A month went by quickly while the novices attended lectures, and combat training was frequent, perhaps not because it really needed to be but more for Oidus's benefit. She could easily leave the novices to their own devices with Sirius while she sneaked out to her laboratory, which wasn't far away.
One morning during the third week, Sirius had paired Kanrel against Wen, a tall girl with long, black hair. The practice bout had lasted mere seconds; he had frozen the ground beneath Wen's feet, sent her sprawling, then hesitated instead of landing the 'killing blow.' That hesitation earned both Sirius's contempt. "Do this against a rogue priest, and you won't make it past twenty. Mercy gets you killed. Again."
By the time he learned to push further and not hesitate, causing harm, although only minor wounds, to later opponents, the victory felt hollow. Just another requirement met, another weakness eliminated.
But who knows how much time Oidus really had with her research since the frequency of 'morons'—as she had called them herself—writing graffiti on the walls had increased considerably? No one knew if it was a person or a group of people, and catching them was nigh impossible since the graffiti would just appear at the oddest times of the day.
And during the night, the number of patrolling guards had increased, but even they hadn't noticed anything off other than how often the other students of the academy went on dates or swam naked in the moonlight.
Kanrel, for one, was disappointed that he never knew about such a thing and would never be able to partake. Both Yviev and Yirn had their own stories about partaking in the entertainment of the commonfolk.
And now that Kanrel thought about it, a common plotline, or a cliché, in some of the erotic novels that he had read, for research purposes only, involved scantily clad, if not fully nude, characters partaking in said moonlit swimming exercise.
Instead, he spent his nights in the cathedral's library, the Book of the Heralds open before him on the ancient lectern.
'The chains rattle and break. The lock breaks. A flower blooms, its shadow cast across the world. It is cold, so cold. So the Angel spoke, and so I record.'
Three years. She'd been writing about this for three years and never mentioned it to him directly. Not when he decided to become a priest. Not when he entered the academy. Of course, they never talked much about these sorts of things. She often seemed hesitant and apprehensive to do so.
He turned to earlier Heralds, searching for any prior mention.
Hours passed, and the candles burned lower.
Nothing. Not one reference to anything called 'the Otherkind' or 'the Other,' at least in the past five centuries' worth of records. He had made sure to find and carefully read any section that mentioned things like 'forgotten,' 'imprisoned,' 'locked,' anything that might connect.
The Wildkin appeared in dozens of verses and passages from multiple Heralds across centuries, especially in the earlier sections. There were multiple, though sometimes contradictory, descriptions of their appearance and their habits. The only thing known for certain was how they were exterminated by the first priests under the command of the first Herald, as well as what seemed to be a Wildkin's sole purpose or desire, 'eat,' 'devour.'
The Otherkind? Only his mother's word. Only these cryptic fragments about locks, chains, and shadows.
He massaged his temples and closed his eyes. She wouldn't lie. The Herald of the Gods couldn't lie, wouldn't lie. But the evidence, or the lack thereof, kept presenting itself with the same insistent pressure as his growing headache.
Among the books he had read in other libraries around the campus, the same pattern emerged. Lots of literature and evidence about the Wildkin. Accounts from over a thousand years ago, but either way, there was sufficient evidence. Only his mother had written of the Otherkind, and not a single mention of them existed before her time.
Is it something the Angels just didn't mention before, or something entirely made up? For what reason would she ever make such things up? The only reason he could think of was that the Angels had abandoned her, or worse, all of them.
Another possibility that has been theorized in the past few weeks is that the Otherkind are the same as the Wildkin, but again, there is no proof for that. The reasons for the demise of the Wildkin are different than those of the Otherkind.
As far as he and the rest, curious enough to read further about it, knew that the Wildkin were exterminated, and the Otherkind either betrayed something or were betrayed by something.
After a lecture, Kanrel sat in the laboratory, staring at the wall before him. His notebook lay open on the table, filled with a week's worth of collected contradictions.
There was just no proof; no records or anything like that to which he could point to so as to disprove or relieve his own doubts. Was his mother simply wrong? Had she been lying? Or that the Angels had, truly, only recently revealed such a threat?
Or that something else was happening...
"Are you alright?" Yirn had finally arrived, late as per usual, but there nonetheless.
He just gave a nod as a reply and kept staring at nothing but the thoughts he had.
