As he wriggled every which way on the hard wooden floor in an attempt to soothe his aching muscles, Meyo wondered whether the former Crown Prince had been chronically starved as a child. One look at the man - tall, broad, lively, and some might even say imposing - would naturally suggest that he'd been very well-fed as a youth, a practice which was more than likely to continue for the foreseeable future. However, if one focused on the permanent purpose of his discourse, one might start noticing a disconcerting pattern.

Meyo hadn't forgotten that it had been Essar's exchange conduit which had made him swap places with a gourd, and he strongly suspected that the same method had been employed by the prince himself when he'd escaped his impending coronation and every associated responsibility. Then, there had been the ingenious piping system beneath the pews in the chapel on the hill, dispensing wine at the brethren's discretion. Surely they would have had the good sense to put all that knowledge into practice for the gardens and crops as well.

Alas, it was not so. Meyo had reached that conclusion when he'd taken a leisurely stroll after lunch, among the vegetable rows surrounding the canteen. He'd been right in assuming that no one would pay him any mind, having already accepted him as part of their order without formally swearing him in to their god.

Speaking of which, he'd finally made the crucial discovery of the monks' divine protector, and he couldn't decide whether he should feel surprised at the revelation. He'd not heard the name of the mysterious god since coming here, but curiosity had prompted him to enter the central church and take a look around. Despite its solemn outward appearance, the interior was painted a dirty white, almost bare of any furniture, with a nondescript altar shoved as an afterthought against a small alcove at the back of the building. When he'd expressed his astonishment at the lack of seating arrangements, a bored-looking choir boy sourly informed him that the tavern administrators had taken most of them away. Meyo had nodded sympathetically, and proceeded to take a turn about the place, which seemed to double as a storage facility in some of the annexes.

After a lengthy search, he'd spotted faint gilded letters on the lowest support beam of the easternmost apse. He'd had to squint, but at last managed to make out the name "Engal", along with a now-familiar crest which was also emblazoned on the front doors of the church. Meyo had blinked uncomprehendingly at the letters for a good long while, until the choir boy felt obliged to ask after his health. Startled, Meyo had made up some perfunctory excuse and departed in a rush.

He'd taken refuge in one of the gorgeous inner courtyards and reflected on how it all fitted together. To his knowledge, there was no major deity by that name, certainly not one that would have warranted the construction of such a vast monastic complex. However, his sister's favorite pastime as a young child had been reading countless stories of gods and goddesses from the history of Kassinem, as well as from beyond the kingdom's borders, so he'd had his fair share of exposure to the subject. Despite his shaky grasp of theology, Meyo was fairly confident that this "Engal" was not a real god, but an avatar of one, and there was no member of the Pantheon more well-known for his deceptive tactics than Lenga - whose name just so happened to contain the same letters.

How was it that no one had yet caught on to what these people were doing? As he wandered aimlessly around the complex for the next couple of hours, that question burned brighter and brighter the more goings-on he happened to witness.

There were no protective walls, fortified gates, or stern guardians ensuring the complete isolation of the monks. Anyone was free to come and go as they pleased, and Meyo had become convinced that more than half of the jovial occupants of the pilfered church pews crowding the taverns were in fact villagers from the nearby settlements. The fragments of conversation he'd picked up had absolutely nothing to do with religion or spirituality, and Meyo was seriously starting to question whether real monks existed at all in this place.

He'd also spied another category of visitors, who might have had their place had this been an ordinary community-owned center. But beautiful women clad in ugly workers' clothes sneaking around the dormitories were not likely to seek guidance from a pious confessor. Considering everything else however, Meyo couldn't say that he was surprised. What had truly taken him aback had been seeing a couple of them actually working in one of the flower gardens, side by side with the acolyte from the infirmary/brewery.

