This is probably the most Mythic Scribes-style story I've ever written--and to my surprise, it's gotten a very positive reception. Maybe it's because so much of the worldbuilding is clearly evident in the story.
Prologue (May 5 and August 7, a century apart)
As I write these words, I am no longer Grand Priest of the Church of the True Divine. There’s nothing left for me to be Grand Priest of.
I must write for both the present and the future. In the present, priests across the no-longer-Blessed land must already be scared and confused, wondering why the Divine no longer answers their prayers. In the future, generations that grew up never knowing the Divine will need to understand why it was so beautiful, and so corruptive.
I will not here explain the nature of my deed. Suffice it to say that, in committing it as Grand Priest, I have placed a seal on the Divine that will never be broken. What I will explain is why I did it . . .
--The Apology of Jovan the Blasphemer
“I’ll let you sum up the rest,” the instructor told them. “How did the Blasphemy come about?”
For a moment, Astra wondered whether she was back in primary school. Every Blessed over the age of six knew this story, and most could probably recite the first two lines from memory. Then she noticed that the instructor was looking at the seat behind her. “Hashan, you get to answer this one,” he continued, and Astra realized how much the next quarter of Basic Theoretical Crystalology was going to suck for the one student in the class who wasn’t Blessed.
She had to admit that he cut a nice figure as he stood up from his desk, dressed in a poncho and pants rather than Blessed robes, his exotic black hair hanging behind him in a ponytail. She might even have called the soft curves of his face cute, different as they were from the points and angles of the Blessed. “We call them Scorned,” he recited confidently, “because the Divine has not gifted them with magic. But I have studied their ‘crystalology’, and while it is a weaker power than our own, it has an important trait that ours lacks--”
“You’ve memorized it,” the instructor interrupted.
“It’s interesting,” the Scorned replied. “He thought in strange ways.”
“I didn’t ask you to memorize it,” the instructor told him. I didn‘t ask you to come in here with that stupid Scorned hair, and that stupid Scorned clothing, and flaunt that your people have studied this for centuries longer than mine have, he said in all but words. “I asked you to answer the question. Can you answer in his place, Mercy?”
The sound of her surname caught Astra off guard, and she stood and answered before she’d really thought it through. “Well, I’m of the opinion that he fried his own brain trying to mix crystalology with Energy magic--”
“WHAT?” the instructor bellowed.
She knew she was digging herself deeper, but she couldn’t seem to stop. “They studied him--I mean, when he died--there were marks on his brain--”
“Broadaxe, your turn. Jovan wanted us to use crystals instead of magic. Why did he want that?”
Broadaxe Perrin turned out to be a short, soft-voiced boy she’d never met before, who looked surprisingly calm in the face of the teacher’s rage. “Crystals are egalitarian. Magic required a very strong will--no woman or Scorned could ever become a priest--but anyone can use any kind of crystal.”
“Exactly right. So why are you here?”
The boy seemed out of his depth. “Uh, because I want to be a healer . . .”
“Let me rephrase that question. If I handed you a crystal right now, you could call power forth from it. But in Scorned lands, most of the people in this class wouldn’t be allowed to so much as hold one. And let me take the opportunity to remind you all--” Here he looked at the Scorned just a little longer than necessary-- “That even here, it is a crime to use one with neither a license nor proper supervision from an instructor like myself. Why is that, Broadaxe?”
“Crystals do weird things sometimes. We need to know how to keep them under control.”
“Precisely! I may seem harsh sometimes, but I’ve worked with crystals for decades. I’ve seen life crystals rip people apart from the inside, cold crystals freeze people’s fingers off . . . It’s my job to ram the theory into your heads, not so nothing ever goes wrong, but so you can fix things when they do go wrong, hopefully before someone gets killed.”
Perrin nodded enthusiastically, until the teacher told all three of them to sit down.
“Now, let’s see who bothered to do the reading. Fisher, can you tell me the first principle of crystalology?”
Astra took it back--this next quarter would suck for everyone.
She met the Scorned again the next day, at the absolute last place she’d expected--the outdoor physical training grounds, where he was working through a warm-up routine with a wooden rod. She stood a safe distance in front of him and went through her own routine, not meeting his eye until she was done. “I didn’t know Scorned trained with staves. How good are you?”
“Not very good,” he replied. “I’m getting better, though.” He examined both her and her staff, and she couldn’t resist a smile as his eyes widened. “That is a very good staff. Are you good?”
“My great-great-great-grandfather was Mercy Orsin,” she told him. When it was clear he had no idea what that meant, she added, “Of the Order of Orsin?” When he didn’t respond to that, “Orsin commanded that we heal the sick, never kill, and never use edged weapons. I’ve been learning the staff since I was five years old.”
