#
Two hours later, Jaret was kneeling in the Temple of Order before a statue of Xionious Valatarian. Made of delicately carved granite, the twelve foot statue showed their savior with his hands outstretched, face clear, bald head pointed toward the sky. His robes hung in perfect lines from his arms, shrouding his powerful figure. Sandaled feet poked out from under the robes where they rose ever so slightly from the ground. The sun shone through the stained glass window to the side, washing the Savior with greens, blues, and yellows as if anointing him with the divine light of the Order from the heavens above.
The window showed the sun rising above the ocean, circled by gulls, casting out the dark night. It was the symbol upon which the Empire had been founded, order rising out of the chaos of night to bind the world with its embrace. For a thousand years, the Empire that Valatarian had founded had protected that order, had stood as a bulwark against chaos. But now, Jaret wondered if the time had come for the sun to set on Valatarian’s mighty empire, if the world had moved beyond it, if the chaos had darkened it beyond any sunrise’s ability to save.
Still he prayed to Valatarian, asked their savior for some way to save the Empire he loved, to bind it together, to preserve it and the Order that it represented. As with every day, the statue provided no answers. But he came nonetheless, and somehow his problems always seemed less after he had shared them, after he had cast them to the Order and listened patiently, if unrequitedly, for an answer.
“If only I could convince the counselors to pray as you do,” a voice broke into Jaret’s dark contemplations. An old man sat next to him on the bench at his back and placed a hand on his shoulder. “If the Order did not need you as a soldier, I would find you a top place in the Hall of Understanding. I think a life of study and prayer would suit you.” The old man took a deep breath. “Sit with me a minute. I have not seen you in weeks. Tell me of your trip.”
Jaret looked back over his shoulder into the eyes of Xi Valati Maciam. He was an old man, with short white hair framing the bald pate of his head. His nose was long, cheeks high and sunken. Big ears stood out from his narrow head and great shaggy brows shielded his kind, brown eyes. He wore a brown robe of finely woven wool. It was embroidered with patterns that symbolized order at the cuffs, neck, and hem but was otherwise plain. The wooden pendant – a magnificently carved and polished representation of the rising sun – that marked his position glistened like gold in the light of the lamps that illuminated the statue before them.
“Your Grace,” Jaret bowed, placing his head almost in the Xi Valati’s lap. “I was secretly hoping that I might see you today.”
“Enough with the prostration.” The Xi Valati lifted Jaret’s shoulders and guided him to the bench next to him. He found Jaret’s hand and held it in his large, thin fingers. “One could argue that it is I that should be kneeling to you.” The old man laughed at Jaret’s look of shock and disgust. “You take all this far too seriously, Jaret. The best part of the Reinterpretation is that it allowed us to find the humor in the Order. I am convinced that Hileil thought himself a comedian. His jokes are woven into every crease of the Order.”
“As you say, your Grace.” Jaret was never sure what to do with the Xi Valati’s informality. Though the old man had become more of a father than Jaret had ever known, he would never be able to address the Order’s most senior interpreter with anything other than the utmost reverence.
The Xi Valati sighed long and deep. He gestured to the acolytes that accompanied him, and they took several steps back, giving them some privacy. “I always find it interesting how some men stand on their power like a mountain from which they can lord over their subjects while others carry that mountain on their shoulders to keep it from crushing the people below. In the Empire, we have both such men simultaneously. What do you think would happen if you simply set your burden down?”
Jaret did not answer immediately. He had never thought of it that way, but lately, he certainly felt like there was a mountain on his shoulders. “The mountain might sag a bit lower, but others would certainly take up the burden and may even lift it higher.”
“They would collapse,” the Xi Valati exclaimed, slapping his hands together. “The whole thing would come crashing down.”
Jaret grunted. The sentiment did not encourage him in the slightest. If anything he felt his burden grow heavier.
“So what is troubling you today? And don’t give me any of your stoic, ‘nothing important enough to worry the Order’ nonsense. The only men who pray that hard are those with no other hope. Was your tour that bad?”
Worse, Jaret thought. It had been a disaster. The people were starving, the nobles were indifferent, the army was a shambles, the crops were withered, the rivers were dry, and the anger was building. He expected any day to learn that the scattered uprising that plagued the countryside had consolidated into full-scale revolt, that nobles were being hung, and a rebel army was marching on Sal Danar. The Empire was teetering on the edge of collapse, and he couldn’t think of a single thing to do about it . . . save pray. Hopeless indeed!
And for some reason, he told it all the Xi Valati. Over the course of thirty precious minutes, he blurted out his problems like a child, like some half-brained girl. He described the skeletons working the dusty fields, the hate in their eyes as their children starved. He raged against the bloated nobles feasting in their silks and jewels, unwilling even to throw the scraps to the people they buried with their taxes. He whined about the state of his army, half-starved, poorly equipped, ill-trained, lacking the discipline of a band of outlaws – and likely to become outlaws soon enough. The Xi Valati listened to him blubber, nodded quietly, held his hand, patted his back, and made encouraging sounds.
When he finally ran out of complaints to heap upon the Order’s foremost representative, he felt wrung out, like he had poured every bit of himself out onto the old man’s lap. “Do you feel better?” the Xi Valati asked.
Jaret was surprised by the question. He had done everything but cry like a baby. He had expected a lecture about keeping his resolve, about not letting his troubles overcome him, about bucking up and acting like a man. But the Xi Valati had never given him that lecture before; he was not sure why he expected it now. Because that is what I would tell myself. Jaret straightened, feeling suddenly ashamed for having laid his problems at the feet of another man. He wanted to be scolded for his weakness, wanted to be told to stop crying, but Xi Valati Maciam would not let him off that easy. If he had come with miseries, he wanted to help him with miseries.
“It is of no concern,” Jaret said, turning away. “The babbling of a child who realizes that mama can’t actually keep the monsters away. Nothing more.”
“Jaret, look at me,” the Xi Valati commanded, his tone snapping as Jaret had never heard. His head spun as if out of his control, and his eyes were held by the Xi Valati’s suddenly fiery stare. “You see. You have seen all our troubles, our miseries, all the ways we have failed. And I would never dismiss those, but it is all part of the Order, all necessary for what will come. We are entering a time of turmoil. A storm is coming that will make these troubles seem as petty as your child’s fears.”
The Xi Valati paused, held Jaret with his eyes, then moved his hands to his arms. “You must weather that storm. It will tear you apart, push you under the waves until you are certain you have drown, punish you as you have never been punished, but you must persevere. You are a part of the Order’s great plan, a vital strand in the great tapestry, and you cannot allow the storm to disrupt that.
“Do you understand?” The old man looked long and deep into his eyes, strength turning slowly to desperation. “Things are not always as they seem. The Order is stronger than you know. The events of our lives are not as random as they seem, but we still must play our parts. You must play your part.” The Xi Valati loosened his hands slowly from where they were pressed into Jaret’s fl
esh. His face relaxed, head sagged, shoulders drooped. “That is as much as I can say, and it is already too much.” He looked up and smiled. “Thank you for coming here today. It has been my great pleasure to know you, Jaret Rammeriz. May the Order guide and protect you.”
And with that, the Xi Valati stood. He turned and walked away without another word, without a look back, without any acknowledgment of the man he had left agog on the bench behind. His acolytes fell in behind him and he simply walked from their secluded nave and disappeared into one of the many doors that led from the main hall, leaving Jaret to ponder what any of it had meant.
Chapter 23