The Raiselig Dossier: A Freedom most Fit
“Name?”
Raiselig didn’t bother to look at the guardsman, instead pulling a thin scrip out of their pocket and flashing it at him.
“Ah. Scrivener, eh?”
Now Raiselig looked.
“I am Scrivener, Keeper of the Law and follower of Ritual. Bringer of order and Hand of the Seven Manifold Prayer. The Willow Scribe herself wrote my name in the Book of the Rite, and thereby granted me the rights and duties therein. I speak the Law, and maintain the magics of the world thereby.”
“Ah,” the guard glanced at his companion. “’s important, then?”
Raiselig closed their eyes. “The King has sent for a Scrivener, yes?”
The guard thought a moment. “Aye, I suppose he has. Alright then, I’ll fetch Gouf. He’ll take you in.” With a clink of his metal shirt, the guard turned. “Oi! Gouf! A guest for his Majesty!”
It was not often that Raiselig was forced to wait, but wait they did until a young boy in armor twice his size stumbled out of the guardhouse. Adjusting the helmet on his head, the boy bowed and stammered for the Scrivener to follow. As they walked through the palace courtyard, Raiselig found themself irritated less over the guard’s dismissive apathy, and more that it bothered them at all.
Respect for the Scrivener profession was easily given. Even those who did not understand how far reaching their jurisdiction was and over how many aspects of their lives it touched, still understood the keepers of law had an important job and required deference. Raiselig had become accustomed to it.
Indeed, when the young boy brought Raiselig into the palace entryway, and an old maid — someone’s grandmother, no doubt — gasped and curtsied so fast that she nearly dropped her broom, Raiselig barely noticed.
When had it become so familiar? Raiselig had never sought attention or respect, and had always tolerated the awe rather than craved it. Now, in the face of the guard’s bemusement, Raiselig felt diminished.
It brought a sour taste to their mouth. They had never felt diminished before. Not since…
Well. However they felt, they were Scrivener, and they had their duties.
“Guest for mi’lud,” the boy gasped for breath as he approached two guards who stood at a gilded door. He paused for only a moment before tapping the front of his helmet and turning about. Raiselig watched the boy flee back to his post as the guards knocked. A moment passed, then the doors opened to the King’s chambers.
It was perhaps the most beneficial aspect of Raiselig’s nature that their attention to detail was quite finely honed. Little things that others would not care to notice stood out like signposts, telling a story clearer than any book could manage: The king’s odd smile. The faint flush on the stoic guards’ faces as they opened the door. The young woman, picking at the front of her dress, adjusting its hang…
“Your honorable Scrivener,” the King held out his arms as Raiselig approached his seat. “Thee art most welcome. Will thee eat and drink?” he clapped his hands. “Food and wine for our guest!”
The maiden curtsied to her king before rushing out the door, casting only a sidelong glance at Raiselig as she passed.
Raiselig pulled their scrip from their pocket, and held it out in the palm of his hand.
“Ah yes,” the King glanced at the paper before waving it away. “We know thee, Scrivener, by the wood on thy back and the cloth on thy pate. By my word art thou summoned, and by thy word shall I act.”
“Water will be sufficient,” Raiselig said as they put the scrip away.
“Would you seal our accord with base water?” the King wrinkled his nose. “Nay, good sir. Thou art honored here, as we honor all our histories. See here?” The King stood, gathering his fur robes about him before gesturing at the shelved walls. “In these bindings lie the histories of my linage, from the first Wodons who built their roads and stone huts by the lake, to our father, King Danus the Third. Inspect our palace, your honor, and thou shalt see naught but the firmest and most respectful adherence to ritual and law. The chapel is clean, the paintings hung high, the offerings fresh every day.”
Raiselig nodded. “Is that why you summoned me, then? To inspect your dedications?”
The King winced, tilting his head and scratching at his beard. “Ah, well, therein lies the rub. While such efforts would be welcome, the truth is we find ourselves at a bit of an impasse, and such is surely an unsuitable situation for a king.”
Raiselig struggled to keep from sighing in exasperation. Humans simply couldn’t cut to the chase; they always needed to explain. “How may I aid your majesty?”
