A Fool's Goddess - Chapter One
Although I did understand why he was angry, I wanted to tell Master Idan that he simply couldn’t grasp my artistic drive. I don’t know if he had grown too old for differing views or if he had always been a terribly stubborn person, but even he must have been aware he was being unreasonable. Of course, it would only make things worse if I voiced such thoughts so I kept them to myself. Instead, I continued to sit in the workshop, patiently waiting for Master to finish venting his frustrations.
In a word, I was exasperated.
“I took you on because you showed promise, but you now seem dead-set on throwing that potential away,” said Master Idan. “It would be one thing if you had made those damn statues after your apprenticeship, but while you’re with my workshop, anything you do reflects back onto me. I’m nearing the end of my patience for this nonsense.”
“Master, I simply want to share her beauty with the world and-”
“And you can’t imagine anything more beautiful than that “goddess”, enough, you say that every time. What you fail to realize is that not everyone shares your sense of beauty. First and foremost, my workshop is a business. I can’t run that business selling “beautiful” things that no one wants to buy.”
The only thing you find beautiful is the sound of coin. “I understand that. And I’m sorry that my actions have come across as subversive. I just don’t have the will to create things that don’t speak to my heart.”
“Then find the will, Lior,” Master Idan growled. “If I catch you sculpting that bitch again, I will end your apprenticeship on the spot.”
“Of course, Master.”
“And when a customer asks you to make them a vase, I don’t want to see your “goddess” anywhere on it. We have enough of those statues lying around, if someone actually cares to see her, they can buy one of those. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Master,” I sighed.
His hand lashed out and struck my face. I turned away, holding my now-sore cheek.
“You think I’m a fool, don’t you, Lior? You think you can just do what you want and that you’ll prove me wrong someday? Consider that your final warning. You’ll be out on the streets if you act out again.”
Master Idan then sat down in front of the block of marble he had been working on for the past few weeks. With his back to me, he pointed to the front of the workshop.
“I’m done with you for now. Go and attend the shop.”
Slowly, I got up and obeyed.
I leaned on the counter and watched as people hurried back and forth on the market street. I wasn’t expected to holler and try to draw customers, and I was glad for that. Otherwise, I would be too distracted to work on my personal projects.
I checked on the clay I had been working on. Master Idan had slammed his fist into it and ruined my progress, but it was still pliable and soft. I looked over my shoulder towards the workshop. There was no sign of Master coming out, only the rhythmic sound of him chipping at that block. I figured I would have at least an hour or so to myself, so I decided I would begin my work anew.
Already, I could see my Goddess in the clay, her hands clasped as if in song. Almost unbidden, my fingers worked to bring the likeness into this world as I willfully ignored my master’s warning.
I wish I could say today was unusual, but that would be a lie. There were many past instances of him yelling at me, and even hitting me, though this was the first time he had done so while the workshop was open. He normally withheld his anger so as to not scare off potential customers or cause nasty rumors to spread, so I must be quite the special case to make him retract that custom. His prior apprentices probably quit before he got to that point.
I had been studying under Master Idan for a year now, but even after all this time, he never once eased up on his ideals. Everything needed to be done as he had outlined it, with no room for exceptions. He had strict requirements for all the popular items clients would order: pots, vases, and images of the Gods. Any deviation resulted in a lecture on the best of days and a smack on any other.
Frankly, considering his uncompromising nature, it was remarkable he had put up with me for this long. It hadn’t always been this way, though.
When I had first appeared before him, I know I didn’t look like much. My black hair has always been unkempt, but my clothes were in tatters during our first meeting. I had left my home village as soon as I was old enough to travel across our nation of Diesor, but I was on the highway for maybe two weeks before some brigand ambushed me and stole everything I had. I didn’t have a coin to my name when I wandered into Unoph, the town of Master’s residence.
I went from business to business, asking if any work needed to be done so that I could earn a meal. And each in turn shut the doors on me, some more politely than others. Eventually, I reached Master Idan’s workshop, and instead of turning me away, he made an offer.
“I have no need for a lickspittle, but I don’t have an apprentice at the moment either. You’re welcome to try and prove you’re worth taking on.”
I had never sculpted anything in my life at that point, but I was far too hungry to pass up the chance for food. I accepted the offer and entered his workshop.
I was led into the back of his business and presented a test. It was fairly simple; I just needed to mold a lump of clay into the shape of a pot. I was shown an example of what the desired result should be and no further instruction. With a swallow, I then began making my first piece of pottery.
