August ended up being The Month Where I Mostly Did Other Things to Support My Family. Notably, I worked as a temporary ninth-grade English teacher at my kids’ school to gap-fill while a recruitment was underway, in exchange for tuition reduction for the Havenpebbles. (It’s a good thing I’ve always liked To Kill A Mockingbird.) My replacement starts tomorrow, and I should be fully handed over by the end of the week.
I’ve also spent the past week turning a vivid bad dream into a sci-fi short story that I’m hoping to sell. (About a hotel on Mt Everest reachable only by wormhole portal, which works out about as well as you’d expect.)
But August hasn’t been entirely without XoR 2 progress, and September will be entirely devoted to churning it out. For now, here’s the full version of the subfocus_6 secrets you can overhear – which if I’m not mistaken was mostly “to be written” stubs in the last version I posted to cogdemos.
Secrets from the Chesnery
*label chesnery_secrets
Back in the summer, when you first chose to spend so much of your time in the Chesnery, you’d expected to hear more of Irduin’s secrets there. Instead, @{brasquedeirde you’ve mostly|you} stumbled onto Maurs and Tamran’s. But now as autumn turns to winter, you finally find yourself in a place to overhear something extraordinary.
*if (ird_focus = 2)
It’s not the first time your chores have left you a thin wall away from a visitor seeking a word from Maurs, but the first time it’s been the village Ecclesiast. “I’ve never dared to ask you this, Maurs.” Ulmey speaks quietly, clearly not suspecting your presence. “But…but I need to know. If matters are about to worsen here…I need to know what I’m contending for.”
“You know I can never guarantee an answer.” Maurs’s tone is as level and cheery as usual. “But go on, then.”
“What do the Angels say to you about…about the Shayardene Codex?” The priest’s voice strains on the edge of terror or elation. “And what do They tell you about the Latter Books, the harsher ones, written by the Karagond prophets? Were they truly delivered by Angelic inspiration, or just in Their name?”
*fake_choice
#I listen in rapt fascination. What will @{(skepreal > 50) he come up with?|They tell him?}
#@{(skepreal > 50) The fact that a good man cares so deeply about this nonsense, and whether it’s heresy, will never cease to irk me.|My mouth goes dry and my stomach uneasy. Maybe I’m less ready for heresy than I’d thought.}
#Whatever Maurs answers, the fact that Ulmey’s asking the question tells me all I need to know.
There’s a lengthy silence. When Maurs finally speaks, he sounds resigned. “Well, now I know the end is nearly upon us. If you’re actually coming out and asking the question that could get you tried and Harrowed…”
“Oh, don’t start. Have the Angels held you back from everything that might get you tried and Harrowed?” A hint of smug satisfaction enters Ulmey’s voice. “No, I thought not! But I’m not going to ask you how many of my guesses are true, old friend. At least not today. I just want you to ask Them this one thing for me.”
Silence again, so utter you’re worried about them overhearing you exhale. “Nothing clear, nothing immediate,” Maurs says at last. “But I feel…approval? I think…They’re glad you’re asking.”
Ulmey’s breath bursts out so sharply it’s nearly an exclamation. “And isn’t that in itself an answer?”
*fake_choice
#Not half as clear as it ought to be, @{(skepreal > 50) if They were real, and really speaking to Maurs!|for something this momentous!}
#It means @{(skepreal > 50) he’ll think it’s not heresy, anyway|it’s not heresy, surely}.
#Of course @{(skepreal > 50) any Angels that might exist would|the Angels} want us to question how the Karagonds have distorted Their will and message.
The fact that Ulmey finds that surprising just shows how much further he has to go toward true understanding.
*comment para_break
“Be careful, hieros,” Maurs says quietly. “I reckon you’re on a good path…but by Xthonos, it’s a dangerous one.”
“At least I’m not alone on it.” From Ulmey’s tone, you think he’s not just referring to the innkeeper. How many other priests might he know who are drawn to the heresy?
*if ((religion > 1) and (religion < 6)) or ((religion > 11) and (religion < 16))
They go quiet again, and for a few moments you’re left alone with your thoughts.
*fake_choice
#And my own seeking the Angels’ Voice on this matter.
@{(religion < 6) As Their Eclect, you’d expect to hear Them at least|You should after all be able to hear Them} as clearly as Maurs Innkeep. You send out your prayer of query Angelward: Were the latter books of the Codex distorted by the Karagonds? Are they true revelation?
