Category: Other Page 132 of 177

“In that ancient age, when Anthuor routed the Majonan host in the War of the Sylphs, he showed his mercy on his fallen enemies by raising them up anew, and endowing them with new forms partaking of this world.”

“Those who took their abode in the upper airs, naturally, were drawn to their ancient prey, the sylphs, though they remembered not why and chose to live alongside them. The sylphs at first were fearful and hid themselves, but the power of Anthuor had transmuted the belligerent lust of their former foes, and in time, the sylphs were able to put away their enmity and and come out of hiding.

“Thus, over generations, the sky lords (as the resurrected warriors came to be known) grew in friendship and wisdom with the sylphs and heavenly sprites, even coming to pay homage and bask in the glory of the Courts of the Muses. The sky lords became then like unto gentle farmers, and as stewards tamed the wild sylphs, who roamed over the vast blue fields of the sky in great herds. They roved as nomads after them when the seasons permitted. And for the long winters, the sky lords built marvelous halls, and all prospered in the balance of their friendship.

“It was into this original balance that we weather workers, since time immemorial, had always been born. Earthly conduits of heavenly powers, in our work we drew on both the songs of the sylphs and power of the sky lords to bring us rain for our fields, or winds for our sails, or to avert lightning or thunder when harm it would cause our people.

“Never had more than a handful of us come together before that great convocation. Each concerned with our own family or clan, we’d given little thought to the greater good, until receiving the summons, and following the call to that great mountain top on which we found ourselves, in the Court of the Muses, three sisters named Iluora, Lustra, and Ileafa.

“We took rest after our initial meeting with these remarkable beings. Messengers were sent back down to the camp below, and the late-comers and those who had not seen the glory made the trek back up to the top of the mountain. We drank from the fountains in that place, which cooled our throats and calmed our hearts like the sweetest ambrosia. We slept in turns, and laughed, and the two sisters Lustra and Ileafa walked among us, gently reassuring us with soft words, or a touch which stirred our souls.

“When all were rested and ready, the deepest cloak of night had fallen, studded with an array of stars unlike to any we’d seen in our homelands. We sat about the outside of the pavilion on the ground, and some on stone benches carved like flying beasts, and Iluora, who was the most radiant of the sisters, rose up to speak.

“She raised a lithe limb, and pointed then to what seemed a far off star, twinkling slightly. It seemed tiny and distant, and insignificant. But as we gave it our attention, it seemed to grow and shift, and phased to a reddish hue and back to white.

“‘A Great Storm is coming,’ she said, ‘a storm unlike any other we have known since the founding of this world. When it arrives, it will come with the power of all thunder, all lightning, all hurricanes, with winds of fire raining down to shake the very ground itself.’

“For a moment, in our minds’ eye, we each saw that celestial traveler expand into a ball of red rage in the night sky, and felt fear in our hearts. Then, in a flash, it twinkled back down to its former size, innocuous — just another celestial body in the infinite tapestry of heaven.

“‘For this reason have you been summoned,’ continued the elegant muse. ‘For this reason is your Order hereby founded. To stave off nothing less than total destruction.’

“‘But how?’ I asked in fright. ‘This… visitor who brings annihilation, what hope have we to stop something outside of all our knowledge?’ I felt embarrassed for asking the question on our all our lips.

“She only smiled, saying, ‘Not you alone, First’ and waved her hand. She seemed to know the nickname the others had given me, and smiled. In the sky above, the luminous bodies of sylphs came into view, long and sinuous, they played through the air. And then a dark form arose, blocking out the stars from view. In the broad flat space outside the gardens surrounding the pavilion, it touched down and uncloaked itself. A cloud ship. The assembled weather workers gasped in wonder, for none among us had ever seen such a sight. But from tales of old, we all recognized it at once. The sky lords were with us.”

“Setting out from my family home, I knew not where to go, except that in my vision I had seen the sea. So I walked for some days toward the west, over the great open country bordering the vale where our homesteads were nestled. On the third day, I arrived at a small village in some foothills, the first I’d seen since my departure.”

“The village was called Deguan, and though I’d heard it spoken of by my father, who had done some trading there when I was young, I had never visited. I inquired after the local weather worker, who had known my father, but was told he had departed over a week ago for the sea. The stranger offered me lodging for the night in a stable, which I took gladly, having slept in the open during my voyage thus far. The next morning as I was purchasing more provisions from a local merchant, my host’s son found me. He informed me that a farmer who was a friend of his father, my host, was headed to the next village with a cart, and had room for a passenger.