Carefully analyzing the template, I tried my best to match its shape. More than anything, I found it frustratingly difficult to control the pottery wheel, inexperienced as I was. Twice I had to start over from scratch, all while Master Idan breathed down my neck. I was then told to stop after my third attempt,. Assuming I had failed, I sat there miserably while the master inspected my ‘work’.
“It’s far too uneven. Good chance it would crack in the furnace,” he critiqued. “But not bad for a complete novice. Seems there might be more to your eyes than the color blue. What’s your name, boy?”
I still remember how elated I was to hear those words. I was practically speechless.
“O-oh, um… Lior, of Orec village,” I answered.
“Orec? Is that also in Diesor?”
“Yessir.”
“Never heard of it. But that doesn't matter. Come, we’ll see in a month if you’re worth the bread I’ll give you today.”
And back then, all I wanted to do was prove I was worth it.
I dedicated every day to the profession and found that not only was I good at sculpting, but I loved it as well. I poured my passion into carrying out requests and creating the pieces Unoph’s residents wanted. Not a day went by that I wasn’t bouncing from project to project, hungry to learn and improve my newfound skills.
Master Idan still showed his irritation every time I did something not wholly to his pre-established methods, but I accepted his explanation that I needed to maintain his workshop’s style. After some time, I even found his prickly personality to be tolerable and did what I could to respect his methods. Hell, at one point, I actually thought he was an admirable paradigm of the ideal sculptor.
However, I would realize my mistake after witnessing true beauty.
It happened three months ago. Some well-to-do man of the world had passed away in town. I never took the time to learn his name or how he died; what interested me was that the man had left no will, and without any friends or relatives, his property was set to be auctioned off. My curiosity was piqued by daydreams of what kinds of treasure some adventurer of yore might have collected. It took some begging, but I eventually convinced Master to let me go and see what was being offered.
Upon arriving at the mansion, I could see the front terrace had been repurposed as a makeshift stage, so I gathered there with the rest of the onlookers. A grandiose man was walking back and forth, advertising some of the items they were selling, while strong-armed workers hurried to bring the goods onto the stage. A few minutes later, the crowd was hushed and the auction began.
Artworks of all shapes and sizes were first presented and sold, each going for more coin than I could earn in a year. Next were rare jewels and antique weapons that started at prices I didn’t know people could actually afford. Eventually, smaller, more mundane things were sold as well. Silverware, furniture, rugs, and even the man’s clothes were brought onto the stage for the masses’ inspection.
However, none of it really caught my eye. The items were valuable, sure, but I didn’t even find the sculptures to be particularly interesting. As the auction dragged on, I began to feel I had wasted my day. With a sigh of disappointment, I stood up to leave.
Then, I saw her.
The auctioneers carried a painting onto the stage. The frame was made of wood, plainly designed, and stood at roughly half my height. However, it could have been made with gold and silver and it still would have appeared insipid next to woman depicted on the canvas.
She was slender and gorgeous, soft and pale. Long hair fell down her back and past her hips. The strands were an impossible shade of indigo, like a twilight ocean, and they seemed lustrous or even crystalline. She held one hand on her chest while the other extended out as if to offer her palm to whoever would gaze upon her image. She stood next to what appeared to be a river on a mountaintop, overlooking a dusky field of clouds. The stars could just be seen as the sun settled on the horizon line, the sky transitioning from near-black to warm amber.
The woman wore a long, flowing, deep blue dress. It draped from her shoulders down to her ankles, opening just below her hip to expose her legs. Magnificent wave patterns curled along the bottom hem, reminiscent of an evening tide. Golden bracelets dangled from her wrists while matching bands were wrapped just above her elbows. An emerald pendant hung from her neck and gold anklets decorated her otherwise bare feet. Above it all was a simple gold circlet that rested on her brow.
Yet what truly captured me was her expression. Her large green eyes were relaxed, welcoming, while her eyebrows were raised with familiarity. Her mouth was slightly open while she smiled, as if she had just spoken to a beloved friend. Those gentle features drew me in, or rather, I could not dare look away. It was as if I was afraid that I’d lose sight of her forever if I glanced elsewhere for even a second.
In a word, I was infatuated.
I knew I had to do everything I could to obtain such art. I would never forgive myself if I walked away now.
The auctioneer looked uncomfortably at the painting before speaking. “What we have here is… a painting of what is allegedly an ancient, heretic goddess. We’re selling this as part of a set, so it comes with a book of sorts from an unknown author that details the history of the so-called goddess and her painting. I suppose this one is only for those with… particular tastes, so we’ll start the bidding at, say, five copper coins?”