Nothing disturbs the stillness of your mind for some time. You reach out again, asking from the opposite side of the question: Is it heresy to claim only the books revealed in Shayarin as true Canon?
Still no response. But there’s a warmth there, no sense of hostility or discouragement. Is this what Maurs meant as approval? Perhaps there’s some reason.
#I’m already sure that the Karagonds distorted the Angels’ original message. There’s no need to consult Them on this.
They’ll guide you @{(religion < 6) as Their Eclect|} to the fullness of truth. You’d rather keep your meditation with Them focused on the future, rather than picking through details of @{(me_lit = 0) texts you can’t even read|the texts of revelations past}.
#There’s too much turmoil in my heart right now to hear Them clearly…so I don’t ask.
What if They said no? What if They told you that Their revelation truly did condemn helots as unworthy of compassion and insisted on obedience to (even brutal) rulers as the guardians of sacred Order?
*goto ecclesspeaks
*else
*fake_choice
#If there are enough of them, surely the heretics could be turned against Karagon as part of my rebellion.
#There don’t need to be that many of them—just enough to get them fighting with each other and breaking down order.
#@{(skepreal > 50) Rhupos, it’s all such nonsense. I want a movement that fights for justice, not over interpretations of holy texts.|I don’t know. I want to be very careful before embracing or encouraging heresy, however much I might sympathize.}
*goto ecclesspeaks
*label ecclesspeaks
When the Ecclesiast speaks again, it’s with a teary-sounding awe. “You call me hieros, but…you know you’re an Eclect, man. Who else could ask the Angels and speak about such matters with such easy confidence?”
“I’m as chosen as anyone else, brother.” Maurs’s response is warm in its dismissiveness. “Gifted with an especially open ear, maybe. But chosen mostly to show compassion to my neighbors—and listening to the Angels for them is scarcely the most important part of that. Chosen to counsel the folk around me onto a more open-eared, open-hearted way. Chosen to be father to my daughter—and that’s I think the most important thing of all.”
“Well.” Ulmey clears his throat, still sounding wobbly. “That’s all befitting humility, of course. But I’ll always count myself blessed beyond imagining to have been sent to one of the few places where the Angels had appointed a true Eclect.”
“Count it as call, not just blessing, hieros. The time may be coming when you’ll need to put some of it into practice yourself.” You hear the clop of Maurs’s hand-stilts as he starts walking away, then a pause. “And you were sent to a place with two Eclect, by your reckoning.”
“Tamran-lass?” The priest doesn’t sound entirely surprised. “She hears Them like you do?”
“More like seeing than hearing, as far as I can tell—recognizing Their pattern in what’s happening around us. And I reckon she’s given stranger, stronger things than They think I’m ready for.” There’s a deep affection in the innkeeper’s chuckle. “When They send her into the world in her own right…watch out!”
*page_break
*return
*elseif ((ird_focus = 3) or (ird_focus = 4))
You notice when
*if (ird_focus = 3)
Iverye Beldwyn appears at the Chesnery for the first time since her disgrace. She’s wearing an expression of exhilarated defiance, and is completely surrounded by boisterous young yeomen farmers. The only one you think you recognize is Odier, son of the reeve Cômes Murager.
*if (ird_focus = 4)
Cômes Murager’s son Odier leads in eight or nine of his fellow yeoman farmers, all ringed around a woman who looks to be a decade or so older than you. You vaguely recognize her: Iverye, daughter of Iddemer Beldwyn, the petty-alchemist who makes Irduin’s miners’ powder. While you’ve not spent much time with the guildsfolk, you’d heard there was some sort of scandal that had left her family excluded from polite company.
Old Valere Parlthorp @{(ird_focus = 3) (the widow targeted by Baldassare on Barningday)|} hobbles over to greet them, bowing and beaming.
As soon as they enter the caskroom, the motley group becomes the center of attention—and not just for their noisy cheer. Every merchant and artisan in the inn looks around with expressions ranging from nervousness to outright disgust.
*if (beldstrab > 4)
@{(farrmail = 2) Farrec hasn’t yet made his promised apology, and the|The} Beldwyns’ half-healed reputation clearly hasn’t recovered to the point where Iverye going reveling would be considered acceptable.
*if (beldstrab <= 4)
They clearly think Iverye is compounding her family’s disgrace.
But when their mutterings grow loud enough to be audible, Odier abruptly leads a half-dozen of his friends to the closest guildsfolk. “Did you have something to say, goodmen?” he demands, baring his teeth and resting his fists on the table between them.
