The Raiselig Dossier: Five Flowers Part 1
When the seasons began to change once more from the cold season to the planting, the fair maiden Mala at last consented to be Padarom’s wife.
This was an event of great portent, for Mala’s family had lived in Souran Village for many centuries, while Padarom had arrived only two years ago, with nothing more than a cart full of wood and a tired old horse. The old women of the village were not warm to him, and they wasted no time in whispering among themselves at what would bring such a young man to such a small village that lay half-way between civilization and nowhere.
But Mala found something worth her attention in the young man, and watched him daily as he built his cottage, farmed his land, and tended to his animals. He too found much to value in her bright hair and strong arms, and so it was early in the cold season, when the harvest was finished and the village festival was held among bright candles and folded paper, that he asked Mala’s mother’s permission for them to wed.
As was proper, Mala’s mother refused the young man three times before at last proclaiming that Mala was a woman now, and could make up her own mind.
For a whole year did Padarom woo the fair Mala, bringing her gifts and sharing tea with her mother and drinking wine with her father. He helped on their farm, while still tending his own. He spoke poems — poorly written — in the town square of her beauty and grace, and kept his cottage as clean as the wind.
The old women who once grumbled at Padarom’s fresh face and curious manners now muttered at Mala’s hesitation. It was only proper for a woman to accept or deny such wooing for three seasons, two at the outside. To accept a husband after only a single season suggested an unsuitable eagerness.
Then came the worst of it, for while the people of the village had become used to the odd manner and foreign skin of Padarom, his strange accent and tight-fitting clothes, they had not expected such a fiasco as what became of the wedding plans.
For Padarom had not only brought a cart full of wood and the clothes on his back, but too had he brought his families gods and spirits, old and ancient rituals every bit as intricate and blessed as the ways of the villagers. He had demands both of Mala and the wedding ritual, and Mala — poor misguided Mala — supported him in his desires.
It was with a firm jaw and folded arms that Mala told her father, who told her mother, who whispered to the rest of the village, that the wedding would combine the ceremonies of both their cultures. After all, she said, if their souls were to be bound in matrimony, so too should their faith.
Never before had the people of Souran held a wedding or ritual with such absurd intent, and before long the mutterings and whispers grew from the soft breeze of scorn into a whirlwind of reproach. This strange ceremony worried the wife of the village headman most of all, and so every night she spoke to her husband to demand he send for a Scrivener.
The headman refused at first, for he knew the proper rituals by heart and had wed hundreds of young women and men at the local shrine; but his wife was both wise and persistent, and so in the middle of the planting season he wrote out a letter in careful hand and sent it to the closest town.
The letter was addressed to no one person. There was no organization or clerk who dispatched the Scriveners to far off villages and lonesome shrines. They were wanderers of their own, and they always knew by word of mouth when and where they were needed. The letter would travel the roads until word reached a Scrivener’s ear. It was ever thus.
And so it was that Raiselig heard of the letter while returning from a cleansing on the southern isle. When the letter finally crossed their palm, they read it with the practiced and dispassionate eye of a professional. Once they had finished reading the letter, they folded it carefully and placed it in their overturned bowler hat on the table. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention,” Raiselig nodded to the young man who was red-faced from running. “I will leave tomorrow.”
The young man bowed low and vanished back into the bustling tavern, for there was no contract nor law more binding than the word of a Scrivener. In truth, the man was delighted to be at last relived of the burden he had borne for almost a month. Many times he had found himself driven to a panic, afraid he had lost the message only to find it again in his pouch, safe and un-rumpled.
He need not have feared, for such letters always find their recipients sooner or later.
For their part, Raiselig watched the man go before turning their attention once more to their meal. When they had finished, they paid with two tarnished copper coins, what had been an ancient payment for a service long forgotten. Replacing their hat upon their head, Raiselig climbed the stairs to their room to wait for morning.
When the sun at least peeked through the open window, Raiselig reached out for the large yellowwood cabinet that was their stock-in-trade. Nearly as tall as they were, the broad cabinet was carved with such intricate and detailed ornamentation, that there was scarce a flat surface anywhere upon it. Upon its back lay two straps, through which Raiselig pushed their arms. Hauling on the heavy wood, they hoisted the cabinet onto their back and walked down the thin stairs of the inn.
They left the city towards the east, their long legs and broad stride swinging freely in the chill air. The road to Souran village was long and winding, but Raiselig was a Scrivener, and so was not accosted by the road sprites and wandering spirits that threatened unwary travelers.
