Partisan Saga, Chapter IX - The Morning: A Nightmare of Reality

                “Do you agree with Counsel, Brother?”
                “I do not,” Cagneidu replied. He let his eyes sweep over the surging crowd that had gathered. “But I trust his judgment among his own people.”
                “And what of my people?” Oddriser asked. His vision followed his brother’s. “Did they return safely?”
                “And with everything you sought to reclaim.”
                “Then this is the only course of action, isn’t it, Brother?”
                “I would have to say so.”
                “You have to understand, Brother,” Oddriser pleaded. “I truly did not want this.”
                “You may not use Anima Tsesheydung. Nor Anima Khurbn, nor Anima Fartraybn.”
                “I would never, Brother. But understand—”
                “I understand. And I might believe you, Oddriser. But regardless, this is where we stand as a result of your actions.”

                Where they stood was nice enough for the time, Oddriser might have argued.  Beside them, great stone blocks of perfectly chiseled marble, nearly as tall as they were. A canvas of hide had been stretched over them. Collaborator laborers had spent half a day hauling the blocks out into a relatively level stretch of the desert well beyond the city. Oddriser had offered to move them, but they refused; he might very well tamper with them, had he his way. It did him little harm; watching them struggle so arduously with the stones was entertainment enough, and it had allowed him to forget the significance behind it, at least for the time.

                Two.

                Across from him, already standing upon the makeshift ring, Counsel paced idly back and forth, sporting the same cool ease he had with every time Oddriser had seen him. Just as tranquil as he had come to greet Oddriser’s party before the gates. Each step carried the same harmony he’d expressed – first at the lodging with Oddriser’s men, again upon entry into the First Library. Oddriser was convinced that if he lay dying at Counsel’s hand, or even if the reverse occurred, the latter would stare at him with those same unwavering eyes even as one or the both of them bled out.

                “Mistakes were made, brother,” Oddriser admitted. “I did the best I could.”
                “Did you?”
                “I could not have prevented the attack that spurred this on. It happened beyond my notice, while I oversaw the receiving of our knowledge.”
                “Perhaps you should mind your subordinates more carefully.”
                “Indeed. And perhaps the Collaborators should not provoke them as well.”
                “Brother, it is their house in which we stand.”
                “All the more reason for them to be on their best behavior! We are the guests, are we not?”
                Cagneidu looked across the ring to Counsel. “After today, I am not so sure.”
                As if on cue, Counsel turned. “Pelomect Oddriser! The sun rises ever unto midday! How long do you intend to wait?”
                Oddriser moved to climb onto the blocks. Cagneidu grabbed his arm. “Remember—”
                “I know, Brother,” Oddriser muttered. “The soul must remain intact.”

                Oddriser hoisted himself up onto the platform as Counsel watched from the far end. The large rectangular stones had been laid end to end, forming a larger rectangle. The longer portions of the shape stretched the distance between them; less a ring, more a gauntlet, even accounting for the lack of rails or bars girding the edges.
                “How would you like to proceed, Counsel?” Oddriser asked.
                “You are the challenged,” Counsel replied. “You may decide the terms of this bout.”
                Oddriser looked to Cagneidu. The latter shook his head slowly.
                Oddriser returned his attention to his opponent. “We shall battle using all of the forces at our respective commands, save for those involving the command of men and their subsequent forces. Agreed?”
                Counsel offered a light smile. “I find your terms agreeable.”

                If the crowds determined the strength of their respective combatants, it was a battle beyond lopsidedness. Much of the city had followed their champion out into the desert to do battle with the Selector, whose supporters had fled home. Now that the terms had been decided, the inhabitants of the first city roared, hard, loud, for Counsel.

                “To be thrown from the ring is to be declared the loser,” Oddriser added. “Otherwise, we fight until one of us yields, or dies.”
                “Agreed, Oddriser. Shall we begin?”

                Upon his capture, Oddriser had been stripped of his dagger; it had been returned in time with his  brother’s arrival and his subsequent release. Now, he removed it once more, tossing belt, scabbard, and blade into the dirt. Counsel watched the weapon go with only the slightest of surprise.

