Turn 6--Results, D
- Pronouns
- They/Them
Turn 6--D
He agreed. Kiralo knew that his agreement was some combination between politic and personal, and that it was absurd to try to separate the two. He had been in one court or another for years, and the truth was, everything was personal. You might disagree on basic policy, but it soon gave rise to, or came from, personal opinions. It was perhaps a flaw, and no doubt Kuojah would consider it a flaw.
Kuojah, who acted according to strict principles that were supposedly inviolable. But what did that truly mean, Kiralo considered, staring at a blank yellowing page as he contemplated the meeting. It meant whatever Kuojah declared it to mean. It was a trick, his father's dodge, for if he claimed to act from right principles and the guidance of piety and philosophy, then how could one question him without questioning his entire system. And if one did that, as many did, it became a fight that not only could he win, but one he'd already won, and was willing and able to win again.
You played his own game, and didn't even think of the fact that you could--metaphorically, unfortunately--slap him and knock over the table at least in theory. Because he made the game, and he won the game.
And so, as he rode through the streets, guards at his side, guards on the ground clearing people out of the way, he thought.
He thought all the while, though he made sure to whisper sweet words to her, because it had been too long since he'd really rode, outside of the court. The streets were crowded, the sights and smells all familiar: city sights and city smells, and city people staring as he rode past the merchant districts, until the building stretched before him.
Level after level, piled almost carelessly, and a wide wall, because the last thing a ruler wanted was for spirits to get out and wreak havoc. The building was rather overtly green, a bright green almost Imperial in color, and the various wings were all variations on the same theme. There was what looked to be a garden out front, and it took some time to get his horse cared for and stabled, and only then could he begin to walk through the Academy, which stretched around and above and behind for some distance.
Swallowed him up just like the Imperial Court did. In fact, it didn't seem much special, merely in appearance. The color scheme was more green and grey than he was used to, these being the official colors of an Imperial Mage, who was a craftsman, quite unlike the use of spirits that a priest got up to, which was a matter of faith, and thus gold rather than imperial green.
But what he did notice, far more than that somewhat broad hallways and the men and boys in green robes hurrying this way and that, were the spirits. They danced and crawled. Some even had the form of a living being, a strange monkey scuttling through the hall, or a hand that seemed to float along behind a student. Most of the spirits were contained within the calligraphy, within the seals and the scrolls, but even a Mage, proudest of all of the users of spirit that Kiralo knew of, could not entirely deny the power that spirits held. It was belief, it was the truth as well.
Some said that the Imperial Mages denied it when they claimed themselves the masters of the world, but here in their sanctuary? Here where they taught others...spirits still were what they were.
Kiralo thought of the spirit that was following him, right now a strange swatch of blue just at the edge of his vision. Hundreds of years old, and it had chosen him.
He stopped at last before a great door guarded by two men whose entire appearance seemed to radiate a strange sort of spiritual malice. Their spirits danced and jittered as those of other people did, but they also seemed to almost be slashing at the air, as if nothing more than the will of their owners held them back from murder.
"I wish to speak to the head of this institution, the Archmage Yin of Lineage Soki," Kiralo said, formally, "I am Kiralo of Lineage Ainin."
"Oh?" the one on the left said, "And how do we know you are who you say?"
The guards around him bristled, but Kiralo merely stared in the face of the man and said, "Please call upon Cs-Yin."
He was not afraid, he'd met people far more dangerous than a few guards who thought that a spirit of murder and violence or two, spirits that were temperamental and far inferior to spirits of war, and air, and bows and swords, spirits that were not mad dogs on leashes, could scare him away.
What did unnerve him, though, was the way the door opened and the spirits seemed to almost pour out. Red and gold and blue and yellow, wings and arms and screams and hands, and then out from behind it all, as if they were merely the guard that stood in front of the Emperor as he walked, was Yin.
