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Altan normally stayed where Irjah had left him.
It was something Irjah was working on, piece by incremental piece. He’d leave books he’d seen Altan eyeing in his study out on the desk across the room and come back in an hour to see if Altan had budged from his spot in the corner to come get them. He’d leave carven figurines arranged in neat rows on low tables- gods and goddesses, but never the Phoenix, never soldiers- and find them untouched, Altan still knees to chest with his back to the walls and staring unblinkingly at some spot in the middle distance.
He had told him many times, in the same normal cadence he’d use to address another adult because using the approximation of what Irjah assumed was a soothing, paternal tone always made Altan shudder and cringe, that he was welcome to do as he wished. There were no restrictions on his actions or behavior, and there would be no punishments. The only sign that Altan had even heard him had been the reflexive clasp of his thin arms tighter around himself, the working of the muscles of his throat as he gulped uncomfortably. So Irjah was giving him space and freedom to understand for himself that he wasn’t going to be hurt anymore.
In some ways, he would’ve preferred if his lovely home- full of books and scrolls and artwork, a lifetime curation of every interesting subject under the sun- was being burnt by Speerly fire. Then he would at least have known where to begin. It would have been better than Altan’s unnatural silence. Irjah was not a father, and understood that Altan, who he’d been told still remembered his real father, likely did not think of him as such. But he had prepared with every treatise about childhood development that he could lay his hands on before Altan had been delivered to his door, a shaking, twitching eleven year old clutching a long-handled trident sized for an adult that was a full head taller than he was, and even he knew that this silence was not normal for a child.
But then so very little about Altan’s truncated childhood, such as it was, had been normal.
Irjah rarely left him on his own for a full hour. Altan would let him take him by the hand and lead him somewhere new with no trouble, would sit where Irjah bade him without speaking a word. But every time Irjah turned around, Altan would have slipped off the couch or the stool or the bed and to whichever corner had an unobstructed view of any windows and doors in the room. Irjah understood the urge, and had done nothing to dissuade him from it. He’d tried placing books and pieces of paper and charcoal directly in his hands and come back to see Altan still looking at them with a dull, disinterested stare.
In fact, the only times he did see a normal, childish reaction from Altan were the few instances where he’d tried to withhold one of the two opium pipes he was allowed per day. Even his tantrums were concerning. He would stamp and writhe and rake his nails up his arms until he drew blood, letting out high-pitched wounded keenings until Irjah broke down and gave him the pipe. Irjah always had to remind himself that even that wasn’t a tantrum, precisely: it was the onset of withdrawals.
It made Irjah sick to his stomach, that sight that he would never get out of his head, of Altan’s ribs and bony shoulder blades distending as he filled his lungs to their capacity with the sweet poisonous smoke. It was the only thing he was greedy for these days, and until Altan would at least speak to him, let him know that he could be reasoned with and was capable of understanding that withholding the drug was not a punishment but rather for his long-term benefit, Irjah could do nothing but try to dial back the dose bit by bit.
Today Irjah had left him in one of the sitting rooms, the one that from Altan’s favorite corner still had a view of the gardens behind the house, where Irjah grew bright flowers that were attended by buzzing bees and flitting birds. Altan had seemed interested by- as interested as he was by anything- and scared of the garden in equal measures, and Irjah had expected to find him in his corner looking out at the verdant greenery from a safe distance.
But he was kneeling in front of the window, his nose nearly pressed against the glass as he watched the wind shake the flowers and the leaves in the trees. Irjah always made his tread a little heavier when he was approaching Altan. He’d learned that accidentally startling him made him scream, a raw and terrified shriek that cut Irjah to the bone. No child should be able to make a noise like that. Altan turned to look at him as he drew nearer, and pointed from himself to the garden in a flick of his small dark hand.
“Would you like to go outside?”
Altan nodded, and as Irjah went to open the door he followed along without needing to be guided by the hand. Irjah stood back and to the side, and Altan took a few hesitant steps beyond him, the white gravel shifting under his bare feet because Irjah could not convince him to wear shoes. The breeze blew again, carrying the heady perfume of the blossoms and the clean sweetness of sun-warmed grass. Altan turned his face skyward.
Irjah went to sit on the stone bench beside the koi pond, and after a moment, Altan came as well. He sat on the tiled edges of the pond, though Irjah noticed that he had carefully positioned himself to be able to watch Irjah and the house both.