                “Draw your weapon, Cousin,” Oddriser insisted.
                “Where is yours, Lord Oddriser?”
                “Do not doubt that I am ready.”
                “As you wish.” Counsel gestured, and streams of sand rose up from the desert. The sand compacted upon itself again and again. Under the heat of the sun, it began to blaze so fiercely that Oddriser could feel the added warmth even at a distance.  Convection, sand, pressure, wind. Counsel consolidated the matter into a sleek, hardened blade.
                Counsel shook out the sword in his hand, scattering further heat and stray bits of earth. The weapon gleamed and simmered in the midday atmosphere, catching light at odd angles, a strip of silver in the pale desert. Then, Counsel uttered a word—

                —And the space between them vanished, Counsel falling upon Oddriser, his sword set in a lethal arc. The blade tore through Oddriser with brutal efficiency, scattering the upper right side of his body into bits of flesh, blood, and bone. The lower half of the Selector fell to knees. The gasps of the crowd turned into roars and applause—

                — but then Counsel resumed his position on the far side of the arena, his sword pointed at the remains of Oddriser. As quickly as they had come, the cheers dissipated.
                The viscera that had been tumbling through the air halted and rolled back together. “No?” Oddriser asked. He climbed back to his feet as the remainder of his body reassembled itself.
                “You triggered your spell too early,” Counsel told him.
                Oddriser rubbed at his jaw. “That I did. Though I suppose with a blade as finely honed as yours, you would know immediately that you had not cut me.”
                “There is that, as well.”
                “Are you going to try again?”
                “Naturally.”  Even before the Collaborator had finished speaking, the air caught fire as more swaths of sandforged blades shot in to skewer Oddriser. Oddriser burst again, this time more thoroughly. Streaks of blood stained the canvas.
                As the pieces of Oddriser drew together once again, Counsel appeared over the downed Selector to finish him.
                Oddriser caught the sword in his fist, and though blood and steam streamed from between his fingers, the blade burst into the sand it had once been. “That hurt.”  With his other hand, he made a grab for Counsel’s throat,
                —but the latter had regained the safety of the space between them.
                Again, sand rose and sharpened, but this time, the shapes would not hold, tumbling away as soon as they came.
                “No,” Oddriser commanded. He surged to his feet and bolted toward the Collaborator.
                Counsel flicked his gaze to the piles of inert sand scattered about the arena, and then settled his attention back on the approaching Selector. “I have other weapons.” His right arm gleamed for a moment, and he shoved it clear through Oddriser.
                The crowd was cheering again. Around Oddriser, the air seemed to simmer more than ever, the dunes seemed to spin. He knew it was not entirely a product of the heat, even accounting for Counsel’s ability. Yes. As expected. Yes, even now, buried elbow deep in Oddriser’s flesh, Counsel’s face remained the clear and perfect mask- unflinching even for the specks of Selector blood upon it.
                For Oddriser, it was invigorating. The smell of blood in his nostrils, the taste in his mouth. Beyond the shores of the arena, the crowd’s noise had matched the soothing calm of ocean waves, rolling over his ears in exquisite rhythm. He felt so light on his feet, as though he might be able to float away at any moment. His head fell back and his body slumped as he stared into the sky. Even one as powerful as he….
                “So do I.”
                Blood shot out of Oddriser’s chest and tore its way up Counsel’s arm, shredding flesh and cleaving bone from forearm to shoulder to collarbone. The force of the attack threw both men to the floor.
                Silence. Clear vision returned and the ocean no longer lapped at his heels. What flesh had not been honestly lost began to mount upon him, taking its place once again. Painfully, he pushed himself into a sitting position.
                Were it not for the sight of Counsel’s good arm clutching the bad, Oddriser might have thought him unharmed- his face remained nearly as stoic as always- the alarm present an indication only of depleted blood and absent motor control. Fear of death and pain did not factor. This was, for Oddriser, most disappointing, and yet admirable.
                “It is over, Counsel,” Oddriser said. He climbed to his feet with a feigned spryness. He hid a wince behind a playful chuckle aimed at the crowd.
                Counsel pulled himself upright as well, though not with the haste of Oddriser. “I am not finished.  He blurred for a second, but it faded. The blood dripping from his mangled arm slowed momentarily, then resumed running full course.
                “Your power is incredible, Cousin,” Oddriser continued. “In fact, I am jealous, for I have never been able to accomplish the organization that you and my Brother bring to your incantations.”
                “Because… you lack… will… focus…”
                “Focus perhaps…” Oddriser admitted. “But it matters little now, and you know that as well as I. As long as I lay my power over this space, yours will not activate.”  He cast a rueful gaze over his shoulder toward the sand that would not quite form daggers, then back to the blood that did not quite clot, and the bones that did not quite mend. “Therefore, you can neither kill me, nor preserve your own life, unless I will it.”
                “Let us end this then.” Counsel broke into a run, and quickly so, given his injuries. Oddriser tore up shards of the arena between them with the power from his fingertips, but Counsel leapt over the obstacle and swept his foot around midair to catch Oddriser’s skull with his heel. Predictably, the Selector’s head ruptured and fell away, only to recover as Counsel’s foot safely departed the space.
                The scuffle continued for several moments, as Counsel delivered additional attacks, which Oddriser parried in the conventional manner or avoided through self-separation. Finally, Oddriser snagged Counsel’s torn arm and twisted it hard. The pain didn’t deter the Collaborator; Oddriser had forgotten. He took a fist across the face for this oversight, but did not relinquish his hold.
                “I’ll tear it off,” Oddriser warned.
                “I will manage.”
                “You will die.”
                “If it comes to that.”
                “Yield.”
                “Kill me, if you can!”
                “No.” Oddriser relinquished his hold upon Counsel’s arm, shoving the man away as if disgusted.

