Let me first put your hearts at ease by saying that I do not blame you for the unfortunate events that saw the House of Flowers remade. Many of you look upon our caste system and believe us incapable of understanding that all species are made up of individuals... but we do, and so I know that the acts of some aunera—aliens such as you—do not reflect upon you all.

Nor do I think the situation with House Qenain was without its compensations... for it is because of the problems afflicting Qenain that I came to meet Shame.

There is a word in our tongue to describe when an inevitability comes into life, brought there by changes your spirit requires to grow. It is a beautiful word to scribe, and I often embellish it with silver leaf: such things are precious and deserve the extra art. My particular paisathi began in an alarmingly intimate room, prostrate before the god of Civilization Himself, Thirukedi, Emperor of Kherishdar. Since He had elevated me to osulkedi, the topmost rank of the Public Servant caste, I had been called more often into His presence, but that had not accustomed me to it. It is our belief that Thirukedi is the same man who founded Kherishdar thousands of years ago, reborn into new bodies with each lifetime to continue guiding the development of the empire. You have only to meet Him to see that it must be so, for such an aura could only be born of generations of patience and witness.

As His osulkedi, I was His to send wherever He felt my talents were needed most. I had ministered to many different Households since my elevation, traveling all three of our crown worlds to bring what small wisdom and talent I could to bear on their sorrows. But Thirukedi had given me these assignments in His vast and impersonal audience chamber, divulging only my destination and the names of the Ai-Naidar waiting to receive me. This... this unwonted invitation unsettled me. It was not for such as I to take tea with the Emperor, but the fragrance was unmistakable and the command implacable.

"Join me."

My wrists shook as they pushed me upright; somehow I found myself on the embroidered cushion across from the low table. This chamber had been designed for such audiences, for the table was on a dais with stepped ends: Thirukedi sat on the raised step, I on the low and the table on the middle. Thus propriety was observed, though I imagined such rooms more frequently saw discussions between Thirukedi and those above the Wall of Birth. As osulkedi I was the highest caste-rank below that Wall... but the Wall was insurmountable.

One of the irimked poured our tea from an exquisite pot into equally exquisite bowls, covering each with a lid before withdrawing. Head bowed, I waited for the Emperor to draw His closer and sip from it before I dared my own. The finish on the gray-green ceramic was pebbled and warm, a delight to the fingertips; the tea subtle, fragrant and astringent. He allowed me to enjoy it at a proper pace, and only after half the bowl remained did He speak.

"You wonder, no doubt, at your presence here."

I glanced across the table at His throat but did not speak for lack of explicit permission. I watched His long hands as He poured himself another bowl.

"You are released to speak," Thirukedi said, and continued, "Your services have pleased me. I was not wrong to lift you up."

"You are thanked, Thirukedi," I murmured in Abased. Even given leave to speak I could not conceive of addressing Him in anything but the most abased of grammars, any more than I would look uninvited at His face, though I had cause to know it was beautiful and stern. "It was only in service to your ideal."

"Mmm." His fingers came to rest on the lid of the bowl, restless as butterflies. "Tell me, Calligrapher... do you know the fable of the broken pot?"

"Which one, Thirukedi?"

He laughed, and my ears flicked back in a suffusion of modesty.

"I should have known you would be familiar with the many variations," He said. "Which of the versions is your favorite, then?"

"If it pleases you," I said, "the one where the potter repairs the pot and puts it back in service."

"As I would have thought," He said. "There is a reason that version is one that is best known." He was quiet; even His fingers grew still. In that silence, I waited, attentive. "I have sent you on many assignments, but as... how shall I say. Preventative care. Pots under strain, that without a moment's respite would have developed flaws. You have eased hearts and pressures both by reminding those in need of the virtues of Kherishdar. You have found those assignments gladsome, I would hope?"

"It is good to serve," I said, and meant it with all my heart.

"Look at me, Calligrapher."

I raised my face, hesitant. His eyes were gentle, and the same willow-green as the tea set's.

"I have a broken pot," He said. "And I need a potter to mend it."

"Command me," I murmured, unable to help a more intimate grammar. "I am yours."

