My… ancestor?
“Fionn?” came a voice from down the aisle. “Are you alone?”
“No—I mean… yes,” said Fionn, standing to face Farris. The Simian had done a spectacular job of making himself unheard, although his frame was almost too large to weave through all those shelved books.
Wasn’t he a thief before? asked Sir Bearach.
“What brings you here?” asked Fionn instead, shaking his head to drown out the knight’s words. “Shouldn’t you be with the others?”
“I should,” said Farris. “The soldiers are making their preparations to return to Penance, but many are reluctant to leave. To leave this quest unfinished, after so many have died, isn’t sitting well with many of them.”
“I don’t blame them. We all left Penance thinking we’d end this, but it looks like we’ve only made things worse.”
“And you… are you still planning on going on this trek to Mount Selyth?”
“You came to convince me not to go?” Fionn smirked. “You can’t claim it’s too dangerous for me.”
“I suppose I can’t. Tell me, how does it feel, to be a living god?”
“If you came here to mock me, you can leave,” said Fionn, slamming the book closed.
“No,” said Farris. “I’m serious. I mean, did you ever, suspect it? Before being buried alive and surviving and all that. Did you ever feel… special?”
Fionn paused for a moment. “No. I felt different from the other students in the Academy, sure, but that was mainly because I had a different upbringing to them. I assumed I was so adept with magic because I grew up here, surrounded by books and scrolls detailing the arcane arts. And as for narrowly avoiding death so often, I just assumed that I was lucky.”
“Most do,” said Farris. “I once knew a Simian who thought he was lucky. Turned out that he—”
“Was there anything else?” asked Fionn, opening the book once more.
“The others are worried about you.” Farris’s voice was sterner now. “Anyone else would collapse under the weight of what’s been thrust upon your back. You need to speak to the rest of the camp. And tell them that you have everything under control.”
“Under control?” said Fionn. “How can you say that everything’s under control after all that’s happened?”
“I never said you would tell them the truth,” replied Farris. “Let me tell you something about leadership. Once a group, any kind of group, has a leader at its head, the burden of responsibility is lifted from the many, and rests with the one. Plackart played this role well. In truth, he knew little of the ways of magic or the nature of our enemy, though he was a good leader regardless. But with him gone, the responsibility he held has spread throughout the camp. And unlike other burdens, when responsibility is shared too thin it festers into helplessness. Right now, there’s all sorts of rumours spreading about what happened to Meadhbh. And what happened to you. The soldiers need to know, Fionn. They need to know that there’s some hope yet of overcoming all this.”
“You really think there’s hope? After all that’s happened?”
“Of course,” said Farris. He stood a little taller on saying this. “When King Diarmuid first met the Lady, She said we were all doomed to our destinies. But when She saw us, and we were still alive, She said there was hope. Even though She knew well that Morrígan would strike Her down, the Lady still believed not all was lost. She said that you would survive, which you did—and that you’d know what to do next, which you do. When we all start the march back to Penance, it’ll make everyone happier knowing that at least someone knows what must be done. And the responsibility of this war will be left with you and your journey to Mount Selyth, leaving everyone else free to return to their homes.”
“I don’t know, Farris,” said Fionn. “I know only as much as you do with all this. Me travelling to Mount Selyth is nothing more than… a lucky guess. I don’t think I can pretend it’s anything more than that.”
The Simian raised a finger and smiled. “Ah, you have a lot to learn about lying, lad. Never let others know how much you know, and always let on that you know much more than that. People will be happy to fill in the gaps themselves. Even if you think it’ll make no difference, and we’ll all die horrible deaths at the hands of some psychotic demi-god, what harm would it be to tell the others that everything will be okay until then?”
“I don’t know. It just feels… wrong to say that.”
“It wouldn’t be wrong. It’d just be incorrect.” Farris smiled. “I’ll give you some time to think on it.” He turned to leave. In the waning light of the frosty dusk outside, Farris’s figure disappeared into the shadows.
Maybe he has a point, said Sir Bearach. Is there any harm in lying to those that shouldn’t know the truth?
Perhaps, thought Fionn. He could have a point. What harm is there in lying, if there’s a greater good to come from it?
***
Through a meandering labyrinth of shelves and bookcases, Fionn wandered, a Pyromancer’s torch clenched in his hand. Although the fire between his fingers burned brightly, mist still escaped his mouth with each breath.
The brothers would skin me if they saw me with an open flame here, he thought, scanning the hundreds of leather-bound spines presenting themselves along the shelves.
Do you still not know what you’re looking for? asked Sir Bearach. If Fionn didn’t know any better, he could have sworn the knight spoke through chattering teeth in the cold.
I already found it, replied Fionn, reaching up to take a particularly large tome from a high shelf. Although the library’s skylights were thickly crusted with snow, enough light shone down upon the book’s cover to reveal the title: The Progress of Truth.
Fionn sat where he stood in the middle of the aisle and pulled open the cover. Inside, chaotic scribblings filled the pages, with only the occasional printed text in margins being legible.
I spent a lot of time here when I was younger, Fionn said, licking a finger as he leafed through the pages. I’ve read every book here at least once, even if I didn’t understand most of them. Once he reached the centre page, he stopped. A messy cloud of wild scrawls covered the centre between two pages, with circular shapes like eyes dotted around the outside. In the margin, a footnote read, ‘Replicated from the logbook of the Simian astronomer Garvan Hawkeye.’
But even though I never understood this book, I always came back to it. Just to look at the pictures.
What’s it about? asked Sir Bearach
People, replied Fionn. Humans and Simians who claimed to have had Seeings from Seletoth. Garvan Hawkeye was the first Simian who claimed to have had contact with the Lord. An atheist and a scientist too, right beforehand.
Fionn continued through the book. Its author had spent many pages and paragraphs interpreting each of the wild ramblings of those who had had contact with Seletoth. And at the centre of each conjecture was a reference to the Truth.
Is the Truth about me? wondered Fionn, flicking past a stirring illustration of a green valley flooding with blood. That I’m the last heir of Seletoth?
Perhaps not, said Sir Bearach. Didn’t the Lady say that the Church was established hundreds of years ago to hide it? Making the Truth far older than you.
Fionn frowned. They knew far too little so far. If anyone would know, it would be Him. The Lord.