                Immediately, sand shot into the sky and the heat became unbearable. Countless blades swirled in circles around Oddriser.

                Seeing this, Oddriser grinned a bitter grin. “Do it.”

                Counsel closed his fist, and the blades shot in.
               

Partisan Saga, Chapter VIII - The Piecing of a Dream

                Dorian might have allowed himself too much optimism for the whole affair.

                Whatever expressions had been upon their faces vanished, along with the light, into the dark halls of the Black Library. Now Dorian read these faces and saw exactly what he had expected. A glance to Shelley confirmed this.

                “What the hell is this?” Ringlead asked.
                “This is home,” Dorian offered resolutely.
                Shelley was quick to lay a hand on her comrade’s shoulder. “This is the Black Library,” she told them. “You’re welcome. We’d be honored to show you around.”

                It had made so much sense at the time, especially when the words had come from Shelley’s mouth. However, now that they stood before the maw of the Black Library, Dorian was not without his second thoughts. It wasn’t a matter of shame or fear— just the opposite, in fact. More than anything, more than he had ever been, Dorian was proud. Proud of the Library that had taken him in. Proud of the people who shared his aims and allowed him pursuit of such in peace.  And here he stood now with people who would never understand all of those things. Worse, they would assume them of no value because of that misunderstanding.

                Ringlead and his boys looked into the halls, and then amongst themselves. Agitation. Annoyance.   Their demeanor did not suggest positive reviews by any stretch of the imagination. Only Kev proved the exception, appearing merely nervous, devoid of the anger, disgust, and dismissal exuded by his brethren.
                “You call this place home?” One of them asked.
                “It doesn’t look like much,” another added.

                Shelley would no doubt call Dorian on his arrogance.  He couldn’t deny that she would be absolutely justified in doing so, either.  After all, how could he turn his nose up at them? They had invited him into the White. Perhaps it had not been ideal, but he had been there, he had learned about their thoughts and their manner. It would do neither him nor his sect any good if he didn’t take the opportunity to educate them on the Black Library.  

                “It’s not quite like the White,” Shelley admitted. “But it has its charms. And it’s a Library nonetheless.”
                They didn’t seem convinced by her words; their hard stares at the two Blacks and the halls before them neither softened nor wavered. When Ringlead next spoke, he spoke for them all.

                “Yeah, we’re not doing this.”
                “What?” Shelley asked. “Why not?”
                RInglead gestured before them.“Look at this place. It’s a dump.”
                “It’s not,” Dorian replied. “Look again.”
                “Paint all over the walls…”
                “It’s art,” Shelley insisted.
                “That’s what you call art? It clashes.”
                Dorian snorted. “Your opinion.”
                “The White’s halls are orderly in their paint. We have real art, and we put it in sacred places. We don’t just jam it all together.”
                “That doesn’t make it better,” Dorian shot back. “It just isolates it. The Black believe in freedom of expression. it’s beautiful when differences come together.”
                “No, it’s chaos.”
                “And? There’s nothing wrong with chaos.”
                “What? No, chaos is bad.” Here, Ringlead looked to his boys for support, and received immediately affirming nods and grunts. “ You can’t get anything done. Everything has to fall in line and you Blacks don’t understand that.”
                “It’s a little more complicated than that,” Shelley explained. “The problem with order is that too much of it stifles creativity and individuality.”
                “Creativity? All that matters is the design o the head. People perform best when working for a common cause!”
                “Maybe so, but they can do that without sacrificing.”
                “There is no nobler virtue than sacrifice! Especially for something greater than the self!”
                “Is it, though? Isn’t the self what we’re trying to protect?”
                “It’s humanity!”
                “But what is humanity without the individual self?”
                “There’s just no talking to you,” Ringlead said finally. “This was a bad idea. C’mon boys!”