"Is it about the graffiti and rumors going around about your mother?"
Kanrel now shifted his gaze to the young man, who stood not too far away. Yirn smiled and said, "Hah! I got your attention!"
Kanrel rolled his eyes, which made the young man smile even more, and then he got serious very quickly: "I don't think you should worry too much about that; people will think what they want, and that is that. They'll be caught sooner or later."
"And hey, if you really doubt the Herald of the Gods, you can always ask her in a letter; she is your mother after all."
Kanrel sat in silence for a while, pondering this possibility: he really could send a letter; he knew that she would read it and that she would reply to it, but would she give an honest answer? Or would she even give an answer?
He then smiled; practice had paid off, and his fake smile was slightly less creepy than before. Yirn still frowned at the sight of it.
"I think I've got an invitation to write in the form of a demand," Kanrel announced his departure and left the laboratory, leaving a bemused Yirn behind.
"What's his problem?" Yviev asked as she stepped into the laboratory, "I just saw Kanrel running in the corridor; he never runs; I didn't even know that he could run!"
"I guess he has mother issues," Yirn said and shrugged.
"Yirn, my dear friend, never say that again."
"Why? Am I not using the correct phrase?"
"Technically yes, but it can mean another thing; I suppose you haven't read many novels of the erotic kind that are available in the library across the cafeteria? Oh, the stories those books could tell if they could see and speak! I have many fond memories of those little books." Yviev explained.
"I see; I'll be much more mindful in the future. Also, I could have lived just fine without you telling me about those fond memories."
"Your lack of sophistication and knowledge of the finer culture is seeping through; my summer child, go and read one of those books; I believe that you, too, could have such fond memories. You can ask Kanrel or me for recommendations. Heck, ask him; he might've read more of them than I did."
"Right."
Kanrel sat down at his table. He then spread a page of parchment, dipped his quill in ink, and then paused.
What was he asking, exactly? Whether she was a fraud? Whether the Angels had abandoned her? Whether she'd been lying to the entire kingdom for potentially years?
He set the quill down. Tapped the table a couple of times. He picked it up again.
He started writing, and instantly stopped. The ink made a small blot where the quill had met the parchment. He crumpled the page, threw it to the side, and started again.
'Dear mother, I am writing to inform you of my doubts regarding your—'
It wasn't right at all. Too direct, too accusatory. Improper and outright heretical. She'd worry that he had found himself among the wrong company. She might even be hurt by his words.
He crumbled the page, threw it to the side, and placed a fresh page in front of himself. He began writing again, but now measuring every word. He didn't often write her, but when he did, it was always proper, always respectful.
'Dear mother,'
'My last year of study is going well.'
He paused. Should he mention being the first to awaken? Would that seem like bragging? Or would he want to know?
'I was the first to awaken from the Ritual, and I've quickly begun to grasp how to use magic in practice and how to code.'
'I've also made some friends or partnerships that are beneficial to them and me equally. I would appreciate it if you could meet them someday.'
She had nagged him for years about getting friends and being more social.
'Recently, there have been rumors and slight vandalism that involve the Herald of the Gods on campus, including graffiti calling you a heretic and demanding your death.'
'These writings critique your passages in the Book of the Heralds, calling them forgeries.'
'I did some research and found out that there isn't much of anything that supports your passages; before your time, there was no mention of the Otherkind, and the books I've found and read have no substantial evidence of their existence.'
He had reached the point of the letter; the only reason he had decided to write it in the first place. His hands trembled slightly as he formed the accusation into something more than just a thought:
'Thus, I doubt.'
Three words. He stared at them until the ink dried. Once written, he couldn't unwrite them. Once sent, he couldn't unsend them. His doubt had become material, and when she had it, it would finally become something known by someone other than just him. He continued writing:
'I would like to put this doubt aside, so I implore you to give me a truthful answer. I wish to put my own doubts and the claims of others to rest.'
'Kanrel.'
He then waited for the rest of the ink to dry, folded the piece of parchment, and inserted it into an envelope. He poured some blue sealing wax on the envelope to seal it shut with the seal of his family, the Iduldian seal matrix. It was made out of bronze, and its elaborate carvings formed the arms of the family.