Yin was old, perhaps nearly as old as his father, and yet there was power in his dark eyes, and his hair was, perhaps by some dye, still the deep brown it must have been in his youth, merely streaked with grey, done up in a style that was old decades ago. Long hair had gone out of fashion, and yet his hair was halfway down his back in four careful braids with golden and imperial green beads and grey ribbons to accent it. The bun that the last part of his hair was pulled up into was held in a golden stick as well, and his robe was a brilliant green.
Kiralo gave a respectful bow.
"Ah. At last the son returns to the nest."
"At last?" Kiralo asked, carefully. It had been over six months.
"At last for me," Yin said, "Your father has not spoken much of you since you've arrived, I was fearing that you were a figment of his imagination."
"His imagination is rather broader than that," Kiralo said.
Yin looked at him, and those dark eyes and that stretched, drawn set of features somehow knows what Kiralo means. If Kuojah was to make up a son, he would make up a very different one from Kiralo. He'd dream of a son who was perfect to his standards. He dreamed even now of making an Emperor who would be in his own image. And Yin saw all of that, and smiled, "So I assume you are here to examine just what the Academy is like?"
"And also whether you are prepared," Kiralo said, "And I am curious about other matters as well."
"Prepared, for what?" Yin asked, giving a wide smile before gesturing. Kiralo allowed himself to be swept into an office brimming with scrolls, on the walls and on the ground. Not even books, no books here, though there is a door that might lead to a library or study, just scrolls and a desk.
"War," Yin said, "Is a thing that we have not truly faced in our lifetime."
"Csirit was lucky," Kiralo said. Of course, there were conflicts everywhere in the past century. But bandits and raiders, even organized ones such as the Sea Raiders and the Bueli, are nothing against the thrust and destruction of a full war. Ever since the Empire lost its newfound hold on the Southlands, relative peace has prevailed.
"It is. Luck does not hold. The world does not allow it. You cannot seal your problems in a scroll," Yin said. "But I do not know what you hope to achieve."
"Miracles," Kiralo said, "Always hope for miracles, but plan for less." He paused, looking over at Yin, "Are you and father allies?"
"Yes."
"Then, has he talked to you about helping me?"
"No."
"Good," Kiralo said, "I have to ask, what is your policy on leaving the Academy? It occurs to me that Jinhai might withdraw some Mages at the last moment…"
"We will not allow such requests as have been made, but we cannot force--" Jin paused and said, quite firmly, "If you think us a master of this Academy, know that we are like the Emperor, in that we have vast power but must use it cautiously."
And it was true. Even if he was a child now, and thus a puppet--and even if the deceased Emperor had been a puppet as well--at any moment he could open his mouth and doom a man. Sure, eventually he would run out of political capital, he would find that his armies had abandoned him and his courtiers turned his back on him...but if the Emperor opened his mouth and said, "I wish for Kuojah of lineage Ainin to die" then there was very little that could be done, especially considering where Kuojah's strengths didn't lie.
"I see," Kiralo said, "If the capital is under siege."
"Then of course I can act," Jin said, and Kiralo paused, the word sticking in his throat.
Can act.
"Will you?" Kiralo asked, and there was the rub. If it came to war, Prince Jinhai victorious could no more abolish the academy than he could abolish the Empire. At most he would depose Jin, and perhaps execute him for treason, but even that...even that would be doubtful. Contingent. The capital had been besieged before, and the Academy had always found a careful way to be friends with the side that won. Whichever side it was.
Ultimately, the Academy stood for the Academy.
"I will. I am old enough," Jin said, "That there is no point doing otherwise."
"And so there were a few things I wanted to ask," Kiralo said, "First off, about the recent studies that have been going on, and second about your numbers…"
*****
The Academy obviously wasn't the only one in Csirit, but it was the main one, and that meant thousands of people. Thousands upon thousands, ranging from orphans too young to entirely have the hang of walking, to old men whose very bones could perhaps tell a story. Men, almost entirely, other than serving women. For the Academy did not take women, of course.