The King shrugged. “We are not certain you can. In truth, honorable Scrivener, we are not entirely certain we want you to. It concerns the events surrounding one of our humble subjects, a young stable-boy. The shape of it is this: for reasons past understanding, a Senmurv has come to our kingdom.”
Raiselig felt their heart quicken. “Where is it now, your majesty?”
“We know not where it lives,” the King continued, “nor do we know whence it hails from. Indeed, we know it is here only because it will not leave us alone! Nightly does it fly through my casement window, and speaks poems of portents most worrying and unbecoming.”
“Evil that threatens the land,” Raiselig supplied, “and a common stable-boy who will earn half the kingdom and the hand of your eldest daughter’s hand?”
“Thou speakest the truth,” the King nodded. “And while we are most grateful for the beast’s aid in ridding evil from the land…” here the King sighed, “we do not have a daughter.”
It was not unprecedented. Raiselig ran through what case law they could remember in their head. “There are loopholes and exceptions. Dog v. Wortham, I think, is the most pertinent.”
“Then thou mayest help us?” The King smiled hopefully. “We might yet avoid the wrath of the Senmurv? Only we have heard tell of mighty vengeance wrought upon those who incur the fury of these holy birds.”
“I can,” Raiselig nodded. “I will need full access to your accounts, any recent surveys of your lands, a detailed list of your assets and liabilities…” they paused as they studied the look on the King’s face. “I will need, most of all, your leave to speak with your Royal Clerks and your Keeper of the Treasury. They will have what I need.”
“Ah!” the King’s relief was pungent. “You shall have it. Guards! Show our guest to the treasury, with our blessing. Grant them access to all that is ours, and spare them nothing that they request.”
“I too,” Raiselig added, “will need to speak with the Senmurv, and most likely this hapless stable-boy.”
“Would that you could,” the King frowned, “but we know nothing of his domicile.”
“So you said,” Raiselig nodded. “Yet you also said the bird visits you nightly. I must ask, then, that I be granted access to your bedchamber tonight that I might speak with it.”
The King blanched. “Ah. By my beard I would…that is…the King’s Bedchamber is a place not fit for any but the King. While I would not wish to deny you anything, your honor, it cannot be proper —”
“If propriety is your concern,” Raiselig smiled grimly, “I assure you that I already have an understanding of your proclivities, your inclinations, and your recreations. There is nothing I will hear or see come the evening that I have not already seen before.” There was a pause. “Or, if it concerns your majesty, you could simply restrain your passions. For a single night.”
The King gave a slow sigh and nod. “As thou wishes, Scrivener. We did give our word, and our word is our bond.”
“Excellent,” Raiselig turned to the guards. “To the treasury, then. Lead the way, if you please, gentlemen.”
True to the King’s boasting, the kingdom had a devotion to the past that bordered on fetishistic. Scrolls of ancient tax-taker reports, lists of grain totals and mutton weights, contents of carts that entered and left the kingdom, it was all there. The Keeper of the Treasury had been as helpful as anyone could be, with a native’s knowledge of the references and shelving of the many books. Raiselig had only needed to ask a single question and the old woman had known precisely where to look.
Half the kingdom. Raiselig shook their head. It was always half. A nice round amount, understandable by peasants and kings alike, but it infuriated Raiselig to no end that no one ever bothered to codify what half really meant.
Half the treasury was easy enough, and half the grain stores could be assumed, but what about the other assets? Did half the army now need to swear allegiance to a new liege? Which half? And while territory could be measured, did half the kingdom include half the mines? Half the logging? Half the carpenters, coopers, smiths, and chefs? Half the hills, rivers, forests, and roads? How did one divide a road? And what of a King’s castles? If there were an odd number, how could the last be divided equally? Down the middle? Top and bottom? Front and back?
There was predicent for all of this, of course, but finding the correct precident was never easy, especially when Senmurv were involved — they could be painfully exact in their personal brand of justice.
But Raiselig was painfully exacting as well. They compared multiple cases and decisions throughout history, and after a thorough understanding of both the kingdom and its contents, they felt able to negotiate a suitable compromise between the two parties.
