The Raiselig Dossier: Five Flowers Part 3
Raiselig stood at the forest edge for an hour, running through every contract they could think of in their head. Every gesture, every token, every aspect of the meeting had to go according to plan.
When at last they were prepared, they reached out and selected a small twig from the forest floor. Holding it tightly in their fist, they set out into the darkened forest.
The journey was long, but easy. Raiselig knew the myriad contracts addressing safe travels through claimed woods. They probably didn’t need to obey each one — there were few spirits both powerful enough to harm a Scrivener and yet foolish enough to attempt to do so — but it was a sign of respect to follow the obligations in any case, and Raiselig was as bound by their duties as any spirit. They could not force any signatory to do anything they did not wish, unless expressly detailed in a forfeit clause.
It took Raiselig almost three hours, by their pocket-watch, of wandering before they reached the heart of the forest. They knew it when they saw it. In a tiny clearing, barely big enough for the thinnest tree, sat a dark and dried stump. White-cap mushrooms sprouted from one side, lichen covered the other.
After setting their cabinet aside, Raiselig tugged on their belt, took a deep breath, and sat down on the stump. From their pocket, they pulled a tiny candle and a match. Whispering to the soon-to-be flame, they struck the match against the stump and lit the candle.
The flame flickered for a moment, and then glowed bright orange.
They sat for a full day, staring into the dark and shadowy woods. The distant call of woodland birds and rustling underbrush filtered through the trees, but as long as they sat, no animal drew near. No birds flew overhead. No insects crawled through the dirt and mud.
The candle burned quickly, the wax melting away into smoke. As the candle was almost finished, At long last, a distant sound caught Raiselig’s ear; a thick body moved slowly towards the stump. Each footfall was the toppling of a tree, each breath a gust of wind.
A lumbering shape pushed its way into the tiny clearing, shuffling its massive bulk across from where Raiselig sat. With piercing eyes, the green spirit turned its attention to them, and settled against the nearest tree.
“Scrivener,” the deep booming voice of the spirit rumbled like distant thunder. “Why have you come to speak with me?”
“I have come to address an issue with a contract pertaining to your forest,” Raiselig produced the scroll from their breast pocket.
“Contracts,” the thunder rolled. “How things have changed from the olden era, when the world was young and magic ruled the land.”
“Magic still rules. You know who and what I am, yes?”
“Speak, or leave me,” the spirit hissed like rustling leaves. “I have no time for your games.”
Raiselig did not stand, nor made any move to rise. “I must have your answer. You know me?”
The spirit too made no move. Its glowing eyes flickered, whether out of anger or memory, Raiselig could not tell. For minutes they sat, staring at each other with no sound but the wind passing between them. At long last, the spirit creaked: “There was a word. In the beginning of it all, there was an ancient word. I try to remember it, and it slips away from my mind.”
“Abaracadabra.” Raiselig provided.
“Yes!” The Leshy’s gaze glowed bright blue, flames tickling the edge of its eyes. “The magic word! Those ancient magicians could create as they spoke the single word. They bound demons and shaped the world in accordance to their will alone! Then came books of spells, charts of the heavens, boiling cauldrons, written codices. Pentagrams bound the lay-lines of the world and the power became bound not by will, but by ritual.”
Raiselig waited.
“Very well,” the spirit grimaced in disgusted resignation. “I will take part in your cabalistic rite. I know you, Scrivener, and I recognize the authority you wield.”
Raiselig breathed a sigh of relief. “Good. You are aware then of the consequences of committing perjury in my presence?”
“More than most, I’ll warrant. Come, little lawyer, speak plain. What contract do you need notarized? What deposition must I take part in?”
“I am looking to address a matter of arbitration considering the five blessed flowers of the forest.”
The sound of cracking wood accompanied the spirits clenched fists. “Since time first began the five blessed flowers have remained mine. I have broken no agreement nor surrendered no claim. By ancient rite and bygone law they are the purview of me and mine alone!”
“Paragraph one, sub-paragraph four,” Raiselig nodded. “The precedent is quite clear, and nothing I say or do today will challenge it.”
The spirit relaxed. “Then what arbitration do you seek, Scrivener? What clarification do you need?”
“The promised blessing of the local spirit of the forest,” Raiselig continued. “In paragraph two, subparagraph three, the five blessed flowers are named and described. The fourth of which is so named: Eidlbane. They are then described in shape, color, and form.”
“I know this as I know every tree.”