Altan was entranced by the fish. He spent hours contentedly watching them swimming in circles that first day, and Irjah had brought his correspondences and work out from his office to sit with him, both because it was springtime and lovely outside, and because he didn’t want to leave Altan unsupervised or delegate what seemed to possibly be a breakthrough to his housekeeper. It became an afternoon routine for them. Altan got to the point where he would let his fingers trail through the water, brushing once in a while against the lilies. Until one afternoon, as the sunlight was beginning to go golden and heavy as evening approached, Altan moved unprompted with shocking, terrifying speed and snatched one of the lazy koi that had become accustomed to his presence up out of the water.
He held it firmly even though it thrashed and slapped, with an ease that Irjah supposed was an older muscle memory that even the horrors of the laboratory had not beaten out of him. He had crossed around the pond, drawing nearer to Irjah voluntarily for the first time, clearly offering him the gasping, dying fish.
“Yes, it’s a nice fish,” Irjah responded, setting aside his tablet and wishing he could cast the koi back into its watery home. But if this was what it took to begin drawing Altan out, Irjah felt the life of the fish was worth it.
Holding it with one hand as its flopping became weaker, Altan pantomimed slitting open its stomach, his red eyes locked imploringly on Irjah with an expression normally reserved for when he was about to hand him the pipe.
“That’s a koi fish, Altan. They’re for decoration, like the flowers. We don’t eat them,” Irjah responded. Altan looked down at the fish and then back up at him, clearly uncomprehending. Irjah went to take it from him, but Altan didn’t want to let go of it, and it was very slippery. The fish had already breathed its last, and if Altan wanted to prepare it, Irjah could indulge him.
He led Altan to the kitchen, waving aside the concerned cook and his staff, and handed his charge a small boning knife. Altan sank down onto his haunches over the grate in the corner and with his eyebrows furrowed in concentration, gutted the fish in a few ragged movements. Altan butchered it, but he seemed to understand that he had not done it neatly and was frustrated by that, rather than delighting in the destruction for its own sake, which Irjah had feared. When he turned back to Irjah to present him with the two small pieces of flesh free of scales and pin bones, Irjah smiled and patted him on the back.
“That’s a very good start, my boy.”
Altan’s entire body jerked, a violent and wholly unexpected convulsion, fear and rage rising up on his face and making him seem older than his few years.
“Don’t call me that,” Altan said.
___
Altan had his back wedged firmly into the corner of Irjah’s office, but let his head loll weakly against the wall. Irjah had all the windows open, but even the sharp wind in the mountains of Sinegard wasn’t enough to cut through the dense, sickly perfume of the opium that wreathed around him. He always retreated to the corner for his monthly pipe, folding his now broad, muscular frame back down the way he always had, knees to chest, arms tucked in, head down. Irjah supposed he was grateful that this was usually only a monthly occurrence now.
Altan had fought- clenched fists and gritted teeth and bloody crescent moons dug into his arms and legs- to get himself to the point where he could realistically be allowed to sit for the Keju. He had trained every day, he had studied with a single-mindedness and fervor that Irjah had watched with his heart swelling with admiration. He was, without reservation, without question, without doubt, the brightest student Irjah had ever taught. When Irjah looked back on the allotment of his life and how he had spent his years, he looked with pride and fondness upon all his apprentices, but Altan. Altan was something truly special. A once in a lifetime pupil. Masters would cut off their right hands for such a gifted, motivated student.
And yet every month, Altan would be outside his office door with his hands tremoring and desperation clear on his face. It had been decided- mostly between Grand Master Jima and the Empress- that Altan should continue to be allowed maintenance doses, only to be consumed under Irjah’s supervision and at his discretion. Keeping this a secret from the rest of the students was both a blessing and a curse. The obvious accusations of favoritism were inescapable- none of the other masters of Sinegard had ever raised a child and then permitted them to enroll, much less extended a bid to them- and they were compounded by the nights Altan’s fellow apprentices surely noticed that he never returned to their dormitory. But the monthly release kept Altan docile enough not to burn any students or staff, and that, Irjah had reminded himself as he’d handed over the pipe earlier that evening, was in the interest of the greater good.