                The pushed passed Dorian to leave, a series of holier than thou scowls departing from the Library’s entrance.
                Shelley watched them go with a sigh.
                “Kev,” Dorian asked. “Aren’t you going with them?”
                Kev looked after them, then turned back to Dorian and Shelley with a shaky smile. “No,” he said. “You came with me to the sermon. Plus, we’re chaptermates.”
                The Black Librarians exchanged a glance. Only Shelley smiled.
                “So where do we start?”

                The plan had been to wander, to explain, and to answer the questions of their White guests. Things had already run afoul of that, and the irony in that finally brought a smirk to Dorian’s face. It wasn’t advertised, but to improvise was well within the spirit of the Black. He led Kev quickly and purposefully through the weaving halls. When he caught the question on Shelley’s face, he slowed only a little.
                “Are we…?”
                “We are.”

                They emerged into a great cavern, one larger that much of the other rooms. Four sets of tiered descending steps surrounded a large rectangle in the center of the floor. The rectangular space glowed with a faint black aura that bore tinges of violet, crimson, gold and jade on the flickering edges, and patterns of such light wove through the darkness, serpentine auroras in the cloud of shadow.

                Dorian grabbed Kev by the shoulder and gestured to the floor. “The southern lights.”
                “The what?”

                “This is where Black Librarians come to dream out their freedoms,” Shelley told him. “Here we can experience anything we imagine, and we can lose ourselves to our whims and desires. Here we can express ourselves and not be judged for doing so.”

                Some other Blacks had ventured into the dark mist. Almost immediately, beautiful colors seemed to spill from their heads, twisting, writhing, taking shape. With so many Librarians in the space, it was difficult to make out who dreamt what; a dragon slithered between a cloud of rainbows and a hive of dancing insects. A windchime turned in tune to the blaring alarm of a spaceship off kilter. A tree bloomed, its roots and branches keeping pace with one another- the roots budding and birthing flowers, even as the branches took on clods of dirt and frozen droplets of milk. A centipede of fans made its way up the trunk, but as each segment passed between the branches, it exploded into confetti like pizza.

                No doubt to Kev, it was a mess. To Dorian and Shelley, however it was enough that the colors ran together, that so much took on space and shape and form.

                These represent the minds of our people,” Shelley added finally.

                “I never thought that something like this would be in the Black Library,” Kevin mused.
                “We figured you’d say something like that,” Dorian replied.
                “A lot of Whites don’t think we’re capable of anything,” Shelley agreed. “They wouldn’t even think much of this.”
                “Well, it is disorganized…”
                “Can’t it be beautiful just because it is?”
                “Yes, but there’s so much wasted potential.”
                “Organizing it is what takes the potential away. Let it be and evolve on its own.”
                Kevin looked as unsure as he always did.
                Anyway, most of what you’ve seen here appears on the walls- those that we can give form to, we inscribe forever. We have to remember who and what we are. If we don’t, what is it we’re fighting to protect again?”

***

                They watched Kevin depart from their position at the mouth of the Black Library.
                “I don’t know if I could call that a success,” Dorian said.
                “Of course it was,” Shelley assured him. “We got a chance to say our piece. We opened the eyes of a friend. That’s what matters, Dor.”
                “I don’t know.”
                “You worry too much. So much for the Black Freedom, eh?”
                “Quiet you. I guess I’m just wondering about the rest.”
                “You don’t like 'em anyway.”
                “Which is exactly why I’m worried. They might spread rumors or make us look bad.”
                “They’ll do that anyway. At least this way we KNOW one less White believes it.”
                “I guess.”

                After all was said and done, Dorian made his way back into the Black Library, back to the southern lights, and back into the dark mist in order to dream his dreams again.