At long last, Raiselig crested a small hill to see a tiny farm in the distance, the first sign of Souran village. As they approached, they noted with appreciation the charms that hung on the farm-house’s porch, clearly written with the proper prayers whispered. In small towns, rituals were passed down and adhered to with great devotion. Old men and women taught their grandchildren, who taught their grandchildren, and everyone kept watch on each other.
And it was a small town, Raiselig could see, on what has been called the outskirts of civilization by the ignorant. Raiselig could see clearer, however, than most people, and knew Souran was no periphery. Scriveners would be respected here.
Sure enough, when Raiselig at last reached the edge of town, the old headman was waiting there with a young man and woman, the betrothed, Raiselig assumed.
“Honored Scrivener,” the headman opened his arms in greeting. “Our gratitude knows no bounds for your presence here. Please, will you eat and drink after your journey?” The young lovers offered the bowl and jug in their arms, stewed rice and fresh water.
Raiselig inspected the offerings carefully before nodding. “A suitable gift of greeting. I accept.” Reaching out, Raiselig took a single grain of rice and the smallest sip of water. Thus, was the pact sealed. “Here is my scrip,” Raiselig pulled a slip of paper from their breast pocket.
“Oh, I need not question your credentials, Scrivener,” the headman bowed low. “It is clear from the cabinet on your back and your wise demeanor, that you are indeed the Scrivener we seek.”
Raiselig’s jaw tightened at the headman’s dismissal. More like it was their jet-black skin and strange clothing that convinced the headman of who Raiselig was. “Nevertheless, as Scrivener, it is my duty and charge to see all rituals and contracts are adhered to properly. This includes myself, and it is through the scrip that all Scriveners introduce themselves.”
The headman bowed again, accepting the scrip at Raiselig’s gentle admonition. “Honored Raiselig,” he said, once the scrip was read, “we are blessed to have you as a guest. Please, allow me to introduce he bride and groom of the coming wedding; Mala and Padarom.”
Raiselig studied the two youths’ dress, noting both the proper placement of ornamentation and the improper cut and length. Of course, the case law surrounding proper marital garments was loose, allowing for much in the way of personal style and preference, but all the same — Raiselig preferred the classic.
The woman was dressed in bright yellow and a simple jeweled pendant hung around her neck. Her hair was done up in a curving rope, and the line of white across her brow marked her betrothed status. The man’s belt was tied properly, but his shirt did not hang open, nor was a beaded cloth hanging over his shoulder. Such accouterments was not required, of course, but it betrayed a laxity that stung Raisalig’s nostrils. As for the white on his brow…
“Speak then,” Raiselig said at last. “Why do you seek the aid of a Scrivener?” They knew full well, of course, having read the letter backwards and forwards until even the unwritten concerns of the headman were plain, but it was always good to hear the concerns directly from the client’s mouth.
The headman bowed. “Your honor, it is the fervent hope of the betrothed that their wedding shall be both a union of their souls, and a union of their faiths. But Padarom is a stranger to this village, and has foreign ways. He has made many demands of the marriage ceremony, and of Mala as well. But we of Souran have our own rituals which must be followed, and must keep our promises to our own gods.”
“Then you wish for adjudication,” Raiselig nodded. “Very well. Prepare the cases of the two betrothed, and I shall pass judgment on whose ritual and history shall be practiced.” They glanced at the groom. “I should warn you, the law favors local custom.”
“Oh no, most honorable Raiselig,” the headman’s face flushed. “We do not require a judge.”
Raiselig cocked their head. “Ah. Then you wish for arbitration. A diplomatic agreement between the spirits and spells so the groom may escape punishment. This is common enough, and will likely require only a little penance after the nuptials have been completed.”
The headman squirmed uncomfortably. The bride’s gaze was downcast. The groom chewed his lip.
Something deep in Raiselig twisted. A gnawing sense of dread slowly built beneath their breastbone. “I can see you do not wish for arbitration either.”
“Most honorable and wise Scrivener,” the headman swallowed hard. “The bride and groom have decided they wish to…incorporate aspects of both their customs into the ceremony.”
Raiselig turned to the groom, then to the bride.
“A new ritual?” They said at last.
“A union,” the headman hedged. “As their bodies are bound, so too do they wish their faiths and histories to be.”
“Do they.” It was not a question.
“While we, of course, keep and follow all ritual and custom as our fore-bearers taught us, we were hoping you might, your honor…tell us which aspects of such a wedding would be…most flexible?”
Flexible.
“Very well,” Raiselig said after a long pause. “You, boy, where are you from?”
The groom jerked about, startled from his submissive poise. “Your honor, I hale from a small village to the north, part of what was once called Kyrathia.”