He wasn’t surprised that Altan needed this tonight. The tournament had taken place earlier in the day. Tobi was still in critical enough condition that he could not be moved from the infirmary. The look that had come over Altan when he had faced the other boy had immediately let Irjah know something was terribly wrong, but with the Empress watching he could do nothing to intervene and had simply had to watch. Altan had done a fine job of pretending to be fairly matched with the other students leading up to this last match, but now he dropped the act. Moving with lethal grace that looked wrong pitted against a mortal boy, even with his inherited arts, Altan had disarmed Tobi in under a minute and dealt him a few humiliating blows with the flat of his trident before casting it aside and lunging at him bodily. Tobi had not yielded but that was because he could no longer speak because Altan had both hands around his neck and was using the grip to smash his head against the ground. Sonnen had called an end to the match but Altan hadn’t let go, was grinding his opponent’s face into the dirt, and it had taken Jun and Sonnen both to pull him off. Even then he had snarled and clawed, trying to get back to the prey that he wasn’t yet finished with even though Tobi had been laying unmoving in a splay-legged heap with a pool of blood spreading beneath his head that one did not have to have a great deal of medical knowledge to understand he could not recover easily from losing.
“I could feel how badly I was hurting him,” Altan slurred, red eyes dimmed by the poppy and the darkness of his corner.
Irjah waited silently, as he normally did when Altan chose to try to speak when he was in this state.
“I felt his hyoid bone crunch under my hands. And didn’t stop.”
He could see that Altan was trembling, shivers that could almost be mistaken for a reaction to the cold if Irjah hadn’t recognized them from his childhood. Irjah was suddenly able to see, as if the young man in the room with him was nothing more than an optical illusion, the shaking, skinny, scared boy Altan Trengsin had once been and, to be honest, still was.
“Why did you keep going?” Irjah asked, calm and non-confrontational and keeping his distance. Laudanum made it harder for Altan to call for his fire, but opium made it far, far too easy for him, and he could and did ignite himself at the slightest provocation whenever he was in this vulnerable state.
Altan had become a delight to debate with, when he was sober, his keen mind refracting scenarios and conjuring elegant solutions Irjah himself had not thought of, and they could go back and forth asking each other questions for hours. In this state, pipe held in both hands as it had been when he was a child, he regressed. The best Irjah could hope to get out of him at this point would be an intelligible answer. It broke his heart freshly every time to see his prized pupil reduced to this.
“You didn’t hear what he said,” Altan answered, something sharp and stinging coming into his voice through the drug haze. Just as suddenly the small wounded boy he had once been was gone, replaced once more by the hard-eyed young man who had scored perfectly in virtually every examination he had ever sat, who had just this day nearly beaten another young man to death and was still wearing his blood-stained combat tunic.
“Which was?” Irjah prompted.
“That it was a good thing the Mugenese wiped out Speer before Nikan had to. That since we were all animals and addicts anyway it was no different than sending in an exterminator to get rid of pests. That if he’d been given a choice he’d have done the same thing, only he would’ve made sure they didn’t miss me.”
Dulled by the smoke, Altan remained expressionless as he laid this out, apart from the slow-burning fury in his eyes before taking another pull from the pipe. The wildfire in his face earlier in the day now made more sense. Slimy disgust sat heavy in Irjah’s stomach. He’d known Tobi was a callous young man, and that Altan disliked him, but he hadn’t known to what extent.
Why this was the first he was hearing of this matter, Irjah didn’t want to speculate. Altan always thought that he had to handle everything by himself, but something like this, something so disruptive and inflammatory, was something he should have known to bring to Irjah, especially because it had affected him so strongly. The fact that he had not done so meant Altan had brooded over this to himself in the dark and decided that the best course of action was to keep it from him, who could have stopped him from taking his revenge. He’d waited patiently and picked the most public stage he could for his retribution- it would be immortalized in the school history books that Altan Trengsin, Speerly, had won his year’s Combat trials by nearly killing his final opponent. This wasn’t like the Altan who sat in his classroom and answered his questions cleverly and sometimes even smiled at his fellow pupils. This was exactly like the Altan he’d heard grumblings about from Jun, who showed no mercy on the training grounds and who even Jun did not truly wish to correct for fear of what that might provoke.
“Did he deserve to lose his life for that?” Irjah asked gently.
