The Raiselig Dossier: The Spirit of Coldstone Part 1
The clatter of teacups and china saucers filled the air of the Café Couronne des Prés. A perfumed bouquet of infusions from across the world tantalized the nose. Travelers and locals laughed and spoke of many things across tables of ivory and bronze. Cakes as soft as pillows and breads as tough as leather provided suitable accent to the marvelous tastes that sweetened every gullet in that marvelous Café.
It was the one place in perhaps all the land that two Scriveners could meet in public without attracting undue attention.
And meet they did, for it was fitting for every Scrivener to speak with their kin whenever they met. The ways of law and ritual were many and edificial; it took the work of countless people to maintain its impressive sheen and splendor.
It was on this day that two Scriveners shared a table together, sharing the stories of their travels to just such an end. The one dressed all in black with a bowler hat set atop their head. The other wore a red robe of soft silk, and played with a fan in her thin fingers.
“I still don’t know how you can drink that,” the red robed Scrivener sighed. “It’s nothing more than water.”
The other Scrivener sniffed at their companion. “I have a very sensitive nature. I can taste the difference.”
“A single rose-petal?” She snapped her fan closed, pointing it like a sword. “I think you are trying to make a fool of me, Raiselig.”
Raiselig smiled as they set down the tea-cup. “I cast no aspersions on your tastes, Vharpanu. Why is it you cannot allow me mine?”
“Because my tastes are excellent,” the woman reached out to pick up her cup. “Ah, which reminds me; the Aribesh contract was finally resolved.”
“Indeed?” Raiselig plucked a small cracker from their plate. Specially made, it was dry with barely any salt, yet the taste was strong enough to make their eyes water. “To which side?”
“The claimant,” Vharpanu sipped loudly. “The curse was broken in accordance with the final clause, and all future members of the Aribesh family shall suffer no further ill-fortune due to their ancestors’ foolish choice of farmland.”
Raiselig ran through the pertinent clauses in their head. Ordinarily they might have needed to refer to the original documentation, but the Aribesh Contract had been a hobby of theirs, and they had learned most of the particulars by heart. “Nothing unexpected, then?”
“Well,” Vharpanu paused for a moment before setting the cup down again. “Nothing extravagantly unusual. Most likely some cross fortunes from another source. You know the region; hexes litter the ground like stones.”
“Indeed,” Raiselig sipped their water again. “I signed a new contract with the Ixi river.”
“Another?” Vharpanu sighed, snapping open her fan and cooling her face. “I swear, that is the most…litigious little creek I’ve ever heard of.”
“Not closing a loophole, this time,” Raiselig raised a finger. “This contract had to do with a man.”
“Really?” Vharpanu leaned forward, her teeth glowing in a brilliant smile. “Do go on.”
“It was merely a formal blessing in accordance with his family’s shrine,” Raiselig waved a hand. “The details are unimportant.”
“They most certainly are not!” Vharpanu gaped. “That old river wouldn’t bless a twig that landed on its banks. Now it has gone and blessed a mortal, and a man at that?” She sucked air through her teeth. “I hope that contract was air-tight; you know that old dribble-drain is going to raise a fuss sooner rather than later. I wouldn’t doubt if it blessed him just so it could raise a fuss later.”
“Perhaps,” Raiselig almost hoped it did, just to see the look on the river’s surface when it tried. “Any other news from the eastern side of the world?”
“Mostly local,” Vharpanu shrugged, leaning back in her chair. “Nothing wide-reaching. Though there is talk that the Three-Legged Sun might be re-visited in the near future.”
Raiselig set down their cup. “You are joking.”
“I am not,” Vharpanu sighed. “Thankfully, the Three-Legged Sun decision was demarcated to the east, so any upheaval will be limited…” she let her voice drift off as she waved her fan in a circle around her head.
