The delicate block of sugar swirled in the copper tea – each round becoming faster than the previous. As it moved, it left a part of its solid form behind, carefully deteriorating into the very core of the cup. As it settled to the bottom, the solid was no more but mere utterances of its past.
Yet it has changed the very taste of the tea. It has lived a good life. the feeble waif muttered to himself.
He placed the silver gilded cup on the wooden tray, together with the slice of stale bread he had collected from the larder. The waif only had to follow the faint scent of burnt dryston to reach his maester. Creeping along the walls were portraits of maesters past, back in the days of The Age of Heroes. Everytime he walked along these walls, the waif could swear he felt the glare of their golden eyes pierce through his skin.
There’s no one else. There isn’t he would remind himself.
The scent became stronger. Dryston was a synthetic herb – crafted from the imaginations of Drecor the Fifth in his term as Grand Maester. Longing to give his followers a barometer of death , the herb was manufactured with samples of saliva, urine, blood and hair from the target victim. Once Death visited the victim, the dryston would start to glow a bright yellow. Soon, as the reaper carved his victim and set out the date of expiry, the dryston would burn. It was said that when the victim finally died , the dryston would vanish- just leaving embers behind.
Grand Maester Bearon’s dryston was heavily engulfed in flames . The room was drowned in its fumes. Putting the tray down, the waif rushed to the window to open it. His coughs joined the cackle of Bearon as he laughed at his last few hours.
He’s gone crazy the waif thought. Today may actually be the day he dies
“Sit here, child. Bring me my tea” the Maester droned in his raspy voice.
The waif obeyed. He pulled over his stool and sat next to the Maester’s bed. His fingers firm, he grasped the cup of tea and held it to Bearon’s lips. He then reached for the bread, but Bearon started shaking his head in refusal.
He can’t even eat, this old man
A different stench struck his senses .
The wounds! the waif remembered.
Along the wrists were open wounds where the Maester had fought Death before his surrender. It was filled with puss and dried blood. The waif quickly washed the wounds – placing the thick medicinal paste on it and replacing the bandages. This was the tenth time this week already.
“Child, sit. It’s no matter any more. Today is my day. We need to talk”
The waif sat on the stool, his body quivering in fear.
He’s all I’ve had. Ever since my parents gave me up, he’s all I’ve known to care for and learn from. What will I do…
“Have you kept your vow of silence?” Bearon asked.
The waif nodded. Once, twice.
“Good, now speak. What have you learnt in the past five years”
Nothing the waif thought
“I’ve learnt that our existence is but a whisper in the wind. We are but tools of a greater tradesman – destined to work for the ultimate goal. ” the waif whispered, getting used to his own voice.
“True, what else?” the Maester prompted.
” I’ve learnt that the free folk don’t value care and concern as much as they care for hate and revenge. I’ve learnt that to put trust in reciprocation is a toss of grain to the crows , I’ve learnt that institutions and systems never reach their goals. I’ve learnt that when it’s all come and done, people find it easy to forget your works, your words, your love. “
The Maester frowned, his lips about to correct the waif.
” But I’ve also learnt that within all of us lies a pulse. A rhythm that joins our humanity. It is that rhythm which we live for – to bring hope to our land. I may die a whisper, but may my whisper be a force that brings life to man. As you have brought life to me.”
This time, the Maester smiled.
“Very well, son. You have learnt much. People may forget, they may not even observe what you’ve done for them, not even truly appreciate the extent of it. But remember your role as a member of the Faith. You work for the themes that join us all – and you’ll find the person that appreciates you soon enough. Let it not be your goal though – let it be a timely whisper in your life. ” Bearon forced himself to mutter.
” It is time, young man. Grab my hands” the Grand Maester urged.
The waif did so, tears dripping down his eyes .
“Say the words” the Maester groaned.
“I am the night that blankets war, the light that shines in death. I am the silent mouse in noise, the voice of reason in hopelessness. I am the whisper in the wind, the code of honour emboldened. I hereby take on the role of Grand Maester – from Bearon the Great to Shymel the Young. I promise to always hold the Faith as my guiding lamp – to live as a guardian to the truth.”
The joined hands warmed up, the force passing through. Shymel felt his eyes glow.
They’re golden now
He smiled. He was finally a Grand Maester. He looked towards Bearon, the body limp and lifeless.
Thank you old man, and may God find favour on you
The dryston was gone, it’s ashes remaining. Yet Shymel knew for a fact that Bearon was not just the ashes. He was the whole before.
He had been sweetened – enriched, and now he was ready to move on.
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