That was well within my price range. It should have been criminal for such splendor to be sold at a pittance, but I had to take advantage of their mistake. My heart began racing as I raised my hand.
“Five copper!”
The crowd was silent as my words echoed out. People turned and looked at me, some with concern, others with confusion. However, I was not about to let their judgement determine my actions. “Heretic” or not, that goddess’ elegance could not be ignored. And it was all the better that that book was included, as I was desperate to learn more about her and see what had inspired such beauty.
“Five copper, currently going for five copper, do I hear six copper?” the auctioneer bellowed out.
An old woman raised a shaking arm. “Seven copper.”
My hand instantly shot up again. “Eight copper!”
The old woman looked at me with surprise, to which I responded with a fiery glare. She then let out a single laugh, but kept her palms on her lap.
“Eight copper, eight copper, anyone with nine copper? Looking for nine copper!”
Seconds ticked by in silence. The auctioneer repeated the bids, but only hushed mutterings came out. I stood above them, hand ready to raise whatever price anyone else tried to offer.
“Eight copper, going once? Twice?” He paused as he looked over the hall one last time. “Sold, to the dark-haired boy! Sir, please come up and collect your items!”
Grinning from ear to ear, I hurried to the stage and exchanged my coins for the painting and book. Up close, the goddess’ features were even more enrapturing. I could scarcely breathe in her presence. I can’t remember if I even thanked the auctioneers before I ran back to my room in Master Idan’s home.
By then, it was late, past dinner time at least. I told Master what I had bought while I grabbed some bread to eat, but he seemed wholly indifferent. He was more concerned with resting now that the shop was closed for the day. I asked him to call for me if he needed anything, to which he only grunted in reply. With that, I took my prizes to my room and closed the door.
I had no hooks to hang the painting on, so I instead placed it on my desk and leaned it against the wall. Finally away from any possible distractions, I was able to fully take in the goddess’ image.
I couldn’t help but sigh as I gazed upon her. Everything about her was perfect, truly befitting of a goddess. Whoever had painted her had lovingly tended to every detail, to the point where she seemed as if she would begin to move at any moment.
For hours, I simply stared at her painting. An eternity wouldn’t have been enough time for me to tire of looking at her. Yet my increasing fixation soon hungered to know more about this goddess. I dragged my eyes away from the canvas and inspected the book.
It was a hardbound leather journal without any sort of title to be found, but according to the auctioneers, it contained information on the Goddess and her painting. In the flickering lamplight, I opened it to learn more about her. I was first greeted by a foreword written in a steady script.
To whoever finds this book,
I have dedicated many years of my life to the study and preservation of the legacy of the Gods. From the fading myths of foreign lands to the ancient legends of my beloved Diesor, it was both my passion and my pleasure to ensure the tales of the divine would carry into the future. Taking the words of a fellow historian, I found great pride in my work because “the existence of man and God is entwined absolutely”.
Yet recent events have made me question my purpose. Rather than record history, I am being asked to destroy it. Already, I have burned books and pulverized statues, all to help in the erasure of mankind’s folly. I cannot deny that our actions have been regretful, as full of death and madness as they were. By all rights, it might be best if we could annihilate such shameful events from memory.
But I cannot fight my essence, it seems.
It is with a heavy heart that I am committing everything I know and have learned about our “heretic” Goddess to this volume. To a point, I am doing so in the hopes that remembering this part of our history will prevent similar mistakes from ever happening again. But I cannot lie; more than anything, I just cannot abide her complete forfeiture. No matter how disgraceful or ignoble recent times have been, she was a part of our beliefs. To pretend she never existed would be our greatest blasphemy yet.
Thus, I forsake the duty asked of me, secretly and without warning. I will continue to destroy her records while transferring their information into this book. If I am to be punished for this sin, so be it. I will accept the consequences of failing to betray myself.
I can only hope that you who are reading this are of a tolerant mind. You need not spread the words this book contains, but I beg of you, please, do not destroy it. Preserve it, or if the Gods are kind and the world has matured, give it to those who would keep it safe. As things are, this volume may have become the only surviving record of a once-beloved Goddess. Please, spare these pages the flame and let this stain on mankind’s past endure.
I wish you the best of luck.
I blinked in awe at the weighty preface. There was no signature or name under the foreword. Judging from their account, it was easy to assume the author had a good reason for remaining anonymous, but I wished I could have assured them that their message hadn’t fallen on deaf ears. I had no intention of letting this book touch an ember.
