Sammart sat on the rock, contemplating the apprentice sitting in the dirt before him. This was how the ritual went. This was how it had always gone. One who sees little, one who Sees Over. This was how the apprentice would ascend.
"I am satisfied." Sammart placed his hands around a small engraving on the rock before him, an engraving of an amulet with a blood-red ruby at its center. "The Judgement of Abirt is satisfied as well. Rise and assume your position."
Suppressing his natural delight at having passed his final Trial, Potas rose to his feet before the High Librarian.
"Potas of the Fourth Cietu, you are trained and knowledgeable in the histories of our people, in the tales of the Old Ones, and in the lessons of our tribe, the lessons our fathers learned from their fathers, and that our granddaughters will learn from our daughters. You are now a Novice Librarian. Step forward and present your Baj."
Potas stepped towards Sammart, the High Keeper of Legends, removed his shirt, and turned to give the older man easy access to his upper left chest. Sammart dipped a sharp needle in a vial of black ink (a glass vial, clearly from Before, and thus an irreplaceable artifact) and began to add to the rectangular tattoo below the other man's clavicle. He poked the ink into Potas's skin rapidly yet gently, a practiced motion from the dozens of times he had carried out the action. A third arrow added to the Holy Seal on the upper left, completing the symbol. A third line added in the center. The tattoo now read:
ESPY FONSHUN
POTAS NAME
LAVAL ||| RASHAR
Space was left for two more lines, should Potas be so blessed. Sammart's own tattoo has those lines, though the wrinkles made it difficult to see them at his advanced age. There would be few more of these rituals for Sammart. Perhaps none.
"By tradition," Sammart spoke at last, "you are permitted to ask of me three questions. Would you like to do so?"
"Of co—I mean, yes, Over-Seer," Potas said. He had thought of two questions well before now. "Do you believe I will ever become as wise and aged as you?"
Sammart frowned. "Your flattery will earn you nothing, boy," he said. "Impressed though we of the Cown Sil are with your learnings, you are still but a child in our eyes. Do you understand?"
Potas was abashed at the rebuke. "Yes, Over-Seer."
"Sniveling self-abasement aside," Sammart continued, "yes, I do see some of myself in you. You may indeed live to become very much like myself. Perhaps you will be more tolerant of children who behave in such a way as this towards you. That will be at the end of your path, long after I have reached the end of mine."
"Thank you, sir," Potas replied. "Are there many legends yet to learn?"
"Your second question? Ah, very well. Yes, of course, there are many legends that are lost entirely, and many that are lost mostly but may be found later in time, and some that exist that never happened at all. Don't get that stricken look on your face, boy; we must Keep the legends we are told as well as we can, but we cannot speak for the accuracy of some of our ancestors. Privately, and I feel I may tell you this as no one would believe you if you shared it, I am not entirely convinced of the divinity of the Old Gods."
Potas was shocked, and was unable to conceal it. "But…but why?"
Sammart had struggled with that question himself for a long time. "I find I cannot believe in gods foolish enough to behave as the Old Ones did. Justifications are given forever; Geyer's destruction of the cities when they displeased him, Drakgin's vengeance in the form of his 'pet' Sikayt. But when you reach my age, you realize exactly what their stories resemble. Just that. Stories of men and women that made the best of failure. I have told enough stories to know the false ones when I hear them."
Potas had no more words. "So you don't believe in anything?"
"I didn't say that. I just believe in few things. Now what is your last question?"
Potas had not been able to consider a third question, but suddenly, he could only think of one that would fit. "Would you…would you tell me one of the other stories?"
Sammart blinked. "Other stories? What other stories?"
"We tell so many tales, about York's thievery and Starel's bravery. But surely there are some tales that are told less frequently, some that are barely told at all. I…I would like to hear one. From you."
Sammart considered. He had not actually Spoken a Tale in many winters; that was typically left to the younger Keepers. But tradition said the boy had every right to ask, and he should try to satisfy his curiosity. And he did miss the Tellings.
"Very well, I can tell you a story. Do you have a request? There is the tale of Drakgin's madness, in which he believed tusked slugs with wings would help him fight the devil Popstmagee. There is the tale of the Espy-That-Was-Not, Fifteve, and the revenants of its mayhem in this world. There is the tale of the death of Kalef with the destruction of the All-Light above us."
"Are…are there any that do not tell of the Great Ones? Surely there were lesser Gods that had their time as well."
Sammart thought further. "There is one story, though it is a bit stranger. The Parable of the Wayward Prince. Would you like to hear some of it?"
"What happens in it?" Potas asked. He was now like an actual child, asking his father for a bedtime story.
"It tells of another land, the Woods of Alexia, and a prince of that world who chose to abandon his riches in search of a different dream. The prince could have had a life of luxury, but he felt the ways of his people were wrong and sought to change them. But the prince had not expected that in his quest to make a different world, his war would change him as much as he changed his nation. At the story's beginning, he is a dark man, haunted by death, and has turned to sorceries to complete his mission."
"It sounds like a faerie's tale," Potas said.
"That is not all," Sammart replied. "The tale is also of a fellow Keeper, a coward named Daf'eed, who is forced to find his strength. The Keeper was weak, and the magicks of the Woods almost overpowered him, But he recovered, with the help of…others, and found his courage."
Potas rested his head into his hands, sitting cross-legged on the ground, as the Over-Seer told him the Parable.