“This filing is cross-referenced in the compact signed between the forest and the village of Souran in the year 802 of the Age of Consolidation,” Raiselig pulled another page from their pocket. “Specifically article seven, ’the bestowment of blessings.’ Paragraph ten details a ritual addendum to any wedding ceremony performed within the town’s borders; to wit — and I’m paraphrasing — if dried petals from the five blessed flowers are trod upon by the wedded subjects, they will receive a favorable blessing from the undersigned, The Leshy of the Forest. That is you, correct?”
“You have spoken correctly, Scrivener.”
Raiselig lowered the paper. “I come to beg for mercy.”
The Leshy did not move. It did not speak. After what could have been an hour, the mound of forest shifted, bringing its arm forward in a gesture that could only have been a request for Raiselig to proceed.
“In two days time, a marriage will be performed between two villagers of Souran. The ceremony will be…unique, to say the least. In the process of the ceremony, the flower known to the people of Souran as Moon-lily will be used in place of Eidlbane. As Scrivener of the ceremony, this was my duty to anticipate, and I neglected to do so.”
“Correct?” the Leshy’s voice was harsh and grating. “How could you have corrected it, Scrivener?”
Any number of ways, Raiselig knew, but they couldn’t help but feel the Leshy was not asking for a detailed lecture in the finer arts of Scrivening. “I am here to respectfully request that you not invoke the forfeiture clause established in the contract between you and the village of Souran.”
“Request…” The Leshy shifted again. “Could you stop me, Scrivener?”
It was a question that Raiselig had purposefully avoided asking themself. Their powers were vast, their jurisdiction wide-reaching, but could they stop a justly-claimed recompense?
“A case could be made,” Raiselig began, choosing each word with the care of experience, “that the flowers have not, in fact, changed.”
“No?” the spirit grumbled. “The people beyond the river were once known as the Nours. Now they are the Kells. Have they not changed? My blessed flowers, Eidlbane they were called after they shed their blood in service to the Armies of Before, are now called moon-lilies. Are they not as mutable as your precious humans?”
“Sub-paragraph three details the qualities of the Eidlbane,” Raiselig lifted the ancient contract in their hands. “The shape, color, manner, all is the same. Precedent clearly establishes allowances for shifting nomenclature.”
“What is your name, Scrivener?” The spirit’s eyes glowed.
“Raiselig.”
“Ah,” the spirit laughed. “No matter. There was a time when if I knew your true name I could control you as a King controls his kingdom. Now a true name means nothing — no more than a mewling growl of a mortal animal — unless is it signed on a dotted line.”
Raiselig stared into the burning pits of the spirit’s eyes. “I am no mortal animal.”
“No,” the spirit muttered at last. “No, you are not. I suppose Raiselig is your name, now.”
Raiselig linked their fingers together. “If I might suggest a compromise. The joining of these two lovers will not be an easy one. Many trials lie ahead for them, including the possible attention of an army building to the north —”
“There are always armies. Always troubles. It is the way of humans to gather them as a flame gathers moths. These things are not my concern, and never have been.”
“But your blessings are,” Raiselig continued. “If the wedding does not conform to the expectations laid out in the signed agreement, you are not bound to respond. You may, if you chose, simply withhold any blessings to the newlyweds.”
“Ah,” the spirit leaned back, its eyes shrinking to pinpricks. “And what of the other clauses and stipulations? What of the primary mandate for the keeping of the five sacred flowers? Have they not already broken the compact? Am I not free to torment the town with all the wrath of the forest?”
Raiselig swallowed. “I have been hired to handle the wedding exclusively. I can say nothing about other legal matters until my business is complete.”
“And then,” the Leshy’s leaves burned a brilliant green, “you will no doubt return to me, deep in my forest, and light your candle until I arrive, and help me fill out all the forms that will grant me damages, yes? Or will your papers be forms to change the names of the my flowers once more, so the fall of Eidl becomes no more than a dream? The sacrifice of the twenty-thousand and two is wiped clean from your books?”
Raiselig didn’t answer at first. Then: “If you purchase my services, I will help you with whatever you wish.”
“For a price,” the Leshy sneered. “Such devotion to justice you have, that it is purchased at a cost. Leave now, Scrivener, you have said your piece. If the wedding occurs, and the five sacred flowers are not held in honor and respect, then I shall demand repayment.”
“The flowers are still blessed, even if their name is different.”
The spirit’s eyes flared. “Are they indeed? Then when I refuse my blessings, we shall see if the contract binding me and the village will be broken. Then we shall know for sure, what this means for the magic that binds us all together, will we not, Scrivener?”
Raiselig looked down at the scroll, the notary seal, the carefully written signatures in faded ink. “I had to try.”
“No,” the spirit mused. “You did not.”