My curiosity was bursting at that point. Entranced by the goddess’ grace and further driven by this unknown historian’s efforts, I turned the next page. The book became much more like a common historical volume, with the first page unabashedly titled with what I would later confirm was the name of the beauty that had captured me so completely.
Tornara, the Goddess of the Afterlife.
In our land, the popular beliefs held that the world was overseen by five Gods: Niorgo, God of the Day; Tonet, Goddess of the Night; Luoso, God of the Land; Rema, Goddess of the Sea; and Locie, God of the Sky. Each of them held power over their respective domains and watched over the world. As the stories go, the Gods one day came together to create humans, creatures who shared the form of the Gods and carried a divine spark within themselves. With this spark, humans gained wisdom and used that insight to spread the glory of the Gods.
Yet the humans were flawed beings, cursed with mortality. Although they possessed a kindred spark of divinity, it was snuffed out at the end of each of their pitifully short lives. The Gods were saddened to see their faithful creations come to an abrupt end and wept as those sparks faded into oblivion, never to be seen again.
According to this journal, it was that sadness that resulted in the birth of Tornara. As the Gods cried over their lost humans, their tears came together and flowed down from the heavens. The tears fell onto a mountain, at the point where the land met the sky, and formed a river that flowed into the sea. Then, at the moment between day and night, Tornara rose from the river and joined her siblings in the heavens.
She brought peace to her fellow Gods by creating the Pleasant Lands, an incorporeal realm that would house the divine sparks from every human after their passing. The Gods were pleased with this, as their loyal humans could now enjoy an eternity at the Gods’ sides. Joyous at the gift she had given both man and God, her fellow deities eagerly welcomed Tornara into the pantheon.
Likewise, the humans expressed their gratitude by constructing great temples to worship the newborn Goddess. They happily added her deeds into the canon and soon held her in the same esteem as her siblings. A great peace spread through the nation as mankind’s fear of nonexistence was eased through its burgeoning love for Tornara.
Unfortunately, that love would become irreparably twisted.
One day, a temple began spreading word that not all would be welcomed into the Pleasant Lands. If one’s sins were too great at the time of death, they claimed Tornara would then cast your spark out of the afterlife to be lost forever. The book’s author annotated that none of the formal teachings supported this, but they presumed that the prospect of one’s eternal essence being rejected from the afterlife filled many with desperation, and others with conniving intent. It was not long before this baseless fear enticed some to commit vile acts.
The most innocent of such were the indulgences. Many temples began offering a service where large “donations” would absolve people of their sins. Aristocrats and commoners alike gave all they had in hopes of divine forgiveness. These temples were eventually shut down by high clerics from the cardinal Temple of the Six, but the damage had been done and the rumors continued to propagate.
But unfortunately, without the temples to guide them, the people then forged their own ideas of what would earn them absolution. Some began to believe that public displays of self-imposed punishment would clear them of sin. Hysterical acts of people shouting out their crimes for all to hear, wandering groups of flagellants, and even a display of self-immolation were but a few examples of what people did in search of redemption.
By then, word of “Tornaran madness” was common in the land. Speaking her name was on par with the foulest curses and her temples showed no signs of reopening. The only people who continued to openly worship her were considered fools and madmen. The high clerics began talks of removing her from the canon in a desperate plea to bring peace back to the faith.
In the end, they would decide to destroy every record of her existence. It was concluded as the only logical reaction after the final act of “devotion” from Tornara’s faithful.
A cult created by the former priests of Tornaran temples had been quietly gathering followers. They believed that the current beliefs were wrong and, rather than cutting Tornara from the canon, it was the other five Gods who needed to be removed. Tornara was the only one who truly cared for humanity and the only one who deserved worship. Once they had enough members, this cult marched on the Temple of the Six.
They demanded a massive reform of the religion, claiming that Tornara would be the sole God of mankind from now on. Of course, the Temple of the Six did not agree with them. Guards surrounded the cultists and moved to arrest them. However, they did not account for what the madmen would do in such dire circumstances.
Without warning, each cultist drew a knife and slit their own throat, screaming and gurgling out final exaltations for Tornara as they died. Their blood ran down the temple’s steps and pooled on the plaza’s once-pristine tiles.
Before the next sunrise, the Temple of the Six had become the “Temple of the Five”.