Farrec @{((eybern = 5) or (farrmail = 2)) isn’t in the Chesnery—you can only imagine how he’d have been reacting—but one of the other guildsmen gives Odier|Strabaud gives him} a look of venomous outrage. “Maybe to your father, lad.”
@{((eybern = 5) or (farrmail = 2)) The reeve’s son|Odier} straightens abruptly, jarring the table and knocking over half the beakers from which the grumblers had been drinking. “Best you go say it, then. We’re the only ones here tonight.”
It all happens too quickly for even Maurs’s intervention to mend. The merchants vanish from the caskroom, scandalized, intimidated, or both. With every departure, the group around Iverye raises a new and more raucous cheer. For her part, she’s laughing until tears roll down her face.
When Iverye briefly excuses herself, old Valere follows her toward the outbuildings—and thanks to your familiarity with the Chesnery, you’re able to slip unnoticed after them. The elderly widow is speaking in a low, reassuring rasp. “Didn’t I tell you how it would be, girl? The inn belongs to you, now, not to that pack of moralizing cringewits.”
The artisan beams back at her. “I feel alive again, goodmother. Thank you. Thank you so much for this.”
“Pshaw. Don’t thank me. Odier and I aren’t going to let anyone shame our princess.”
“Wha—don’t!” There’s a sudden, disproportionate note of panic in Iverye’s voice. “Not…not where just anyone…”
*fake_choice
#I’m not surprised at her fear. The archaism ‘princess’ is a dangerous term of praise in a world governed by Archons.
#Maybe the yeomen @{(ystor > 5) have a greater attachment to the old ruling House than Aenor was willing to admit.|have actually convinced themselves that the old ruling House has scions here?}
#@{(irdcabplan > 0) Seems to me that the Cabelites|I’d guess that some of the yeomen} are more interested in Iverye’s powder-knowledge than her ancestry.
Valere chuckles dismissively. “No one would think aught of it, lass.”
But it’s piqued your interest enough that you follow them again, at a distance, after they leave the Chesnery that night. When the other yeomen disperse, Odier, Valere, and Iverye stay close together in talk. In the dark, they don’t notice you creeping close enough to hear.
“Well, good,” Odier is saying with a broad, fierce smile. “Irduin ought to be a place where the descendants of the great Shayardene Houses are celebrated. Not a haunt of Erretsins, Karagonds, and their lackeys…like the money-grubbing Strabauds.”
“I’m grateful, lad, but I’ve told you our family’s never claimed…that descent.” Iverye Beldwyn sounds nervous, whether about being overheard or rejection by her newfound yeoman friends. “Our own traditions only say we were stewards and advisors to the monarchs of old, before we lost our land and titles.”
“Well, our traditions say the de Belde were one of the Houses where scions of the old royal House wed for safety.” Old Valere offers her a crinkling grin. “We’re not saying you’re the Heir, lass. We just refuse to see you and your family scorned.”
“Thanks, and a thousand thanks for that.” Iverye’s own smile is still hesitant. “But I don’t want the Strabauds to withhold loans from any of you for this. And they’ll complain to the de Irde about tonight, surely. I’d hate for any of this de Belde talk to come to lady Alasais’s ears.”
“We can deal with the Strabauds,” Valere retorts. “And I don’t think lady Alasais will take their side in this.” You think there’s an unspoken threat in her voice: If she does, we can deal with her, too.
They disperse a few moments later, leaving you thinking:
*choice
#I need to get to know @{(ird_focus = 4) Iverye and her family|Old Valere and Odier} better to understand the @{(irdgoal > 3) potential opportunity|risk} here.
*set ivvaod 3
*return
#No—that would @{(ird_focus = 4) needlessly turn the merchants against me and raise suspicion.|just get them suspicious that I’d been spying on them.} I’ll keep to myself.
*set ivvaod 1
*return
#I’ll just try to find out more from @{(ird_focus = 4) Valere and Odier themselves of what they’re thinking|the Beldwyns themselves about this}.
*set ivvaod 2
*return
*else
*comment (ird_focus = 1) or (ird_focus > 4)
From the stable-loft window one night, you see lady Alasais leaving the Chesnery alone, after virtually everyone else has already gone to their beds. You watch as she glances around to be sure she’s unseen—not considering your hidden vantage point—then slip toward the meadow on the far side of the Chesnery orchard. Looking to where she’s bound, you spot the flash of elder Brasque’s silver hair in the moonlight.