“Hm.” With a slow and steady movement, Raiselig pinched the bridge of their nose in thought. They were familiar with the name Kyrathia, though they could not remember why. “I did not come prepared to perform a Kyrathian ritual. It will take time to refresh myself on the contracts surrounding the your people. Has the date of the wedding been set?”
“That is, in fact, one of the points of contention,” the headman admitted. “It is our way to hold the ceremony at dawn on the third day of the coming season, while Padarom wishes —”
Raiselig cut him off with a wave of their hand. “What preparations have begun?”
“Well…none, your honor. We thought it wise to wait and receive your council before —”
“You thought wrong. Begin the drying of the five flowers at once, and start collecting branches from the forest. Order the priest to begin their fasting, and any attendants to begin their cleansing. No matter when the wedding occurs, there is little time to waste.”
“Of course, your honor,” the headman bowed low. “Is there anything else we can do to help your honorship?”
“Is the dais prepared?”
The headman smiled with the confidence of knowing the correct answer. “It has, your honor, at the center of town. If you follow me, I will show you to it.”
At first glance, Raiselig was satisfied with the dais. It was wide and narrow, and sat off to the side of the town center. A long low table was placed at the front, with a pillow for Raiselig to sit upon. Next to the dais sat a small basin of water. Covered with a red awning, it was a suitable, if humble spot for who would arguably be the most important person at the wedding.
Raiselig took the yellowwood cabinet off their back and set aside, its thick wooden legs scraping the dusty ground. With practiced care, Raiselig tapped the top of their feet with two fingers to scatter the loose dust from their shoes. Before either sole touched the ground again, the shoe was slipped off and they dipped each foot in the water basin before stepping onto the dais.
There was a reason for it. Cleaning the feet, the water and grain, the scrip, the titles…for each and every ritual, there was a reason. Raiselig knew them all.
“Bring me your village record,” Raiselig said as they lifted the cabinet onto the dais, “and I would speak with the boy, alone.” Without looking, Raiselig knew the look that would pass between the two betrothed: worry mixed with hope. They had seen it many times before, for few found comfort in speaking to a Scrivener, especially one who looked like Raiselig.
Slipping their hand into a vest pocket, Raiselig produced a silver key on a chain. Slipping it into their cabinet’s lock, they opened the ornate wooden doors. Inside lay countless scrolls, books, and bindings of ancient ritual. It was a library of tradition, covering all manner of contract from the beginning of the first era to the present day. It was any true Scrivener’s shrine to their profession.
Running a finger up and down the wooden compartments, Raiselig selected germane scrolls and papers from its darkened innards, arranging them carefully on the low table beside them.
Even among Scriveners there was room for personal style. Raiselig had seen many peers ply their trade and could appreciate how each had crafted their own personal rituals, an echo of their professional devotion. No two Scrivener’s tables ever looked the same, each as personal and detailed as a fingerprint. Raiselig had crafted their own over a century of practice.
First came the obvious: a long scroll detailing the proper ceremony of a Souran wedding itself sat at the center of the table, a centerpiece of the days to come. No matter what transpired between now and then, it was all in service of the ceremony.
Next came precedent; a large book detailing the purpose and meaning behind every action, every movement. It was set on the scroll’s left. Three scrolls followed after, each a copy of pertinent contract law. A tiny book full of legal exceptions and loopholes crowned the small collection.
Then came the local documentation. Ancient copies of demarcations and spiritual agreements created over centuries of contractual practice. Concessions from ancient lords and powerful supernatural beings. Even lettered contracts between the lands themselves were not spared Raiselig’s grasp, and all were set to the right.
Strictly speaking, Raiselig knew they were likely not to be required, but there was no virtue in being unprepared.
Then came the files on the land once called Kyrathia. There were few, and all quite old. At the back of a file, Raiselig managed to unearth a weathered contract detailing the simple outline of a Kyrathian wedding. It would serve for the moment, and it joined the scroll in the center of the table.
Page, book, and letter followed one after the other, arranged in piles, lines, and patterns. Raiselig could only imagine what their table looked like to those who had no knowledge of their methods. A hodgepodge of paper and leather, wood and metal. A hint of madness, perhaps, were it not for the import of the Scrivener’s profession, and the respect they demanded thereby.
Last, Raiselig brought forth the most important tool of the Scrivener; a long thin rod of willow-wick, with one end sharpened to a nib. The other end was polished to a shiny amber, decorated with exotic and intricate design. This was their pen, their pointing finger, their conductor’s wand. There was nothing more valuable to a wandering Scrivener. It was the key which unlocked the magic of ancient law.