Belief in Tornara moved from social taboo to an outright criminal act. No one dared whisper her name, not even in secrecy, for fear of the repercussions. Witch hunts were common in the years after as Diesor continued to seek and destroy every remaining trace of Tornara’s existence. The author of this book surmised that many innocent lives were lost in those hunts, but mused that perhaps such was acceptable in light of what her worship had spawned.
By annihilating all signs of her, the world was able to forget Tornara and the acts of her followers.
According to the dates listed, this all happened over four hundred years ago, making it small wonder why I had never heard of Tornara before. From what I could gather at the auction, no one else had either. They weren’t keen on the idea of a “heretic” Goddess, but no one had rushed to destroy the painting or stop me. She must have been all but forgotten by now.
The book then moved on to some of the smaller myths associated with Tornara. There was a story of how she had appeared before a king as a beggar to show him how to be merciful, a tale of her guiding lost children out of a forest by using a bluebird’s song, and a legend of her allowing one man to enter the Pleasant Lands to bring back his wrongfully taken wife.
Yet not a single one of these myths showed her as the disingenuous, violent deity the rest of the book had made her out to be.
No, I could see she was nothing like that. She was the one who sought to bring peace to both man and God, the one who welcomed souls as they passed into the afterlife. The twisted acts committed in her name were not her fault; they were the machinations of depraved souls expressing their own loathing for humanity.
That gentle expression on Tornara's face held not a drop of malice for mankind. I could not bring myself to despise her or her legacy. I could only feel pity, for, if anything, it must have hurt her dearly to see her “followers” corrupt their own beliefs. Those she endeavored to help used her as an excuse for atrocity.
She deserved much more than one man’s condolences.
I don’t know how much time had passed at that point. I knew it was far past the time when I normally went to sleep, but there was only a little more of the book left. As promised, it was a more personal account that described the painting itself. The artwork had been made in secrecy about a decade after Tornara’s expulsion by someone named “L. C. Ventes”. Ventes supposedly had no interest in Tornara, but they were painting a series of portraits of all the Gods and felt compelled to include her. Nothing more, nothing less. They only kept the painting a secret out of fear of persecution. The portrait then somehow made its way into the author’s hands, and they only kept it out of… guilt? Responsibility?
I cannot know, for the book ended there.
I closed the leather journal and looked at Tornara’s painting again. Emotions began to roil within me. Awe of her beauty and confusion at her tainted legacy, sadness for her tragedy and surpassing inspiration. I don’t know if it was divine intervention that had brought me to that auction for the purpose of witnessing this Goddess, but that night was where I felt the first stirrings of spirituality in my life.
I had never considered myself particularly religious. I never went to temples or joined with others in worship. I really only knew the names of the Gods because I had to sculpt them so often. But something about Tornara was drawing me in, and it was more than just her beauty. Her name resonated in my heart, and my hands itched to mold clay into her image.
I looked at how Tornara reached out to me from her painting. I reached back and felt my fingertips brush along the canvas. The paint had long since dried, and I felt the tiny mountains and valleys of the brushstrokes. Was there a time when someone else felt the same way I did in that moment? Did this L. C. Ventes feel anything when he painted her?
For some reason, I felt compelled to speak to the painting.
“Were you lonely, Tornara?” I asked her. “I remember hearing once that Gods only exist through man’s prayers. If no one prayed to you, or even knew your name, that must have left you feeling terribly cut off from the world.”
She continued to smile within her portrait.
“To be honest, I’ve been feeling lonely as well. I don’t really have anyone else to talk to. I mean, I have Master Idan, but I don’t think he sees me as anything more than an apprentice. In fact, I don’t think we’ve ever spoken about anything except sculpting or business. Pretty sad, right?”
I laughed a bit. In a word, I already felt a sort of kinship with this forlorn Goddess.
“Well, that doesn’t matter anymore. We can keep each other company now, so I’ll do my best to show you proper reverence. I’m not one to preach to the masses, but… oh, maybe I can sculpt a few statues of you? Yeah, I could remind people of what a wonderful Goddess you are by sharing your visage! That’s what drew me in so surely others would feel the same! Master Idan probably won’t be happy, but I’ll find a way.”
Elated, I hopped to my feet and grabbed my lamp. Taking one more moment to gaze upon the canvas, I smiled at Tornara before blowing out the light. In the darkness of my room, I climbed onto my bed.