And then he slipped into a class, in which almost a hundred men were discussing a matter that immediately told Kiralo that they had planned this.
Or rather, Jin had known where to put him. They were discussing the differences between the tattoos of the Southlands and the scrolls of the Imperial Mages.
And they were wrong. Very wrong. In fact, it was hard to be more incorrect than some of them were.
"The tattoos are limited, anyways, I'm not sure why we're discussing such primitive bar…" a boy, perhaps fifteen, began, before glancing into the corner of the set of low desks, where Kiralo stood. And then he gulped and continued, "Barbarian dreck."
Limited? They were limited in that it was a single spirit, but that meant you chose the spirit well. A powerful spirit, made more powerful by the connection and the ties that the tattoo represented, that the tattoo helped embody. It was very similar to the scrolls in a way, and yet in other ways very different.
"They must do it for a reason," a gawky, awkward sixteen year old boy said, glancing over at Kiralo as he said it, as if seeking approval, "They're barbarians, but they are good at fighting, aren't they?"
"That's what barbarians do," a third boy chimed in. "Fight each other."
The teacher, a man in his thirties who seemed unusually corpulant, said, "We have a man who has seen the barbarian in person, do we not? While I set up the texts to read on the topic, perhaps he could explain their ways." The look he gave was particularly arch.
Kiralo smiled back at him, and stepped forward. Dozens of eyes went to him, and then the rest followed, quickly, taking him in. Evaluated him. The oldest student here was in his early twenties, the youngest perhaps a little under ten years. "They have a reason for the tattoos. Often, these are warriors, people who know the spirits that they might use very well. But even the Sages use tattoos, because closeness is important."
He paused and looked around, "I could tell you the names of half of my spirits, and that would not mean that you could whistle up their name and command them against me."
"But," a ten year old said, "Isn't that…"
Isn't that the point of names? Kiralo had asked that himself, in a different sort of way, when his mother had educated him. But the names, while they were important, were only part of the story. "But you cannot use the name of a spirit bound in a tattoo, more powerful than a spirit loose, unless you are the owner of the tattoo. It is a way of deciding possession. Unlike a scroll, it cannot be stolen away, and the closeness to the spirit, while heretical to our faith in the eyes of some, is tempting enough. Very tempting, because the forces you work with are greater than mere flesh and blood."
He had them, he knew it now. "So, I would merely advise you not to assume that barbarians, whatever their other downsides, are fools. They live with spirits as we do, and they have their own answers. As we do."
"Worse answers, though," the corpulent teacher said, "Though I know you've been among Sages for a while, so perhaps you haven't seen what a Mage can truly do."
Kiralo smiled softly, "I have." The students leaned forward.
"What's it like, the spirits in the Southlands? Are they like the ones here?" the second boy asked, the one whose face was flushed, whose eyes were staring at him as if they had not seen…
"Well," Kiralo began.
"That is another lesson," the fat man said, ruffling his robes carefully, "I know quite enough, having lived in Hari-Su for a number of years." And yet he lacked the accent. Curious, very curious. He seemed to have been setting up Kiralo to present himself...yet to fail, or to succeed?
And the students themselves seemed torn in a way that no doubt posed a threat to his authority. Because now the whispering had begun, and now it was clear that people knew he was Kiralo...and thus whose son he was. He'd merely wanted to listen, but the students could be impressed by him...or not.
It all depended.
What does he do?
[] Engage with the teacher.
[] Engage with the students.
[] Focus on the lesson, perhaps there is new information in the comparison.
*****
A/N: Allow me to admit this is partially a 'created' problem. In the sense that I thought of the scene and thought I'd offer you a chance to get more stuff, and because this was all I had time for before Christmas, so...yeah, hope that this tides people over and lets me hold off closing the vote until after Christmas without leaving you high and dry. Next part will probably be the end of it? Maybe.