So it was with a heart full of confidence that Raiselig leaned calmly against the balcony wall outside the King’s bedchambers, waiting for the Senmurv to arrive. It was a pleasant night, with the moon high and bright, casting the world in comforting blue. The distant hooting of a night-owl filled the air with fitting ambiance.
Behind them, through the closed thick curtain, slept the King. They could hear his breathing, slow and steady. They could feel the soft patter of dreams on his eyelids. There were silk curtains about the bed, yes, but they had hardly even been closed.
Raiselig looked up at the stars. They twinkled gaily in the darkness, a gentle tugging that promised respite, if only you would follow. Just follow. Leave it all behind, and see what’s behind the next tree, over the next hill. Just take him by the hand, walk him out to the stone balcony, and whisper in his ear. Drink deep, and burn brightly. Then, it’s just one small step…
Raiselig jerked themself upright, taking off their hat and rubbing their hairless head. Fool, to let go like that. They couldn’t relax, not even when they were alone.
Before long, they weren’t alone. After a moment’s listening, the distant beating of wings faded into hearing. Before long, a large black shape parted the night sky. With a harsh snapping of the wind, the Senmurv landed on the balcony edge, her paws gripping the stone, her wings spread wide.
For a moment she balanced, and then with a snap, her wings pressed against her body. She took two steps forward, as silent as a mouse, and then paused to stare at Raiselig.
Raiselig stared back.
For a moment, either of them moved. Then, the Senmurv licked her muzzle with a broad pink tongue.
“Are you a Scrivener?” she asked.
“I am,” Raiselig nodded. “I am here on behalf of the King to negotiate with you, fair Senmurv, called Simurgh, called Simoorg, called —”
“Oh, stop it,” the Senmurv cocked her head, staring at them with deep brown eyes. “You deal with contracts, right? Rituals too?”
“I do,” Raiselig nodded.
“Oh, thank god!” Her wings relaxed, hanging in a calm slump. “You gotta help me!”
Raiselig blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Fine, you got it!” The Senmurv padded closer on her paws, her head rocking from side to side. “Pardon’s all around! Listen, this has all gone far enough, right?”
“If you say so,” Raiselig drew themself up as straight as they could. “I have here a dossier detailing the liquid rewards and assets available to the King amounting to half their titles, honors, and responsibilities; and compensatory offerings regarding royal offspring. I am confident we can —”
“What are you blabering about?” the Senmurv flapped in agitation.
“The King does not have a daughter,” Raiselig explained, “but I am prepared to offer a comparable reward to your chosen —”
“Oh stuff the half-kingdom-and-whole-daughter nonsense,” the Senmurv hopped back and forth on the balcony, snapping her jaws in frustration. “I need you to come and slap this stable-boy around a bit! The way things are going, he’ll not get half a farthing.”
“Oh?” Raiselig lowered the dossier.
“He’s got some crazy notions about what’s going on, and I can’t get through to him. Only it’s too late, right? He’s here thinking he’s got a choice, and Fate’s just for kicks, yeah? I mean…” the wings flapped in a bird’s shrug. “What can I do with that? Right?”
Raiselig blinked again. “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand.”
“Well, come meet the kid,” the Senmurv huffed. “You’ll see what I mean. Yeah, you’ll get it right quick. And then you can help me figure out what to do, yeah? Or us, right? Yeah, us, ‘cuz you gotta remain impartial and all. That’s fine. I’m at the end of my rope!” Raiselig opened their mouth only to be silenced by the Senmurv’s snapping jaw. “No, wait…I got it. I’m hiring you, right? Official request. Come sort this out between me and this kid, and then its all done and done, right? Can you do that?”
“I can,” Raiselig nodded. “I can meet with you whenever or wherever you would —”
“Great!” she bared her teeth in a relieved grin. “There’s a village on the other side of the pass, just three days east of the waterfall. Can’t miss it. Kid lives in the northern stables; humble, right? Like he should be, only…Ah! Sorry, I just want to vent right now. Don’t worry about it. Look, it’ll take you…what, a day to walk it? Say two? What’s good for you?”