“I gladly took a seat in the back of the cart of Parcym, the farmer, who was hauling turnips to market in not the next village, but a town several villages over, in the direction of the sea. It was a happy coincidence, which I took as good omen.

“In every village and hamlet we passed through, we would stop briefly to gather news. In each place, I inquired after the local weather workers, and without fail, was told in return they had left for the sea — anywhere from a few days before our arrival to several weeks. Why had the message reached me so late? I wondered. What was wrong with me as a receiver? Had I not yet been ready to hear? It was said among our people that weather working was a gift which came at a terrible price. The death of my father, evidently, in my case. Perhaps, it occurred to me, I was one of the last to be called. But still, I had been called. And heed it I would.

“When at last we arrived in the town of Decaraguan, it had been four full days since we’d left the village, and a week since I had left home after the death of my father. I had never witnessed such a site as this town before. Bewildered, I bade farewell to Parcym, with whom I had become well-acquainted on our long voyage, and laid a rain blessing on his hands.

“I again inquired after the local weather workers, and was again told in return that they had all parted hence for the sea, many days ago. And that, yes, there had been many other itinerant weather workers like myself who had come in from neighboring towns and villages. I appeared to be the last. I was downtrodden at this news, until I met a young lady of some means who was returning with a servant from the market, bearing the turnips of none other than my friend and transporter, Parcym.

“I asked after where she had found such lovely turnips, already knowing the answer. And her servant described Parcym and the cart I had ridden in on. I thanked them, and asked one last time of them after the weather workers, and if they knew of any who had remained. The woman then, whose name was Mekkla, answered for herself. ‘My father,’ she said. ‘He is bedridden, and has stayed behind, while the others parted for the sea. It has pained him greatly to stay thus behind.’

“Trusting me, Mekkla offered to bring me to meet him. I hoped he might have some further insight to give, though I knew also that every moment I tarried, the further I fell behind the others. Would one of the boats I had seen in my vision know to wait for me?

“Mekkla and her servant took me into their house. I had never seen such wonders and luxurious adornments, having come to manhood in a rude, rural environment. Mekkla showed me to a side room where her father, Mesimo, lay in bed. Quite aged, he did not immediately understand who I was, nor why his lovely daughter had brought me there. When, at length, an understanding had been established, he took a hard squinting look at me. ‘You!’ he finally said. ‘You’re too late. They’ve set sail already without you.’

“I explained to him then my vision, and the marvelous sky woman I had seen. ‘The sea road is closed to you now,’ said Mesimo, gravely. ‘But perhaps the sky road may yet be open, if the sky lords will it. Rest here tonight, and at first light of morning, get thee to the dais atop Mount Atmos, and pray to the skies above.’

“I thanked him, and joined Mekkla for a light supper, after which her servant ushered me to a spare room which she had made up for me. I thanked her and her mistress, bowed awkwardly in my unpolished country manner, and fell promptly into a deep, dreamless sleep.

“In the morning I set out to climb Mount Atmos, which began just outside the town, in a gentle slope upward. I slept on the bare face of the mountain that first night, and around noon the next day had reached the dais, a small stone platform with a few raised stairs in the center. I went to the top of the stairs, closed my eyes, threw my hands up into the air, and prayed loudly to the sky lords, not knowing quite the words, but speaking aloud the needs of my heart, and my earnest desire to join the convocation.

“Within a few moments, a wind stirred up, parting the morning mist which had settled in. And as I prayed, I felt from far off a deep, strong current of air, and a sound of whooshing. Before I understood what was happening, I felt suddenly my cloak unfurling behind me, and a feeling of weightlessness, as my body was lifted up, up, up into the air.

“As I soared higher and higher, I sacrificed all control to whatever power held me aloft, as it hurtled me forward, passing over land far below. In moments, I was out over the sea, and far out in the mouth of the harbor, I saw a small ship with its sail set. I knew it was the last of the weather workers who had left the continent for the convocation. In a moment, I was past even them, and knew then that I was fast inside the vision I’d had. I became gradually aware of other such ships setting out from other lands, whose paths were now converging on the convocation, and to which I was speeding now decidedly towards.

“I know not how long I was held aloft, nor how far I had traveled. The feeling of oneness with the rushing air was total, and seemed to last for an eternity. It ended, however, just as it had begun. Abruptly, I found myself descending toward a small island with a very tall mountain, and then alighting on a plateau near its base.

