most of the evening.
Ordinarily, Raiselig wouldn’t have bothered celebrating at all, but there was something… relieving about this evening.
“Another bottle?”
Raiselig looked up from their half-empty cup into the deep brown eyes of Calchona, the proprietress of the Horned Serpent. “No,” they said. “I have drunk more than I should already.”
“Nonsense,” Calchona grinned, replacing the empty bottle of wine with a full one. “Here, on the house. It’s been too long since I’ve seen you really celebrate.”
“There has been little to celebrate, of late,” Raiselig said, staring into their cup for only a moment before sipping again. “Besides, this evening isn’t for me,” they gestured into the crowd. “It’s for them.”
“Then join in,” Calchona nudged them with her paw. “Or are you getting off on sulking in the shadows?”
“These are hardly shadows, and I do not sulk.”
“Lurking, then.”
“Technically more accurate,” Raiselig admitted, “but not tonight, am I?”
“No,” Calchona flicked a curl of fleece behind her ear as she sat across from them. “I suppose not.”
“I’m sure you have better things to do than sit with me. A bar to tend, if nothing else?”
“They can manage without me for a few minutes. We haven’t had much time to talk these past few years.”
“No, we have not. I apologize; my feet kept finding the road back to Neverdark, and yet the job kept pulling me aside.”
“I can imagine. Well, I suppose that’s part of the whole gig, isn’t it? Wandering where the roads take you, helping whomever you can, however you can?”
“It is not charity,” Raiselig took a sip of wine. “It is a responsibility and burden to maintain terra terrum.”
“What’s that then?”
Raiselig’s cup hit the table with a thud. “The-world-as-the-world. It is one of the most significant and influential terms of the Scriviner’s profession. It is the state of being in both matter and thought, wave and particle, Law and Order. There is an extensive body of legal precedent defining the extent to which a priori Law can and does influence —” Raiselig’s eyes caught up with their brain. Calchona was smiling gently. They pushed the cup aside. “I have drunk too much already.”
“Oh stop,” Calchona laughed. “I’m enjoying it.”
“You are making fun of me,” Raiselig adjusted their tie, tugged on their shirt.
“I’m glad you’re finally opening up a little.” There was a long pause before Calchona spoke again. “Do you mind if I ask; in all the years I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you drink more than the wateriest tea and blandest crisp-bread. Is that you punishing yourself for something, or are you just that masochistic?”
“I drank wine tonight, did I not?”
“That was going to be my second question.”
Raiselig stared down at the thick dark liquid. It swirled invitingly, promising a thousand broken chains, shattered masks, and full sails.
“It is this world…I am still not used to the bright lights and sharp smells. It is an assault on my senses, grating and powerful. Strong tea is like acid. Sharp cheese is like vomit. I simply cannot stomach any more than what you call bland and watery. For me, I can taste layers of each grain in the bread, every speck of salt, every flake of tea-leaf.”
“And the wine?”
Raiselig’s fingers gently brushed up and down the unopened bottle’s neck. “This particular vintage has a…familiar flavor.”
Calchona thought for only a moment before nodding her head. “It’s the copper mines near the vineyard, I’ll bet. Well, its good to see you let loose a bit. Even if it only is a bottle.”
“I am not loose.”
“No? I suppose not. It would take more than a single bottle to unbind your arse.”
Raiselig’s fingers fell to their lap. “You are trying to provoke me.”
“Am I?” Her grin was intoxicating.
A moment later, Raiselig opened the second bottle.
All around them, the sounds of revelry filled the air. Joyous cheers and laughter from mortals and monsters alike echoed like distant church bells. Old enemies and new friends alike shared in their moment of piece, their singular night of celebration.
Out on the streets, parades wound up and down the streets like snakes. Paper Dragons, held aloft by long thin poles, danced up and down like bolts of lightning. The Merriers wore their patchwork uniforms and waved their folded horns, blowing sounds of sharp surprise, scaring away ill-fortune and rodents alike. The Dancing Children wore their masks and filled nooks and crannies throughout the city, promising luck to any who would fill their pockets with a coin or a sweet.
All in celebration of the day the world changed forever.