“Yes,” Altan hissed, coming to life with flames flickering at his fingertips. Irjah understood from a strictly ethical standpoint that he had not, and that, more to the point, students could not be allowed to severely beat other students over insulting words, even if those words were so devoid of human sympathy as to surpass being insulting and become simply, astoundingly, stupid. He suspected Altan understood that as well, and that all the calm, rational, logical thinking in the world could not have stopped him from doing as he had done that day in the pits. Irjah couldn’t truly say he blamed him, even if he was still disappointed in him. Tobi had to have known his words would warrant a response.
So he nodded, and waited, and Altan eventually settled back down, eyes once more going glassy and unfocused. Irjah had just been debating whether to give him the woolen blanket he kept in the bottom of his cabinet for this event each month- Altan didn’t need it, even drugged he burned with heat, but Irjah always wrapped it around his shoulders anyway, a gesture that he hoped Altan could interpret and accept as affection, and it was always better to do that while Altan was still cognizant of his surroundings because he never slept deeply and accidentally startling him had resulted in several incinerated blankets- when a knock sounded at his door. Altan’s only reaction was a slow blink, but before Irjah could rise to answer it and warn off whoever it was, the door swept open to admit Jun Loran.
Irjah appreciated that Jun was very good at what he did, and that his teaching methods, while ham-fisted, produced unquestionable results. He also thought that he was arrogant and pig-headed and convinced of his own infallibility, which made him insufferable both personally and professionally. Irjah had been aware that Jun was planning to extend a bid to Tobi. That would obviously have to be put on hold, pending what state Tobi would be in when he regained consciousness. Jun had made a bid for Altan as well, of course, as had every single other master including Jiang, which was a first in recent memory at the school. When Grand Master Jima had told the Empress of this fact during the trials, her beautiful face had gone cold.
“Jiang Ziya withdraws his bid,” she had announced, every icicle of the Sinegardian winter dripping from her tone. As Jiang had not presented himself to watch or preside over any part of the trials and had in fact seemingly disappeared from the school grounds, he had not been there to say anything to the contrary, and so Altan only had six possible bids to choose from, still twice what the average student was usually extended. But Irjah wasn’t truly concerned that he might lose his star apprentice.
Jun paused in the doorway, taking in what was going on with his normal analytical assessment.
“What in seven hells is this?” he demanded. Altan pressed his forehead to his knees and said nothing.
“This boy beat another student half to death and you’re giving him drugs?” Jun demanded. The Combat master rarely lowered his voice for anything or anyone, but now it dropped to a choked whisper of rage.
“This is a compromise between Altan, myself, Grand Master Jima, and the Empress herself,” Irjah replied, not feeling the need to explain any further. Jun was already aware, as all the masters were, of at least the general overview of the trajectory of Altan’s life thus far, though of course Irjah himself and Jima knew the most specifics. Jun inhaled deeply through his nostrils, taking in the waft of sweet smoke that so often trailed after the Lore master when he could be bothered to grace them with his presence and became even more incensed, sneering openly.
“You are giving him opium. You are allowing an opium addict to- to sit in your classes and sleep next to other students. You are giving him- the last Speerly- the exact drug that made people call his kind animals. No fucking wonder he acted like a mad dog today.”
Altan’s red eyes flashed back open in the darkness. Irjah stood and smoothed down his robe.
“You should leave now,” he responded crisply. Jun had no purview to question him or his decisions. Irjah had no need to explain that when Altan had been entrusted to his keeping he had only barely been weaned off mainlining heroin, and that having gotten down to a single pipe a month was a world of improvement.
“I should withdraw my bid. I don’t teach addicts,” Jun shot back.
“Then withdraw it. I wouldn’t study with you anyway, not with the way you favored Tobi all year,” Altan rasped. Only Irjah could tell the effort it had cost him to keep his words from bleeding together. Jun stared at him as if he’d spoken in his unintelligible mother tongue.
“Altan is clearly not himself at the moment. And I repeat, you should leave my office,” Irjah continued.
“I came here to talk to you about seeing to it that he doesn’t run wild through the rest of the student body, since I thought you had some sort of positive influence over him. I now see my mistake. Good night, Master Irjah,” Jun replied, cold and calculating.
“Good night, Master Jun,” Irjah answered, stepping from behind his desk to shut the door behind him.
That done, he brought the blanket and placed it over Altan’s shoulders.
“I’d study with you. I wan’ to,'' Altan mumbled, earnest even as he was slipping away.