“Orienting myself, I looked off toward the sea, and spied an empty beach below. I fell asleep on the spot, utterly exhausted. When I woke up, a small crowd had apparently gathered round me. They said nothing, but as I stood up, I saw their ships moored in the harbor below, and the boats with which they’d come ashore. Others were still arriving.

“They had already given me a name while I slept. They called me the First. They said they had found me here when the ships which carried them across the seas had arrived on this unknown island, where we now all found ourselves, having heeded the call. They treated me, too, as First in all things — though I protested that I was neither the wisest, most talented, nor most experienced among them. They said it mattered not, for though they had taken the sea roads, I had taken the sky road, and so it was plain that the sky lords favored me above all others.

“We ate and held council, and waited impatiently while other ships arrived, and parties of weather workers from across the known lands came ashore. I was very embarrassed to be now called First, having so recently been last. I longed to be somewhere invisibly in the middle. But more so, I longed to find the woman from my vision, who I knew now with certainty we would find atop the peak of the mountain which loomed above us, and whose crown was lost in clouds.

“I decided then, to assert my privilege as First, and said that we should make haste to scale the peak, and speak with the sky lords — and ladies — who surely called us forth to this convocation. This was an easy proposition to sell to the group, as most of the others felt the same way, and were waiting only for the right moment. It was agreed then any late-comers could follow behind us. We set out at once. A few stayed behind to tend to the ships. A few more stayed to make camp, for this was a good location to do so.

“The rest of us climbed the mountain, even though evening, and soon night, was falling. We pushed on, and by midnight had come to the peak, which we found to be a high flat place, and in the middle found a fabulous lush courtyard. There was magnificent fountains, and peacocks, and a great blue domed pavilion, held up by a ring of purest ivory columns. We looked around in wonder, for as we approached the pavilion, we could see that jewels of inestimable worth were encrusted everywhere, and that the ivory had natural veins somehow of gold and silver running through it, like fine marble.

“As we stepped under the dome, dumbness fell upon us as a group. For there we found three women, of such remarkable beauty that we have no human words to describe. It literally took our breath away, and we stood shyly as children, innocent, before these women.

“One was seated on a marble bench carved in the shape of a hippogriff, a harp upon her lap. Another sat holding a flute, upon a marble bench carved as a sky serpent, and the third stood with her back to us, looking off into the distance.

“They turned around, as one, to regard us. Our hearts, as one, were all pierced. ‘Welcome,’ said the noble woman who was standing, ‘to the Court of the Muses. I am Iluora, and it is I who have called you to this assembly. With the help of my sisters, Lustra,’ she indicated the flutist, then pointing to the woman with the harp, ‘and Ileafa.’

“‘And upon you, oh weather workers, we hereby lay this commission. You shall found an Order, the Order of the Tempest. For a Great Storm approaches us, and for it we must make ready. One and all alike shall be drenched in this downpour. But together, we may yet withstand the deluge.’”

“When I was a child,” began Banarat, “there was no Order.”

“What storm sages, weather witches, wind wizards, and rain workers there were lived spread out across all the lands inhabited by people. A family, clan, or village would naturally produce a few sensitives who could intuitively tune in to the weather, sensing changes coming from far off, interpreting signs and omens, and to some degree directing and controlling meteorological conditions and outcomes.

“But we were scattered and isolated, one from another. We worked for our clan, family, or village. We worked for their interests, for our own, and for mutual survival. For the most part, we did not share our knowledge outside our families, and we did not pool our efforts together for the larger good.

“For most of us, outside a few savants, our magic was not complex. A few simple charms, songs, rhymes, and primitive rites. There was, I’ll admit, a certain amount of showmanship to it all, mixed with half-remembered bits of the old songs and the Whistled Language (which they say was taught to man by the birds), passed on through family lineages, with which we did our summoning.

“And so it had gone for countless generations before, at least since the People of the Four Ships left us, but my father always said our tradition stretched back well before that. Back to the dawn of time. It’s certain much of the lore passed down through family lines went back to the Four Ships people — the ones you call Quatrians. Their music was said to unite the people to the landscape, the beasts and birds, seas and trees, the winds, and the rains.