The Scriveners knew better. They weren’t celebrating a day; the things that happened on that day were legion, and very few worthy of such commemoration. More then half, in fact, had already been superseded by later verdicts. No, the world was celebrating twenty-nine signatures. That was all it took. Twenty-nine signatures from ancient beings who bent the world into its present shape.
Raiselig lowered their cup. “I am relieved. In truth, I am.”
“I can tell,” Calchona pursed her lips.
“In truth, I am. Once the Settling was over, everything became easier.”
“Did it?” Calchona tilted her head, her black fleece catching the dim light of the Horned Serpent and spreading flashes of green and purple down the curling locks.
Raiselig took another drink. “It is more present, I suppose. Easier to remember. Harder to fight.”
Calchona reached out a tender paw. “Oh my poor silly Raisel, you wouldn’t know what to do without your hair-shirt, would you?”
Raiselig frowned. “Is this mockery supposed to entice me into more revelry?”
“If I thought it would work, I’d have a few choice words, and don’t you forget it. Honestly, Raisel, you’ve been walking this world for a century, now — This world, not the old one — and you still can’t walk through those doors without complaining about how fine you are. If I believed you once, I certainly don’t now.”
But Raiselig was fine. They were sure of it. The world was in order, now, save for the frayed bits that came from any old and rich tapestry, and they enjoyed repairing the edges and fringes. Their work scratched an itch deep in the fiber of their being.
Not as deep as their hunger, of course, but close. Close enough.
“I’ve learned how to manage,” Raiselig took another drink. “Of course I cannot say the Settling was perfect, and I won’t. There were a great many of us who got a worse deal than our brothers and sisters, but it is a price we willingly pay.” They thought a moment. “Well, most of us, anyway.”
“Do you still have the dreams?” She asked.
The wine stopped on its journey to Raiselig’s mouth.
“Do you still wake up screaming?” She asked.
“No,” Raiselig admitted. “Sometimes I’m laughing.”
Calchona reached out and gripped Raiselig hands between her paws. “You know you can always talk to me,” she grinned, “and I’m not just saying that because I want to drag you to bed and lick that jet-black skin all up and down. I know what it’s like to suddenly be stuck in a skin that doesn’t fit.”
Raiselig sighed. “You had no choice. I…I did, and now there is nothing to be done about it. They,” Raiselig pointed once more to the jubilant throngs, “they are so young they have never had to worry about it. They didn’t live through the Settling — at least, not the same as we did.”
“Listen to yourself, you old fool,” Calchona laughed. “You sound like one of the old spirits.” Her voice caught, and she cleared her throat. “Just because you suffered during the Settling doesn’t make you some sort of expert on the world.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“Only if you believe the whole world is suffering,” Calchona pulled at Raiselig’s hand. “Only if you believe anything good is some kind of lie.”
Raiselig opened their mouth to argue, and then paused. “I suppose you’re the last person I should lecture about lies.”
“Damn straight,” Calchona’s stare was like steel. “And if I can find joy in life, and think it’s better than you give it credit for, then you can damn well enjoy yourself for a single evening.”
“Scrivener! Ho there, art thou Scrivener?”
Raiselig almost jumped out of their chair at the thunderous explosion that rocked through the air. Calchona’s paws vanished from Raiselig’s hand as she turned to the giant blue man that towered over her. “I beg your pardon! We’re having a conversation!”
“This one must apologize,” came a thin voice, soft as rain, at the blue giant’s side. “But it is a matter most important, and while the manners of this gross lout are to be reprimanded, this one must admit our need is likely greater than yours.”
“Says you,” Calchona crossed her arms. “Who are you, then?”
“Dost thou not recognize me?” The blue giant thrust a fist over their heart. “The great Laird o’ the Clouds stands before thee, he whose brow knits lightning, whose breath spins hurricanes, whose —”
“This one,” the small voice came again from a thin pale hound curled at the giant’s side, “is called Indurai, and it comes from many skies away to speak with the honorable Scrivener who can end our quarrel.”
“Pah!” the blue giant laughed. “Quarrel? With this gnat? No quarrel, Scrivener, but a courtesy! Why, I could sweep this flea away and be done with it, were I so inclined.”
“This one is eager for you to try,” the hound’s eyes narrowed.
With a growl, Calchona jumped up in front of the two spirits and planted her paws on her hips. “Alright, that’s enough. We are supposed to be celebrating. That doesn’t mean finding a Scrivener who hasn’t put their feet up in a month and throwing another job at their head, now does it?”