Raiselig thought a moment. “I’ll meet you in two days, at noon in the stables.”
“It’s a date!” the Senmurv spread her wings and danced on her paws. “I’ll make sure he’s there, and we can get this sorted. Now, if you don’t mind,” she sighed, “rules is rules, and I have a message I need to impart on his royal earlobes. Do you mind?”
Raiselig stepped aside, and the giant bird padded through the doorway into the palace. A moment later, and her barking voice filtered through the air: “Wake up, your royalness! I gotta do this, so make it easy on us both, right?”
Raiselig looked at the boy.
In their years as a Scrivener, they had sat on many uncomfortable things. From chairs that were too small, to stools that were too sharp, to re-purposed tables, floors, daises, logs, stones, pillars, piles of shells, belabored slaves, skulls and bones, heaps of dung, and beds of nails. Once they even sat on a three course dinner that had not been touched. It had been important, for some reason that escaped Raiselig memory.
Never, for as long as Raiselig could remember, had they ever felt as uncomfortable as the poor boy looked, sitting on his tiny stool.
The Senmurv perched on the horse-fence next to him, wings folded tight to her body as she looked him up and down, shaking her muzzle in despair. “Go on, then. Tell them what you told me.”
The boy winced, and looked ready to cry. After a moment of staring hard at his fingernails, the boy whispered; “In truth, mi’lady, I seek no fame nor fortune. I mind myself, an hold no dreams of e’er marrying above my station.”
“They’re no lady,” the Senmurv’s wing was like lightning, batting the boy about the head. “Nor lord. Good grief, do you know nothing? And even if they were either, that’s a Scrivener you’re talking to. ‘Your Honor,’ is the proper honorific, right?”
“Please, my lady,” Raiselig held up a hand, “I would like to hear the boy speak on his own.”
“Ooooh,” the Senmurv purred, “my lady, is it? Careful you don’t confuse the lad, your honor.”
Raiselig turned back to the boy, who if anything looked like he was trying to hide behind himself. “You are humble. Yes, I can see that. You’ve been told there is honor in humility, I suspect. Your father taught you that?”
“And me mum,” the boy nodded, mournfully. “And everyone else in town. S’truth, your honorship, I ne’er thought I’d be anything more than a stable-boy. Stables, they need to be cleaned, your honorship.”
Raiselig leaned back. They knew the feeling well, and how terrible the sudden shock of transformation could be.
“You hear that?” The Senmurv shrugged her wings. “What am I supposed to do with that?”
Raiselig silenced the bird once more. “What does she do?”
The boy squirmed. “In truth, your honor, she gives me no peace. When the sun rises in the morn, she perches on my roof, calling out for me to pick up my father’s sword and set off down the road. By noon day she tells me of giants and ogres who eat stolen children, that I might slay with her help. By e’entide, she wails and rages of a tyrant from a far off land whose kingdom is built on bone and blood, and how together we might free the people from his mighty grip. Oh, prithee, your honor, tell her to stop telling me these horrible tales, filling my sleep with nightmares, they are!”
“Bad for you, is it?” the Senmurv sighed. “Imagine what it’s like for them.”
“Please be patient, my lady. It will be your turn to speak soon enough.” Raiselig leaned a thoughtful finger on their lips. “You had to have known such nightmares existed. Your town is near the palace, do you not hear tales of woes and troubles from beyond the kingdom’s borders?”
“Oh, aye,” the boy nodded. “Aye, and worse than ogres and tyrants too. But they are so far away, and I but a stable-boy.”
“Sure, at the moment,” the Senmurv chimed in, “but that’s the whole point. Seriously, get out of town, live on your own for a few months, and you’ll learn all sorts of useful stuff. Well, some of it, anyway. And then you get half the kingdom and a princess wife. La-de-da, everyone’s happy except for a couple of dead trolls.”
“Please,” Raiselig raised a hand. “Do not lie to the boy. As I have said, the King does not have a daughter, and —”
“Shut uuuuup!” The Senmurv hissed at Raiselig. “He doesn’t need to know that, now does he? Not yet, anyway! I have to find something to light a fire in the boy’s pants!”
