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One day a parcel came, hand-delivered by a lithe young person in bright blue robes. It was astounding to Essek that anyone had been able to find Caleb’s tower where they’d set it up in the ruins of Aeor, even with insider information. He had understood that the Cobalt Soul was not to be trifled with, but this incident dispelled any lingering doubts that an order of monks could feasibly keep a coalition of powerful arcanists in check.
Caleb brought the package up to a table in the salon and proceeded to methodically unwrap it. Essek, already re-immersed in his novel, nevertheless picked up on the weighty silence that came after the careful sounds of folding paper had stopped. He marked his place and approached beside Caleb to get a better look at the new book sitting on the table. It was a simple piece bound in leather, unornamented except for a title embossed on the front: The Trial and Crimes of Trent Ikithon: Court records and testimony as transcribed and verified by Expositor Beauregard Lionett of the Cobalt Soul. Caleb was staring at it, fingertips pressed to the cover in an unfathomable mix of grief and gratitude. He did not seem to notice Essek, so Essek rested a delicate hand on his shoulder. Caleb, by way of explanation, handed him the note that had come with the book.
Caleb,
Sorry I couldn’t deliver this myself—responsibilities are gross. The Cobalt Soul was going to make seven of these to put in libraries and schools in and outside of the Empire. I convinced them to make two more. I sent the other to Astrid.
You already know everything that’s inside, but I hope having this book will help you somehow. It’s your story to do what you want with. My suggestion: put it on a shelf in your library and know that the truth will always be there in paper and ink. Maybe share it with Essek.
PS. Yasha sends her love.
PPS. If she hasn’t already, Jester’s going to message you soon about the island full of dwarf unicorns, and she has a lot to say about it so stay on your toes.
--Beau
Essek laid the note back on the table and looked to Caleb, still standing with his hand on the book. “Will you read it?”
Caleb considered, his breathing heavy and slow. “No. I don’t think I will.”
“I… I think I would like to.” Is that alright?
“Yes.” I would like for you to read this.
Essek moved his hand from Caleb’s shoulder to cup his cheek the way Caleb sometimes did to him. Caleb leaned into it, closing his eyes and bringing his own hand up to the back of Essek’s. Some feeling he still didn’t have a name for exploded inside him. He collected the book from the table.
“I think I will go mess around in the lab today,” said Caleb.
“I think I will read.” Caleb gave his hand a squeeze, and Essek heard him command the iris in the ceiling to open as he made his ascent.
Essek settled back into his reading nook and ran his hand over the cover of the book. Inside, he knew, were gruesome descriptions of the atrocities carried out by Trent Ikithon—a man he’d once enthusiastically worked with in pursuit of his own ambitions—upon innocent citizens of the Empire, including a young Caleb. He gathered his courage before carefully bending back the front cover. There, lodged just in front of the table of contents, was a neatly-folded note with his name on the front in now-familiar handwriting.
Essek,
I hope I’m right, and that you’re the one who opens this book first with Caleb’s blessing. Caleb doesn’t need to read it, but I think you do. I don’t know how much of this you already know for yourself, or how much Caleb has shared with you. If I’m right about you—and I have a pretty good track record—you still have an incomplete picture based on your own involvement with Trent Ikithon that you want to understand. I bet Caleb would answer all your questions about Trent if you asked him. I don’t think you’ll ever ask him though, because you don’t want him to spill his guts for your sake. Maybe this can answer your questions instead.
PS. Yasha says be kind to yourself or she’ll kick your ass.
PPS. Jester’s probably going to message you about the unicorn island like, right after Caleb, so be ready for that.
--Beau
Beau was right. He knew some of this story already, but his knowledge was incomplete and mostly founded on inference. He had picked up hints here and there while working with Trent and hadn’t cared. Not even enough to give himself pause. Essek swallowed past the lump in his throat. He wondered if it was possible to quantify how much he cared now.
He read. The research was meticulous; methodical. Beau’s transcripts of the court proceedings were interspersed with textual records of interviews she had conducted with Caleb and his schoolmates that had been submitted as evidence, as well as transcripts of their in-person testimony. He didn’t notice exactly when the tears started, but they continued silently as he forced himself to keep turning the page. He fought his way through Astrid’s testimony, through Eadwulf’s, and finally, through Caleb’s. The record ended with the sentencing. After all that, it did not feel like justice.
He wanted to vomit. He had started a war for the privilege of collaborating with this monster. “Shame” could not begin to describe the depth of his self-loathing. That Caleb knew this about him and still chose to keep his company was astonishing; an act of grace beyond Essek’s understanding. He cursed himself for every minute he’d chosen to throw in with Trent and the Cerberus Assembly. Beau was right. He’d needed to read this.
He picked up the note on the side table to let Beau’s words sink in once more, and found himself stricken by the post script. “Yasha says be kind to yourself or she’ll kick your ass.” It was mortifying to be known this well. He took a deep, shaky breath, and pulled out his spell book.
You were right. About everything. Thank you for the book, Beauregard.
Beau's response did not take long.
I’ll never get tired of hearing those words.
You can beat yourself up a little. But not too much or I’ll tell Yasha. Stay in touch, Essek.
He took another deep breath. Truly—mortifying. He would beat himself up, but he did not want Yasha to kick his ass, so he summoned a cat to bring some tea. On a whim, he invited it onto his lap, and rapidly came to understand the comfort Caleb found in such an arrangement as the creature settled in and began to purr.
Before he’d even realized it, he dozed off into a light trance. A squeeze on the shoulder brought him back. Caleb had snuck down to check on him.
“You have finished?” Essek followed Caleb’s gaze to the side table, now crowded with his teacup, the book, and Beau’s letter, which Caleb had almost certainly seen.
“I have.”
“Does Yasha need to kick your ass?”
“Possibly,” he admitted. “We’ll see.”
Caleb offered his hand. “Dinner?” Essek gently dislodged the spectral cat from his lap and let himself be pulled from his seat, but declined to be dragged any further.
“I cannot say I have much of an appetite.”
Caleb turned back to him and he wondered how he had ever been able to keep a secret from this man. To Caleb, he was an open book. A small silence passed, as Caleb crafted his response to Essek’s innermost thoughts.
“Essek, I cannot possibly pass judgment on you for making the exact same mistake I did.”
“They are not the same mistakes, Caleb. I started a war, and you…” he trailed off. Caleb had been a victim in all of this at least as much as he'd been perpetrator.
Caleb shook his head emphatically. “The war was a consequence. My parents’ deaths were a consequence. The mistakes we both made: blind ambition; heedlessness; accepting the assurances of Trent Ikithon and the Cerberus Assembly without question. I was not tricked into doing the things that I did, Essek. I did them willingly, without hesitation or moral consideration. Our consequences were different due to circumstance alone—our mistakes were identical.”
Essek was not convinced. There were a multitude of differences between what he’d done and what had happened to Caleb, but he did not need to say this. Caleb let out a light huff and nodded. He had expected as much. He stepped up to put his hands on Essek’s shoulders and pulled him in to touch their foreheads together while Essek’s stomach did another somersault. “Well,” he mused, “You may not forgive yourself because you think you do not deserve it, and I will not forgive myself because I do not deserve it, but you cannot prevent my forgiveness.”
“Nor you mine,” Essek countered.
Caleb hummed. “So, we are at an impasse. Mutually assured forgiveness.”
He sighed. “I suppose I can live with that.”
“Good. You don’t have much choice.” said Caleb, “Now come have some soup.”
Essek nodded and followed Caleb to the elevator corridor. Perhaps some soup would help settle his stomach.