The Raiselig Dossier: The Festival of Light Part 1
Time passed, as it ever did.
It is a joke — or perhaps if not a joke, a shared understanding — between the Scriveners that the world was like a scale nested on by an indecisive bird. The seasons changed, the herds migrated, wars and festivals were held with equal amounts of enjoyment and obligation…
And then the bird hopped to the other side of the scale, and it all began again. It was perhaps a more verbose means of saying “the more things change, the more they stay the same,” and was therefore perfectly suited to the art of Scrivening.
A corollary — or perhaps addendum — to the joke was that the Scriveners sat calmly at the fulcrum of the scale, or the hub of the spinning wheel. That though they wandered from side to side and spent many long hours polishing, balancing, scraping, and adjusting; they did not suffer the changing seasons the same as the people of the world did. They could not. It was their duty and privilege to maintain the constancy of the world.
Another paradox, Raiselig had noted long ago. Though they remained at the fulcrum, they could never sit still. There was always some ceremony or ritual that needed management, some new contract to be signed by monarch or spirit. The moments of stillness, when Raiselig could sit and stare, or think hard on matters of importance only to them, were rare and becoming rarer.
The world was growing and shrinking in tandem, as more lands became claimed by modern thought. Roads spread across the earth drawing distant cottages and hamlets into the reach of mighty cities. With roads came travel, and with travel the singular people became multitudes. Where once women and men lived their lives in a single town, now cities saw the ebb and flow of humanity like the tides. From distant lands came hopeful pilgrims and tired laborers. They sought respite, fortune, and a future for themselves.
The times changed, as they always did.
At the apex of the change, the fulcrum of the spinning wheel, sat the Gathering of Scriveners. A mighty monastery devoted to the art of the ink-spinners and law-weavers. It was here that was maintained that which no other law could hold. While the Scriveners notarized contracts and managed rituals across the world, it was here that their law was held.
Set into the side of one of many mountains, it was here that the multitude of Scriveners came. On backs of elephants and horses, or barefoot; bringing carts, chests, bags, and cabinets full of paper, ink, and pens. Some limped with broken limbs. Others had attendants, resplendent in their finery.
Some sat in calm contemplation while they waited. Others talked in loud and animated discourse, sharing the gossip of the time.
And still the sand fell.
In the courtyard they waited, casting uncertain glances to the tall central spire of the monastery, the home of the great Willow Scribe. Any moment she could look out of her broad window and see the teaming multitudes below her. What would she think, seeing them there? What was she thinking now?
At her side, on a stand of plain cherry-wood, would sit the Book of the Rite. In its pages lay the name of every Scrivener who had ever lived. There was no magic in its pages, no contract that bound them to the duties and powers they now wielded. It’s power was only in the hearts of every being that had ever looked upon its cover with awe.
Then they would look away, returning to their meditations and conversations with little more than a shiver sliding down their backs. They would learn why they were here soon enough.
The few Scriveners who were old enough and wise enough to guess at it, said nothing. Times changed, as they always did, and the young Scriveners would learn soon enough that even the strongest foundations needed shoring up now and again.
“Raiselig!” Vharpanu strolled out of the crowd to rest her hand on Raiselig’s shoulder. “Well met, old friend. Any news on your wanderings about this bizarre and twisted land of ours?
Raiselig rested their own hand on Vharpanu’s, feeling the thin bones shift under their hand. “Well met. I’m afraid I know little worth telling that you have not likely heard already.”
“I have heard much,” Vharpanu smiled, “many times over. For that is how things go with this land, is it not? I have heard tales of monsters and farmers and sorcery and heroes and audits. Such as it ever was and always shall be. The wheel turns, the bird hops, the land creaks and groans as it ever has. As it ever shall.”
“The bird does hop,” Raiselig nodded.
Vharpanu paused, her smile fading ever so slightly. “My dear friend, is something the matter? I’ve never heard your voice speak in such a tone. Perchance there is something I must hear?”