“You shall, if that’s what you really want. We’ll discuss this again tomorrow. If you change your mind, I won't be upset,” Irjah answered him, letting his hand rest on the top of Altan’s shorn head for just a moment.
“Won’t. Don’t worry, Master. I won’t let you down.”
Altan’s eyelids were drooping, head leaning against the wall once more.
“I know you won’t, Altan.”
__
Irjah was not a father.
Finding a wife, raising children, it was a younger man’s game, but to be honest even when he’d been a younger man he hadn’t had an interest in it. He had known that his commitments- to Sinegard, to his students, to the Empress- would preclude him from being the type of father he would have wanted to be. So he hadn’t bothered with it, until Altan.
And even still, that wasn’t what he’d become. Irjah reminded himself of that as he filed in with the other masters for the graduation ceremonies for this class of students. The students sat in their neat uniforms, as always, but their families sat in the rows of tiered seats behind them in their resplendent best, each watching proudly for their own progeny. There was no one to watch for Altan that way but Irjah himself.
As Jima called each name, the apprentice- now a master in their own right- came forward. They made their bows before each master as Jima recited their finest accomplishments while at the school. Each student ended the ceremony before the master to whom they had dedicated the past four years of their lives, who would bow in return and hand them their certifications and their new marching orders. Irjah had the neat row of scrolls arranged on the small table behind him, tied with green ribbons and brimming with choice assignments to important, highly valued positions within the Second, Third, and Tenth divisions. The one scroll that had the most seals and honorifics was also the one that had no assignment attached. Altan had been given no official post.
“I must protest,” Irjah had told Jima as they sat in her study a month before graduation and his continued questions about where Altan would be placed had been roundly ignored.
“It is the Empress’s wish that he remain unassigned, I’m afraid,” Jima had responded, voice freighted with meaning. It had sent a shiver down Irjah’s spine, and he hadn’t pushed further.
Altan, for what it was worth, hadn’t questioned him. He had earned at least that measure of trust.
And now here he was, bowing gracefully to each master in thanks for their shared wisdom as Jima kept the same pace she always did while listing the accomplishments, which Irjah had had to help narrow down to only the most truly outstanding to spare them from spending the rest of the afternoon here. When Altan stopped before him, Irjah only barely managed to keep his face impassive. The afternoon sun shone in through the windows, and Altan Trengsin- his greatest accomplishment, his most extraordinary student, the pride of his life- was standing before him strong and sharp and sober.
Altan did not merely bow. He went to his knees, folding down on himself to press his forehead to the ground, the deepest display of respect and gratitude. No other student would have dared, for fear of disrupting the proceedings, but Altan, as always, was the exception. Irjah had a sudden urge to leave the dais and his place in the line, to buck tradition and dignity and decorum and pull Altan up from the ground and into an embrace.
He might have, if he was a father. But he wasn’t, so he didn’t.
There was no one to cheer for Altan when he rose and accepted his scroll from Irjah, no one to applaud him and call his name as he turned and made his way back to his seat. There was smattered clapping from some of the students- mostly the ones who’d also pledged Strategy, he’d grown closest with them, or at least as closely as Altan could ever grow to anybody- but Altan didn’t let it show on his face that it bothered him. Irjah still knew it did.
When the ceremony was done, the masters made their final goodbyes to their students in this formal educational setting in the courtyard outside. It was understood that the bond between master and apprentices would continue, always, that it was a lifelong source of strength and mentorship, and so these farewells were more promises to send letters or make introductions or provide advice when called upon to do so. Irjah met his other five student’s parents. He’d prepared something meaningful and praise-worthy to say about each, commendations that had made his pupils and their families glow with pride. He said his farewells to other students to whom he had extended bids but had for one reason or another pledged differently. The crowd thinned and then dwindled, the graduates eager to enjoy their two weeks of leave before taking up their posts.
Irjah had let himself wonder over the last month if, perhaps, the Empress might intend something great for Altan, greater than mere service in a division. He had wondered if perhaps Altan might be given a command post directly, or taken into the Empress’s personal service to provide advice and perspective and, should the occasion call for it, protection. Altan might not have been pleased with that- much as Altan had made the attempt to suppress it while in his presence, Irjah knew he longed for battle, for a chance to take personal revenge on the people who had taken everything from him- but he would have been capable of it. And Irjah would still have been able to see him often, residing as he primarily would within the capital. Irjah had had Altan’s old rooms prepared already at his house, had thought he might take a few days of leave and take Altan to the sea to properly try his hand at fishing before he began his career at the Empress’s right hand. He had thought- hoped, really- that to avoid jealousies or pettiness or accusations of favoritism, the Empress had not given him an official post because she didn’t wish to advertise that he had been marked for such greater things than his peers.
