After three more weeks of silence from the Founder, I decide to go looking for him first.
I could have shortened the time, in all honesty, but it took eight days for the swelling to go down after my spar with Somasil. Somehow, I was not eager to see Trema while still mumbling through a bruise that took up half a cheek. The healers tell me I was lucky to not have a broken jaw; as it is, it took several additional days before I could fully rotate the shoulder that had taken the brunt of Somasil's attack.
The damage earned me the mixed fascination and sympathy of Dopha. He had taken a crack across the knuckles by a lucky shot on Shelinda's part; Dopha had not been using the holes in the looped-staffs properly to protect his hands, and earned a set of nasty bruises all his own.
"I hear Somasil and Gella are going to graduate to full circles soon," he told me privately over a cup of morning coffee, flourishing his fingers like a war trophy for all that the damage had already faded. "When that happens, we won't have to worry about facing them anymore in trial like that."
"It was Shelinda that gave you that mark, not either of them," I remind him crisply.
He passes me the sugar. "You're exactly right!" Nothing of displeasure colors his voice. "But I figure, maybe if the priests have to deal with level tests, they might also remember to fail others of us out."
I spoon out what I need and slide the jar back. Speaking hurts when your face is still painted mottle-rot from a bruise, but I like to keep in the habit. "Is that your plan?"
"Do us a favor and don't tell anyone, okay, Baralai?" Dopha arranges his fingers in half a blessing gesture, wags them in supplication towards me. "Shelinda and I are both hoping to get disqualified from having to train for fighting anymore. It's just not what we're good at. You know that. Making us try to be something we're not... just isn't a proper use of our talents."
I can't argue that. Rather than even try, I take a long sip from my cup. The liquid is hot, sweet, and does much to wash down the dry crumbles of breakfast bread. Dopha tries to steal what's left off my plate and I tactfully look the other way while his fingers inch over.
The scholar is in a good mood.
He must have been assigned extra research papers.
Full circle quarterstaffs are a degree above the looped models. The main bodies of the full-circles are solid, hard-packed wood; if you are not capable of saving your fingers by that time, it is fitting that you lose them. Instead, the ends of the advanced quarterstaffs have single circles worked into the design. Hence the name; the full circles are sometimes edged to allow for slashing maneuvers, but naturally our practice training has not resorted to such degrees of lethality.
In comparison to all my work analyzing and calculating social tactics, I have not given nearly much thought to my own skills in combat. Somasil and Gella both could easily be the equal of a bladed warrior; with more training, they could likely outmaster a machina gunner.
It would seem in my best interest if I were to pursue their level of study. Bikanel has skewed my opinion of any weapon that requires reloading; Nooj's parting with the Team has only made it worse. While total avoidance of machina firearms would only be unnecessary prejudice--they are useful, after all--I think I should try to be prepared for all situations.
Besides, Nooj relies on machina for the most part.
The only problem would be which one of the Lustrum I could learn such skills from. Gella is easier to speak with, having already shown a willingness to lean in my direction, but I cannot train with her unless I want to be targeted again by either her jealous suitor, her priest, or both. Likewise, it does not seem likely that I can have Somasil himself volunteer to be my tutor.
This impasse shows no signs of breaking itself. Gella's priest being removed would be the most logical step; that would eliminate a large part of the restrictive barrier between Somasil and Gella and might win me the solid loyalty of both. Matter solved.
Perhaps Trema can banish Unsent as easily as he crushed a sphere out of existence. If so, murder might not be so implausible a solution to pull off.
I think I will leave such means as a last resort.
Which is the second of the matters that has occupied me for my duration healing up after the training spar. Trema's control over a recording sphere is not something I have managed to figure out. Not only did the Founder know I retained one in the consul hall, despite my pains in concealment, but Trema also was able to destroy the orb. Such processes must logically exist already. There are certain springs where Bevelle has been able to harvest fresh congealments of pyreflies in blank records; Macalania is one such place. Ideally, there must also be research done to reverse the process, return the spheres back to nothingness.