“Perhaps another time, when we need not prepare ourselves for the Ministration.”
“As you will, as you will,” Vharpanu sighed. “We must, however, have the time for me to share a tale of my own? It is likely nothing new or remarkable, but it will wile away the time while we wait for our illustrious guide to grace us with her visage.”
Raiselig nodded, for there was no telling how long it would be before the Ministration would begin.
It was indeed a tale of neither new nor remarkable nature, but Vharpanu was a Scrivener of no small skill in the art of oratory, and so it was with minor regret that Raiselig turned away from Vharpanu at a hush from the surrounding throng.
There was no applause, no cheering, no sign of adulation or recognition of what was to come. Instead the Scriveners, both old and new, simply fell silent and turned to listen.
The Willow Scribe had stepped out upon her balcony.
When the many Scriveners were at last quiet, and the only sound was the settling leaves and playful winds, the Willow Scribe raised her hand and spoke.
“By the Book of the Rite, I welcome you all.”
In unison, as though a great wind had blown at their backs, the Scriveners bowed their heads in thanks, the rustling of cloth and bending of skin matching the winds in volume.
Raiselig listened as her words continued to fall across the crowed. “The snow has once more begun to fall across the world. A thousand festivals and holy rituals are soon to be performed, and by their traditions is the pulse of the world maintained.”
“But the gears need oil, the machine must be kept clean. So too must the rituals and bindings that keep the world in tune be cared for and guided. So now do I call to you all, followers of the Holiest, to travel the land once more. By the Seven Manifold Prayer, art all other duties postponed. By the turning of the wheel, the time has come for the Ministration.”
In the far off land of Kuhbulckain, the snow-fall was fallen ash from the great god Rasque. On his mighty anvil did Rasque forge the unfinished world, fired from the burning wood of the true Life Tree.
So great was his forge and so brightly did it burn, so full of wood was its cavernous innards, that it took a full season for the frozen ash to be swept clean. It fell from Rasque’s heavenly forge, carrying with it the watery steam from the water-bucket used to cool the smelting world. It fell in droves, in sheets, in bucketfulls. It drowned the world in white.
In Kuhbulckain, it was a time for celebration, as the great Rasque had completed another piece of the unfinished world. It was a time for gift-giving and gratitude. It was a time for holding close to your families, and sharing the joys of the year. It was a time to forgive old grudges and make plain your oaths for the coming year, to bring but a piece of perfection to the unfinished world.
Great trees were decorated in thanks, that their life was given to fire Rasque’s great forge. Garlands of light and burning candelabras of six candles, one for each of the blows Rasque’s hammer struck to ring out the sun, the moon, and the land of Kubulckain.
In the village of Uhblii, nestled deep between the Darkpeak mountains and the Winding Wood, the mayor wore a coat of thick red fur, and laughed heartily as he gave toys to the children, a humble homage to Rasque’s great generosity. Behind him, a cart laden with hot meat and fresh fruit was shared with the people, a celebration that lasted long into the night.
When the children of Uhblii were sent to their beds, the meat and fruit was replaced with kegs of rich and fragrant spirits, to warm the adults of the village against the cold night air.
Raiselig struggled to close their nostrils to the fragrant smells. The meat was well seasoned and the fruits fresh, even in the cold air. So much so, that they could scarcely keep their wits about them as they wandered through the dancing throngs of celebrants, noting every dance step, every word of celebration, every call for more wine and rich nut-bread.
They noticed with interest how the sprig of white-berries that hung over each and every door now wore a tiny bow of red ribbon. Interest became disgust when they realized it was the ribbon which held the sprig to the nail, rather than the nail driving through the sprig itself. Raiselig made a note as they walked on. How subtly the rituals were ruined.
In the village of Pokvinna, many miles away, the nail was driven true, through the flesh of the white-berry sprig, the berries quivering in the chill wind. The Pokvinna children were still awake to watch the lighting of the tree, the massive pine that had been dragged from the far forest of Pirk and erected in the center of town. With a mighty roar, the chosen child thrust their thick torch into the small hollowed hole of the trunk, and stepped back as the flames licked up the dry bark.