The two petitioners balked a moment, glancing at each other before Raiselig raised their hand.
“Thank you, Calchona, but I believe I can take care of these gentlefolk myself.” Something glittered in their blue eyes. “After all, if these fine spirits wanted to share the table and a glass of ale, I will not turn them away.”
Calchona turned back, her eyes searching. “Are you sure?”
Raiselig nodded. “I have just been reminded of the joys this world has to offer, and intend to indulge myself in them. As such, I have no desire to involve myself in any official scrivenerial duties until the morning light.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” Calchona smiled, brushing her fleece out of her eyes. If you two would care to find a seat, I will bring you each a drink on the house."
The spirits looked at each other. “This one is not thirsty,” the hound said before the giant’s fist crashed down onto the table.
“Nor art I, save for justice!”
The hound’s apologetic glance slid back to Raiselig. “This one is, too, eager for a resolution to our disagreement.”
Raiselig nodded. “Then you shall have to wait.”
The spirits blinked. “What?” the blue giant huffed. “Thou art Scrivener! By the moons of the many-plated sky, thou must heed our demands!”
“It is true,” the hound grumbled, “by ancient creed and holy demand, you must accept our request for Scrivenation.”
Raiselig cocked an eyebrow, and took a slow drink.
Their thunder effectively stolen, the giant and the hound glanced at each other before seating themselves across from Raiselig. In moments, two mugs of indeterminate contents were slid onto the table from Calchona’s balanced tray. For a moment, Raiselig enjoyed the feeling of awkward silence that floated across the table. The two lightning-gods stared at them, fingering their mugs and waiting for Raiselig to speak.
A thousand wisps and zephyrs, currents as deep as the ocean but as ephemeral as thought. Lifting spores and scents and carrying them across the hills. Pulling water from the lakes and rivers up into the heavens, only to let them fall once more half a league away. Turning these minute particles of water into ice when it is cold, or fire when it storms. Yes…it must be difficult being a weather-god…
“Who did you used to be?” Raiselig asked.
The two looked up. “This one begs your pardon?”
“I find myself…nostalgic,” Raiselig leaned back in their chair with a creak. “This is a celebration of the Settling, after all. So many things have changed since then, and I am curious how you have changed.” They waved their hand, urging the two to answer. “Were you both weather-gods then as well?”
“This one has always been kin to the lightning and thunder,” the hound leaned back in its seat. “Since the ancient days of the proto-earth, this one has —”
“Cow-tripe!” the blue giant snorted. “Ye ne’er touched thundercloud nor raindrop before thee was found and trained by thy mistress, Queen o’ the Storms. I, on the other hand, ruled over many lands where once there were many local spirits, as father to them all! Gorgivar, Thamilvain, She-of-the-Golden-Flax-Hair…They exist because of my rains and winds!”
“But we, oh wise Scrivener, are more concerned with the future,” the hound’s muzzle thrust forward. “Whatever our origins, it is our current vexations which occupy our thoughts.”
“Indeed! I be king o’ the peaks over Grimtale Vale, the valley o’ the dead. Harbinger of misfortune and monsoons o’ despair. My clouds are the dust of my horses and herald my fickle moods. It is the wise farmer who heeds my ever-changing desires!”
“While this one’s domain is to the west of this valley, from the Silverbacked Mountains to the shimmering sea.”
“I see,” Raiselig nodded. After a moment they took another drink. “And you border each other’s land, I presume?”
There was an uncomfortable pause.
“Aye, wise Scrivener,” the giant muttered. “Ye have hit on the crux of the matter. The borders are soft, alas. There dost be many arguments, though most are easily resolved.”
“Though our current dispute may be insurmountable,” the hound whispered.
Raiselig shouldn’t have been curious, but the second bottle of wine was already doing its work. They cocked an eyebrow. “Indeed?”
The hound pushed its muzzle forward. “A wandering peasant from the Laird’s domain wandered to one of the villages under my claim. There, in a fit of foolish passion and ill-considered frivolity, he fell in love with an established family.”
“This beast,” the giant shoved a thumb at the hound’s face, “sought to ruin their wedding with distant portents of lightning! By my troth, the groom thought twas I who frowned on their wedding!” the blue giant leaned forward, the table protesting as he pressed his massive arms into its top. “I would seek justice for this as well.”
