"Even if your source is different, you must first master the fundamentals of divination."
Shikshak Yaren showed no reaction to Ashan's flicker of disappointment.
His pale yellow eyes remained fixed on some point in the middle distance, his voice taking on the measured cadence of a man who had explained the same concepts to the same eager faces for longer than he cared to remember.
"Divination is a school of mantra." His fingers traced patterns in the air, invisible geometries that might have been maps of worlds Ashan could not see. "You know it as Prakasa, the art of revelation."
He continued to unravel the nature of the craft, his voice dropping, becoming something closer to a confession than a lecture.
"We interpret one possible truth from the multitude that exists in reality. It is our own understanding, our own lens, that decides what is true or false."
So it all comes down to perception.
Ashan let the words settle into the space behind his eyes, where they joined the accumulation of knowledge that was already pressing against the walls of his mind.
Filtered through one's own knowledge.
"That is all for today." Shikshak Yaren stood with the fluid grace of a man who had not spent his life sitting, drawing out his parched goatskin paper once more.
"I recommend you find a book on divination fundamentals in the library."
"Shikshak Yaren, if I may ask..." Ashan kept his voice carefully respectful, the question rising before he could fully shape it. "What is that you're holding?"
"Oh, this?" Yaren gave it a slight wave, the paper catching the dim light, its surface shimmering with something that might have been ink or might have been dried blood. "It is the same thing that became the fireball I threw at you."
Ashan's lips twitched.
"This is called charm paper." Yaren's voice was matter-of-fact, as if he had not just admitted to casually hurling magical flames at a prospective student. "You are aware of the professional disciplines under the two margas of sadhana?"
"Yes, we learned of them." But I am of the third kind.
"I recall you follow the Samyama Marga." Yaren tucked the paper into his robes, his movements slow, deliberate. "As for me, I follow two disciplines. Vidhishar, the diviner, and Bandhakalpin, the creator of charms and talismans—a charmcaster. Both fall under the Atma Marga. Vidhishar is my primary discipline."
He paused, and something flickered in his eyes—a shadow of something that might have been warning or might have been recognition. "You must understand, our kind lacks direct, explosive power. We must rely on other means."
"So that is why you chose charmcasting as your secondary profession."
Shikshak Yaren nodded once, the gesture sharp, final. "But you need not follow suit if you have no wish to." With that, he turned his back and returned to his work, the scratch of quill on parchment filling the silence like the sound of small claws on stone.
Hmm. Ashan watched him for a moment, watching the way the man's shoulders hunched, the way his hand moved across the page with the mechanical rhythm of long practice. Should I learn charm-making? He turned the question over, examined it from every angle. Better to focus on divination for now.
He exited the building. The sun was beginning its descent, painting the sky in shades of orange and red that bled into the deepening blue of approaching night. He made his way to another structure—a squat building of dark stone, its windows shuttered, its door standing open like a mouth waiting to swallow him whole.
A large board hung over its entrance, the letters carved deep, painted black: LIBRARY.
He stepped inside.
The air was thick with the scent of old paper and faint, lingering incense—the smell of a thousand books breathing out their secrets, one page at a time. An old man sat at a desk near the entrance, utterly absorbed in a book, his face inches from the page, his lips moving silently as he read.
Ashan coughed lightly. No response. He tapped the table with his fingers, the sound sharp in the silence.
Nothing.
"Hello." He pitched his voice to carry, let it cut through the haze of concentration. "I need a book on divination."
The old man lowered his book just enough to peer over it, giving Ashan a curious glance over the top of spectacles that were either very old or very new or something in between. "Two bronze coins for one week's rental." His voice was thin, reedy, the voice of a man who had spent more time with books than with people. "Find it among the shelves."
He snorted—an actual snort, a sound of pure disdain—and vanished behind his book once more.
Ashan stared at him for a long moment.
What is he reading so intently?
His eyes swirled into grayish-white hues.
[Viksana: Analyse]
Information flooded his mind in a cascade of words and images, too fast to separate, too fast to follow—until one title rose to the surface, clear and sharp and utterly absurd.
'How to Seduce Any Woman'
.............