He let the moment rest: He was, I realized, appreciating my outburst as an expression of devotion. I bowed my head and struggled with the honor of being so clearly seen.

Then He said, "You were once asked to serve as an instrument of Correction, were you not?"

"It was so," I said.

"How did you find it?" he asks.

I studied the lid of the bowl, shaped subtly like a flower with the stem for a handle. "It was difficult," I said. "The shape of the outcome was a thing known, but to undertake its creation was... a weighty task."

"A Noble, was it not? One of the eritked," Thirukedi asked.

I inclined my head in agreement. "Who had taken advantage of a Merchant. The resulting transaction had seemed pleasurable to her, but she did not understand that the Merchant could not deny her."

"An important matter of caste law," the Emperor said. "What did you do?"

I hesitated. The memory of that day remained brightly inked in mind. "My brush painted the rules on her body while she dictated them from the Book of Precedents."

"Novel," Thirukedi said. "Appropriate to your talents."

I tried not to shudder. Even though the rules allowed me to touch another with impunity when serving as their instrument of Correction, I had still found it uncomfortable. Touching is a thing between the trusted, to be gently negotiated beforehand. The instances in which it was appropriate for such as I to touch someone above the Wall of Birth were... very few. I could probably count the paragraphs in the Book of Exceptions, were I so minded.

"She was appropriately grateful?" He asked. Nuil, is that word, and it has no aunerai analog that I know. It is a gratefulness that comes only from having a poison drained from one's spirit, a gratitude known most frequently from Correction, a word I paint in the cerulean blue of joy and the brown of dried blood.

"It seemed so," I said. "It was good to have served her."

"But a discomfort," Thirukedi said.

I inclined my head again.

"Would you do it if asked a second time?"

"Of course," I said, because to say otherwise was unthinkable.

"For the same eritkedi?"

I almost glanced up, startled. "Was there a second transgression?"

"Of a different kind," Thirukedi said.

I found myself speechless, though I could not decide which understanding affected me more: that the Noble I had tasked myself to such careful treatment had relapsed into shameful behavior or that Thirukedi had bothered Himself to learn the details. For what? For this small discussion? Surely I was not so important. What broken pot did He intend me to mend, if it was clear that I had failed with the one I had tried before?

"There is no shame in it," Thirukedi said. "You succeeded in preventing her from transgressing in the same way."

"But not in another," I said, ears flattening.

"No," Thirukedi agreed. "There was a pattern there that you had no opportunity to see. There is no shame in it, Calligrapher; Correction is an art, not a skill. You were made for different tasks."

I sighed, folding my hands before me on the table. "There is yet regret," I said. "That the effort was not enough."

"Sometimes no effort is enough," He said. "I am sending you to the Bleak."

My silence was not the silence of respectful attention, but of shock.

"There," Thirukedi said, "you are to deliver my message to the osulkedi who serves Shame. He has been there the better part of two seasons now, attempting Corrections of those most in need... but it is enough. His services have been requested by House Qenain's gate complex, and it is there you will tell him to go, on my command."

He sipped his tea and finished, "He is the broken pot."

I stared at the finish on his bowl, stunned. Still, I found my voice... for such an incredible assignment demanded precise understanding. "And he is to be mended?"

"By you, yes," Thirukedi replied with a smile in His voice. "Accompany him to Qenain. Observe him, advise him... be to him what you have been to others in need. I suspect that will be sufficient."

"Forgiveness," I whispered. "Thirukedi... an aphorism, no matter how beautifully painted, may not be enough to succor such a soul."

"I suspect not," the Emperor replied. "This is not the work of a single painting. Your duty to him will take time. But mark it, Calligrapher... he is worth the time. He is my osulkedi, just as you are. Not since the first servant of Shame has there been one such as he... and he is shattering. He has given Kherishdar his service for years. If we did not save him, the very Civilization he has broken himself to uphold will not be worthy of him... is it not so?"

I bowed my head. "It is as you say."

"Go," Thirukedi said. "Retrieve him from the Bleak. I have set aside for you the records of his many Corrections... you may read them on the way. Until he is well you have no duty of more paramount importance."