For several moments, the two stared at each other, neither making a move to stand. Finally, the Leshy of the Forest groaned with the sound of ancient wind. “Why did you come here, Scrivener? You know the ancient law better than even I. You knew the contract has long since been broken. You knew there was no purpose to your coming to speak with me. Did you seek to soothe your tortured soul, perhaps? Ease your guilt?”
Now Raiselig’s eyes flashed bright in the shadows of the forest. “Do not presume to mock me, Leshy. I am Scrivener, and we do not permit details to be overlooked.”
“Ah,” the Leshy’s laughter was like a snapping twigs. “Curious, then, to know why I had not demanded restitution? Or a courtesy? Some misguided attempt to show camaraderie? Are you simply here to check-in on an ancient spirit, to make sure I’m ‘doing okay?’”
Raiselig didn’t answer.
After a time, the Leshy heaved a sigh of rustling leaves and creaking vines. “Things have changed.”
“They always do,” Raiselig made no move. “They have for many years, and will continue to do so.”
“It is…not easy for some of us.”
“It was not easy for me either. Will you invoke article two, and demand restitution?”
There was a pause, then the Leshy’s head sank. “In truth, I had thought the village had long since forgotten. To see you here, Scrivener, to know their insults have been made in foolishness, it brings me no balm. No, Raiselig, I seek no retribution.”
“You are kind to do so.”
“Not kind,” the Leshy rose with an avalanche of snapping branches. “Merely tired. There was a time when great wizards and sorcerers needed to but speak a single word to command the very winds of nature. Now, nothing can be done without bargains and contracts signed in triplicate. It is not worth the trouble to reclaim what I am owed. Activating any recompense clause in the contract would be…exhausting.”
Before the forest swallowed the spirit once more, its glowing eyes found Rasielig’s again. “It is a cold thing, this new world. Once, I could summon the trees themselves from their rest and claim children who strayed from the path. Once I would not have hesitated to show the village my wrath.”
Raiselig stood from the stump, buttoning their jacket and brushing off their trouser legs. “Some must find the world to their liking. Children who wander, I should think.”
“Hm.”
Without another sound, the Leshy vanished into the darkness once more.
Raiselig stood then, and replaced the ancient scroll in the cabinet. Pulling out the unsealed wedding form, Raiselig signed their name and sealed their signature with their stamp. There was no crackle of eldritch energies, no arcane flash of swirling magic. But with the press of a thin brass seal, the world was changed forever.
Precision was but one of the many virtues demanded of the Scrivener profession. Patience was another, and the one of which Raiselig was most deficient.
The headman was swamped with letters, notes, and commands from Raiselig’s dais, hand-delivered by his breathless secretary. Garlands were detailed, bouquets were described, exact wording of vows and homilies were explained. Though the headman had officiated over many weddings in the village’s history, now he began to wonder if any of them had been legitimate.
Even more disconcerting were the notes which obviously pertained to the ways of the Kyrathains. Padarom’s people had a different view of how weddings were to be held, and so the Scrivener’s profess insistence for proper times to cheer, dance, and sing were awkward, if not unseemly.
With every command, the people grew anxious. While the wedding was still recognizable as such, each change made the ceremony more and more disconcerting.
At last, Raiselig handed the headman a complete detailing of the wedding ceremony. It would take place on the Day of Turning, what was marked in the village as the day between the season of planting and the season of growing. Weddings held on this day — so said the ancient men and women of the village — would be full of passion and vibrancy. If the wedding went well, Mala and Padarom would be destined to live long lives full of fortune, both good and bad. They would have many friends and many enemies. Whether their union would be a blessing to the village or a curse was anyone’s guess.
But, so said the gossip, the fact that a Scrivener would be seated nearby was a good sign. Whether for good or for ill, no one would doubt that the wedding would be done right.
And so, when dawn struck on the Day of Turning, the first rays of sunlight woke Mala from her sleep, and she stepped from her bed into her wedding gown. Gone was the lax attitude that admitted a bride could wash or feed herself before dressing for the ceremony; the time for flexibility was long past.
The groom was woken by seven male friends, each carrying a perfectly measured stick which they beat on walls, stones, fences, whatever was nearby, to keep the evil spirits away.
Mala’s hair and face were washed in ice-cold water, and she did not cry out once. The songs that were sung by her handmaids were old, while her grandmother watched nearby with piercing eyes.
Padarom was marched throughout the village, a gathering forming behind him. His friends shouted and cheered, careful to only speak the words Raiselig had permitted.
Mala at last was ushered out of her parents’ house and down the long dirt road to the decorated pavilion, where the headman stood, at a carefuly set pace so as to arrive neither before nor after Padarom’s entourage.
Throughout it all, the villagers were feasting, though neither Mala nor Padarom was allowed to eat before the ceremony.