“On the eve of my quaranteenth birthday, when I was to become a man, my father who was also a weather worker, and from whom I had learned what lore I knew, was killed in a freak thunderstorm. We had been working together in the field that afternoon, when from afar off, we saw a darkening sky gathering. He instructed me to put the animals away up into the barn, and I obeyed dutifully.

“Meanwhile, he went up to the high place, atop a craggy hill which looked out over most of the homesteads in the area. Our grains were not yet ripe, but this late in the season, we knew all too well how easily devastated the harvest could be by the likes of the type of hard rain which would surely follow these dark heavy clouds which hung like anvils in the sky.

“It was a rite he had performed countless times before: a storm splitting. He’d taught me these simple techniques when I was young, and we’d worked together on many occasions there on that same hill to diverge oncoming tempests so that they would flow around our region without harming us. It was neither a new, nor a particularly dangerous operation.

“Having put up the animals, I turned from the barn to join him, and as I strode out of the yard toward the on-coming wind, the hill was illuminated by a great flash, against which my father was silhouetted, his arms raised up against the coming storm in a gesture of warding. I saw the bolt that killed him outlined perfectly, burned into my eyes’ memory for all my days after. I ran to him crying, until I came to the place, taking up his smoking body. With his dying breath, he said, “My beloved son, I pass my legacy on to you. Take up my work, and take care of the family.”

“These words hardened my resolve, in the now torrential rain which was falling. I laid his body gently back down onto a pillow of rock. From his belt, I took the short thunder-stone dagger, and whirled around to face the wind. I jutted and jabbed the dagger up into the air, again, and again, to cut the wind. To kill it in revenge for my father’s death. I shouted out obscenities in my rage and grief, and words in a language I knew not, but which spontaneously burst forth from my mouth. Lightning flashed around me, and I was certain I would die there too, beside my father. And this thought comforted me.

“Until suddenly, the storm broke. The hard driving rain turned to a light drizzle, and the thunderheads began to part and went on their way, like frightened sheep. I crumpled beside my father, and feel into a deep unconsciousness, not awakening until later that evening.

“When I woke, I lay in a pallet of straw, carefully wrapped in a blanket. I was no longer shivering, but my body was weak from it still. My brother had gone out to search when neither I nor my father had come home after the storm had abated. Trampling across the ruined grain fields, he had found me crumpled on the hill over our father’s body.

“That night, I was in and out of a feverish sleep, in which I was immediately back in the storm on the hilltop. But amidst the cracking of thunder and flashes of lightning, I heard and saw luminous beings, who seemed to dance and swirl between the rain drops, bolts, and gusts of wind. They spoke to me in song. They calmed my rage and terror, and assuaged my grief. As if from outside myself, I saw them usher the soul of my father, radiant, upwards into the halls of the sky lords.

“In my dream, then, the storm calmed and the luminous beings returned, to flit and float about in the air. One among them took the form of a white bird, descended to the lower airs, and alighting to the ground, transformed into a woman of remarkable beauty, dressed all in white, who stood before me on the hill.

“Without speaking, she conveyed words directly through the window of my heart. I heard as though spoken in the language of not just my people, but my family. ‘Fear not,’ she said. ‘He goes to the place prepared for him. As you must now too.’

“I told her I didn’t understand. That my place was there with my family, even more-so now that my father was gone. She stilled my heart, and said, ‘To protect what is close, we may be called to journey far. The hour is nigh. The call has gone out. You must join the convocation.’

“Then, in my mind’s eye, I saw an isle far off in the sea, and on it a great fertile plain, and the tallest mountain I’d ever seen, its crown lost in clouds. From all directions, I could see — as from a great height — tiny ships scurrying to reach this place. I knew that if I could see this place and this gathering with such clarity, than my future was fore-ordained, and for the rest of the night, I slept soundly.

“In the morning, I related my vision before the council of my mother and brother, who were both much grieved by what I told them, and by the sudden death of my father. ‘I cannot lose you both, all in one stroke,’ my mother cried out, stricken. But in time, and under the gentle caress and reassurance of my brother, she eventually changed her mind on the matter. For even my father, in all his years as a well-respected weather worker had never been visited by the luminous sky people, had never spoken with them, and had never received a charge such as this. She relented, agreeing at long last, ‘When the gods speak, we must listen.’

“And so it was decided, that to protect what was close, I would venture afar to seek my vision. If I found nothing in a year and a day, I would return and take my place beside my brother to work the land of our ancestors. This I had full resolve to do. I set out with a pack, some provisions, a cloak, strong boots, the clothes on my back, and the thunder-stone dagger of my father in a sheath on my belt. And I never saw my mother or my brother again. For this, I am much aggrieved.