"Yes, Thirukedi," I said. Then, quietly, "What is his name?"

"He is Kor Nai'Nerillin-osulkedi. But as his duty is to Shame, so he has preferred to be called."

(Here, clipped to the pages, is a small piece of paper upon which is written one of the broken pot parables.)

Reck this: Once there was an aridkedi, a country Merchant who specialized in the creation of pots for her small town. She was the sole seller of pots, for no other potter had her talent. Greatly did she please her community, and so she lived well and they benefited by her skill. So great was her skill, in truth, that she mended any of her wares if they cracked, and if that mending did not take, she gave the Ai-Naidari a replacement as an apology for her lack of talent.

The potter was not called upon to give out any replacements, though she was occasionally called upon to mend her works, for they were of such quality they were often used well past when another pot would have been deemed worthless.

One day, however, a client brought her one of her mended pots, which had broken again. She could not believe it had failed, and promised the client he would have the pot again, better than new. And so she fixed the pot, but within days it had broken again. Once more she mended the pot, but it was mere hours before it fell in pieces.

As promised, she gave the Ai-Naidari a new pot without charge... but she returned to the pot and attempted to fix it once again. Each time it failed, she applied herself to its mending.

It came to be that another aridkedi became the merchant of pots for that community. The most talented potter in town had become so obsessed with her failure that she had no more time to make new pots.

This is the tale of the broken pot. Reck it well.

I found the records Thirukedi had spoken of awaiting me on my return to the studio, held in the arms of the coach-master who had come to arrange my trip to the Bleak. We spoke briefly: I would leave tomorrow at dawn, which would bring me to my destination in late afternoon. As I had the habit of rising early it was of no inconvenience to me. I had only to pack for the journey and the trip following to Qenain's Gate complex and my part of this would be done, until I met Shame.

Ah, no, aunera. Do not take it for arrogance, for Shame to wish to be known so. For him to take as title one of Civilization's virtues was not self-aggrandizement, not a way of saying that he alone contained all the virtue of Shame and no other may lay claim to it. Other Ai-Naidar would understand it, correctly, as a sign that he was subordinating himself to that great virtue... that he knew himself to be a part of it, and wished to expose the self-knowledge, that dedication, to others. We assume ourselves always to be part of things, not separate examples. It is why almost all our words are groups, and they must be modified to form the singular. We are the Ai-Naidar, you understand... and I am an Ai-Naidari. The whole always comes first.

But this is digression from what I meant to impart to you, aunera, which was this:

Shame was brilliant.

I had never personally met a priest who served Shame. As I discussed with Thirukedi, my experiences with Correction were few, both as instrument and as recipient. It is so with many Ai-Naidar: we require moderating words at times and we pay reparations as needed, but transgressions against the rules of society are not flagrant, nor so deeply-rooted that they require frequent Correction. That is part of the purpose of having the rules of society set to paper, after all... so that all may know their duties, their responsibilities, and their privileges.

But Kherishdar is an empire spanning three worlds and several colonies, and we are many and our culture old. With so many Ai-Naidar it is inevitable that some will transgress. And for the times when we do, then we call upon those who serve Shame to bring that virtue to us, so that we may once again remember our place and become good members of society.

Correction is not punishment. If it does not bring you to a deeper understanding of your role in Kherishdar, it is meaningless. And here is where Shame excelled. He crafted Corrections that addressed the heart of the transgression... that addressed the impulse that drove it rather than the surface crime. In his own hand, he documented his efforts, and while his commentary was terse and often broken, as if written by a mind speeding too quickly for the hand to follow, still I saw the genius there.

I made myself a cup of golden tea and sat on my studio's window-seat. There among the cushions I made company with the first of Shame's logs, and the sunlight fell on calligraphy so swiftly scrawled it seemed on the verge of unraveling... the first words so dark they were almost illegible, the pen loaded with ink so he would have to stop less frequently to dip, and the last words so pale they were read almost by their indentation in the paper rather than by their color.