You steal after them @{(com > 1) in total silence|as silently as you can}. Familiar as you’ve become with the grounds of the inn, you’re able to work your way close without being detected. @{((auscandal > 3) or (murscandal = 1)) Maybe they’re just meeting to discreetly discuss their children’s illicit relationship—but you doubt it.|}
*if not(brasquedeirde)
@{(brasquex > 4) Murian’s rumors were no slander. They’re lovers.|The lady of the demesne trysting with one of her helots?} There’s a scandal that could cripple the de Irde’s @{((auscandal = 8) or (murscandal = 1)) order, especially after Auche and Earith|order}. Might any of the de Irde scions be his @{(tyndar > 0) get rather than Tyndar’s?|get?} @{(auchearith > 0) $!{oath}—might Auche even be his?|}
*comment Haldine only dead on merch focus
As you draw near enough, you make out the elder’s hushed words. “…think we have a list now that will stand up to the Telone’s questions. Kuria Haldine taking on some of the drudges for her new-opened mineworks has made that easier.” His tone darkens slightly. “We’ll still likely have one extra person Harrowed this spring than we might otherwise…but as long as that’s me, I don’t think it’ll lead to any rising in the camp. No one yelling about favoritism, or me being spared for my failure to…”
“It can’t be you, brother.” Alasais’s choked voice is fuller with emotion than you’ve yet heard from her. “I can’t send you.”
*fake_choice
#@{brasquedeirde So Maurs spoke the truth.|Brother?}
#@{brasquedeirde I can’t believe either of them trusted the innkeeper with this.|Brasque’s daughters, not just he, would surely be Harrowed if that rumor escaped.}
#@{(ird_focus > 4) This is why she trusts Brasque, and not the others. Could Korren know?|Is this the only reason the de Irdes rule their helots as kindly as they do?}
*if auchearith > 0
#$!{oath}—that makes Auche and Earith first cousins.
*gosub nearblood
“You don’t have to send me. Don’t tell yourself that.” His voice is gentle. “I’m sending me, kuria.”
She cuts him off at once. “Angels, Brasque, don’t call—”
“All right, all right. Alasais. Sister.” The elder trips over the words, belying his usual confident air; @{aristo you suppose|like yours,} his tongue will have been long trained against intimacy. “You know, I reckon this is what’s truly behind all the rules on blood contamination. If it were easier for nobles to acknowledge helot children or siblings…if the aristoi weren’t taught that any by-blow child could cost them land, title, even life, so they’re secretly relieved when Harrowing-time rids them of the contaminant…”
“Stop, stop. I can’t hear you talk of contamination.” For that one word, Alasais’s misery is punctuated with utter contempt. “You’re such clear proof that noble blood can’t be countered by the helot strain. You and your daughters.
*if ((auscandal > 3) or (murscandal = 1))
They…you know that if Earith were anyone else’s granddaughter…”
Brasque’s voice is firm. “I know @{(auscandal = 7) that when you bring an end to it, it won’t be|you—we—didn’t stop their elopement} out of any disdain for Earith, sister.”
And still.
I can hardly believe we’ve kept the secret so long, looking at all of you. The poise, the natural authority, the boldness…"
“Mother believed that too. She always told me I was born to leadership, that it was in my blood.” You hear Brasque’s smile, and see his headshake by his silver hair in the moon. “But sister…I’d wager your whole demesne that if we could know the truth of it, a quarter of the helots in the realm have a noble ancestor, one way or another. I was just brought up knowing it. And my girls have been raised to follow my example, encouraged by your kindness. If the three of us act different, it’s thanks to our minds and our circumstances, not our blood.”
Alasais sounds nonplussed, and mournful. “I’d understand if you didn’t want to credit our House with much, now that we come to the bitter end.”
“Crediting our blood and crediting the House aren’t the same thing.” Brasque reaches out to take her arm. “You’re the one responsible for those circumstances—the ones that let my daughters look noble. I’ll always owe that to you.”
“Ah, brother—you’ve repaid me a thousand times by keeping order and keeping our secret. I owe you, not the other way around.” Alasais grips his hand back with her free one. “So I can’t let them kill you now. We can’t lose you. I won’t see my nieces orphaned.”
*fake_choice
#My eyes sting with tears. Seeing such mutual care between a noble and helot is @{(arrog > 0) unexpectedly|powerfully} moving.