With exacting care, Raiselig sat down, crossing their legs beneath the table. Pulling their handkerchief from their pocket, Raiselig brushed the rod gently with its soft fabric before carefully setting it in its proper place in front of them. Only then did Raiselig look up into the face of young Padarom.
The poor boy had not moved from his spot, not even as the headman and Mala had left him standing there, awaiting Raiselig’s pleasure. Raiselig was pleased, though not placated.
“Unorthadox,” they said.
The boy blinked. “I beg your pardon, honored Scrivener?”
“There is no greater curse or insult I know,” Raiselig said, resting their hands on their crossed legs. “And yet, I find no word better suited to this entire situation. Combining the rituals of two weddings into one? Do you hate this town so much?”
“No,” the groom looked shocked. “I have nothing but love and respect for the people of Souran. This village, it is my home.”
“Is it?” Raiselig’s eyes narrowed. “Do you know why I wish to speak with you, boy? It is not because I find this wedding more or less significant than any other, nor because I deem it of greater importance than a harvest festival or funeral. I wish to speak with you because I must ascertain exactly how important you think this wedding is.”
“It is everything to me,” Padarom insisted, his voice catching. “Mala is my light, and I —”
“No,” Raiselig raised a hand again. “Not your bride, not your marriage, nor your house nor your future together. The wedding. The ritual. I must know that when I speak a command, it will be followed to the letter.” Raiselig plucked their rod from the table and pointed the amber end at Padarom’s forehead. “I must know that when you are told to mix the white yourself under the moon, that you do not re-use a bit of old white-wash.”
Padarom paled at Raiselig’s words. “How do you know this?”
“I am a Scrivener,” was Raiselig’s only answer. “These are not rituals to be taken lightly. If you do not understand my commands, know I do not make them lightly. These rituals have been performed for centuries, for greater purpose than your comfort or happiness. If you do not believe you can perform your duties properly, say so, and what will be will be. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, your honor,” Padarom bowed low. “I beg you to forgive my ignorance. Is…” he paused. “Have I failed the wedding already?”
Deep in Raiselig’s chest, a flicker of pity flared for a moment at the boy’s tone. Reaching out to the small book of mercies, Raiselig flipped through the ancient concessions, more for show than actual need. “Marking your brow with white is an important sign of devotion, an acknowledgment, rather than a supplication. If you go, now, mix the white properly and have your chosen attendant mark your brow again, the gods may look kindly on your reparation.” They looked up from the book. “No, the ritual is not failed. The Mark of White is merely one method of many that fulfills a prerequisite. But it worries me to see, as a house built on lax or shaky foundations augurs poorly for its future. If this wedding does fail, it will be because of laziness and disrespect. If you shirk your duties with your mark, what else are you willing to let slide, I wonder?”
“I will mark myself again,” Padarom bowed. “And I promise you, your honor, that I will not let any duty slide again.”
“Good,” Raiselig set the book of mercies aside. “If you are truly penitent, might I suggest you forgo your people’s ways altogether? This is no minor request, to combine the marriage ceremonies of two different cultures.” Raiselig’s fingers drummed the tabletop. “The case could be made that Souran is your home now, with tradition established over generations. You are not so special as to warrant the overturning of decades of precedent. This desire to mingle your old ways with the ways of your new home suggests a lack of commitment.”
“I never wished it!” Padarom shouted. Raiselig leveled a steady glare at the groom until he managed to choke out: “Forgive me, your honor, but it was not my request to blend the ceremonies of my people and my bride.”
“No? Then who asked for it?”
Padarom opened his mouth, then closed it again. “My bride, Mala. She wished it so.”
Raiselig thought for a moment. “What was the name of your village?”
“Arrisa’man,” the boy answered. “I…I fled.”
Raiselig pursed their lips for a moment before inspiration struck. “The Kells.”
Padarom nodded. “They came across the river, with sword and rifle. The Kellish warlord, the Lark King, spread ever westward and took the land for himself.”
“You were a refugee from what was once called Kyrathia, and is now called Kelland.” Raiselig was beginning to see the whole picture. “You came to Souran to build a new life.”
“Yes, your honor.”
“Hm.” Raiselig stood from their table and returned to their cabinet. The case law surrounding Kelland and its conquests were much richer. “I am sorry to say your wedding will be far more complicated than even I anticipated. It will take me some time to sort out the incompatibilities between your cultures’ weddings. I too must speak with your bride before the daylight fades. Go now, tend to your duties, and allow me to tend to mine.”