He agreed. Kiralo knew that his agreement was some combination between politic and personal, and that it was absurd to try to separate the two. He had been in one court or another for years, and the truth was, everything was personal. You might disagree on basic policy, but it soon gave rise to, or came from, personal opinions. It was perhaps a flaw, and no doubt Kuojah would consider it a flaw.
Kuojah, who acted according to strict principles that were supposedly inviolable. But what did that truly mean, Kiralo considered, staring at a blank yellowing page as he contemplated the meeting. It meant whatever Kuojah declared it to mean. It was a trick, his father's dodge, for if he claimed to act from right principles and the guidance of piety and philosophy, then how could one question him without questioning his entire system. And if one did that, as many did, it became a fight that not only could he win, but one he'd already won, and was willing and able to win again.
You played his own game, and didn't even think of the fact that you could--metaphorically, unfortunately--slap him and knock over the table at least in theory. Because he made the game, and he won the game.
And so, as he rode through the streets, guards at his side, guards on the ground clearing people out of the way, he thought.
He thought all the while, though he made sure to whisper sweet words to her, because it had been too long since he'd really rode, outside of the court. The streets were crowded, the sights and smells all familiar: city sights and city smells, and city people staring as he rode past the merchant districts, until the building stretched before him.
Level after level, piled almost carelessly, and a wide wall, because the last thing a ruler wanted was for spirits to get out and wreak havoc. The building was rather overtly green, a bright green almost Imperial in color, and the various wings were all variations on the same theme. There was what looked to be a garden out front, and it took some time to get his horse cared for and stabled, and only then could he begin to walk through the Academy, which stretched around and above and behind for some distance.
Swallowed him up just like the Imperial Court did. In fact, it didn't seem much special, merely in appearance. The color scheme was more green and grey than he was used to, these being the official colors of an Imperial Mage, who was a craftsman, quite unlike the use of spirits that a priest got up to, which was a matter of faith, and thus gold rather than imperial green.
But what he did notice, far more than that somewhat broad hallways and the men and boys in green robes hurrying this way and that, were the spirits. They danced and crawled. Some even had the form of a living being, a strange monkey scuttling through the hall, or a hand that seemed to float along behind a student. Most of the spirits were contained within the calligraphy, within the seals and the scrolls, but even a Mage, proudest of all of the users of spirit that Kiralo knew of, could not entirely deny the power that spirits held. It was belief, it was the truth as well.
Some said that the Imperial Mages denied it when they claimed themselves the masters of the world, but here in their sanctuary? Here where they taught others...spirits still were what they were.
Kiralo thought of the spirit that was following him, right now a strange swatch of blue just at the edge of his vision. Hundreds of years old, and it had chosen him.
He stopped at last before a great door guarded by two men whose entire appearance seemed to radiate a strange sort of spiritual malice. Their spirits danced and jittered as those of other people did, but they also seemed to almost be slashing at the air, as if nothing more than the will of their owners held them back from murder.
"I wish to speak to the head of this institution, the Archmage Yin of Lineage Soki," Kiralo said, formally, "I am Kiralo of Lineage Ainin."
"Oh?" the one on the left said, "And how do we know you are who you say?"
The guards around him bristled, but Kiralo merely stared in the face of the man and said, "Please call upon Cs-Yin."
He was not afraid, he'd met people far more dangerous than a few guards who thought that a spirit of murder and violence or two, spirits that were temperamental and far inferior to spirits of war, and air, and bows and swords, spirits that were not mad dogs on leashes, could scare him away.
What did unnerve him, though, was the way the door opened and the spirits seemed to almost pour out. Red and gold and blue and yellow, wings and arms and screams and hands, and then out from behind it all, as if they were merely the guard that stood in front of the Emperor as he walked, was Yin.