But the boy had clapped his hands to his head, despair leaking from every word. “Fair lady, I am but a stable-boy! I work among the dung and animals like my father and his father. I’faith, I would not know how to be a King, nor would any princess have me. I would be a loutish King, not suited for proclaiming a single festival.”
“He makes a valid point,” Raiselig said. “After you leave, he will still have to make the best of where you put him, and you will likely not teach him such things as will aid his rule.”
The Senmurv sniffed. “Ah, and how many Kings or Queens do any better? Believe me, all the evil tyrants of the world got their start as noble-born. Tell me a stable-boy wouldn’t be an improvement?”
“It’s not my place to say,” Raiselig cleared their throat and shuffled their papers.
“So…what, you want me to turn my back on him? Give up? What sort of message does that send? That only certain people can be heroes? That heroism is somehow genetic? Innate? That it can’t be practiced or cultivated or improved?” She flapped her agitated wings. “That’s the same ‘mandate of heaven’ claptrap that keeps tyrants in power.”
“I’faith, my lady, I believe it is their soldier’s swords what do that,” the boy muttered.
“Ah!” the Senmurv pointed with a paw. “See? The boy’s got fire in him somewhere!”
“Yes,” Raiselig nodded. “And at the moment its focused entirely on you.”
“Pah,” the Senmurv shrugged. “I’ll take what I can get, at this point. Look, I’ll be the first to say fate didn’t choose well. It could have chosen someone smarter, or faster, or stronger, or with some ambition beyond a warmer blanket to sleep under, but it chose this lump. It did it for a reason, and I can’t just give up like that, no matter how much I really want to. The bond was made, and come hell or high water, he’s going on a mystical journey with magic and monsters and swords and princesses, and there’s nothing either of us can do about it. It’s fate. Can’t do nothing about fate. That’s why it’s fate.” She turned to the boy. “What do you want from me, to not have faith in you?”
“Nay, good lady, I wish for you to have faith that I know no better than the next boy what a king should be. Why dost thou place the weight of lost children and starving peasants on my head alone? I am no soldier, I know nothing of swords or magic. I am no King, I know naught of feeding the poor. I am no physician, I know naught of aiding the sick. And yet you say if I do nothing, the suffering and the dead shall be my fault! Why, oh why does she place these horrible problems upon my shoulders?”
“Well, who else is going to fix them?” the Senmurv asked.
“See?” the boy wailed. “E’en now she places the responsibility on me alone to choose who shall be hero to the land. I’faith, I believe she will bring me to an early grave!”
“Enough.”
The boy and the bird fell silent. Raiselig pinched the bridge of their nose for a moment before speaking again.
“Boy, tell me this. In simplest words, tell me truthfully, what do you want me to do?”
The boy gaped and struggled as he considered his words. “Faith, your honor, I ne’er thought I would be asked. It’s not my place to tell any lady what to do. But if it were, I would beg you to tell her to find someone else, someone better suited to solving the problems o’ the whole world.”
“Hmm.” Raiselig nodded. “And you?”
“At this point?” The Senmurv shrugged. “Look, I don’t want to hurt the kid anymore than I already have, but what can be done? I mean, sure, if you can change fate, then do it, I’ll be outta here faster than a rifle-shot.”
Raiselig nodded again. “So be it.” Reaching to their side, Raiselig unlocked and opened their yellowwood cabinet, and produced a lap desk and pen. “Do you have the contract?”
“Sure do,” the Senmurv produced the paper. “A little crumpled, sorry about that, but you know…no pockets.”
Raiselig scanned the paper until they were satisfied with what they saw. “Perfectly standard. I will draft an amendment.”
The boy and the bird stared at Raiselig as they worked, carefully choosing the words and their arrangement.
At last, they looked up. “I will need your signatures, here, here, and here.”
“An this will free me from my responsibilities?” the boy asked, hope in his throat.
“Not at all,” Raiselig sniffed. “You will have as many — perhaps more — responsibilities as if you had accepted her call to adventure. They will instead, perhaps, be more fitted to your current comfort zone.”