Raiselig grit their teeth. “More than a hundred rituals have followed the precedent of the Three-Legged Sun all across the world. There is no telling how far such a shift in our profession could reach.”
“So many?” Vharpanu held up her hands. “No, nevermind. I know better than to challenge your count. Thankfully, it is not our concern yet; we shall have many days to consider how to proceed if they do overturn the decision, and that is assuming they even re-address the decision in the first place.” Another sip. “Any rituals of note?”
“Weddings,” Raiselig nodded. “Funerals. Housewarmings. Coming-of-ages. Births. Ah,” they raised a finger again. “Something of interest with the last one; A Hupatu child given her birth-name and offered to the sun. Chosen by her father, since her mother was ill from the birthing.”
“Yes,” Vharpanu nodded. “Fairly standard, I think?”
“Not unusual at all,” Raiselig’s blue eyes flickered beneath their bowler hat. “But when the offering was made, a crow landed on the headstone.”
“Really?” Vharpanu cocked an eyebrow. “Was the offering good?”
“Freshly killed by the father’s own hand, but they had already mingled their flocks…”
Vharpanu winced. “And I just bet the goat was originally from the mother’s?”
Raiselig nodded.
Vharpanu hissed again, clasping her hands under her chin. “Oh dear. And it’s the father who would speak the name…How did it fall?”
“It didn’t,” Raiselig grimaced. “The priest ended the ritual then and there. Tore the child off of the altar and shoved it into her father’s hands. By the time I left, the village was already calling her ‘Narahshi.’”
“‘No-name,’ eh?” Vharpanu shook her head. “Amazing. How do you think it would have fallen, had they gone through with it? The mother, perhaps? She was already ill-fated with the sickness.”
“I have no opinion on the matter,” Raiselig sipped their water.
“No, I suppose you don’t. And I wouldn’t bet but you were aching to have heard the arguments, weren’t you?” Raiselig’s mouth twitched to Vharpanu’s laughter. “I knew it! You are still the same old Raiselig, aren’t you?”
“I suppose I always have been.”
There was a pause then, in their conversation. Raiselig sampled a cracker again, letting the powerful taste slip down their throat, as potent as pure liquor to a thirsty human.
Vharpanu fanned herself, staring at Raiselig with an odd look in her eye. When she finished her drink, she leaned forward again. “There is one more thing.”
“Oh?” Raiselig brushed their fingers on their trouser leg. “What is that?”
“Outside the village Coldstone, west of the Krapathi mountains.”
“I’m unfamiliar with that town.”
“New this past spring. A pilgrim town, only twenty or so settlers. A fairly standard re-settlement.”
“I see,” Raiselig took their last sip from their cup. “They asked you to help?”
“Indeed they did. I was with them for three months, telling them when to plant their crops in accordance with the season, who was to build the town hall, and how, that sort of thing. By the time my contract was complete, even the most bitter shadow would have welcomed the settlers to their new home. Then,” Vharpanu smiled, “I ministered a funeral.”
Raiselig did not reply, but let Vharpanu continue as she saw fit.
“A young girl, sick from the chill. Born with a weak heart, I suspect. A tragedy, but oh, did they argue! The girl’s father was against the whole village. They wanted to use her as a guiding spirit, to nail her soul to the mountainside and keep watch over them all. He refused, said he would never allow it. Well, of course they asked me my opinion, and naturally, I didn’t say a thing, but in the end, what could the village do? The father would not do the ritual, and they could not force him.”
Raiselig took a sip as they considered this. It was true, while not being perfectly accurate. Many were the levers in a tormented mind.
“So,” Vharpanu shrugged, “he washed the child’s body and lay her out for a day and a night. I watched the whole thing, I swear to you Raiselig, it was immaculate. Every word, every sprig of white-lace, every lit candle…”
In spite of their recalcitrant nature, Raiselig found themself leaning forward. “Yes?”
“Something happened.”