“Now pray you, dear king, to re-fill this goblet so that, refreshed, I may to you relate the rest.”

At the urging of the old man in the castle atop the Cloudspire, Benda did then take up the harp, Eril, and played upon it. The old man sipped from the goblet of wine which his companion, Eradus, king of Devera, filled from a skin.

As on previous occasions, Benda had no idea what song he was playing. The music passed spontaneously through and out of him, as though he himself were the instrument, played upon by some other unseen Master of Song.

When he opened his mouth to sing, the others watched in rapt attention. Each one hearing it, including the singer, understood with perfect crystalline clarity the tale it told, even if — as in Eradus’ case — the language remained foreign to him.

The old man laughed though, in hearing it’s opening lines, and raised his goblet to salute Benda. “A very long time since I’ve heard it! Ha ha!”

The song which Benda sung that day in High Dock castle was the Myrga Majona, and its contents are preserved in the text of that epic.

When Benda had quite finished, the last notes of the harp Eril trailing off into silence, the old man cheered heartily. “Helmoquinth!” he shouted. “Helmoquinth, Anthuor!”

He thrust the goblet of wine in front of Benda, demanding, “Drink! Drink!”

Benda swigged down the rest of the goblet, and Eradus went to fill it. The old man waved him away with a hand, and then took the skin from him, and handed it to Benda.

“Pour! Pour!” he cried to Benda.

Benda took the wine skin, and feeling it in his hand, he found it to be rather more full than he had thought. He poured into the goblet, and the wine flowed freely, and easily filled the goblet.

“Ha, ha!” the old man exclaimed. “Thought so.”

“I’m sorry,” Benda said, confused. “You thought what?”

In response, the old man only took the wine skin, and turned it over to pour into the glass, which was already quite full.

“Now, now!” said Eradus. “Let’s not be too hasty! No need to waste it.”

But only a drop poured out of the skin. The old man palpated the skin with his hands to show them. “It’s quite empty when I take it,” he explained. “But as I said, this cup has the property that when wine is poured into it by the hand of a king, it will never be empty.”

Eradus looked at Benda, who said nothing.

At last, Benda changed the subject. “The song,” he said. “You say you’ve heard it sung before…”

“Sung in a manner such as this? Never,” he said. “But the lyrics to the Song of the Great War Host are well known to those in my order, albeit in a different form…”

On hearing the title of the song, Benda found himself unable to speak.

“Your order?” Eradus asked. “What did you say your name was again?”

“I never said,” replied the old man. He took another swig of wine. “I am called Banarat, of the Order of the Tempest.”

“A storm sage?” replied Eradus, puzzled. “I thought your order was destroyed, long ago.”

Banarat nodded. “It was. Do you see any others in this place? I am the last of my kind.”

“What is this place, then?” asked Benda, recovering himself a bit. “And how came I to know the songs of your vanquished order?”

“The second question,” Banarat said, taking another, and still another glug of wine, “we will explore together in due time. But the first, I can only address by telling you a tale of my own. Perhaps that tale told in answer to your first question will open a door into your second.”

He drained the goblet then dramatically, and plunked it down hard on the table. He seemed, by this time, quite drunk. Eradus, obligingly, filled it fresh. And Banarat began his tale.

The Song of the Great War Host

I.

In the deep before time began,
The people lived on a floating island.
They hungered not, and ate nothing,
Though plants and fish were abundant.
They grew not tired nor old, and made not war.
The dreaming sea held them on its back.
In those days the seas were still one.
The stars swam in the great ocean.

One day, the island floated past
A star in its full brightness close.
And the people of the star swam out
To walk with them on the island.
The people of the star were brilliant
And the people of the land were enthralled,
By their great beauty and glamour.
They had never known want before.

The island turned to float away,
And the people of the star swam home.
The people of the land felt desire,
And some swam out to go with them.
Some people of the star stayed behind,
But could not abide to live on land.
They took them instead to the seas
To live nearby the land people.

For a thousand generations,
Families grew between the two.
In multiplying, they sought new lands,
Sending the sea people out as scouts.
When they came ashore they would breathe
And the land would spring to life in song.
The landers would follow then in ships,
Coming ashore when all was ready.

