The library held the weight of knowledge accumulated over centuries. Its volumes covered an assortment of topics: religious, legal, military, architecture and engineering, history, chronicles, philosophy; but one category grabbed Stephan’s attention as surely as a lodestone draws iron. Books written by Paladins.
Their spines looked no different from the rest, but when he pulled the first book free, it felt heavy.
== Keep in mind how fast things pass by and are gone; those that are now, and those we are waiting to come. Lives and events flow past us like a river: the “what” is in constant flux, the “why” has a thousand variations. Nothing is stable, not even what’s right here. The infinity of past and future gapes before us—a chasm whose depths we cannot see. So it would take an idiot to feel self-importance or distress. Or any indignation, either. ==
“Are you calling me an idiot for caring?” Stephan muttered at the page.
The room swallowed his voice. Chandler had long since been dismissed. There was no one to hear him but the ghosts of the margins.
He turned the page.
== You will often hear: “This evil is not of my doing, nor the result of it.” “My community is not endangered, why should it bother me?” “Where’s the danger for me?”
This is why we will never eradicate evil. ==
Stephan flipped the pages, uncomfortable with what he was seeing. Parchment whispered beneath his fingers. Then, he reached one with writing on its narrow margins.
== What is it in ourselves that we should prize as humans? Not just transpiration, for even plants do that. Or respiration, beasts and wild animals breathe. Or being struck by passing thoughts. Or jerked like a puppet by your own impulses. Or moving in herds. Or eating, and relieving yourself afterwards.
Then what is to be prized?
An audience clapping? No. No more than the clacking of their tongues. Which is all that public praise amounts to—a clacking of tongues. So we throw out other people’s recognition. What’s left for us to prize?
I think it’s this: to do, or not do, that for which gods bestowed our class to us.” ==
Stephan’s eyes slowed. He read on carefully.
==That’s the goal of all classes; what each of them aims at: that the thing they create should do what it was designed to do. The Artisans who care for the vines or horses or dogs, aim to produce the best.
Experience and lessons and mistakes, even if you are the only one to know them, that is what you should prize. Hold on to that, remember, and you won’t be tempted to aim at anything else. And if you can’t stop prizing a lot of other things? Then you’ll never be free—free, independent, imperturbable.
Respect your own mind. Prize it, you will be satisfied with your own self, well integrated into your community and in tune with the gods as well. Embrace what they have allotted you. Even when the whole world forgets you. ==
Even when the whole world forgets you. He stared at that one line, then his gaze drifted to the margins.
In three distinct hands, written with slightly different colored inks, stood two simple words repeated thrice: ‘It’s true.’
His chest felt heavy.
“This is way too advanced for me,” he muttered again.
He carefully replaced the book and grabbed another, flipping it open at random as if hoping for something clearer. Something he could understand.
== If we commit evil, if we disregard our duty, but nobody sees it, are we doing anything wrong? Yes, we are. Even if we are the only ones who will know. If all the causes and consequences of our actions are erased, both the ending and the path leading towards it gone, are we doing anything wrong? The line suddenly blurs, does it not?
No, it does not, and yes, you are committing evil. Do not, for it will haunt you. The cause and consequence which do not exist will stalk like ghosts, nightmares sent to you by the one who feasts on them. ==
Stephan put that book back in its place. And checked another and another. He hoped for practical guides on how to gain levels, how to override the curse; what he found were ramblings. He understood that the Paladins past hinted at their condition, their experiences. They gave their thoughts and reflections of their final lives. Doubts and philosophies about fate and duty and whatever else they thought important.
But what was most important to Stephan wasn’t there.
He wanted a manual. How to gain levels quickly. How to override the curse. How to break an army alone.
He found none of it, but he already knew the answer.
I just need to reach a high level. Then they will obey me, and I will be able to fight the attackers all on my own. Perhaps even persuade them to surrender peacefully.
He could see it, standing alone before a kneeling host. Everyone offering swords and allegiance. The image collapsed under the weight of its own absurdity.
He needed fifty levels, at least; and he was stuck in Cliffort. There was no way for him to go scouting or clearing brigands and warlocks. The only thing he had were walls. Walls and waiting.
Did they really just give up? Stephan had seen it between the lines. The resignation. The acceptance that evil would persist. That fate would unfold as it must. How could they?
Anger bubbled in Stephan’s chest. How could they? They were old and wise and powerful! Why?
What Valerio the Valiant? He gave up, a coward! What Tristan the Thoughtful? Had he really been thoughtful, he would’ve figured something out.