Raiselig huffed a frustrated sigh. “Must you be so vague? Now is not the time for stories; tell me plain. What puts that twinkle in your eye?”
“You’re no fun,” Vharpanu stuck out her tongue. “Plain, then. The ritual was performed, but I felt something was off. Wrong. At first I thought it was no more than a local adjustment, a minor shift in accent or using a different herb from the local biome, that sort of thing — easily remedied — but I decided to be thorough; I wasn’t about to have a Quisitor show up demanding to audit all my efforts. So, I stepped over the boundaries and into the forest, and I found something…unsettling. Now, I wasn’t sure what it was, so I contacted dear Gharvyka, who was nearby ministering a boarder dispute. I asked him to stop by and see what he could discern.”
Raiselig nodded. “Did he agree that it was simply the new environs?”
“No. He thinks it’s a new spirit.”
Raiselig set down their cup. A moment later they leaned forward, licking their lips. “A new spirit?”
“The first in centuries,” Vharpanu nodded. “Now, I had considered binding it myself, but we had already agreed to our little date, so I considered getting a third opinion. Would you care to travel with me to Coldstone and observe?”
Coldstone. A fitting name. How inhospitable a land these pilgrims found for themselves, Raiselig thought, as they walked along the smooth path.
Too rocky for farming, too cold for pigs or cows. Woolly bison and tiny rodents were the only animals Raiselig could see. Birds, not large enough to eat, hopped from branch to outcropping. Icy streams held fish as thin and small as needles. For a time, the poor folk would need to survive on luck.
Vharpanu wiped her golden brow with the back of her laced glove. Steam rose from her bare skin, spreading a fog about her head. “It is times like these, my friend, that I regret sacrificing my wings.”
Raiselig said nothing. They had never had wings to sacrifice.
“See there,” Vharpanu pointed at last. “The village of Coldstone. Ah, I see they have already finished their mine. Much good may it do them.”
Raiselig continued walking, one foot in front of the other, arms gripping their side against the chill. On their back, their cabinet rocked back and forth as they strode closer still.
The fool pilgrims had built their town halfway up a mountain, surrounded by broad snowmelt rivers that flowed down the mountainside. The sun shone bright on the crisp ice and glittering stones that peaked out of their snowbank beds. Tall trees stretched to the sky, their needles pulled low by thick ice. On the thin roads, a cluster of settlers went about their business, carrying buckets of water and repairing torn shirts and socks.
Vharpanu paused at the boundary of the town, resting her foot upon a nearby rock, worn smooth over the centuries of ice and rain. “Well? What do you think?”
Raiselig scratched the back of their neck for a moment before answering. “I have not seen enough to know what I think, yet. Perhaps an evening?”
Vharpanu grinned, her ivory teeth glittering against her golden skin. “I thought you’d never ask! Might I assume that in spite of the torch you bear, you will demand a room of your own?”
Raiselig didn’t move. “You are correct.”
“Ah, well, someday you will admit to your passions.” Vharpanu shouldered her pack and strode into the town. “I shall speak with the headman. He knows me, and he will give us a place to rest.”
Raiselig watched their comrade walk away before producing a thin pair of spectacles from their pocket and placing them on their nose.
Coldstone, a place of both hope and despair. They had traveled long days to reach this place of little food and less warmth. At the whims of the ice rivers would they survive, the spawning fish likely their best source of food if taken sparingly. The trees old and frozen hard as stone. Beneath their feet, dreams of gold and iron lay, hopes for prosperity from cities across the horizon. Dead skins provided warmth. Warm root ale provided joy. There was nothing else here for them, save respite from where they had left.
The ghosts hung about like cobwebs, fading as their distance remained. Ancient words of reprimand and tight-fisted authority, bending their souls into place. Harvest festivals and Sunday masses molded them together into a single people, until the boundaries could keep them no more.