I find it difficult to explain Shame's brilliance, but I will make the attempt. Take for instance the entry I found on the sixth page:

MALE, ANATHKEDI, half-brother to head of household well-liked gives permission to be touched, takes it away without warning...house Head thinks he is skittish of touch, needs touch-friend, learn to trust—??

Have studied, done interviews. Not trust issue, is, in fact, contempt for those he permitted. Did not think enough of them to withhold touch, did not think well enough of them to withdraw it properly.

Dressed him in no-one's clothes... took him to other household, had him shadow those in caste-ranks he thought so little of. Needed a week... no longer treats those caste-ranks badly. head of household pleased. Checked a season later... still behaving well. head of household offered a sasrithi.

This incident was remarkable in that it first required something not all Ai-Naidar are capable of: the ability to think as other castes do. I understand the duties of those above the Wall of Birth, but I do not truly empathize with them. Even a month's worth of study would not have acquainted me well enough with a Noble's mind to permit me to make the leap of understanding Shame has made here: that the Noble was not, in fact, shy of being intimate with others, but had fallen prey to an emotion poisonous in the nobility and regality, one so destructive to their purpose in society that it rarely has opportunity to flourish: contempt.

I would never, ever, have dared imagine a Noble capable of contempt.

Having come to this startling conclusion merely by observation, Shame then crafted a Correction that required the abasement of the noble completely. It is difficult for me to imagine the confidence and power of personality it would take to convince a Noble to bow his head to such a penance. Most Corrections are intimate conversations between the instrument and the recipient—revasil ekain, we call those, Corrections made with scenarios, with words. Vabanil, the Corrections of actions, are rarer, more potent, and more difficult to conceive and enact, since one of their most prominent features is that the recipient must be receptive to what he will learn.

And it was a fitting Correction, at that.

So then: thrice unusual, Shame, once for being able to be another Ai-Naidari simply by watching him, twice for bringing a Noble to a difficult Correction of action and thrice for having conceived one so well-suited to the error.

The fourth and final, of course, was that it worked so well that the Head of household gave him a sasrithi, a token allowing him to ask a future favor. Such tokens are not lightly given from a noble Head of household.

One of you asked, why it is that I found it a matter so piercing to be seen so clearly by Thirukedi, why I was honored. I must answer, then, that to be seen with understanding eyes requires not just great insight, but also great compassion. One might not see at all, lacking the former; or see and deny what is seen, lacking the latter. I began to suspect, from my first examination of these journals, that Shame… Shame had both these virtues, and they are rare when found together, and more precious thereby.

I continued reading as the day waned, rising only to bring a lamp to my window-seat. Though terse, each entry evoked a self-contained world in all its nuance: a twisted spirit or ungentle mind, the circumstances that had brought it to that sickness, and through each, like a thread of incense, the presence of the osulkedi, Shame's servant, who led each supplicant back to righteousness and cleansed their spirits. It was a record of redemption found in the pain of expiation and the darkness of confession, and I found it haunting, unnerving and irresistible.

I fell asleep there, leaning back against the pillows and twisted with knees raised so as not to drop the book from my lap; when I woke, my hand was resting on the edge, protective. I had neither packed nor washed in preparation for my journey, and hastened to both tasks, yet I am ashamed to say I kept the carriage-master waiting.

"Haste is not needful," the carriage-master said, his speech politely Abased: he was irimkedi, a Servant to the Emperor and several castes my junior. It was for him to accept such delays with aplomb, just as it was for me to not make such errors of ill courtesy. I sighed and moved so his assistants could load my trunk, then stepped up into the carriage with one of Shame's logs held against my chest. While I had the sense of his work from the first, I could not deny my compulsion. I wanted to know more. The carriage rocked beneath the boots of the driver as he climbed aboard and then we were underway. Settling into the pillowed bench, I opened the next volume and resumed reading.

The first mention of blood made me put the book down. I stared out the window; we had passed out of the capital and were now among the soft green fields outside it. The sunlight falling through the carriage window onto my wrist felt very real, very bright... the breeze, fresh with the newness of spring, did not seem to co-exist with the words in the entry I'd just read.