At last, the two parades met, and the villagers arranged themselves in a social phalanx, watching the betrothed as they took their places in front of the headman, heads bowed low.
Raiselig, from their dais, moved their willow-wick pen to the next line on the scroll in front of them, careful to not let their fingers touch the paper.
They mouthed along with the headman as he read out the ancient words Raiselig had found, binding the betrothed’s lives together once and for all. Every word, every gesture, every step was perfect. Old traditions long forgotten were brought forth again to the people of Souran, rich with the weight of obligation.
Even Padarom, with his strange ways, performed his role like a native, missing not a single beat–though Raiselig bit back a frown when he stumbled slightly over the old pronunciation. A minor error, and nothing inexcusable.
As for his culture’s influence, the people of Souran were stiff in their cheers, and drank deep out of duty, rather than pleasure. The spirit of the law was doubtlessly circumvented, but the letter of the law mattered more at the moment.
In the end, even the old women of the village were forced to admit that, if nothing else, the wedding had contained no obvious faults or ill omens. Indeed, it could be said the wedding promised good fortune to come.
At last, the cheering was sincere and heartfelt. The newlyweds ran down the road to their home, across a path made of five blessed flowers from the forest. The townspeople cheered, sang, and made move to the great feasting table that had been prepared, to drown out the sounds of lovemaking.
Obligation and duty. Raiselig was not so heartless as to not pity the newlyweds first time alone. Passion rarely rose from proscription, and Scriveners knew this better than most.
But the worst of it was over. Raiselig breathed a sigh of relief as they drew up the final documents. Every lynchpin had been met, every waypoint hit. The contracts had all been upheld, and as far as Raiselig could tell, there was no sign of anything amiss.
All that was left was the final document, which would seal the wedding as legitimate, and an amendment to ensure the wedding itself would establish no legal precedent for those who came after. Only then was the wedding at last complete, and the destiny of the bride and groom their own to make.
Raiselig thought for a moment as they pulled the amendment form from their cabinet. Ordinarily, they did not shy away from precedent. Their confidence in their abilities was not minor, and there was a great deal of satisfaction in the knowledge that what they did would remain significant for many years to come. But, if Raiselig was being honest, the circumstances this time were particular. They weren’t comfortable with the idea of hamstringing some future Scrivener’s hands when the issue arose again.
“Your honor?”
Raiselig turned to see three women and a boy stepping towards the dais, their hands full. “Yes?” Raiselig feigned ignorance.
“You have helped our town, and provided great service,” the youngest woman spoke. “We bring you thanks.”
“So I see,” Raiselig nodded, casting an eye over the bundles in their hands. They would be the first of several before Raiselig left. One by one, the women stepped forward, handing Raiselig bundles of grain or soft cloth, flowers and thin metal chains. No matter how they smiled, or how gracious their words, Raiselig could not keep from noting, as each gift passed to their hands, which were contractually obligated, and which were mere tokens.
Some, such as the sheaf of grain or the two copper coins, were named by ancient mandate. Had they not been given, and Raiselig been so inclined, they could have destroyed the village in retribution. Others, such as the artful arrangement of flowers held by the young boy, were gestures without any power behind them apart from the magic of gratitude.
“The five blessed flowers,” the boy said, hopping from foot to foot in discomfort.
“So they are.” Raiselig took the bouquet from the boys outstretched hand. They felt a tug from somewhere deep and ancient inside themself. “Which is your favorite, I wonder?”
The boy hopped to the side. “Moon-lillies, because they’re blue. I like blue.”
Raiselig stared at the bouquet. “I wonder if you have ever heard of their other name.”
“Other name?”
“An old name. No one uses it anymore. They used to be called Eidlbane.” The flowers were not fresh. The boy’s parents had picked it, most likely, and given a child the honor of gifting it. They brushed the petals with their fingers. Was this how magic died? Bound in chains of ink, rigid and unforgiving, yet the world moved on? Children speaking half-remembered names from their parents while new kingdoms and cultures wiped the old ones aside?
Perhaps, perhaps not. It was with some regret that Raiselig recognized that it was, after all, not their place to decide.
“Eidlbane,” Raiselig said once more. “You would perform a great service if you remember that name.”
The boy didn’t answer, but gave a confused smile instead. The boy’s mother pulled him back, and the women wandered off back to the party.
It was customary for the Scrivener to stay for the feast, at least that was what it said in the ancient texts. Raiselig knew the difference between custom and obligation, however, and so they pulled the wooden cabinet on their back, and left the town through paths no others could see.
When at last they were free, they set off down the road again. Eventually, a new letter would reach them begging for their aid, but until then they would walk the roads thick with magic, and ensure that all was in accordance with the law.