Iraa and the five stories

Chapter One

IRAA LOOKED OUT OF her upper window down at the queue of women waiting to consult her at the advice sitting.

“Only a handful today, Juna,” she told her novice. “Go and let them in, would you, then come back up. I’ll prime you and maybe this time — ” she left the sentence unfinished as Juna followed her orders.

Iraa knew one of the women had come to offer her daughter for consideration as novice. The others had come for advice readings; one of the Order’s visible and legitimate services, which beneath its surface enabled a hidden and much more valuable function.

The daughter, a diminutive, henpecked creature, as timid as her mother was self-assured, was wholly unsuitable as a novitiate. And she hadn’t a drop of talent either. If only her mother could take a step back, allow the girl to grow in her own direction, then she wouldn’t have to drag her around every employer in the city-state, hoping a position would magically inject her with confidence. Iraa shook her head, wearily. None of them have even a clue about the depths and breadth of this life of service. How could they? Even Juna doesn’t. Not until, really I should say unless, she achieves Initiate. Some of the silly young girls so love dressing up, they imagine my life is nothing but hob-nobbing with the rich and powerful. As if. Occasionally, a bookish one will grasp the lifetime of study she’ll need to become Wise. A few, those with a little natural talent, sense there’s more depth to it than they see on the surface, but most of those only want to make a man fall in love with them. Once, a perceptive one asked me if she’d be able to enter an owl so she could fly through the woods at night. And every once in a while a sweet girl will offer herself for novitiate, hoping she can learn how to pour love and peace into every Beriton’s heart and turn the place into some kind of Paradise. Well, of course she hasn't thought very far ahead after that. Business and trade would grind to a halt, the Militias would stop training and patrolling, the slaughterhouse would stop slaughtering, and too many babies would come along nine months later. Usually, it’s because her parents have been fighting and she wants them to love one another instead.

If only the life devoted to Wisdom was that simple. If these young girls knew what they would be giving up. If I knew then what I know now, would I have taken my vows? And who can I tell about it? It’s such a lonely calling. No husband, no sons or daughters. Or grand-daughters. I’ve sacrificed so much, and for what? I’ll die a virgin. Never to love or be loved. Worse than that, what have I ever achieved, for all my decades of study and devotion? I couldn't stop Daraa deceiving and ensnaring the Duke, could I? How does it help that I know all the spies and traitors in the castle and who they report to when I may not use that knowledge to act, for fear of risking our Order’s secrets, even our very existence. I have to tiptoe around the edges, tinkering, achieving nothing substantial. I haven’t even found a successor, just a gifted maiden who could, might fulfil her potential if ever she can overcome the fears that freeze her fast. And her key hasn’t turned so far. Maybe it never will and I’ll have start again. At my age.

Preserve the mystery always, my mistress told me, a hundred times. A thousand times. Protect our Order, our mystique, our standing and our secrets. Yes, of course it’s necessary to maintain our obvious influence, our visible touch, such as it is, because by so doing, we protect our true power, our invisible power. For what that’s worth. Such formidable potency too. What I’m forbidden to achieve for Berith haunts and frustrates me. The injustice I could reverse, the honest scales I could restore.

But no, my power is chained up, restricted by sacred statutes and principles that have stood for a thousand years. Forbidden by my own sacred oath too. Unthinkable to betray that. No, the people must believe, must trust implicitly, beyond question in what we allow them to see. Wise Women represent, in fact we epitomise peace and justice, goodness, integrity, temperance and all the other higher virtues; that we have stood for those resolutely, constantly, dependably for all of recorded time. Risk that? Never. Sooner die than bear that guilt. So, that’s that. We must appear powerless and overlooked, merely spiritual advisors. That’s what I am. Powerless and overlooked. Or I might as well be.

Juna clumped back up the stairs. “They’re ready my Lady. And I am too.” She steepled her hands in front of her face.

“Turn round and close your eyes girl. Face the wall. Too many distractions at the window.”

Iraa centred herself and began the words of the ritual. She placed Juna in the lightest of receptive states.

“Listen. With your ears and your inner ear. You might not hear with it this morning, but one day you may. And it will be unmistakeable. That represents step one. With many, many years of application after that, until mastery, until Wisdom. Which you might never reach. Perhaps you'll achieve Intermediate but never advance beyond that. But perhaps you will. No-one knows.”

The liturgy ended there but Iraa felt impelled to say more.

“If you reach mastery, then you'll learn to read, to hear men's plans, lies, ambitions and plots. You’ll be imbued with the Wisdom to sift and sort them, discern which a man is committed to bring about and which are only his dreams. You’ll observe his darkest desires, things he only dares to dream about and which are already completed and in the past— ”

Iraa jolted. Could it be? Yes, it was. Juna was open, ready. Germinating, even budding. How long had she wondered, even worried if this day would ever come. Never in a month of Sundays had she imagined it would be so early. She switched to mindspeak.

And if you can not only listen, but plant the perfect seed in its precise place, embed an immovable question or nagging doubt, you may craft such good, such heroism, such alliances that -  Iraa paused. Don’t overclaim. Don’t set her up for nothing but future disappointment. Few Wise Women ever effected anything important, any lasting good in their own lifetime and if any did so it was never by themselves. Who of us has ever prevented a war beginning or restored peace between warring nations? That takes years of coordinated effort from the whole Order. When I was young, studying at the Academy, I dreamed of becoming matchmaker, seductress and midwife to the perfect marriage alliance between two nations, sparking generations of cooperation and progress. How naïve. And now, looking back, what have I actually achieved? Small victories, some nudges toward harmony between rival traders, one or two business partnerships brought together that grew into large employers, a handful of marriages repaired. Little things, inconsequential positives in the grand scheme of things. And all of those before Duke Victor died and Haffald took his place. Set that against my failures, especially the big one and hasn’t it really been a waste? And isn’t that so for all Wise Women? Except for the greatest of us all, Saint Tazzera and Lady St. Shash’all. And who, in all the years since them has even come close to grasping how they achieved their incredible accomplishments. No, the worst of men’s desires can so easily override all our good works. She implanted a fuzzy picture of a peaceful, thriving Berith in the girl’s mind before continuing. You'll never get the credit or any worldly reward; men will receive the honour and the medals.  But in secret, you can be the architect.

She sighed wistfully to herself. I wish I could say these words with my mistresses’ conviction.