He raised the tome, hand shaking with rage, ready to throw it, but stopped himself. Even if it was useless, the book was expensive and had other potential uses.
With visible effort, he lowered it.
The siege. I need to focus on books on sieges and military.
He shoved the Paladins’ volume back into place a little too harshly and turned to tactical treatises instead.
Outside, it was getting dark. The library dimmed, and Stephan had nothing on him with which to light the candle. He replaced the book carefully, with much more reverence than he gave to Paladin nonsense, then opened the door to find Dorian waiting and attentive.
“Could you light the candle inside?”
“Sir,” Dorian straightened. “If I may make a suggestion. The most valuable treasure in a castle is its lord’s health. It is time for dinner, then time for rest. You have had a difficult handful days, and the ones that will follow won’t be any easier; perhaps it would be wise to focus on yourself during these short summer nights?”
Stephan stared at him.
“I’m perfectly fine,” he said after a stunned silence. “Please light the candles. I have a lot of reading to do and not enough time.”
Ever the professional, Dorian did as his master ordered, then left the library. Stephan got back to reading. The faint scent of honey released by the candles mixed with the herbs, drawing him deeper until he lost track of the world outside.
== If your enemy is secure at all points, be prepared for him. If he is in superior strength, evade him. If your opponent is temperamental, seek to irritate him. Pretend to be weak, that he may grow arrogant. If he is taking his ease, give him no rest. If his forces are united, separate them. If the commander and soldiers are in accord, put division between them. Attack him where he is unprepared, appear where you are not expected. ==
Stephan reread the passage. Am I supposed to attack them while we are besieged?
He considered it. It wasn’t a bad idea, their attackers would be a coalition of levies from many lords. They would be disorganized and lacking professional, battle-tested troops. A troop of ten trustworthy knights could sneak over, set one group’s supplies on fire, and retreat in the chaos.
Stephan could almost smell the smoke.
He remembered what Lord Marshal had told him and smiled. It’s certainly not something the Paladin would do.
He kept reading.
== When the enemy is relaxed, make them toil. When full, starve them. When settled, make them move. ==
He tapped his finger against the desk. Eliminating or damaging their supplies would force them to toil, to roam for food, or seek fresh supplies from home. They would cast blame and argue.
The more he thought about it, the more Stephan liked it. He kept reading when a knock broke the silence.
“Sir,” Lord Silas’s gentle voice carried through the door. “Midnight has passed. It’s time for sleep.”
“I have too much to do, Silas—”
“And you shall do it on the morrow. The enemy is still weeks away, perhaps months, and you are diligent. While your desire to improve yourself is admirable, and while you are carrying your mantle well, you are but a man, and men need rest.”
Grudgingly, Stephan relented. He extinguished the candle and left the room, torches burning in the hallway. He locked the door and went to bed, similar conversations repeating night after night as Stephan formed his plans.
On the fifth evening, a soft, unfamiliar knock came.
“Stephan,” the feminine voice shook with uncertainty. “Sir Dorian and Lord Drawbridge asked me to come here and tell you you needed to take a break.”
“Lacy?” Stephan stumbled over to the door and opened it.
“Are you well?” Lacy took in his appearance with a worried look. “Your eyes are red and watery.”
“I’m fine, fine,” Stephan chuckled nervously. He looked down the short corridor, but nobody was there. I guess they are hiding around the corner to give us a bit of privacy.
“Why are you here?” he asked.
“Lord Drawbridge told me to come fetch you and make sure you eat a hearty supper. He said you haven’t been taking care of yourself properly.” She gave him another critical look-over. “And he’s right.”
Stephan was a little disappointed. Lacy had come for him, but only after others commanded her.
“I’ve been busy,” Stephan pushed his shoulders back, suddenly aware of his stooped posture. “I have a lot of reading to do, and I’ve only been through two books.”
He smiled slightly. “Thank you for the cornbread. It’s as great as ever. Even better.”
Lacy nodded. “It’s not hard. They have good cornmeal here.”
She averted her gaze, and Stephan just stood there in silence
“Well, are you going?” she asked with no small amount of embarrassment.
“Where?”
“To have supper with me—” Stephan heard the swallowed, ‘you dummy,’ even if Lacy hadn’t said it.
“I miss the time when you talked openly with me,” he mumbled, then looked her in the eye and spoke louder. “Let’s eat.”
He locked the library door. Down the corridor, he caught the faint scuff of retreating boots. Then he boldly took Lacy’s hand and led the way to his private dining room.
Her fingers were warm. Real. Alive.
He held on a moment longer than necessary before leading her, the scent of ink and herbs finally fading behind him.