Doubts crowded my mind. It was obvious I would follow this man. Hooded as he was, I could not recognize his features. But for the simple fact of having stopped thugs like those who had done this to me, like those who had attacked me, I would definitely follow him. I needed to defend myself.
We advanced through the mages' district. It was somewhat impressive, with all the trinkets for spells. Most missions seeking animal or plant parts guarded by enemies were bought by mages, who processed them and sold them to soldiers as healing potions, or to smiths, even to hunters and assassins. The intense fumes of this guild mixed with the less elegant vapors of the alchemists. But we were far from the priests' zone—we were going to places used only by the poor. Nothing so different from the house where I lived. Turning a corner by the food market, I saw a large, half-constructed house. I supposed this was where we were going.
Crossing its doors, I heard murmurs. It was not like healing classes. Here, they were not all in chairs. There were no desks or blackboards. Every room had a priest in robes, and on the floor sat several dressed very similarly to me. In each hall, I heard different things.
"It is important to know the effect of magic on yourself," said one, from whose hand emerged a sacred lash of good thickness and craftsmanship.
"Do not forget: it is not necessary to invoke any god, for they do not know the body of those you heal or defend. You only need to learn not to kill while healing."
That was not strange—it was one of the first lessons taught. Yet my guide said nothing and only led me to the backyard.
Going out, I saw ten children no older than thirteen, all raising sacred shields. In front of them, older boys or men threw stones with hands encased in bronze gauntlets. The stones bounced instead of falling due to the absorption of movement characteristic of the sacred shield. After twenty throws, the shield faded, and the children ran to remove the gauntlets from those who had thrown, revealing bruised hands and in some cases a finger badly out of place. Immediately, they healed them.
"As you can see, life and training here toughens us. Healing magic is very useful, but only for those who receive these benefits. For us—those always one step from exhaustion, those constantly seeking to repair damage from blunt weapons, blades, claws, teeth, and poison—for us, a painful climb to nowhere awaits. We will always be the necessary sheep in missions. Useful when we can carry, when we can give our fleece. But also useful when they want to collect our share and send us home with a kick in the ass, or worse, devour us right there. I am Gamal, a high-level priest. I assist in category A missions. My rewards are what keep this place running. Oh, and I am the director of the new branch of healing magic. Any questions?"
Of course I had questions! Before I realized it, I began to tell him what I had lived, what had led me to follow him. All this time, I had watched my parents barely pay for our miserable lives. When I heard they were subsidizing healing magic classes, that the priest profession was the most sought-after in guilds, I signed up. We all did. Only to discover the stupidity of my abilities' weakness. After much suffering, we eliminated a pack of vermin in the Dark Forests. Barely had the looting begun when everyone said that as a level 1 priest, I could not ask for a reward except those for a priest—no money, nothing. I would receive my reward in experience and some trinket.
I discovered a golden chest behind some rocks. I told everyone so we could share it, to show that despite everything I was a member of the group. I only received attempted murder from the team members—all for a priest's medallion that gave +10 spirit. Their promise said it was mine, but something like that would be sold for nearly one gold coin. I saw it in their eyes—greed had blinded them. But I had not joined the priests only for my devotion to healing my people. I was a member of the gangs. I fought every day. In the lower districts, it was the best way to contribute something to the household. Adults had bad, poorly paid jobs. We young depended on what we could snatch from others. So I could defend myself from their attacks. Sacred magic lashes did not attack humans, considering them allies. But I healed, I struck, I ran. Fleeing after eliminating a horde of goblins, I now fled from my companions—those who had shared bread and wine with me. I ran so much that without realizing it, my group began to be surrounded by more goblins from another village. Then began what drove me to the bar.
Everyone, as if it were a joke, began to say: "Come on, we were just joking. Why aren't you good and heal us while we kill all these puppets, and then we'll go have some beers?"
I just started running. I had a bit of a lead, so I could hear their screams of pain as a much larger number of enemies began to eliminate them.
I could have saved them! They could have won if they had not been beaten by me, tired from chasing me. Tell me, what did I do wrong? How could I look the survivors in the eyes? How could I return to work in a profession that made you distrust your own people? My eyes were blurry—I had been crying for a while. When I looked up, I saw that this Gamal had pulled back his hood. On his face, I still saw that of a child no more than fifteen, but his eyes were those of someone who had lived what I had—or perhaps worse, though I could not imagine what could be worse.
"Power, my dear priest. You lack enough strength to defend yourself, to heal, and if necessary, to knock out all your companions. To leave any place alive even when alone. Here, I can give you that knowledge. But the preparation, the willpower, the guts—those depend only on you. No one will tell you how long to continue. No one will stop you from not doing it. But if we see you are determined, we will push you until you achieve your goals. We are not sacred—we are pragmatic, realistic, fighters. Here, priests are of the discipline branch.
You will start your classes today. I need you to imagine a series of layers surrounding your clothes, your face, your hair. Imagine it well, because you will have to place one layer of magic over another. This is your first lesson. It is called Magic Armor, but it is invoked with the word Fortitude. Begin."
So he had lived what I lived. That was fine. I would work hard, I would learn much, and no one would think they could stand against me. He said classes started today—then let it be so. I concentrated.