Yin was old, perhaps nearly as old as his father, and yet there was power in his dark eyes, and his hair was, perhaps by some dye, still the deep brown it must have been in his youth, merely streaked with grey, done up in a style that was old decades ago. Long hair had gone out of fashion, and yet his hair was halfway down his back in four careful braids with golden and imperial green beads and grey ribbons to accent it. The bun that the last part of his hair was pulled up into was held in a golden stick as well, and his robe was a brilliant green.
Kiralo gave a respectful bow.
"Ah. At last the son returns to the nest."
"At last?" Kiralo asked, carefully. It had been over six months.
"At last for me," Yin said, "Your father has not spoken much of you since you've arrived, I was fearing that you were a figment of his imagination."
"His imagination is rather broader than that," Kiralo said.
Yin looked at him, and those dark eyes and that stretched, drawn set of features somehow knows what Kiralo means. If Kuojah was to make up a son, he would make up a very different one from Kiralo. He'd dream of a son who was perfect to his standards. He dreamed even now of making an Emperor who would be in his own image. And Yin saw all of that, and smiled, "So I assume you are here to examine just what the Academy is like?"
"And also whether you are prepared," Kiralo said, "And I am curious about other matters as well."
"Prepared, for what?" Yin asked, giving a wide smile before gesturing. Kiralo allowed himself to be swept into an office brimming with scrolls, on the walls and on the ground. Not even books, no books here, though there is a door that might lead to a library or study, just scrolls and a desk.
"War," Yin said, "Is a thing that we have not truly faced in our lifetime."
"Csirit was lucky," Kiralo said. Of course, there were conflicts everywhere in the past century. But bandits and raiders, even organized ones such as the Sea Raiders and the Bueli, are nothing against the thrust and destruction of a full war. Ever since the Empire lost its newfound hold on the Southlands, relative peace has prevailed.
"It is. Luck does not hold. The world does not allow it. You cannot seal your problems in a scroll," Yin said. "But I do not know what you hope to achieve."
"Miracles," Kiralo said, "Always hope for miracles, but plan for less." He paused, looking over at Yin, "Are you and father allies?"
"Yes."
"Then, has he talked to you about helping me?"
"No."
"Good," Kiralo said, "I have to ask, what is your policy on leaving the Academy? It occurs to me that Jinhai might withdraw some Mages at the last moment…"
"We will not allow such requests as have been made, but we cannot force--" Jin paused and said, quite firmly, "If you think us a master of this Academy, know that we are like the Emperor, in that we have vast power but must use it cautiously."
And it was true. Even if he was a child now, and thus a puppet--and even if the deceased Emperor had been a puppet as well--at any moment he could open his mouth and doom a man. Sure, eventually he would run out of political capital, he would find that his armies had abandoned him and his courtiers turned his back on him...but if the Emperor opened his mouth and said, "I wish for Kuojah of lineage Ainin to die" then there was very little that could be done, especially considering where Kuojah's strengths didn't lie.
"I see," Kiralo said, "If the capital is under siege."
"Then of course I can act," Jin said, and Kiralo paused, the word sticking in his throat.
Can act.
"Will you?" Kiralo asked, and there was the rub. If it came to war, Prince Jinhai victorious could no more abolish the academy than he could abolish the Empire. At most he would depose Jin, and perhaps execute him for treason, but even that...even that would be doubtful. Contingent. The capital had been besieged before, and the Academy had always found a careful way to be friends with the side that won. Whichever side it was.
Ultimately, the Academy stood for the Academy.
"I will. I am old enough," Jin said, "That there is no point doing otherwise."
"And so there were a few things I wanted to ask," Kiralo said, "First off, about the recent studies that have been going on, and second about your numbers…"
*****
The Academy obviously wasn't the only one in Csirit, but it was the main one, and that meant thousands of people. Thousands upon thousands, ranging from orphans too young to entirely have the hang of walking, to old men whose very bones could perhaps tell a story. Men, almost entirely, other than serving women. For the Academy did not take women, of course.