#Did they have a talk like this when Brasque’s wife went to the Harrower? Or does Alasais only care about helots who share her blood?
#She only cares about helots when she needs them to keep her estate from being destabilized.
Brasque gives a slow, shaky exhalation. “@{((alacpowd = 2) or (alacpowd = 3)) ${simon}|All of us have to leave our children sometime—even you, sister}. And you’ve got the whole camp to think of, not just me. If I’m spared now, Murian Byran will talk of nothing but the unfairness, and
*if murscandal > 0
there are many who’ll listen. I hear she’s been trying to stir trouble against me already.” He pauses, an odd note in his voice. “You know, she’s hated me since first we sent Ueron Lemouratou packing?”
“What?” Alasais sounds stunned, then angry. “Why by Xthonos…?”
“Murian saw how you listened to me, and how quickly the old raper was chased back to the lowlands. Afterward she stayed silent when everyone else was clamoring to name me elder. I thought she was just one of those who thought I was too young.” The silver-haired helot looks up into the night sky. “But when the decision was made, she came up to me and said, ‘You could have done all this years ago. Were you just waiting because you knew no one would acclaim you before you turned thirty-five?’”
“That’s nonsense. You approached me within days of my return from Errets to tell me about Ueron. And before that, Father wouldn’t have seen you if you’d tried.” Alasais shakes her head fiercely. “His shame…he would have been too afraid of…”
“Aye, but I couldn’t tell her that, now, could I?” Brasque sighs again. “That grudge sat between us for more than a decade. And then her husband’s turn at the Harrower came round. Well, his or mine, but he insisted it be his.”
You wait for Alasais to ask why the late elder Byran considered Brasque’s life more important than his own. Instead, she
*set ueron +4
*goto sendmur
*else
she wouldn’t be wrong."
Alasais
*goto sendmur
*label sendmur
turns sharp eyes on him. “But if we send Murian, not you…”
“No, no. That’s what she thinks I’m going to do. That’s what she’s been preparing her family and allies in the camps to rage
*if murscandal > 0
against.” You can hear the old guilt in Brasque’s voice plainly now. “And she doesn’t deserve it.”
*page_break
*if murscandal <= 0
against. Unless you want to start ruling with an iron hand, you don’t want to push them to that."
“Maybe I’ll have no other choice.”
Alasais lets go of her half-brother and sinks to the ground. “Ah, Xthonos. @{(ird_unity < ird_unity_med) Everything we have built here is starting to come apart.|This is not what I was trying to build, all these years.} I’ve made a shambles of things, Brasque.”
“No. You’ve been a better steward of Irduin than Father was, through harder times.” Behind the affection, there’s a faint edge to Brasque’s voice. When her head snaps up, he chuckles. “I don’t have much longer to tell you the hard truths, milady…so you can expect to hear some new things out of me before I go.”
“What do you hold against Father, then?” Her spine is stiff, her shoulders braced as if for a blow.
Brasque kneels next to her and takes back her hand. “You’ve never indulged yourself as he did. Oh, he was kind enough to mother, and to me in the few days I spent with him. But for him, kindness was a license for indulgence. To him, his helots were like his horses—if he fed and sheltered us well enough, he could take us for a ride.”
Anger and horror war across Alasais’s face. “You make him sound like Ueron Lemouratou.”
"Never that, no. He didn’t want to be fought. He’d give a smile and a wink, and when he was met with downcast eyes and demure words, there’d be an end of it. But to those who smiled back, who accepted his little favors and gifts, who didn’t resist…all that he treated as part of his reward for keeping Irduin in good order. With those of us whose lives and deaths were in his hand, he took liberties he’d never have taken with the free peasantry.
“But you…ever since you came back, you treated us like your yeomen, as far as the world would let you.” The moonlight reveals Brasque’s pained smile. “You sought out and brought to Irduin others who’d do the same. You acted as if the community we made here was its own reward.”
“And now it’s falling apart.” Alasais’s voice is flat, and there’s a look of anguish on her face. “Now of all times, brother, I can not let you go.”
“Now’s the time you must.” Brasque stands again, still holding her hand, a weary ache in his voice. “I’m not your yeoman, little sister, and you can’t remake the world to make me one. Nor am I a warrior like you…but I’ve blood on my hands.” The breath catches in his throat. “Too much, far too much of it. I can’t keep hiding from what I’ve sent so damned many people to meet.”
*set brasquedeirde true