Knew talk would be pointless. Needed to make blood payment for guilt. Not a violent grief, so brought needles and made it slow.

What guilt could be so desperate to require blood payment? And what kind of man could dole it out so methodically? Every other entry had evoked in me a rich sense of color and light, as if the bare words were just waiting for calligraphy. But this... had been flat to me. Words, naked words, their meanings unadorned in my mind.

I have never needed more than the mildest of Corrections. I could not imagine a world of such violent passions. How could I possibly be of service to a man capable of addressing such things?

And yet, Thirukedi had sent me. Of all His osulked, He had chosen me.

I had to believe I could help... but I did not pick up the log again. I spent the remainder of the journey with my gazed fixed on the new green of the fields, and my distraction was so complete I did not even wonder how I would mix the color on a palette.

And now a digression, for several of you have asked about tea, and I am delighted to oblige your curiosity. For tea is emblematic of our species, indeed!—we consider it the official drink of the empire. Many are the tracts that discuss its virtues.

Like the aunerai version, our tea is made from the leaves of a plant; in our case, an epiphytic vine, the let arva (directly, “tea vine”). It is found natively on First World, growing on the branches of a shrub that lives on the sides of hills and ditches: a very humble plant that one, we even name it so: gelme sherani, the humble plant; more on this in a moment. Without the tea vine, gelme shera are overwhelmed by direct sunlight and die. Likewise, the tea plant cannot survive without a host to suspend it, nor does it grow very high. It is well-suited to its partner.

Together, tea vine and host offer a considerable bounty: the gelme sherani’s leaves can be ground as an analgesic and its small berries are delicious; they are also crushed to form the basis for the pigment that dyes the stoles of Public Servants such as myself, a color adequately translated as "mulberry." The tea vine, of course, yields the tea leaves; like you, we cure and dry the leaves in many different ways, each one creating a different flavor profile. Unlike your beverage, let is a mild relaxant. It does not induce sleep, mind... only calms a troubled thought, if such a thought you may be holding. It is a bright, quiet sort of mind it fosters.

You can imagine, then, why we so value tea. It has inspired a host of words: let aidaremethil, or tea-plant symbiosis, is the state of working in tandem with another to achieve your mutual success. That success-gained-with-others also has a word: letenemii. Letshilva means something like "complete usefulness," and describes when every last particle of utility has been wrung from something: like the tea vine and its partner, the berries, the leaves, even the way the partnership itself, the location, everything contributes, without holding back. Ashlet is the word we use to describe someone or something who works harmoniously with another, complementing their strengths and compensating for their weaknesses. And ieleten is the word we use for the failure that comes from attempting to make one's way alone in a situation or environment where one absolutely needs aid; you may remember the world iekuvren, “destructive independence,” a flaw that leads to ieleten, failure, and finally akuvrash, the destruction of the local community. It is from that word for failure that we derive the name for the tea vine, in fact, for that concept came first; as a species, we faced dar ieleten, which is to say the failure of a people, for only when we learned to pull together in the traces were we able to survive. The partner shrub also takes its name from another venerable word: gelmesh, which is to say "foundation of a positive relationship," and this root also informs the word gelme, for is not humility to source of our ability to love?

In conflict, we speak of let raikash, “tea victories.” These are reached by compromise on the part of both parties, as in two enemies sitting at tea. The victory is impossible without both their contributions, so this word is both pleasing in symbol and act (for we do often make our treaties over a tea table).

So then: a very important plant, not just for its taste or history, but for what it means to us.

In flavor Ai-Naidari tea varies from grassy and astringent to smoky and earthy, but the mouthfeel is always clear; we do not mediate it with thick liquids except for a syrup we make for children. Though it was found first on First World, it is successfully farmed as far as Third. Let arva grows on the colonies, though not as easily... our farmers are at work on a cultivar that will thrive there, so that wherever Ai-Naidar dwell, they might have their tea. I have no doubt they will succeed.

You ask, perhaps, if there are words and symbols for endeavors and successes reached alone. And there are. But I have digressed long enough, for it is here in the story that I meet Shame. Let us continue.