But the Founder did so with such ease that the memory continues to disturb me. His ability cannot be a secret that is widely known amidst Yevon. If this were true, far more spheres would have disappeared over the years, rather than being dug up years later to present evidence that a person had thought would be long safe. Yevon could have destroyed any record with sterile certainty; control of the spheres would have been far more strict, to prevent the security of information being smuggled out instead of simply passed hand to hand by traders on the Highroad.
Or I might be projecting my thoughts too far ahead into conspiracy. The truth is that only Trema knows.
Four weeks have gone by since I last met with him in his study. Some of that can be blamed on my injury, but otherwise, the time delay is far too lax for my liking. I have prolonged my doom. If Trema has assigned guards to spy on me in event that I try to flee Bevelle or enact grand treachery, then he must be sorely disappointed. The largest act of mystery I have performed in all those days is to come up with one of the books Dopha was searching for in the libraries, having found it misfiled in a stack three shelves down.
Now I walk up the stairs to his tower once more. This ascent does not require running, weaving through the treachery of slush where the steps exit into open-air balconies. I can take the climb at my leisure, which is good because it allows me the time to compose my thoughts.
A more foolhardy acolyte might agree to Trema's terms. They could believe themselves to be in full control, the shield of their bravado keeping them from falling prey to the elaborate machinations of Yevon. Eventually, they would come to believe that what they are doing really is of their own free will.
On a day as cold as this, in the heart of Bevelle's winter, they might even remember what they originally wanted from life.
Another option is more primitive; join Trema, but seek to undermine him from the very first day spent in enrollment. Chief amidst the drawbacks is that this method is one already expected by most of Yevon's priests. They would expect little else. Layered plans are customary, stacking ploy upon ploy until there are enough false trails to hopefully throw off a hunter's nose, but I am not certain if keeping to tradition will win me any more esteem from the Founder.
I do not know which means is best. Trema spoke of wanting to break away from the past. It might be that he is only looking for support of his own. Such a viewpoint is radical to the stolid, steady base that is Bevelle; he cannot have told many of the other priests. If any.
The only certainty is that I invite my death if I should give off an unwilling appearance. Whether or not I would actually agree to Trema's terms has never been seriously under debate; I can do nothing to deal with this Vegnagun if I am extinguished. Turning Unsent might have given me an extra edge of time if the priests were to kill me by fabricated accident, but after witnessing Trema's orchestration of pyreflies, I do not trust that contingency plan anymore.
It may be that I could find a way to solve my own problems while cooperating with the Founder. Records of the Crimson Squad could be permanently rendered by the man, that much was sure. His plans are too radical to not garner notice from the rest of Bevelle, no matter how much he phrases them in an old man's quaver. When that occurs, I can seek to pull away, and count my successes afterwards.
After all, revolution of Yevon's party into New Yevon form is not in my interest.
Even though it would fulfill my promise to the Lustrum.
Winter's snowfall has lessened itself over the weeks, even though its chill has latched onto every stone and bridge. My breath steams out in abbreviated plumes when I exhale. Lustrum robes do nothing to keep me warm. I wonder if I can petition Trema to get a change of clothes in exchange for filing some of his forms.
Slipping a hand out from where I have tucked it inside my sleeve, I knock once upon the door to the Founder's study.
Nothing.
I debate the wisdom of rapping a second time. The guard-priest waiting at the Founder's private lift assured me that indeed, Trema had not descended yet this day. If the man is inside, I might be disrupting a spell of delicate proportions.
The backlash from the energies involved might have explosive results. Trema might be caught in the blast. Consequences could be fatal.
I think about this.
Then I knock again, louder.
When there is no reply to that sound--meteoric or otherwise--I lower my hand. Maybe the priest is mistaken. Trema could be absent after all, or perhaps ritual spirited him away through the air itself to teleport him to depths unknown, uncharted save for his interference. There are numerous cloisters in Bevelle. Who knows if the study conceals doorways to the underground levels?
I extend my fingers towards the latch, pausing as the tips touch the metal. Just when I am debating the wisdom of entering and exploring the chamber on my own, the Founder's voice calls out. Muffled, distracted. "Enter."
Dry sawdust meets my nose as I press into the study. The air is warm. I close the door behind me to keep from losing too much of the heat to winter.
