The Priesthood

If coding, the process that allows magic to happen, is mainly based on understanding the properties of things around you, even some physics. If all this is mainly just words and numbers, can’t one create their own language to shorten and streamline coding itself?

This was a thought that had entered Kanrel’s mind recently while observing how some handymen, with the help of Isbit Jankse, would communicate with each other in shortened sentences, sometimes yelling just a word followed by some numbers, for example: “Hammer, fifteen!”

For the handymen, this meant “a hammer and fifteen nails.” Sometimes just an action would be enough to receive a thing that was needed, like holding your hand upward, which was enough for another handyman to give him whatever he might’ve needed.

This, of course, was only possible when the people working together understood each other and the language they used. All this was just to make things quicker; there was no point in exclaiming long sentences since that would only be a waste of time.

Kanrel had written down this idea of his and soon after began working on it. It would be complicated, as he would have to produce a new kind of vocabulary altogether. He started with fire and assigned it the very simple letter "F." Not only would this letter mean fire, but it would also have to mean the properties of fire; it had to hold within it all of the information that one would need to create fire.

This “F” would also have to have a base level of power. It could not be an explosive creation that would set your surroundings, or worse, yourself, on fire. It had to be something small, useful, and manageable.

So the letter “F” would basically mean fire that was equal to the fire produced by a match. And the magnitude, or power, of the fire could be decided with numbers. From one to 5, for now, each number would mean a slightly more potent speck of fire, from that of a match to a burning log.

In theory, with enough practice, he should be able to form fire, suspended about a meter away from his face; the location would be decided by his vision, like always. But what about the shape? What if he wanted to create a ball of fire or even a long line of fire?

This was something he would have to figure out later, so for now, he went out to test his new code.

It had been about a week since he was able to move into the temple; most things inside were fixed, replaced, or moved to another location within the temple. Outside, there were still some minor things that the handymen had to work on, so Kanrel chose the evening to be his time for testing out the theory.

He stood in front of the temple and carefully began forming a code and the location of a simple fire at level one. He could feel the familiar disgust go through his body in multiple waves; it was much more potent than when he used his usual codes.

He stopped halfway through the code, as he did not feel like vomiting just yet.

What would be the cause of this sensation? Of course, feeling disgusted while using magic and forming codes was normal; it was to be expected, but why was it suddenly so potent?

The only reason for it that he could think of was his own unfamiliarity with this way of doing things. He had to get used to this way of feeling so disgusted.

Kanrel grimaced because he knew what this meant in practice: he would have to produce a code using his new “language”, fail, vomit, and then repeat until he succeeded. After which, he would have to keep practicing and keep vomiting until he was no longer affected by the disgusting feeling of using this unfamiliar code.

At least he could use the same code to burn the vomit.

As the evening turned into night and the sun was setting on the horizon, it quickly became clear how difficult changing your preferred way of coding and magic can be.

Kanrel remembered how he had dinner; of course, the food didn’t really taste like anything, but at least he wasn’t hungry, nor was he puking out the things that he ate. But now... he felt weak; hungry even.

Slowly, he had begun to master his new craft, although it was yet to be nearly as effective as his usual way of doing things.

To burn the last vomit and thus finish his last test for the day, he used the old code that he had used at the beginning of his real experience with magic. One's mind cannot help but look back at those times and how Oidus used to do this for him.

He should write to them and to everyone. To his mother, to Yviev, to Wen, to Oidus, to Uanna, and to Yirn... Yirn?

Kanrel stood still, motionless, and looked ahead, not seeing the things that were before him, just that one name endlessly rotating in his mind. Yirn.

It had been months, and he had thought about him so much. He had wished that the things that had happened hadn't happened. Perhaps he could have saved him; he could have helped him away from his choices that only brought him to his own demise.

He gritted his teeth and went back inside. He’d write down observations about his tests with his new codes, and perhaps then he’d think about those letters, writing them to those he called his friends.

Maybe they also had their regrets; he wasn’t the only one who lost someone. They all lost a friend, but maybe the difference was how they now felt about that friend.

He sat across the window in his room. Before him were a multitude of writing materials: notebooks, paper, ink, pens, and envelopes. Not to mention the Iduldian family seal.