“Good night, Tornara. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Unfortunately, despite how the late hour should have filled me with exhaustion, my mind continued to buzz with excitement. I had a new drive for my art and I was bursting at the seams with inspiration. I couldn’t help myself from fantasizing about filling the world with artworks depicting Tornara’s beauty and restoring the people’s faith in her. Perhaps this was a destined meeting, the intersection of a nigh-forgotten Goddess and a goalless sculptor. Together, we could help one another fill the voids in our lives.
I certainly hoped such a prospect would make her happy.
As my heart continued to pound with exhilaration for the coming days, I finally fell asleep. Despite the short rest I was granted, I woke up feeling energized, ready to begin helping the lonely Goddess.
Staying true to my words, I began crafting images of her as soon as I had the chance. When work was slow, I’d take spare stones and chisel statues of her. Images of her with arms splayed out in a welcoming embrace, of her sitting ponderously on a chair, of her seductively leaning against a wall. I barely had to think while I carved the stone as creating figures of her came as naturally to me as breathing.
And as expected, those days marked the decline of my relationship with Master Idan. At first, he was more confused than angered to see me carving statues when none had been ordered, but once I explained my motivation, he furrowed his brow and reminded me of his rules.
“You’ll do things as I say and nothing else. I have no room for you to be wasting my materials on some false deity.”
When I tried to backtalk him and explain myself, he suffered only a handful of words before slapping my ear. That was the first time he hit me. He said nothing while I stood there stunned, assuming he had sufficiently corrected me. But to be honest, he had only fanned the flames of my passion.
Over the next three months, I became more subtle with my expressions of Tornara. Rather than carve out her form, I would engrave pottery with her image whenever clients didn’t specify what they wanted on their vases. I would adorn the edges of dishware with her and even made a few cups that replaced the stem with a figure of the Goddess holding up the bowl. I was rather proud of those innovations, but it only took one complaint for Master to come and lecture me again. He then forced me to replace the items, with the costs coming out of my wages.
But such losses didn’t bother me. Helping Tornara was worth that and more. Thus, I continued to secretly and not-so-secretly express her through my work. There were still some methods Master hadn’t discovered yet, but today was another slow day and he had caught me molding a figure of my Goddess while I sat behind the counter, leading into our earlier argument and my now-throbbing cheek.
Speaking of which, I had already forgotten that pain as I soon lost myself in my work. Barely noticing the passage of time, half an hour passed as my fingers pressed and pinched. Soon, I had the general form down and began to do the detail work with a fine pointed pick. My heart swam a bit as I pictured Tornara’s gentle expression.
I was just outlining her eyes when the clay was snatched out from my hands.
I turned around. There was my half-finished figure, ruined once again as it was squished in Master Idan’s fist. He was red-faced and glaring at me.
“You insolent whelp!” he roared. He threw the clay as hard as he could into the market street. “I gave you a fair warning, yet you’ve chosen to ridicule me once again! I have done everything I can to help you become a respectable sculptor and this how you repay me! How dare you, Lior… I cannot fathom the fools it took to conceive an imbecile like you!”
My mouth hung open wordlessly. Partly because I knew there was nothing I could say to help the situation, but mostly because I wouldn’t know what to say in the first place.
“Ah, I see you’ve at least learned not to talk back! Idiot, that won’t save you now. You’ve angered me for the last time.”
“Master, I-”
“Silence. Go to your room and gather your things, you’re my apprentice no longer. Consider it my last kindness that I even let you take that cursed painting with you. You can rot on the highway with that bitch you love so much.”
He watched me as I rose to my feet and headed into the adjoined house. I could hear him following behind me. He likely wanted to make sure I didn’t take my anger out on his home. Of course, that was only because he assumed I was angry.
Sure, this was unfortunate, but I had long ago accepted that my apprenticeship probably wasn’t going to end well. It was obvious that newfound drive frustrated Master Idan. As such, I wasn’t happy, per se, but I was a far cry from angry. Annoyed at most.
With that relative indifference, I packed up my few belongings. Everything I owned could fit into a sack with the sole exception of Tornara’s painting. I wrapped a cloth around that to protect it as best I could. I cinched the top of the sack before I hoisted it over my shoulder while I held the painting under my arm. Master Idan then walked me to the door.
He then handed me a small satchel. It rang with the familiar jingling of coins.
“Here are your last wages,” he said. “Now get out of my sight.”
Master then shoved me out the door before slamming it shut.
After a moment, I stepped into the street, turned around, and looked over his workshop one last time. The building held few good memories, but it had also been my home for the past year. With a sigh, I paid my final respects to the house of my apprenticeship.
“Goodbye, Master Idan."
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