Raiselig thought for a moment. “Easily recompensed. An agreement from your companion that such impersonation was not intended will correct the imbalance.”
“And this one would sign such an agreement,” the hound gave a deep and slow nod, “but this is not the core of our conflict.”
Raiselig gave a nod. Even through the second bottle of wine, they could already see the shape of it. “That would be the wedding itself. You expressed your reservations; did the wedding take place regardless?”
“Aye!” the blue giant slapped the table. “They tied their knot in spite of all his whinging! Ha! What a festival it was. Ye should ha’ seen the dancing an’ singing!”
“It is true,” the hound nodded its long muzzle. “While this one found great dissatisfaction in their union, it was done. Neither this one nor my loutish companion could find fault in the ceremony. My warnings went unheeded, and now their house lies at the fulcrum of our dispute.”
“I see,” Raiselig thought a moment. “You each have claim to the house and land surrounding. You,” they pointed at the giant, “are infringing on the claimed territory of another weather-god.”
“Nay!” the giant clapped, “This fool is keeping me from my rightful claim! The boy has not forsaken me, and I’ll not forsake him!”
Raiselig turned to the hound. “It is true, if the man still maintains the rites and rituals of his homeland, then the bonds are maintained.”
“This one urges your honor to consider the ramifications of such a ruling. Thunder that covers my land, save for a single cottage on top of a hill? What of this one’s own bonds that summon or send away the rains? This one must also maintain the contracts of centuries past, and cannot do so if this billowing buffoon can —”
“Billowing Buffoon?” the blue giant turned bright purple.
“Enough,” Raiselig raised a hand. Instantly, the two calmed. “Yes, I can see the conflict. Simple enough to resolve, however. I can draw up a new contract, demarcating and delineating the weather between the two of you, as relates to this unified household.”
“Aye?” The giant sniffed. “An how willst thou do that? I’ll no give up my power to this mongrel, and I know they’ll no do the same for me.”
“This one will certainly not.”
“I don’t doubt it,” said Raiselig. “However, if your intents are unified, tied together in relation to this household, then there will be no need for argument.”
There was a pause. Then: “This one is uncertain it has heard properly. Your honor wishes to… marry us?”
This was a game. It was fun. “Oh, it’s far more invasive than simple marriage,” Raiselig fought to keep from grinning. “But it is the only manner in which to resolve your dispute.”
The hound and the giant shared a look, full of confusion and not a little concern. It was a look Raiselig had seen many times before, when those who had been thrived under the rules found themselves trapped by the same. “Dost this mean thou shalt accept our request?” The giant rumbled.
“I already have,” Raiselig pulled over a napkin from the table, and produced a pen from their pocket.
Instantly, the posture of the two weather-gods shifted. They drew themselves up, straightening their clothes and fur to something approaching professionalism.
Demand I Scriven for you, will you?
“Hmm…” Raiselig began, scratching away on the napkin. “The first paragraph is simple enough; its sub-clauses outline the respective parties, both in title and description. This will make sure even if you change over the centuries, your part in the contract remains constant.”
“Aye,” the giant nodded. “That sounds important.”
“It is. Well done. The second paragraph defines the subjects of the contract, to wit, one household of differing claim status to the signing parties. A fancy way of defining our newlyweds.”
The hound leaned forward, eyes narrow. “This one wonders…is a napkin suitable canvas for a contract?”
“Perfectly suitable. It’s the words that hold the power.” Dance, dance, on strings of ink. Carve away the world like a sculptor with stone. This is fun. All a game. “Now, the third paragraph is vital, as it defines the pertinent precedents that neither of you will waive or overrule. This will ensure that nothing in this contract will interfere with any other rituals or bondages that you are affected by.”
The weather-gods nodded, listening intently as Raiselig scrawled out line after line of legal language. “Now, the fourth paragraph…”
The pen stopped.
“Yes?” The hound licked its chops. “What will the fourth paragraph detail?
Raiselig frowned theatrically as they traced their pen across the napkin again, counting as they went. “The fourth paragraph is a problem.”
“What dost thou mean?” The giant waved a hand. “It should be simple enough. The fourth paragraph details the concessions each signer agrees to.”