Trema is seated at his desk; two sphere crates are unbolted and open, spilling out their contents in multicolor format across the furniture. The orbs were packed in wooden shavings to keep them from chipping even with the insulation of the net-wire wrappings. Records splintered might not be playable while broken apart, but recovering all the pieces is possible if you have the patience.
Most handlers do not. Trema is in the process of examining a tag when I interrupt.
"My lord."
"Ah." Another series of seconds while the Founder reads out the tagged details, and then he turns the orb around in his hand to examine the record from every angle. "Baralai. Excellent."
Temperatures were not nearly this comfortable the last time I visited. The reason for the change would have to be the fire simmering in the study's hearth; the rug has been pulled back away from the inlaid stones so that there would be no danger of sparks catching fabric into an inferno. Either Trema knew to expect me, or even he feels the chill of the season.
The tableau remains like this, Trema's attention on the sphere and my own on the hearth. Logs snap at each other like quarreling dogs.
Crystal resounds with a dull thunk when the Founder finishes with the record at last, sets it down on the surface of the desk where it serves as a paperweight for preexisting files. "I am pleased to see you up and about, Baralai. I heard you had quite, mm... the nasty spill just recently, am I right?"
"My humblest apologies for the delay, my lord." Though it sends a twinge through my shoulder, I slide my palms parallel to perform the ritual bow. "I hope my absence did not inconvenience your affairs."
Formalities. My lack of initiative in contacting Trema is only logical, considering how the Founder told me he would send orders first. The greatest interruption I could have been would involve the assignment of the Founder's spies upon me to make certain that I would not attempt conspiracy, and in that, I have done naught but waste their time.
Trema does not seek to place elaborations of blame upon me, falsify excuses in a chance to punish me for invisible faults. "On the contrary. You, hm, came at the perfect time." Papers have their corners flipped beneath his thumb as he searches in the mess on his desk; sorting through the various texts, the Founder is careful not to roll any spheres off the table when he tugs a folder free. This is offered to me. "I have a task for you. It involves the individuals that New Yevon is assembling for use in the sphere hunts. You, mm, said you were skilled at this in particular, did you not?"
"Pardons, my lord." Boots go unheard save for quiet thumps as I walk across the room and its ornate carpet. My hand reaches out to accept the scribed papers, flip the cover of the folder back. Automatically, my eyes have already begun to skim the contents even while I continue to speak. "I don't understand. Which talent did you mean?"
Trema hears the jibe implicit, makes a faint smile out of his age-spotted features. I have just attempted to remind the Founder that I have more than just one ability to my name. Whether or not he finds such a claim more than amusing is up to him.
"It concerns Mi'ihen's Deathseeker. The one known as Nooj," the Founder expounds needlessly, turning back to the crates to fish out a new sphere and sort for its tag. "This man's name has appeared on the list of Seekers willing to work for New Yevon. If you know him as well as you say you do, I would like you to estimate how useful he would be for this cause. Bring me back your honest opinion. I would like to see an example of your capabilities... not only for the ability to judge but also for handling the Seekers as a whole. They will be instrumental to New Yevon's future."
In the indifference of Trema's words, I understand the trap. Far too easy to single out Nooj now due to my own prejudice. If I am the type of person to put short-term satisfaction ahead of the longer goals, if I am unable to keep my own sense of betrayal from interfering with rationality, then Trema would know I am a faulty instrument.
I force myself to keep on task. Dossiers fill the folder, and I search through them for a face familiar. So far, all the pictures feature individuals with normal hair. That makes it easy to skim over. "Where is he assigned?"
"The applicants for Seekers are gathering around.. mm, Luca. Much better weather than here, wouldn't you agree?" Sawdust puffs up from the crate that Trema has his hand in now, trying to wrest his next sphere out. "There are approximately thirty names on the list. I am turning their evaluations all over to you."
Luca. The trip through the Thunder Plains would be long enough. I will need to hurry if I am to arrive at the port city.
"I understand." Folding the paper away in my robes, I perform the bow to signal my departure. My mouth knows the drill. Just as it had once vowed to another priest, it present words of blank sincerity. "I will not fail you."
"No." Shrewdness catches my statement, dissects it in the air and in the eyes of the Founder as he looks up at me, shedding the illusion of his preoccupation in an instant. "I rather think you shall not."