Partisan Saga, Chapter VII - Dreaming of a Peace

            If they had told Oddriser that a place existed within The First City that did not reek of positivity, he would have laughed. He would have laughed hard and loud, and the echoes of his mockery would carry to the farthest reaches of the City- or so he told himself. Now that he languished in the dimly lit and musty smelling cell, however, he rethought that notion. As far as prisons went, it was not at all a bad place; cobbled stones made up the walls, the floor. Unlike the streets throughout the overly decorated city, the stones that built his cell were blank and gray. Apparently, they had run out of the precious rubie or sapphire or topaz gems. The door was also stone, A single slab of slate. It loomed, impassive, immaculate, markless, the only feature upon its face a small barred gap for his captors to peer in and ensure he had neither escaped nor perished.

            Still, the sturdiest of stone proved no obstacle for Oddriser, nor did the most resolute metal. The static air within his confines posed more of a limitation. It almost buzzed with a mute energy. The power smothered his like a too-hot blanket, slowing his conductions, depleting his strength, burdening the forces at his command. The Collaborators had certainly spared no thought in regard to his captivity. And though they had sought to account for every measure…
            “Oddriser.”
            The Selector lifted his gaze to find his brother peering through the slot in the door. “Cagneidu.”
            One.
            “The Collaborator your man wounded will survive, but still nurses a significant injury.”
            “I am grateful for his life,” Oddriser replied.
            “Brother, be grateful to Counsel.”
            “I apologize, Brother. You know my powers do not lend themselves well to mending.”
            “You are correct,” Cagneidu replied. “For men and for pacts.”
            “I did the best I could, given the circumstances, Brother. You saw to it yourself with the ledger.”
            Cagneidu’s eyes narrowed. “Regarding the ledger…Counsel tells me that there was an item on there that you attempted to wrest from the Collaborators- an Almanac…”
            “Peol-walr’s Almanac, yes. Counsel tried to keep it from us.”
            “That was not on the list.”
            “But it was, Brother! You saw with your own eyes the ledger that I was to bring before the Collaborators.”
            “I did, and I approved of it,” Cagneidu agreed. “But the almanac was not on that list, nor should it have been.”
            Oddriser stared at his brother; only the static of the cell passed between them.
            “The Almanac is not ours, nor was it, nor will it ever be. It was wrong of you to seek it.”

***

            The cool breeze that swept through the desert did little to soothe Cagneidu’s concerns; the breathtaking sunset, with its oranges and yellows and reds, did just as little. With measured and meaningful steps, he joined Counsel by the wall.
            “How long do you intend to hold Oddriser?”
            Collaborator and Selector eyes met, and the former replied: “Your brother is free to emerge whenever he deems he is ready. As I told you, he requested such imprisonment.”
            Cagneidu nodded. “I just don’t understand, Counsel.”
            “Who understands Pelomect Oddriser and the men he commands?”
            The wind filled the silence, and Cagneidu let his gaze sweep over the rolling sand dunes while the deep purple of dusk crept upon the world. In the moment, both wind and waning sun seemed harmless, pleasurable; the same forces in the day killed men.
            “Friend Counsel, It is not solely Oddriser of whom I speak.”
            The Collaborator’s brows twitched in response. “Please. Speak your mind.”
           

***

            “You are wrong, Brother,” Oddriser insisted. “The Almanac is a product of Selector hearts and minds. It belongs with our people.”
            “To claim the Almanac as ours is inaccurate, at best,” Cagneidu disagreed. “The knowledge within belongs to people of all.”
            “Then you acknowledge that it is not a working of the Collaborators,” Oddriser pressed.
            “It is not.”
            “Then why, Brother? Why not seek the Almanac?”
            “Brother, you know precisely why. It is no more ours than theirs- and by your very word, your intent in coming to The First City was to obtain those things which rightfully belong to our people.”
            “And I have remained true to my word, Brother. I have not asked for that which is not ours. I made no breach, not in regards to my word to you, nor upon the bounds of Collaborator society.”
            “You placed a crater in their road.”

***

            “I do not wish to speak ill of the Collaboration,” Cagneidu assured. “But how can you expect bloodshed to stymie bloodshed?”
            “It is a bold move, to be sure,” Counsel replied with a rueful smile. “I do not wish it, you must know.” He turned away and observed the City. In the early evening, the precious stones of the road now reflected the flickering firelight rather than the steady gaze of the sun. The inhabitants still upon the streets traveled homeward as the business of day concluded.  “However, these are my people. Though I wish no harm for Oddriser, nor his men, nor your people, I must ensure that my kin understand that they are second not to Selectors, who may march into our City and conduct themselves poorly upon a whim.”