“My father’s father’s father’s . . . however many, all of them were merchants. I’ve learned to buy and sell since before I was five. I cannot buy and sell like they can.” His smile was gentle, but his question was serious. “Are you good?”
She twirled her staff overhead for a few seconds, then swung it downwards. It made a satisfying THUNK against the packed dirt. “I’m the best my age in the order, though Piety Alban would argue the point.”
“The best at one of Orsin’s three commands. You study life crystals to fulfill another. Am I correct?”
“I was wondering if you remembered me from class.” He was clearly smarter than she’d expected.
“I found your why. Can you find mine?”
“Uh, you like the climate? You think bread tastes better than rice? You have a thing for yellow-haired Blessed girls?”
For some reason, that last one amused him. “You are funny, miss . . . Mercy, it was? I will give you my why as a gift. I am merchant caste. Few merchants rise to warrior caste, and fewer warriors rise to crystal-worker caste. I want to see if it is true that Blessed have no castes.” He hoisted his staff above his head, then slowly lowered it. “I would challenge you now, but you said you are good. I must first challenge another who is not good. I will challenge you when I beat him.”
“Hold that thought.” Out of the corner of her eye, she’d noticed Alban together with Merritt, both in padded armor. “Come over this way. This should be fun to watch.”
Alban had already donned his helmet, and was giving Merritt his usual warning. “I hope you’re better prepared for this than last time.”
Merritt was giving his usual reply. “Best of three, loser pays for lunch at The Boar’s Head . . . Hey, we’ve got an audience! I’ll try to fight extra hard!”
He did. He truly did. For the first time in six matches, he actually scored a hit. But as always, the first thing out of his mouth when his ass hit the dirt for the final time was “I’ll get you next time.”
Astra took over the introductions once he’d stood again. “These fine folks over here are Piety Alban and Charity Merritt. If the names didn’t tip you off, they’re fellow members of my order. And this strapping fellow is . . . er . . . Hasan, was it?”
The Scorned made a sound that reminded her of a sneeze. “But you Blessed say the given name last, so . . .” He repeated the sneeze with some of the syllables switched around. “Blessed never pronounce it right, though. Call me Hashan Sahe.”
In retrospect, she thought it significant that he thought backwards from how she did. At the time, however, she simply smiled. “If you’d like to have lunch with us, Hashan Sahe, I’m sure Merritt’s finances can accommodate one more person.”
Merritt started to protest, of course, but they all ignored his whining as they made their way off the field.
Prologue (May 5 and August 7, a century apart)
As I write these words, I am no longer Grand Priest of the Church of the True Divine. There’s nothing left for me to be Grand Priest of.
I must write for both the present and the future. In the present, priests across the no-longer-Blessed land must already be scared and confused, wondering why the Divine no longer answers their prayers. In the future, generations that grew up never knowing the Divine will need to understand why it was so beautiful, and so corruptive.
I will not here explain the nature of my deed. Suffice it to say that, in committing it as Grand Priest, I have placed a seal on the Divine that will never be broken. What I will explain is why I did it . . .
--The Apology of Jovan the Blasphemer
“I’ll let you sum up the rest,” the instructor told them. “How did the Blasphemy come about?”
For a moment, Astra wondered whether she was back in primary school. Every Blessed over the age of six knew this story, and most could probably recite the first two lines from memory. Then she noticed that the instructor was looking at the seat behind her. “Hashan, you get to answer this one,” he continued, and Astra realized how much the next quarter of Basic Theoretical Crystalology was going to suck for the one student in the class who wasn’t Blessed.
She had to admit that he cut a nice figure as he stood up from his desk, dressed in a poncho and pants rather than Blessed robes, his exotic black hair hanging behind him in a ponytail. She might even have called the soft curves of his face cute, different as they were from the points and angles of the Blessed. “We call them Scorned,” he recited confidently, “because the Divine has not gifted them with magic. But I have studied their ‘crystalology’, and while it is a weaker power than our own, it has an important trait that ours lacks--”
“You’ve memorized it,” the instructor interrupted.
“It’s interesting,” the Scorned replied. “He thought in strange ways.”
“I didn’t ask you to memorize it,” the instructor told him. I didn‘t ask you to come in here with that stupid Scorned hair, and that stupid Scorned clothing, and flaunt that your people have studied this for centuries longer than mine have, he said in all but words. “I asked you to answer the question. Can you answer in his place, Mercy?”
The sound of her surname caught Astra off guard, and she stood and answered before she’d really thought it through. “Well, I’m of the opinion that he fried his own brain trying to mix crystalology with Energy magic--”
“WHAT?” the instructor bellowed.
She knew she was digging herself deeper, but she couldn’t seem to stop. “They studied him--I mean, when he died--there were marks on his brain--”
“Broadaxe, your turn. Jovan wanted us to use crystals instead of magic. Why did he want that?”