The village stepped back as the great tree burned, singing their thanks to the Forge-god. The needles of the tree snapped and sparked as specks of flame danced up into the sky on wings of smoke. There, they would become stars, mothers whispered to their children. These stars were what fueled the great Rasque’s forge. This, they said, was what it meant to be grateful. To give because another is in need, and in turn, they would do the same for you.
When their heads nodded sleepily, their parents took them to bed, and slipped a single hard-candy into their shoe for when they woke; thanks from the Forge-god for staying awake to watch the burning tree crack and crumble to ash.
Raiselig scribbled away as they watched, noting the songs the villagers sang, in which order, and how loudly. The dancing was different, as were the smiles. There was leniency, of course, but there were also limits. When they had finished tabulating, Pokvinna was just barely under the line. After a terse and forceful meeting with the town headman, Raiselig made a note to pay close attention to Pokvinna in the future, and continued on.
The capital city of Kuhbulckain was as bright as day. The candles burned next to fires lit in the streets, as revelers threw chicken bones and apple-cores into the flames. Candied drinks and sugared nuts vanished down gullets as laughter sprinkled across the streets.
The Thane sat atop the cart as it rolled along, pulled by three strong men, dressed in the garb of Rasque’s forge-tenders. Waving to the people, the Thane poured beer down his throat and tore flesh from bone with his teeth. He cheered wine-fueled feats of foolish bravado, and sang out of tune with nearby minstrels. Roasted boar and venison tumbled out of the cart as it rolled, and the people cheered it along.
In the darker streets, among the poorest people of the city huddled together against the chill of encroaching night, a single mother sang the winter-tide song of gratitude to her sleeping child, before slipping a single candied nut into their tiny fist. When they awoke, they would feel, for a brief moment, a feeling sharper and cleaner than any feeling they had felt before. It would cut through the fog of poverty and pain that blanketed their young life, and for the time it took for the sugar to dissolve on their tongue, they would remember that the world could be beautiful.
Before Raiselig left the city, they adjusted the position of the Thane’s fur hat. This was not strictly or legally essential to the winter rituals of Kuhulckain, but it made Raiselig feel better.
On the shores of Gwynthiklanichwich, called the Fresh Land by those who called it home, the Memorial of Light was held with the coming of the snows.
There was no sadder time in all of the Fresh Land.
Black was the proper garment, a nod to the void that would one day consume all who relished in the life-giving light of the sun. It was a time to remember that all joy was fleeting, that all love ephemeral. The many candles that traced the shore of the River Glynvach were held by men and women who had suffered loss during the year.
For some it was simple. A lost love, a dead child, an arm severed in battle or an eye taken by disease. For others, they had to dig deep to find their loss. A road not taken, a friendship forsaken, a missed chance or a failed hope. None were spared, for loss comes to all.
In the Village Wynstyne, a single girl with long golden hair led the procession along the River Glynvach. She spoke no word, made no sound. She had lost her innocence. It was a loss that marked the village, a crime that stained the souls of all who lived in Wynstyne. The criminal long since buried, they had lost first their life, and then their name. None would speak it ever again.
As the blanket of snow continued to grow across the village, the girl took her candle and thrust it into the icy waters of the river. A single sorrow snuffed out.
Raiselig watched as the lights slowly began to wink out of existence. Flickers of light in the darkness, points of warmth, life, hope, extinguished until the snows began to fall again.
As one, the procession reached into pockets and bags, producing their white veils. Placing the cloth over their faces, the wailing began.
Raiselig nodded in appreciation, as they could not tell from whom the wailing came first.
The town of Chalsyn was perhaps more melancholy. The wailing was rote, the sorrow well practiced. Though not a single soul felt the misery due to the cold snows that dusted the ground, their traditions were true, their patterns solid.
