my life in sudden clarity. The hush whenever I walked into a room. Glances exchanged between my tutor and my sister. Hand-guarded whispers. Reassuring platitudes delivered from behind worried countenances. I thought it was because the world holds me in contempt, because I am so unlike my sister. Because I am fat.
This creeping, wormy feeling is humiliation. I’ve excelled as a student; noticing details, solving logic puzzles, memorizing information. It’s the one thing I’ve taken pride in.
But how easily I was fooled. A stupid, stupid child.
“Highness?” His tone is cautious, worried.
“Why?” I whisper. “Why keep this from me?”
“Sit down.” He waves toward the stool. “Your pacing makes this old man dizzy.” He glances toward the candle as I comply, then says merrily, “We might need another one of these.”
I don’t appreciate his good cheer. “Tell me.”
He leans forward onto the table. “When the Vía-Reformas left Joya to colonize Orovalle, they had one very important goal.”
I already know this. “To pursue God.”
He nods. “They believed—still believe—that man’s highest aspiration should be the study of sacred texts, that the increasingly godless world had blurred divine truths that waited to be rediscovered. Man’s second highest aspiration is—”
“Service.”
He nods. “Yes, service. So they left, and several years later, when the next bearer was chosen in Orovalle, they took it as God’s mark of approval.”
“What does this have to do with Homer’s Afflatus ?”
“Patience. I take it the royal family remains staunchly Vía-Reforma?”
“Of course.” It has always been a source of pride that my ancestors were not afraid to seek truth.
“As with all good movements, it started well. The need to return to the path of God was real. But it grew. It gained such momentum, and it became . . . something else.”
Though I’m angry at my sister, at Master Geraldo, especially at Ximena, for keeping things from me, I’m not sure I’m ready to hear my faith has been misplaced. “Explain.” The warning in my voice is unmistakable.
“They studied. Oh, they studied. It became about pride—they understood the sacred texts better than anyone, and they knew it. A cultural obsession formed, based on this investigation of scripture. They found truths that were . . . hidden from lesser eyes.”
I am quick to defend. “That is perfectly reasonable. It’s much easier to understand the Scriptura Sancta or the Common Man’s Guide to Service with intense study. As the Sancta says, “‘Much study leads to much understanding.’”
“True,” he agrees with an indulgent smile. “But it also says, ‘The mind of God is a mystery and none can understand it.’ You see, they went too far. They shunned the obvious, natural reading of the text for the hidden, unnatural one. Their precious truth was eclipsed by snobbery and elitism.”
“I need an example.”
He rises from the table and disappears into the gloom of bookshelves. I hear him rifling through scrolls, mumbling to himself, then footsteps as he returns. A smell precedes him, the musty, animal-skin scent of deep secrets.
“This,” he announces, spreading a scroll across the table, “is Homer’s Afflatus .” The edges try to curl back into their scroll form; Nicandro uses his forearm to hold them down. With his free hand, he points to a passage in the middle. “Here. Read this.”
The candlelight is too dim, the script eddies and churns across soft vellum, and I am so weary. I rub my eyes and lean closer.
And God raised up for himself a champion. Yea, once in every four generations He raised him up to bear His mark.
(The champion must not fear.)
But the world did not know him and his worth was hidden away; like the desert oasis of Barea it was concealed. Many sought the champion; from evil intent they sought him.
(The champion must not waver.)
He could not know what awaited at the gates of the
This creeping, wormy feeling is humiliation. I’ve excelled as a student; noticing details, solving logic puzzles, memorizing information. It’s the one thing I’ve taken pride in.
But how easily I was fooled. A stupid, stupid child.
“Highness?” His tone is cautious, worried.
“Why?” I whisper. “Why keep this from me?”
“Sit down.” He waves toward the stool. “Your pacing makes this old man dizzy.” He glances toward the candle as I comply, then says merrily, “We might need another one of these.”
I don’t appreciate his good cheer. “Tell me.”
He leans forward onto the table. “When the Vía-Reformas left Joya to colonize Orovalle, they had one very important goal.”
I already know this. “To pursue God.”
He nods. “They believed—still believe—that man’s highest aspiration should be the study of sacred texts, that the increasingly godless world had blurred divine truths that waited to be rediscovered. Man’s second highest aspiration is—”
“Service.”
He nods. “Yes, service. So they left, and several years later, when the next bearer was chosen in Orovalle, they took it as God’s mark of approval.”
“What does this have to do with Homer’s Afflatus ?”
“Patience. I take it the royal family remains staunchly Vía-Reforma?”
“Of course.” It has always been a source of pride that my ancestors were not afraid to seek truth.
“As with all good movements, it started well. The need to return to the path of God was real. But it grew. It gained such momentum, and it became . . . something else.”
Though I’m angry at my sister, at Master Geraldo, especially at Ximena, for keeping things from me, I’m not sure I’m ready to hear my faith has been misplaced. “Explain.” The warning in my voice is unmistakable.
“They studied. Oh, they studied. It became about pride—they understood the sacred texts better than anyone, and they knew it. A cultural obsession formed, based on this investigation of scripture. They found truths that were . . . hidden from lesser eyes.”
I am quick to defend. “That is perfectly reasonable. It’s much easier to understand the Scriptura Sancta or the Common Man’s Guide to Service with intense study. As the Sancta says, “‘Much study leads to much understanding.’”
“True,” he agrees with an indulgent smile. “But it also says, ‘The mind of God is a mystery and none can understand it.’ You see, they went too far. They shunned the obvious, natural reading of the text for the hidden, unnatural one. Their precious truth was eclipsed by snobbery and elitism.”
“I need an example.”
He rises from the table and disappears into the gloom of bookshelves. I hear him rifling through scrolls, mumbling to himself, then footsteps as he returns. A smell precedes him, the musty, animal-skin scent of deep secrets.
“This,” he announces, spreading a scroll across the table, “is Homer’s Afflatus .” The edges try to curl back into their scroll form; Nicandro uses his forearm to hold them down. With his free hand, he points to a passage in the middle. “Here. Read this.”
The candlelight is too dim, the script eddies and churns across soft vellum, and I am so weary. I rub my eyes and lean closer.
And God raised up for himself a champion. Yea, once in every four generations He raised him up to bear His mark.
(The champion must not fear.)
But the world did not know him and his worth was hidden away; like the desert oasis of Barea it was concealed. Many sought the champion; from evil intent they sought him.
(The champion must not waver.)
He could not know what awaited at the gates of the
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