.............
The text contained a thorough explanation of the art of seduction, broken down into chapters, illustrated with diagrams that Ashan's eyes refused to focus on.
His eye twitched.
Why is this old man in the House of Greed? He turned the question over, let it sit in the space behind his eyes where the absurdities of this world went to be examined. Shouldn't he be in the House of Lust? Is this the effect of the alliance—are the sins bleeding over?
He moved past the desk into the stacks, letting the question dissolve into the silence of the library.
Jokes aside. His fingers trailed along the spines of the books, feeling the worn leather, the cracked binding, the weight of knowledge pressed flat and bound. Humans are an accumulation of sins and virtues. We merely define ourselves by the primary one we serve.
He scrolled through the shelves, his eyes moving across titles that blurred into each other, his feet carrying him deeper into the labyrinth of knowledge. A staircase led to an upper floor, a sign hanging above it in letters of faded gold: RESTRICTED — AROHAN-RANKED SADHAKAS ONLY.
After nearly an hour of searching, he found it: "Basic Guide to the Art of Divination and Revelation."
He inspected the worn-out cover, the faded ink, the pages that had been handled so many times they had gone soft at the edges. The title was still legible, just barely, and the author's name had been rubbed away long ago.
Two bronze coins for this. He made the calculation quickly, efficiently, letting the numbers fall into place. I've spent seven already, leaving twenty-three. Setting aside two for dinner, I can manage until I start taking missions.
He turned back toward the desk, the book heavy in his hands, his thoughts turning to frugality, to the careful accounting of resources that was the only thing standing between him and the poverty that was the ultimate sin.
The old man was still reading, his cheeks slightly flushed, his eyes glued to the page, his lips moving in words that might have been prayers or might have been something else entirely.
Ashan dropped the divination book on the desk with a thud.
The sound jarred the old man from his aroused state. His head snapped up, his eyes wide, his mouth open in a snarl that showed teeth that had been filed to points.
"What?!" he shouted, his voice cracking, and several other library patrons shot him sharp looks that he ignored completely.
"I am renting this book." Ashan placed two bronze coins on the table, the metal clinking against the worn wood, and produced his identification badge.
In a foul mood, the old man snatched the badge, scribbled on it with a quill that moved so fast it was almost invisible, and then snatched up his own book, retreating into his private world with the desperate speed of a man who had been caught doing something he should not have been doing.
Gonner Gezzer. Ashan read the name on the badge, turned it over in his mind, let it settle. Hah. The title suits him. 'GG.' I wonder how many more of these eccentrics I'll meet. The House of Lust remains an open frontier to explore.
Chuckling inwardly, he took his rented book and left the library.
The sun had fallen, replaced by a high moon and a sea of stars in the crystal-clear sky. The full moon's silver-pale light shone brightly, illuminating the path ahead, casting long shadows that stretched and shifted with each step. A silent, nightly breeze moved through the trees, carrying the scent of salt and distance, of worlds beyond this one.
Ashan walked quietly toward his dwelling hut, enjoying the solitude, the silence, the simple luxury of being alone with his thoughts.
The first day as a full-fledged cult member comes to a close.
He reached the dilapidated hut and opened the door quietly, the hinges groaning their protest into the darkness. Inside, he lit a few candles, watching the flames catch, grow, steady.
At least they provided the essentials. He looked around the small space—the worn mattress, the clay pitcher, the table that had held his thirty bronze coins. And no rent for this hovel is a small mercy.
He took a few deep, settling breaths, feeling the tension of the day begin to release from his shoulders, his back, the space between his eyes where the knowledge of the day had settled like sediment at the bottom of a still pool.
Then he sank into the state of sadhana, and the world fell away.
Outside, the moon traced its path across the sky, indifferent to the boy who sat in the darkness, turning over the day's lessons, letting them become part of him. The candles burned down, their flames guttering, dying, and in the darkness that followed, Ashan sat alone with his thoughts, his dreams, his hunger for something more than the world had ever given him.
And somewhere in the depths of his being, the gray-white whirlpools spun on, waiting for the next day, the next lesson, the next step on the path to immortality.