The hound barked. “No! No fourth paragraph could do such a thing. The fourth paragraph must explain the penalties due to any severance of the contract. Nothing else is suited for such a number.”
With a perverse glee, Raiselig pointed at the hound with the butt of their pen. “You’ve hit on the crux of the matter. In accordance with ancient precedent, the number four is a dangerous portent, embodying death and ill-fortune. Or,” the pen swung to the giant, “as in your case, a unifying balance and beginning of the circular cycle.”
“So what of it?” The giant muttered. “The first three paragraphs were simple enough.”
“Because the first three are fairly universal in import,” Raiselig sighed. “This document must mean the same thing to both of you, and if it does not the whole bond could be subject to dismissal.”
“Mmmrr,” the hound growled deep in its throat. “And no doubt this problem will arise again with the seventh paragraph, and perhaps the ninth as well?”
“The ninth?” The blue giant fumed. “By my beard, we’ll no reach the ninth paragraph! The seventh must be the final paragraph, for seven is the number of great magic! It is by the seventh power that the gods were born, the seventh throne on which our Queenking sits, and the seven prayers of Uhshtan raise the sun each day!”
“It appears this one was wise,” the hound smirked, “for it is the ninth paragraph which must seal our bond. There is no room for compromise in this, there is no alternative.”
Raiselig took a deep swallow of wine, filling their head with its fumes. “Well, I can’t speak to alternatives, but I think this might be an opportune time for recursion.”
“Aye? And what, pray tell, dost that mean?”
“It means,” Raiselig could not stop themself from grinning as they pulled over another napkin, “that we are going to need another contract.”
Hours they went, as letters, numbers, terminologies, all were debated, discussed, and spread out like tree-branches. Sub-paragraphs and clauses were lengthened, strange definitions were crafted, precedents were created, distributed, and then isolated.
It was like weather. Words became winds became paragraphs of storm-fronts carrying ominous thunder across the hills and valleys of vellum. Crackling lightning poured from their pen as furrows were carved in the dirt and whirlwinds of clauses battered against closed shutters.
The faint hope that lingered on the weather-gods’ faces dwindled, to be replaced with skepticism and finally exhaustion. Concern became resignation as Raiselig tied them tighter with contract after contract. Buffeted at all sides, the whirlwinds closed in. Numbers were added and subtracted, multiplied and divided. Cultures were mixed and powerful magics summoned to resolve even the most minor of differences.
What was holy became defiled, and the cursed became blessings. Connotations faded and blended like paints creating a brand new color. Raiselig was a spider, wrapping their prey in thicker and stickier bramble-webs, catching and holding his clients fast.
By the time the weather-god knew what was happening, it was too late.
It stood up from the table and handed Raiselig two bags of old coins, more than sufficient payment for what they had done. Then, on impulse it shook Raiselig’s hand with what was at first a hand, then a paw.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Calchona said as she returned to the table, watching the shifting shape stagger out of the House of the Horned Serpent on mismatched limbs. “Did you?”
“No,” Raiselig swallowed the last of their wine. “But, as you said, I should try to join in the celebration, yes? What better celebration could there be of the Settling than a profound and unexpected change?”
Calchona didn’t answer, she simply looked at them with her large brown eyes.
Raiselig sighed and set aside their glass. “There is an invalidation clause. It will only last a generation at most. A strange as it may seem, professionally binding contracts are rarely written on bar napkins.”
“I don’t want to see you get pulled before a panel,” Calchona muttered, collecting the departed gods’ mugs. “You know what could happen if you’re held in contempt of the law.”
Raiselig picked up their empty glass and set it down again. “Oh, I know better than anyone. I was in the galley when the Descarr was disbanded. I saw how many of us were cast out.”
“Us,” Calchona shook her head. “You are so reserved, little candle. I still do not know if you hate me or not.”
Raiselig looked up. Her fleece was softer than it had ever been, made softer by their wine-soaked eyes. “I could never hate you.”
“Perhaps not,” she patted them on the back, “but you resent me, because I do not resent my skin.”
“They put it on me. With fire and iron they put it on me.”
“And I put mine on myself,” Calchona nodded. “I know.” A moment later she left, taking the mugs with her.
Raiselig just sat, and watched, and celebrated the Settling the only way they knew how.