In the thousandth generation,
The Great Separation occurred.
The sea was divided in two:
The sea above, and the sea below.
As the stars fled to seas above,
So followed the people of the star.
They left the landers and went home.
And the islands at last ceased floating.

In this age, the people left below
Learned of thirst, rage, war, and hunger.
They ate of fruits and fish around them.
In their hunger, they ate it all.
When there was none, they fought the others,
Killing kinsmen in raids of far off isles.
Keenly they suffered for love lost,
Hearts pining for the starry ones.

Cildan was a lander king with star blood.
His people resisted many raids.
Though lamed in battle, he were king
For he could see and speak with sylphs
And the heav’nly sprites who served
The star people in seas above,
They taught him how to build cloud ships.

On cloud ships, sailed forth Cildan with
His sons, called Cimric and Cimlad.
They passed o’er the lands of Buorth.
They sailed up the sea wall and bridge
Far away at the edge of the world,
Until they passed to the seas above.
And a thousand generations went by
As they voyaged from sea to sea.

In this time, it came to pass again,
the stars receded fully from this world,
And with them left for good the star people.
When Cildan and his sons arrived,
They found only sylphs and sprites
Who were but diminished echoes of
The brilliance of the star people.
And their anger and loss was great.

The sylphs fled before their rage into
Seas above swimming far, diving deep.
Though Cildan repented of their deeds,
His sons Cimric and Cimlad did
Hunt and slay a great many sylphs
Feasting on their corpses and gaining
In small measure the star brilliance
Locked within their aery bodies.

Cildan wept for the needless slaughter.
But his sons had become cruel and
Thought their father both lame and weak,
And cast him into the seas above
Where he foundered and could not swim.
A pod of sylphs came bearing him up
To high places, the domed courts of muses.
While his sons raided and plundered below.

They burned the borrowed star brilliance
To raid and conquer other lands.
Their cloud ships fell with thunder on
The heads of their enemies, bursting
Shield and fortress asunder.
Til the brilliance grew dim and faint.
With a great host, they resolved to sail:
To find, and slay, and eat star flesh.

Wise Cildan had gave counsel to
The muses in their courts above
To flee before his sons could come,
And with a host of sylphs had they fled.
When Cimric and Cimlad did arrive,
The seas above were abandoned.
The domed courts were empty and grey.
In their rage, they threw down the courts.

With no sylphs to sustain life there,
The seas above turned toxic and
Poison fell down as rain below,
Ruining the lower seas and islands.
With no food and the sylphs gone,
Landers began to choke and die en masse.
In their cloud ships, the brothers left them
And sailed on with their great war host.

They tracked the sylphs across the deep,
Passing through the Outer Darkness.
They sought the light of stars which fled
Always ahead of their passing.
At last, they found the sylph settlement,
A place where they had breathed new life.
From their ships, the sons prepared to strike,
But Cildan their father appeared.

Put away your anger, my sons.
The Mockridge has overcome you.
You know not what you’re about or why.
If madness be cured only by star flesh,
I offer you mine, to leave off
Your persecution of these people
Who in the end are so like you.
But they killed him, and all the sylphs.

As they feasted on substitute for star flesh,
They became filled with a radiance,
A fire which burned, and burned brighter
Consuming them from within.
Their bellies burst, and exploded forth
From each a pearl of great size which
Hurled themselves into the deep.
Rubbing their wounds, the brothers fell asleep.

As they slept, from their wounds did creep
Monstrous beasts, children of the Mockridge,
Sick star flesh perverted to darkness.
They set about in devouring
That life the sylphs had breathed therein.
They ate the isle back down to rock.
The air turned poison for lack of song.
When the brothers awoke, all was dead.

Let us mount the war host in cloud ships,
And pursue our prey to their last, said they.
The brothers and beasts and war host
Set sail on the deep, crossed again the void,
Tracking the star light of sylph breath.
Where the true stars heard rumors of their passing,
They sent word ahead of warning,
And all would go into hiding.

II.

A thousand generations passed again,
Before the Majona war host
Found where the seeds of pearl had gone.
The sylph people had since flourished afresh,
Crowning bare rock with sweet atmosphere,
Breathing life into land anew.
In the center grew a great tree,
And the tree was called the Anthuor.

The branches of the Anthuor tree
Reached o’er all parts of the isle.
All life grew in its gentle shade.
Its crown brushed the seas above.
Birds and sprites of the air roosted in it,
Whispering legends heard from sylphs
Of merciless brothers hunting,
Of war hosts in cloud ships coming.