The Senmurv looked over the boy’s shoulder, scanning the paper up and down. “Here, half a tick, mate. This replaces the entire hero gig with a…a slop-spade?”
“Eloquently put,” Raiselig nodded.
“I’ faith, thy words are large and my wisdom lacking. What mean you, my lady?”
“I mean,” the bird rolled her eyes, “that the honorable whatzit has gone and written the heroic journey out of your life! No heroic battles, no noble quests, no fallen tyrants…Is this even legal?”
“It is,” Raiselig nodded. “See here? This draft amendment claims that any and all duties and responsibilities pertaining to the prophesies, auguries, premonitions, and portents related to the undersigned —” they pointed at the boy, “that’s you — are null and void if they do not pertain to the following list of duties as allowed in section II subsection IV of the Prophetic Hero Addendum of 826.”
“Eh?”
“Some fool was prophesied to ‘drink a river dry’ on a long journey,” Raiselig scratched their nose. “Burst their stomach, I believe. An addendum was drafted to ensure only prophesies that the subject is actually capable of performing ever apply. It’s a clause rarely cited, but it does provide you a convenient loophole in the circumstances.”
“But…he could be a hero!”
“As he is now?” Raiselig sniffed. “As you have already said, he could become a hero. As could anyone.”
“Oh poppycock,” the Senmurv tossed its muzzle about. “That’s just wordplay nonsense.”
“I assure you, I am speaking solely in a legal manner. A great many cases have been tried on the proper definition of what makes someone a hero. Indeed, if heroism was exclusive to selective individuals, a good seven hundred dark lords, blood tyrants, and elected council-heads would still be alive today. Circumstance and ambition are oft overlooked for their influence on a person’s heroism.”
“Then,” the boy looked up, hope brimming in his eyes, “then in truth, I shall remain a simple boy?”
“Simple is right,” the Senmurv sighed.
Raiselig didn’t rise to the bait. “You will not be a hero to the kingdoms of the land, nor win a princesses hand for slaying any foul beast. Your fortunes will be your own, and if a tyrant is to fall, it will not happen because of a single stable-boy and his fabulous journey, but through the hard work of the populous.”
The boy flushed with relief, and reached out for the pen. Scratching at the paper, the boy almost laughed when he was finished. “That’s it then? I’m free?”
“Almost,” Raiselig turned to the Senmurv. “Your turn. Here, here, and here.”
The bird sighed, and gripped the pen in its jaws. Three quick signatures later, and Raiselig sealed the contract and rolled it up again.
“There,” Raiselig nodded. “It is done.”
For a moment, no one moved. Then, the boy stood from his stool and bowed to the Senmurv.
“Prithee, forgive me, my lady,” his whispers were barely audible. “Only, I just couldn’t do it on my own.”
With that, the boy picked up his pitchfork, and got back to work.
“On his own?” the Senmurv barked over Raiselig’s head, “What was that supposed to mean? Like I wouldn’t have been next to him the whole way? I should be insulted, shouldn’t I? Really I should.”
“Are you?” Raiselig asked, shifting their cabinet on their back.
“Hey, woah, careful there, Atlas. Hmm…no, I guess I’m not. That’s the problem with fate, isn’t it? It’s got you both coming and going. What if your fate is to resist fate, then do you resist it by not resisting it? What would that even look like?”
“I’m sure I don’t know.”
“Nah, and you wouldn’t tell me, even if you did, would you. Gotta remain impartial and all that. Hey, now that the whole deal is done, you mind telling me, off the record-like, who did you agree with?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, which of us was right, in the end? Do you think he should have nutted up, or was I wrong to push so hard?”
Raiselig thought a moment before shaking their head. “Depends on whether or not he became a Hero, I guess.”
“Pah. Not really a straight answer, is it?”
“I suppose not.”
“Well, that’s alright. I imagine you’re not used to giving straight answers.”
In fact, Raiselig only ever gave straight answers, it was only that the answers were so complex, so filled with nuance, subjectivity, and variation, that they always sounded circumspect.
But when Raiselig thought of that answer, it was already nighttime, and they had parted ways with the Senmurv long ago.