Perhaps it was because there was no earth to their misery, no soulful necessity, that they gripped the tradition so tightly. If they could not feel the profound sorrow of the snow, they could bring themselves together with the sharp and clear patterns of their lives. It was an agreement, a shared silence, an understanding that there was so much more to the world than what they could endure. Together, they would mourn their joys and embrace their subsidence. They were imperfect, and so embraced their imperfections in ritual.
In defiance to the pattern of the holidays in Kuhbulckain, the large city of Yvyrnach was far more subdued and reserved in its ritual that the surrounding rural lands. There were no wandering processions, no exultant cries of mourning. To each in Yvyrnach was given their own unique sadness, a pain that was only ever to be acknowledged, addressed, but never shared.
No matter how cold or dark the winter became, there was no hint of the people coming together, breaking through the locked doors and well-sealed walls to huddle together in the shared warmth of their neighbors.
Raiselig checked the documentation three times.
“Anything the matter?”
Raiselig looked up into the calm and stoic face of Shosushai, staring at them from the front of their cart.
Raiselig checked their paper before answering. “You are not required to be here.”
“No,” Shosushai admitted, “but I was on my way to my next location, and thought I would stop by…to say hello.”
Raiselig recognized the look behind Shosushai’s eyes, and gave a gentle nod. “This is your first Ministration, is it not?”
“It is,” Shosushai admitted. “I have trained, of course, but training is always different than the practice.”
“Indeed it is,” Raiselig nodded. “Then if you will accept some un-asked-for advice,” they caught the glint of relief in her eyes, “double check all your paperwork. Little things are easy to miss, as are the big things.”
“I assume that was what you were doing just now?” Shosushai asked, shifting her grip on the cart, causing the large apparatus to creak and groan.
Raiselig looked back at their stack of papers. How different the festivals were! To compare the tiny town of Wynstyne to the giant city of Yvyrnach, one would think they were different festivals entirely. A procession, a single avatar embodied in a girl, a united sacrifice of flowers and light; versus locking themselves in tiny rooms, alone in the dark. There had to have been some violation…
But the conditions had been met, the boxes all checked. The rituals had been maintained, admittedly with minor variations, but nothing unusual.
“Do not assume anything,” Raiselig said. “That is perhaps the best advice I can give another Scrivener. What you think it obvious may turn out to be something else entirely.”
“Then I accept your advice gladly,” she nodded her thanks.
For a moment the two Scriveners stared at the city of Yvyrnach, watching the chill air make its careful way though the allys and cracks in the walls. There was a sound to the air, a whispering wail that was at once the sound of a slow wind, and an echoing cry of something long lost. It was a time of sleep and death, of stillness, darkness, and the hair on the back of your head slowly standing upright.
It was a time of memory. A time of fading. Everything becoming soft.
“You have said your hello,” Raiselig muttered as they wandered the streets. They made a show of inspecting the rituals, but they knew there was nothing new to see.
Shosushai didn’t respond at first, she simply stared up at the dark cloud that hovered over the city as she pulled her cart along. Then; “What was it like, back then?”
Raiselig frowned. “Yvyrnach is quite a young city to my eyes. ‘Back then’ means little to me in relation to this place. It is as it has always been.”
“Not the city,” Shosushai turned to face the dark-skinned Scrivener. “Magic.”
Raiselig stopped. “Magic,” they repeated.
“Before the Settling. What was magic, then?”
With a snap of paper, Raiselig rolled up the scrolls and closed the books that had gathered themselves in their arms, and shoved them back into their cabinet. “What kind of question is that?”
“A poorly considered one,” Shosushai apologized, holding out her hands. “Please, I am heading to the north, to Tyw. Would you follow along? If it is not to undue a burden on your own duties…I could use the…” Shosushai let a shamed smile crack her lips. “I am uncertain of my talent, and feel quite unprepared for such an important duty.”
Raiselig slammed their cabinet shut, and stared at the ornate work that curled up and down the doors. For a moment, they breathed.
The air was slow, and cold, and soft. It filled them, and then left.
“Very well,” Raiselig said.