The tree had a plan to withstand,
If the war host should ever come.
It gathered the sylphs and spirits,
All who held no love for the Mockridge.
It said to the marshaled forces:
We will never win by violence.
Are there some among you who would
Sacrifice themselves for the rest?

A few of the bravest sylphs volunteered.
Anthuor directed then the others
To send seeds out in all directions,
As a safeguard if the plan should fail.
When the war host arrived, the sylphs
Sent out heralds with their offer,
To sacrifice a few for the rest.
In response, the beasts slew the heralds.

The war host descended, slaughtering.
The beastly children of the Mockridge
Leapt from the seas above into
The branches of Anthuor, hacking.
But for each branch lost, two grew back
And smothered the attacker with
Its own violence turned back at them.
The brothers saw and wailed in fury.

They leapt from their cloud ships and with
Bright axes shining, and hewed at the roots.
Anthuor shuddered but held fast.
He rallied the sylphs remaining,
Sending them far down below the ground.
Into the clefts of Acho they delved;
In secret dark places, they strained.
A mighty effort did they make to lift.

As the brothers cut through a bare root,
Anthuor lifted his feet from the soil.
Ancient root, once freed, did turn to hoof.
Hooves blazing, and head full of fire,
He stamped and snorted at the brothers.
Their axes broke; they quailed in terror.
The war host trembled and the ground shook.
The sylphs flew up to smash the cloud ships.

In the chaos that did follow,
Cimric sacrificed his own brother,
Pushing Cimlad under deadly hooves.
This cruel act summoned the Mockridge,
Who took a form like as Anthor but false.
He trampled the ground into hard steel:
You’ll never lay your roots here again,
And shall ever be without rest, cried he.

Anthuor reared up against this curse,
Struck a fierce blow to his enemy’s crown.
And the demon dispersed in a flash.
Then Cimric the kin-slayer fled,
With what remained of the war host
In the last cloud ship not destroyed.
The sylphs rejoiced, but Anthuor wept:
For the curse was true; no more would he rest.

He looked around at the lost lives,
Pardoned those who fought against them,
Taking on their loss as his own.
Dead beasts and war host sprung back to life.
He took their names and bodies from them.
He mixed their attributes in a pile.
He called the sylphs back from the deep.
Each chose a new form and name from the pile.

Some went to dwell in seas and aethers.
Some flew into the soil and down there,
Where Anthuor’s tears had fallen on hard steel,
They turned it to rust, and ate it.
Acho cracked, and laughing said he:
You may let down your roots again, Anthuor.
But he had grown accustomed to hooves;
The curse was no longer a prison.

I shall be the sacrifice, said he,
Shaking the branches of his antlers.
Cimlad, who lay dead, got up again.
He bowed down before Lord Anthuor,
Who took away his name, but gave him a bow
Cut from his branches, and a cloak spun from his leaves.
Rise up, huntsman! The game is afoot!
Cried he, as a stag, and in a flash was off.

When Benda awoke, his traveling companion Eradus was nowhere to be seen. He had evidently vacated the protective hollow where they had sheltered overnight on the Cloudspire. Benda got up, shook the dust from himself, and went outside.

He found Eradus there, marveling off into the distance.

“We must have climbed up higher yesterday than we realized,” Eradus said to him. He pointed off toward the mainland, toward Devera. “I can nearly see my castle from here.” It was hidden, in fact, within a grove of ancient Drynarean woodland, but having visited and traversed the domain, Benda could intuit its location.

“Climbed higher than we thought — or were raised up in the night.” Benda’s dream flooded back to him, but for now he guarded it close to his heart, and did not speak of it.

“Aye,” replied Eradus. “It is a place of magic, and we must be on our guard.”

Benda turned to look back at the base of the great tower, under a hollow of which they had spent the night. And behold, he saw a stair spiraling up from the platform on the naked face of the tower, where the day before there had been none.

“Aye,” he said. “Magic.”

They mounted the stair case, carefully choosing their foot steps, and ascended thus for what felt like hours. They arrived, progressively, at a first, a second, and then a third small landing. At each landing, there was a flat ring broad enough for two or three men to stand abreast, and no more. And the central tower width reduced accordingly. At each, they found another naked stair, each more treacherous than the last.

After the third ascent, they arrived finally to broad a flat top, which stretched for an indeterminate distance — one which seemed somehow larger than what they would have expected the tower below to be able to support.