Broadaxe Perrin turned out to be a short, soft-voiced boy she’d never met before, who looked surprisingly calm in the face of the teacher’s rage. “Crystals are egalitarian. Magic required a very strong will--no woman or Scorned could ever become a priest--but anyone can use any kind of crystal.”
“Exactly right. So why are you here?”
The boy seemed out of his depth. “Uh, because I want to be a healer . . .”
“Let me rephrase that question. If I handed you a crystal right now, you could call power forth from it. But in Scorned lands, most of the people in this class wouldn’t be allowed to so much as hold one. And let me take the opportunity to remind you all--” Here he looked at the Scorned just a little longer than necessary-- “That even here, it is a crime to use one with neither a license nor proper supervision from an instructor like myself. Why is that, Broadaxe?”
“Crystals do weird things sometimes. We need to know how to keep them under control.”
“Precisely! I may seem harsh sometimes, but I’ve worked with crystals for decades. I’ve seen life crystals rip people apart from the inside, cold crystals freeze people’s fingers off . . . It’s my job to ram the theory into your heads, not so nothing ever goes wrong, but so you can fix things when they do go wrong, hopefully before someone gets killed.”
Perrin nodded enthusiastically, until the teacher told all three of them to sit down.
“Now, let’s see who bothered to do the reading. Fisher, can you tell me the first principle of crystalology?”
Astra took it back--this next quarter would suck for everyone.
-- -- -- --
She met the Scorned again the next day, at the absolute last place she’d expected--the outdoor physical training grounds, where he was working through a warm-up routine with a wooden rod. She stood a safe distance in front of him and went through her own routine, not meeting his eye until she was done. “I didn’t know Scorned trained with staves. How good are you?”
“Not very good,” he replied. “I’m getting better, though.” He examined both her and her staff, and she couldn’t resist a smile as his eyes widened. “That is a very good staff. Are you good?”
“My great-great-great-grandfather was Mercy Orsin,” she told him. When it was clear he had no idea what that meant, she added, “Of the Order of Orsin?” When he didn’t respond to that, “Orsin commanded that we heal the sick, never kill, and never use edged weapons. I’ve been learning the staff since I was five years old.”
“My father’s father’s father’s . . . however many, all of them were merchants. I’ve learned to buy and sell since before I was five. I cannot buy and sell like they can.” His smile was gentle, but his question was serious. “Are you good?”
She twirled her staff overhead for a few seconds, then swung it downwards. It made a satisfying THUNK against the packed dirt. “I’m the best my age in the order, though Piety Alban would argue the point.”
“The best at one of Orsin’s three commands. You study life crystals to fulfill another. Am I correct?”
“I was wondering if you remembered me from class.” He was clearly smarter than she’d expected.
“I found your why. Can you find mine?”
“Uh, you like the climate? You think bread tastes better than rice? You have a thing for yellow-haired Blessed girls?”
For some reason, that last one amused him. “You are funny, miss . . . Mercy, it was? I will give you my why as a gift. I am merchant caste. Few merchants rise to warrior caste, and fewer warriors rise to crystal-worker caste. I want to see if it is true that Blessed have no castes.” He hoisted his staff above his head, then slowly lowered it. “I would challenge you now, but you said you are good. I must first challenge another who is not good. I will challenge you when I beat him.”
“Hold that thought.” Out of the corner of her eye, she’d noticed Alban together with Merritt, both in padded armor. “Come over this way. This should be fun to watch.”
Alban had already donned his helmet, and was giving Merritt his usual warning. “I hope you’re better prepared for this than last time.”
Merritt was giving his usual reply. “Best of three, loser pays for lunch at The Boar’s Head . . . Hey, we’ve got an audience! I’ll try to fight extra hard!”
He did. He truly did. For the first time in six matches, he actually scored a hit. But as always, the first thing out of his mouth when his ass hit the dirt for the final time was “I’ll get you next time.”
Astra took over the introductions once he’d stood again. “These fine folks over here are Piety Alban and Charity Merritt. If the names didn’t tip you off, they’re fellow members of my order. And this strapping fellow is . . . er . . . Hasan, was it?”
The Scorned made a sound that reminded her of a sneeze. “But you Blessed say the given name last, so . . .” He repeated the sneeze with some of the syllables switched around. “Blessed never pronounce it right, though. Call me Hashan Sahe.”
In retrospect, she thought it significant that he thought backwards from how she did. At the time, however, she simply smiled. “If you’d like to have lunch with us, Hashan Sahe, I’m sure Merritt’s finances can accommodate one more person.”
Merritt started to protest, of course, but they all ignored his whining as they made their way off the field.