Eventually the only ones left in the courtyard were the masters and Altan. And suddenly, with no warning, they were joined by a short, deathly pale man who seemingly stepped from the shadows wearing a black uniform with no identifying marks.
“General Tyr,” Grand Master Jima said, nodding her head once by way of greeting. Irjah felt as though his stomach was packed with ice.
So Altan did have an assignment, after all.
To the Cike.
To bloody his hands in the shadows with assassins and shamans and petty criminals in service to the Empress and to never receive the acclaim, the admiration, he so deserved.
“It is a waste,” he remarked shortly, voice even and emotionless as Altan looked from him to Jima to this General Tyr, if the Thirteenth Division of Bizarre Children could be considered to have a proper general.
“Altan Trengsin is nothing short of the finest warrior this academy has produced within my memory. Many generals asked after him, and any would have considered themselves blessed to have him. It is a waste to send him to the Cike.”
“I’m sure many generals would like a Speerly on a leash. That is precisely why he belongs with us,” Tyr answered him with no fear or hesitation.
“And, as always, Master Irjah, it is the Empress’s orders,” Jima added, a shimmer of disapproval on the bare bones of her words.
Had Irjah been a father, he would have balked. His Empress was asking him to consign the pride of his life, the boy he’d raised from mute, abject terror into a living legend, to a dirty, ignoble future of purposeful obscurity and unending brutality. What father could have tolerated such a request?
But Irjah was not a father. He had chosen duty and purpose and service long ago, and was bound to honor them until the end of his life.
And so he did not protest further.
Jima and Tyr and the other masters granted him a moment alone to say farewell as Altan took up his pack.
Irjah had tried and failed to prepare for this. What was there to say?
“If there is any help I can provide you, it is yours,” he remarked quietly, putting his hand on Altan’s shoulder as he had so many times.
“I could never thank you enough, Master,” Altan murmured in response.
“I am proud of you, Altan. You have accomplished much.”
Altan squared his shoulders and mashed his mouth into a firm line the way he did when he needed to keep his lips from trembling.
“Through your help, Master. And I will find a way to accomplish more still. You won’t be disappointed in me.”
How could Irjah tell him? The only disappointment Altan could ever bring him would be to lose himself in shamanism, in vengeance, in Phoenix fire. Each one of those things would be a prerequisite of his new post.
“I know I won’t,” he lied, a final gift for his favorite student. He knew in his bones they would never see each other again. The assassins of the Cike did not have families, were not granted leave, did not have time to visit their old teachers. The least he could do was to give Altan a positive memory to carry with him.
Irjah could understand from a purely psychological standpoint why he felt the way he did, like something in his heart was shattering to watch Altan bow to him for a final time. He had seen the boy every day for the past decade. He appreciated the way his mind worked, had grown to love his secretive smile when he earned top marks on an essay, had become convinced that he was destined for greatness. He did not want to be parted from him.
He reminded himself once more that he was not a father, and that this moment had been coming inevitably since that day Altan had spoken to him for the first time, showing him that he was capable of being made into a weapon. This moment had always been inescapable, the moment when he would have to step back and trust that he had done a good enough job raising and caring for his scarred, broken son that he could function without his oversight.
“Take care of yourself, Altan.”
“I will, Master.”
Irjah watched him leave with General Tyr with an expression of undisturbed tranquility. He stayed standing there even as the other Masters had left, Yim patting him on the shoulder as he passed.
“You did well with him, Irjah. Better than many others would’ve. Better than anyone could have hoped,” Jima pointed out with uncharacteristic softness, also turning to go back inside as the sun began to ignite the sky into a swirl of orange and lavender.
“Thank you,” Irjah responded distantly, before going inside himself.
There were final papers to grade for the rising third years, and lesson plans to assemble. His life still had purpose and meaning and satisfaction, even if it was hard to feel that way at the moment.
And Altan had said he would take care of himself.
Irjah wanted to believe him.