Iduldian wasn't a distinguished family before, so they didn't have a seal of their own or a coat of arms before, but as one of their own was named the Herald of the Gods, this changed.
A seal was produced. In it, there are the wings of an angel on either side, depicting the faith of the family, and in the middle, the face of a blinded woman, signifying the Herald of the Gods. He pressed the seal into the wax harder than necessary. The imprint was deep, almost a gouge.
He wrote on the envelope itself the address of his mother's house—their house. It would be in the capital city, Lo' Gran, which was located a few hundred miles to the south on the Bay of Ca'Leth, which connected to the Southern Sea.
He then had to walk to the gates of the academy, where there was a postal office. All he had to do was take the letter there and pay for its transportation, though he never had to pay for it since so many knew whose seal was on the letter.
The family of the Herald of the Gods had always had more sway than was necessary. This had in the past led to some foolish decisions, like how the brother of a Herald hundreds of years ago proclaimed himself the king and usurped the crown with the help of the faithful. This only lasted for a week, though, as the Herald at the time herself demanded he abdicate. Apparently, they weren't fond of each other when they were children, and less so when they were adults.
And so, despite historical precedents, a letter or a package that carried the current Herald's seal was considered a priority, and it was seen as improper for a Herald or her family to pay the meager price that the postal service normally charged. After all, the Herald's letters might as well be the word of god.
Kanrel handed his letter to the clerk, who accepted it with a nod. He stood there for a moment longer, looking at the letter in the clerk's hand. Still possible to take it back. To say he'd made a mistake. To write something less dangerous.
The clerk was already turning away, adding it to the outgoing pile. It was too late now.
It would take weeks before he'd get a reply. It took a while for a postman, be it on horse or by carriage, to reach Lo'Gran and back. Not to mention how long it would take for his mother to have the time to first read the letter, then write and send a reply to it.
He then returned to the laboratory, even though it was quite late; there, he saw his two friends reading books.
Yirn was sprawled in a chair by a table, holding a slim volume with a garish red cover. His eyebrows kept rising higher as he read, and occasionally he'd mutter something under his breath. "Really?" or "That's not how anatomy works."
Yviev sat cross-legged on the floor, three books spread around her in various states of being read. She had one propped against her knees, reading with the focused intensity she usually reserved for producing new codes for combat.
It did not take long for him to recognize what they were reading. Oh, the memories he had with those little books! Long, lonely nights.
Knocked on the door frame, "I am sorry to bother you with your research, which seems to be of great importance, but…" Kanrel began his sentence.
"Kanrel! Why did you not share this great literature with me before? All of this is outrageously brilliant! The way they describe things in the most unlikely way possible—if I could still find any enjoyment in anything, I'd like to think that I would have found a book like this very amusing," Yirn explained with a wide smile on his face.
"… I would like to talk about today's lectures with you," Kanrel finished his sentence.
Yviev snorted. "Why would we do something like that when we can educate ourselves in concepts like 'mother issues' and other great things?"
Kanrel let out a long sigh. He was quite disappointed with his friends; the stuff they read just wasn't good at all. Not enough swimming nude in the moonlight. Either way, he took a book from a pile of them and began to read.
It was one that he had read before, but the impact wasn't the same at all. He hadn't been fifteen for years now, and there were a lot more grammatical mistakes than he had remembered.
After a good fifteen minutes, he gave up on reading it and just keenly observed Yviev and Yirn; he again felt regretful. This, too, he hadn't done with anyone before; he had not laughed with a friend or made fun of a friend. He never had a friend; even now, he couldn't say that he had experienced such a thing.
He didn't feel much different about the two of them than a hundred other people he saw daily; the only difference might have been the perceived usefulness that he had of the two. But if he talked with even one of those hundred nameless faces, he would find useful people either way.
Someone being useful didn't mean that he valued them as more than just someone he could exploit to further his own studies. Sure, he really had tried to form a sense of rational compassion toward the people whom he perceived as 'friends'.
Even his rational enjoyment was useless. All he felt was regret for lacking true experience.
Perhaps this sense of regret was the outcome of trying to create rational enjoyment and rational compassion. Perhaps regret is all he could ever have.
Kanrel snapped himself out of this line of thought; he didn't have time to delve too much into his own regrets, as there would be many of them. Too many to count.
He needed something to cage his mind into, something that would keep him from looking too much in.