They didn’t fit. Perhaps no one could, forever. They left so they could breathe, but they brought their ghosts with them, poor souls. The same festivals and rituals that chained them so many days ago now protected them from dissolution.
But they were not the same, these rituals. Where a lit candle once celebrated devotion, now it provided protection. Where whispers were once humble prayers, now they were frantic pleas. Contracts, while not broken, frayed and strained as the rituals pressed themselves into the new lands.
How they ached for something new, and how afraid they were of change.
Raiselig took off their spectacles. The sun was low in the sky when Vharpanu strode up to Raiselig, her face bright. “Well, have you seen anything?”
“I have seen many things. Not the strangeness you mean, however.”
“Ah,” Vharpanu wiped her mouth. “I wonder, would you be able to find food on your own?”
Raiselig turned, their eyebrow cocked. “It is a poor village indeed who cannot spare food and lodging to a Scrivener they request. Do they dare risk breaking the bonds so quickly?”
“Yes, well, I’m afraid I am nearing a…limit. As I said, I stayed here a long time to facilitate their resettlement, and then I returned with Gharvyka for a time, and now with you…I’m afraid the town’s hospitality, to say nothing of its patience, is wearing thin.”
“I see. Then I suppose we must look after ourselves.”
“I knew it wouldn’t be too much of a bother,” Vharpanu’s smile was weak. “You always eat so little, and I can always find a bite somewhere.”
Raiselig grimaced. It was true, they didn’t have to eat much, but they still got hungry. “You mentioned the daughter. Where is the grave?”
“Near the forest,” Vharpanu pointed with her closed fan. “There were a great many arguments about where to put their graveyard, or even whether to have one or not. There is not much land for farming, you see, and the birds and fish would appreciate fresh carrion. In the end, they couldn’t change as much as all that. Their dead eaten by birds was just a bit too far from being eaten by worms.”
“I understand,” Raiselig said as they began to walk.
“Though if you think about it,” Vharpanu nudged Raiselig with a jocular elbow, “Birds eat worms, so in the end they simply decided not to deny the worms their final meal.”
“Just as you say,” Raiselig’s pace was steady and difficult for Vharpanu to match.
The grave was simple, a pile of stones and a carved name. Beneath the overturned earth lay a slowly decaying corpse. Simple. Elegant. Sufficient.
Or it should have been…
“You can feel it, can’t you?” Vharpanu whispered, as Raiselig stood from their crouch. “So could Gharvyka. Something is wrong in the forest.”
“Perhaps,” Raiselig pulled the yellowwood cabinet off their back and set it on the ground. Unlocking the doors, they pulled out their willow-wick rod, the most important tool of the Scrivener. With it, they gently touched the stones, the name, the ground. They touched the nearest trees, and traced the thin branches. They waved it through the air, feeling the curves and bends of the breeze.
With consummate care, Raiselig brought out scroll and book from the cabinet, resting them on a small wooden lap-desk to keep them off the dusty ground. Opening each after the other, they traced the words with the willow-wick rod, never once touching the letters with their fingers.
Lastly, the Book of Mercies — the compilation of every loophole, exception, and legal admission — opened wide. Raiselig turned each and every page, read each and every word.
At long last, the book was closed once more.
“Well?”
Raiselig looked at Vharpanu, and she in turn looked back. They gave no answer, because no answer was needed. Vharpanu closed her fan and rested it against her lips.
“Shall we do this together?” she asked. “Were it anyone else I’m sure I would bluster and boast and say they were not needed; I could bind the spirit myself…but with you, Raiselig, I find my humility easy to come by. It has been centuries since a new spirit has been bound, and I’m afraid I am out of practice.”
“We all are,” Raiselig admitted. “Yes, we shall do this together.”
“Would you speak, then?” Vharpanu asked. “You, I think, are closer to the spirit world than I ever was. It may trust you, see in you one who could change.”
Raiselig winced internally at the charge, but nodded all the same. “Very well. Come, we should prepare.”