***

            Oddriser glared at the wall, color in his cheeks. “That was done with no ill will, Brother. The Collaborators would not lend me their ears, and Counsel himself had asked for my words.”
            “And the destruction of their lands would convince them to listen to you.”
            “It did, for a time,” Oddriser admitted.
            “For a time,” Cagneidu repeated. “Brother, if you must resort to such measures to carry your word, what does that say about your voice?”
            “I would say that it means people respect power, but quickly forget it.”
            “You are wrong. People offer their ears only at the fright of what you might do to them otherwise. There is no respect for you or your power, and if such frightened folk gained the means to remove you, they would take it up in haste without a moment of hesitation.”
            “Then perhaps it is better that they continue to fear me, Brother.”
            “Those are the thoughts that turn the Collaborators from you.”

***

            “So you must prove a point for your people,” Cagneidu finished.
            “You are a leader for your people as well, Cagneidu,” Counsel reminded him. “What would you do in my position?”
            Cagneidu turned his gaze back to the desert. His thoughts followed the effortless and inevitable rolling of the sand dunes, the winding patterns that covered the sandy expanse. “I would allow the Collaborators to depart from the Second City with that which they had come for, and I would instruct my people to disregard vengeance, to avoid violence or retribution. Hate breeds hate. Grudges do not die well.”
            Counsel kept his focus on the now sleeping city. Faint plumes of scented smoke wafted from the chimneys, and despite the cold chill of the evening winds, he found a subtle warmth budding as he looked upon his people. “They do not. But there is already a grudge festering because of Oddriser and his men. It will not be swept away by desert winds, nor buried in the sand, nor dry to baking in the sun. It will not depart for words alone. Instead, it will fester in the gutters of my City, a rot ill cleansed, until it poisons every last man, woman, and child.”

***

            “Explain yourself,” Oddriser demanded. “You and I are joined by the same which divides us from the Collaborators- how we as people view knowledge.”
            “Brother, we are indeed joined in our belief of knowledge and its keeping. However, the Collaborators, the people of the First City, do not fear me.”
            “They do not trust you, either, Brother.”
            “They don’t,” Cagneidu agreed. “But they respect my word, because I offer no threat to smite them, though our ideals may differ.”
            “If the Collaboration were interested in discussing ideals,” Oddriser snarled, “they would not have pursued us, accosted us, Brother. Force is not merely a matter of power, physical or otherwise. To lean aggressively upon a people is a threat, and only a slim margin lies between a threat and its actioning.”
             “Brother, I need you to see that there are other lines,” Cagneidu pleaded. “You measure only in might, imagined or actualized, and are quick to abandon neutral words when they do not perform to your expectations.”
            “If this were true, would we not have come to blows by now, Brother?” Oddriser retorted. “You and I do not always meet eyes.”
            “Our peace is kept because, and only because I do not stray beyond the bounds of your patience for words over action. A peace kept through my practice of respecting your word, even now. Especially now— where you have let me down.”
            Oddriser glared.

***

            “It will not depart for further violence, either.”
            “I believe it will,” Counsel said. “Do not misunderstand me, Cagneidu. Even now I hold no ill will. But if we leaders conduct ourselves where the public may see us, they will get their satisfaction, and we may end the conflict.”
            “It is not that simple,” Cagneidu disagreed. “As leaders, we must be ever careful of our actions. If we are to draw swords upon one other, our people, like children, might aspire to do the same, without understanding the true reasons for our actions. Worse, they may do it out of vengeance for our lives, or our honor. The very rot you speak of would only grow, exacerbated by violence among heads of state.”

***

            “The truth is, the almanac does not belong to the Collaborators. However, it does not belong to us Selectors either.”
            “If it is neutral, then why are we not allowed to claim it through mettle, or at least share of it?” Oddriser reasoned. “That is what the Collaborators would say.”
            Cagneidu’s gaze became stern. “Two reasons. First and foremost, to share upon the conditions of an outside party instead of self-governing, quite frankly, would be an embarrassment to our tenets of Selector society. You know this.”
            Oddriser scowled. “The second, Brother.”
             “Secondly, to claim the Almanac from the Collaborators would cause unnecessary strife.”
            “I see.” Oddriser rose and paced the confines of his cell. He lifted his gaze to the wall before him, placed a hand upon it, his focus intense, as though some secret had been inscribed there. “I see it now, Brother. I understand.”
            Cagneidu met the eyes of his brother, unsure of what he himself saw. “Do you now?”
            “Please call the guard. I am ready to be released.”