He held his pen and looked at an empty piece of paper; not a single word had found its way onto its naked surface. What would he even write? What could he ask? To whom should he write first? Where should he even send this letter?

He set his pen back down and got up. He couldn’t do it, not now. He would wait for anyone to send him a letter first; they’d figure it out, and they’d have things to say. He didn’t have anything to say.

In the candlelight of his dim room, he could see his face staring back at him in the window. A scruffy, dark beard had begun growing. He ran his fingers through this new thing, which he had never thought about.

He was getting older. And to be quite precise, he didn’t even know how old he was. Only that he was adopted by his mother sixteen summers ago. He could kind of remember that day and even some days prior.

Lo’ Gran, the great capital of this kingdom, is the seat of power for both the crown and the Priesthood. It is the richest city, the largest, and the most populated. He had once lived there alone, just another nameless street rat that polluted the beauty of the city.

He had lived on the outskirts of the city, still within the walls but among the poorest population of the city. For his kind, there was no place, no orphanages, and no helping hands. As a child, he would beg, he would steal, and he would do anything to have something to eat. He would spend his nights under bridges during the summers; it wouldn’t yet be so cold that he’d freeze to death.

The only winter he could remember was the one from which the Herald of the Gods saved him. Someone who is homeless and poor like him would have to break into a cellar or an unoccupied home to be able to survive the harsh, cold winter.

But he had been unlucky, for the family that owned the cellar had found him there and then thrown him out into the cold. No one would want to house a rodent-like him, even if the rodent was a child.

It was the evening, and the sun had not for the longest of times been up; so cold it was. A child walked through the night, from the outskirts of the city to near the center of it; each step was just pain; hunger was crawling inside, calling for him to eat; his tired body was ready to give up. What was the point of living if you had to try so hard just to have dinner?

He still remembered how the houses got bigger, the doors more grand, and there were no people there—none to inhabit the cold streets. At random, he chose a door, one made out of dark oak. It and the building above were imposing compared to his small, malnourished frame.

With the last of his strength, he used to knock on the door, then collapsed soon after, slowly drifting away and entering the lull of darkness. Perhaps if he closed his eyes, it wouldn't be so cold anymore. Perhaps warmth would take him as its own, and peace could be brought to a nameless child.

Kanrel blew the candle out and let there be just the darkness. He was not a child anymore; that was more than apparent; that child had died. That child brutally jumped to his own death. That child was nowhere to be seen on his face.

He gritted his teeth and sat down on the floor. A man who lacks the ability to feel joy once thought that he was equally unable to love, yet here he was, on the brink of tears, just thinking about how much he loved his mother. How much he owed her.

She hadn’t even wanted him to take this path; she had advised against it, yet the son wanted to be like his mother—someone so good, someone so warm, even with her lack of ability when it came to smiling. His smile was hers; they shared that same lack of talent for smiling.

He missed her; he wanted to be back home in that house, which was warm and had saved him from the cold and death. She had tried so hard to be a normal mother, even when she had herself been a priest.

Kanrel lay down and peered for a moment at the darkness of his own ceiling. Even with this pain, this constant cold within, and this bitter regret that held its grip around his throat, he would live. He would pay back what he owed her.

He would be a son worth her time and sacrifice. Maybe there’d be a day—just maybe one moment—when he could feel all the emotions he once felt. Maybe he could confess just how much he loved her. How much he cared for her and how much he owed her.

All this, just so that she could take him into her arms and say, “It’s alright.”

That is all he needs; that is all that any man needs. For anyone, anyone at all, to say these simple words to him. To promise that it will indeed all be alright.

As Kanrel closed his eyes and drifted into the night, he lulled into that darkness, hoping for its warmth, but only found more nightmares to keep company. The night was cold on the floor, and when he woke the next morning, that too, he had learned to regret.

Kanrel got up and began the needed preparations for the day ahead; his job would be to walk around the village, seeking out people who might need his help. After all, spring was here, and with spring, the village would wake up from its slumber, preparing itself for the work that was ahead of itself.

The fields would have to be prepared with toil, and soon the first plants would be sown. Finally, Kanrel would be able to see how the village and its people fed themselves throughout the year.