And then he slipped into a class, in which almost a hundred men were discussing a matter that immediately told Kiralo that they had planned this.
Or rather, Jin had known where to put him. They were discussing the differences between the tattoos of the Southlands and the scrolls of the Imperial Mages.
And they were wrong. Very wrong. In fact, it was hard to be more incorrect than some of them were.
"The tattoos are limited, anyways, I'm not sure why we're discussing such primitive bar…" a boy, perhaps fifteen, began, before glancing into the corner of the set of low desks, where Kiralo stood. And then he gulped and continued, "Barbarian dreck."
Limited? They were limited in that it was a single spirit, but that meant you chose the spirit well. A powerful spirit, made more powerful by the connection and the ties that the tattoo represented, that the tattoo helped embody. It was very similar to the scrolls in a way, and yet in other ways very different.
"They must do it for a reason," a gawky, awkward sixteen year old boy said, glancing over at Kiralo as he said it, as if seeking approval, "They're barbarians, but they are good at fighting, aren't they?"
"That's what barbarians do," a third boy chimed in. "Fight each other."
The teacher, a man in his thirties who seemed unusually corpulant, said, "We have a man who has seen the barbarian in person, do we not? While I set up the texts to read on the topic, perhaps he could explain their ways." The look he gave was particularly arch.
Kiralo smiled back at him, and stepped forward. Dozens of eyes went to him, and then the rest followed, quickly, taking him in. Evaluated him. The oldest student here was in his early twenties, the youngest perhaps a little under ten years. "They have a reason for the tattoos. Often, these are warriors, people who know the spirits that they might use very well. But even the Sages use tattoos, because closeness is important."
He paused and looked around, "I could tell you the names of half of my spirits, and that would not mean that you could whistle up their name and command them against me."
"But," a ten year old said, "Isn't that…"
Isn't that the point of names? Kiralo had asked that himself, in a different sort of way, when his mother had educated him. But the names, while they were important, were only part of the story. "But you cannot use the name of a spirit bound in a tattoo, more powerful than a spirit loose, unless you are the owner of the tattoo. It is a way of deciding possession. Unlike a scroll, it cannot be stolen away, and the closeness to the spirit, while heretical to our faith in the eyes of some, is tempting enough. Very tempting, because the forces you work with are greater than mere flesh and blood."
He had them, he knew it now. "So, I would merely advise you not to assume that barbarians, whatever their other downsides, are fools. They live with spirits as we do, and they have their own answers. As we do."
"Worse answers, though," the corpulent teacher said, "Though I know you've been among Sages for a while, so perhaps you haven't seen what a Mage can truly do."
Kiralo smiled softly, "I have." The students leaned forward.
"What's it like, the spirits in the Southlands? Are they like the ones here?" the second boy asked, the one whose face was flushed, whose eyes were staring at him as if they had not seen…
"Well," Kiralo began.
"That is another lesson," the fat man said, ruffling his robes carefully, "I know quite enough, having lived in Hari-Su for a number of years." And yet he lacked the accent. Curious, very curious. He seemed to have been setting up Kiralo to present himself...yet to fail, or to succeed?
And the students themselves seemed torn in a way that no doubt posed a threat to his authority. Because now the whispering had begun, and now it was clear that people knew he was Kiralo...and thus whose son he was. He'd merely wanted to listen, but the students could be impressed by him...or not.
It all depended.
What does he do?
[] Engage with the teacher.
[] Engage with the students.
[] Focus on the lesson, perhaps there is new information in the comparison.
Academy Days
Need: 30, Rolled: 1d100+9=70
Need: 30, Rolled: 1d100+9=70
*****
A/N: Allow me to admit this is partially a 'created' problem. In the sense that I thought of the scene and thought I'd offer you a chance to get more stuff, and because this was all I had time for before Christmas, so...yeah, hope that this tides people over and lets me hold off closing the vote until after Christmas without leaving you high and dry. Next part will probably be the end of it? Maybe.