Stupefied and in desperate need of a solitary place where he could cease any other activity apart from thinking, Meyo found himself drifting towards the library. He didn't even need to ask for directions, as he appeared to be under the influence of a subconscious pull, guiding him ever closer to an unassuming last-century style building, tucked between a noisy tavern and a religious paraphernalia shop. Laughter, snatched fragments of raunchy conversations conducted in various languages, and the odd decidedly unholy swear word surrounded Meyo as he pushed past the tall front door, and abandoned him as soon as he shut it behind him.

He took a deep breath, relishing the relative quiet of the narrow vestibule. He could sense the weight of gathered knowledge beckoning from farther inside the building, and he heeded the call without a moment's hesitation. The central corridor leading out of the vestibule branched out in numerous directions and he felt himself grow giddier by the second. He peeked through open doors as he walked by, catching brief glimpses of tall bookcases with overloaded shelves, long narrow study tables, and every once in a while, a man dressed in monk's garb thoroughly absorbed in his work.

The more Meyo saw of the place, the more he became convinced that this would be as close to Paradise as he could ever get in this life, or the next. He'd heard enough divine promises of different cults to know that no god or goddess granted free access to such a quiet and inviting fount of knowledge, an oasis of calm in a world bent on hurdling forward through time. The doctrine of Attira hinted at vast fields washed clean of blood sacrifices, Channa worshippers dreamed of peaceful communion within the great soul of the All, while Lenga's version paradoxically dismissed all lies and manners of deception as obsolete, leading to a world where Truth prevailed in all its manifestations.

As he finally left the main corridor and entered a generous room housing an impressive number of scrolls and faded maps, Meyo privately admitted that there was a bit of hell to be found here as well, in that the more time he was to spend in such a library, the more he would come to regret that he could never learn everything, read enough, or leave behind anything more than the faintest of influences. The fate of humanity itself was based on these superficial marks, but it required them all as a collective, pushing in one direction or another. It rarely happened that one lone man's actions could ripple throughout history to any massive degree - that would have been like altering the course of a mighty river with a gardening spade.

Feeling the unwelcome existential ennui creeping up on him, Meyo braced himself against the wall, closed his eyes and breathed out slowly. He'd had such episodes before, but he'd never allowed them to rob him of his present enjoyment. The fact of the matter was that he liked reading, researching, experimenting, and improving. He'd already accepted that he couldn't attain all the knowledge in the world, and the truth was that he didn't even need it. He would leave his inconsequential legacy by doing his best and hoping that he might nudge the great destiny of humanity just a fraction of a degree in a better direction.

When he opened his eyes again, he felt his thoughts settle down calmly, while his wild heartbeat subsided into its normal rhythm. New purpose entered his movements as he pushed away from the wall and walked deeper into the room.

The floorboards creaked under his soft steps and he took care not to breathe in too deeply lest he succumb to a coughing fit. He couldn't fault the librarians that the place was so dusty - the modest façade of the building hadn't even begun to hint at the impressive depth of the structure, which naturally made it very difficult to maintain.

He progressed slowly, mindful of the dim lighting. He thought he was alone, but couldn't quite be certain, given the abundance of shadows and the potential hiding places they covered. The ceiling itself was almost shrouded in darkness and all that he could ascertain was that it was quite a long way away from the floor.

At last he reached a dead end and placed his palm against the rough wooden paneling. He was about to turn around, grab a discarded oil lamp from a small pile he'd spotted earlier and go searching for writings of interest, when a sudden peal of laughter wrenched him out of his tranquil thoughts. He frowned, fancying that he'd imagined it, but his ears had never deceived him to such an extent. Slowly, he walked along the wall until he came upon another door, partially blocked by a massive bookcase.

Meyo leaned against it, hunting for the sound, and soon made out a whole slew of droning voices, no doubt coming from the next room over. This was an unusual occurrence for a typical library, and Meyo could only presume that a certain reunion must have been in full swing. Curiosity naturally brewed, and he could have very well gone out into the corridor again and sought access from there.

But of course, that would never do. He had no guarantee that he would be welcomed and no intention of risking being noticed. He also wanted to know what the meeting was all about, so he left in search of a better eavesdropping opportunity.