“I don’t know that I believe the purity of your Leon’s motives,” Thomil said, still, amazingly, unwilling to back down. “He couldn’t have taken the texts for safe keeping before he knew the Kwen was in danger of Blight.”
“But he did know,” Sciona explained, impatient with Thomil’s ignorance of very basic religious doctrine. “Ten Pre-Tiran was the year he received his visions from God portending Blight and the need for a stronghold to guard against it.”
“Right,” Thomil said in a tone she didn’t like.
“What?”
“Nothing, ma’am… It doesn’t matter.” He broke eye contact, finally seeming ready to back down. “Whether Leon foresaw the coming of Blight or not, you’re right. He built this city, which has kept many safe. His influence was positive. I shouldn’t criticize.”
Sciona should have taken Thomil’s retreat as a victory and left it at that, but Thomil’s tone wasn’t right, and she found herself pressing back into the fray. “He did foresee the coming of Blight. I just told you that. God sent him visions before it happened.”
“Yes, ma’am. But I don’t…”
“Don’t what?” Sciona prompted when the Kwen trailed off.
“I don’t worship your God,” he answered after a pause, “so I can’t believe that visions from him constitute truth the same way you do.”
Sciona opened her mouth in shock—though she shouldn’t really be shocked, should she? Thomil always referred to Feryn as ‘your god’ and swore the heathen way—using ‘gods’ instead of ‘God.’ “But—your hair is cut,” she said finally, clumsily. The mark of an unconverted Kwen was usually that he wore his copper hair long and unruly in the way of the tribes beyond the barrier.
“Yes, ma’am,” Thomil said. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a job in this city with the wrong hair?”
“Some.” Sciona ran a hand back through her own short hair. Though she hadn’t cut it to conceal her religious affiliations as much to draw marginally fewer stares in a laboratory full of male mages. It wasn’t quite the same. “I’m just surprised at you, Thomil. How can you not believe in God? I mean, you’re a reasonable person. You know truth isn’t subjective, and I’ve shared Feryn’s power with you. You’ve witnessed it—felt it—at your fingertips!”
“I never said I didn’t believe your god existed, Highmage. I just don’t believe he’s the greatest or only deity at work in the world.”
“How does that work?” Sciona asked. Feryn was the God of Truth. To worship any other deity was to live in the darkness of ignorance.
“Where I come from, each clan has its own god—or, more often, many gods—reflecting the things that give their lives value, the things that make them strong. You worship the god of your community, and I worship mine.”
“Well, you’re part of this community now,” Sciona protested. “You’re Tiranish.”
“Am I?” Thomil said. “Or do I just serve Tiran?”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Thomil sighed. “It wasn’t my intention to offend you, ma’am. My beliefs just aren’t yours.”
“Well, what are they then?” What was so special about these Kwen religious convictions that they superseded the God who had created Tiran?
“I don’t know why it interests you, Highmage.”
“Is there something wrong with the Tiranish God?” she demanded.
“For you, ma’am, no. It’s always good for a woman to worship the gods of her foremothers. Your god suits you as he suits this city.”
“He just wouldn’t suit you?”
“No, ma’am,” Thomil said. “He would not.”
“Why?”
“If you must know, your god weighs souls differently from mine. Or, in mundane mortal terms, your people and mine have different senses of right and wrong.”
“What do you mean you have a different sense of right and wrong?” Sciona said, vaguely alarmed at the notion. “What does that even look like?”
“It’s…” Thomil sighed. “It would be hard to explain to you.”
“What?” Sciona scoffed, bristling. “You think I don’t have the capacity to understand Kwen moral structures?” Sure, the humanities were not Sciona’s strong suit, but it insulted her that he wasn’t even trying to explain himself.
“It’s not a matter of capacity, ma’am. It’s just that… Kwen morality tends to be beneath Tiranish notice, so I don’t think the underlying principles would be familiar to you.”
“Well, I’m taking notice,” Sciona said stubbornly. “You’ve piqued my interest. Explain.”
“Very well, ma’am.” Thomil looked down for a moment in thought. “Let’s say… there are two men who live in a city like this one. And, to make the story relevant to you, let’s make them highmages.”
“Alright?”
“The first man lives his whole life with good intentions, every decision made because he believes it to align with his values. Yet, let’s say that he pressures his wife into bearing children believing this to be the right thing, but it only makes her miserable. Maybe he fast-tracks a building project because he is eager to see it completed. The building collapses, and several of his workers die, leaving their families behind in poverty. He gives generously to a beggar, only for the beggar to buy weapons so he can move on from begging to robbing. This pattern holds throughout the man’s life. The majority of his well-intentioned decisions end in disaster for others.”
“And the second man?” Sciona asked.
“The second man has no such good intentions. Every decision he makes is out of self-interest, spite, intent to harm, or… whatever motivations his culture might deem unsavory. Yet, let’s say an employee he demotes ends up thriving in her new position and forming great friendships there. Maybe his cruelty prompts his wife to leave him and move on to a happier life with someone else. When he sabotages a rival’s project, that money is then allocated to a better project that improves many lives. The majority of his actions end up changing his community for the better.”
“Alright,” Sciona said, curious to know where this odd story was going.
“So,” Thomil said, “when these two souls are weighed before the gates of Heaven, who gets in? Who is the good man?”
“The first one,” Sciona said, “obviously.”
“Even though his effect on the world was negative?” Thomil asked. “Many, many lives were worse because of his actions.”
“But he meant well.”
“Why does that matter?”
“Because… well… obviously, it matters!”
“Why?”
“It…” Sciona foundered, frustrated by her inability to come up with a logical answer when Tiranish culture was the one built on logic. The Kwen were the illogical ones. Everyone knew that. “It just does.”