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Chapter 1, Part 2
(Here, clipped to the pages, is a small piece of paper upon which is written one of the broken pot parables.)
Reck this: Once there was an aridkedi, a country merchant who specialized in the creation of pots for her small town. She was the sole seller of pots, for no other potter had her talent. Greatly did she please her community, and so she lived well and they benefited greatly by her skill. So great was her skill, in truth, that she mended any of her wares if they cracked, and if that mending did not take, she gave the Ai-Naidari a replacement as an apology for her failure.I found the records Thirukedi had spoken of awaiting me on my return to the studio, held in the arms of the coach-master who had come to arrange my trip to the Bleak. We spoke briefly: I would leave tomorrow at dawn, which would bring me to my destination in late afternoon. As I had the habit of rising early it was of no inconvenience to me. I had only to pack for the journey and the trip following to Qenain's gate complex and my part of this would be done, until I met Shame.
The potter was never called upon to give out any replacements, though she was occasionally called upon to mend her works, for they were of such quality they were often used well past when another pot would have been deemed worthless.
One day, however, a client brought her one of her mended pots, which had broken again. She could not believe it had failed, and promised the client he would have the pot again, better than new. And so she fixed the pot, but within days it had broken again. Once more she mended the pot, but it was mere hours before it fell in pieces.
As promised, she gave the Ai-Naidari a new pot without charge... but she returned to the pot and attempted to fix it once again. Each time it failed, she applied herself to its mending.
It came to be that another aridkedi became the merchant of pots for that community. The most talented potter in town had become so obsessed with her failure that she had no more time to make new pots.
This is the tale of the broken pot. Reck it well.
Ah, no, aunerai. Do not believe it arrogance, for Shame to wish to be known so. For him to take as title one of Civilization's virtues was not self-aggrandizement, not a way of saying that he alone contained all the virtue of Shame and no other may lay claim to it. Other Ai-Naidar would understand it, correctly, as a sign that he was subordinating himself to that great virtue... that he knew himself to be a part of it, and wished to expose that self-knowledge, that dedication, to others. We assume ourselves always to be part of things, not separate examples. It is why almost all our words are groups, and they must be modified to form the singular. We are the Ai-Naidar, you understand... and I am an Ai-Naidari. The whole always comes first.
But this is digression from what I meant to impart to you, friend aunerai (may I call you so?), which was this:
Shame was brilliant.
I had never personally met a priest who served Shame. As I discussed with Thirukedi, my experiences with Correction were few, both as instrument and as recipient. It is so with many Ai-Naidar: we require moderating words at times and we pay reparations as needed, but transgressions against the rules of society are not flagrant, nor so deeply-rooted that they require frequent Correction. That is part of the purpose of having the rules of society set to paper, after all... so that all may know their duties, their responsibilities, and their privileges.
But Kherishdar is an empire spanning three worlds and several colonies, and we are many and our culture old. With so many Ai-Naidar it is inevitable that some will transgress. And for the times when we do, then we call upon those who serve Shame to bring that virtue to us, so that we may once again remember our place and become good members of society.
Correction is not punishment. If it does not bring you to a deeper understanding of your role in Kherishdar, it is meaningless. And here is where Shame excelled. He crafted Corrections that addressed the heart of the transgression... that addressed the impulse that drove it rather than the surface crime. In his own hand, he documented his efforts, and while his commentary was terse and often broken, as if written by a mind speeding too quickly for the hand to follow, still I saw the genius there.
I made myself a cup of golden tea and sat on my studio's window-seat. There among the cushions I made company with the first of Shame's logs, and the sunlight fell on calligraphy so swiftly scrawled it seemed on the verge of unraveling... the first words so dark they were almost illegible, the pen loaded with ink so he would have to stop less frequently to dip, and the last words so pale they were read almost by their indentation in the paper rather than by their color.
I find it difficult to explain Shame's brilliance, but I will make the attempt.
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