In the center was a mountain, as if in miniature, reduced perfectly to scale to fit within the confines of this strange plateau. And as they circumambulated this uncanny moutain, on the foot of the far side, they discovered a castle. It had plain, unadorned walls, was far smaller even than the Castle of Devera, and seemed to consist only of one walled courtyard, and a a central keep of three or four levels.

Circling it, at length, they came to a gate, large enough for two goleks to pass, side-by-side. It was shut, and there was no one about, so they knocked upon it.

There was no reply. So they knocked again, and waited. Several times.

“Hail!” Eradus shouted, with hands cupped in front of his mouth. “We two have come to seek the Master of this place.”

After some long minutes, they heard the voice of a gate-keeper, from behind the barrier, somewhat muffled.

“Who goes there? Be ye beggar, minstrel, or king?”

Eradus and Benda looked at one another. Eradus said, uncertainly, “One of each?”

“I am called Eradus Drynarus, First Knight and Protector of the Realm of Devera, Fifth King of Kremel, and King Under the Wood.”

“And this is Lost, the First Minstrel of Devera.”

From behind the gate, the voice responded, “You lost your minstrel? I thought you said you were two…”

“Lost is his name, and we two have come seeking it.”

“Haven’t got any. Good day to you.”

“Please,” Benda spoke up finally. He put his hand on the door. “Quatria.”

Eradus looked at him, uncomprehending.

He repeated the word, “Quatria.”

“I need… to remember.”

The muffled voice responded, irritated, “I heard you the first time. I’m just trying to find the right -”

They heard the clatter of keys, and a lock turned inside the door. It creaked as it swung open inwardly. And in the passage beyond, they made out the slight form of a small, frail old man. Benda noted that this was not the mysterious robed figure he’d seen in his dream, and together with whom he’d looked impossibly far — out over the sea — to Quatria.

“Come in, come in, already,” the little old man said. He wore about his shoulders a simple, threadbare and faded smock.

They entered the passage and the man closed the gate behind them and locked it.

“Do you… have many visitors?” Eradus inquired.

The old man smiled craftily, “You never can be too careful!” and he stuffed the ring of keys into a pocket.

He put his hands on his hips, and looked at them. The courtyard behind him was all but empty. A chicken walked by, and scratched at the dirt. In the distance, they heard a goat call.

He looked at Benda, and at the harp Eril on his back. “So, I guess you must be the minstrel then?”

“In truth,” Benda replied. “I don’t know what I am. I am… well and truly Lost.”

“Aren’t we all?” he turned and beckoned them to follow him to a far corner of the courtyard, which had a an over-hanging roof. There was a table and some chairs.

“Sit; let’s be out of the sun.” They did so.

“I’m afraid I have little to offer you. That old hen hasn’t laid in days, and the goat is dry. Some wine would be nice, but alas…”

“Thank you,” said Benda. “But we haven’t come seeking wine.”

“I do have a little though,” said Eradus, producing a skin from the folds of his cloak, of which Benda was not aware that he carried.

“Excellent,” the old man said. He ambled over to a crude cabinet, opened it, and pulled out an old and tarnished goblet.

He came back and set it on the table. “This goblet has the property that if wine be poured into it by the hand of a king, in good company, and good song, it will never go empty.”

“So, pour the wine,” he said. Eradus did so.

“Take up the harp,” said the old man. Benda did so.

He produced some crusty old stale bread. He cracked the crusts, and gave one to each of his visitors.”

“And sing me a song of old Quatria…”

By the time Benda awoke groggily the next morning, the sun was up and Eradus had already risen and prepared a bit of stew.

“To fortify us for the climb ahead,” he said, handing Benda a bowl, who took it, wiping sleep from his eyes.

Benda noticed that their golek mounts, Dema and Selef, had an air of unusual contentment. Though their wild sable counterparts were nowhere to be seen. Eradus explained this was because they had found raisla in the others, a deep recognition of kinship — one which transcends familial ties, history, geography, circumstance.

“We say that finding raisla makes the bell of the heart toll,” said Eradus. “We hear and are heard. One sets the other ringing.”

“Bells ringing,” Benda repeated, his mind floating off to some sense memory still shrouded in mist.

“That’s right. Finish up, and let’s get on!”

They struck camp, and rode with Dema and Selef to the foot of the mountain, the Cloudspire at its peak growing ever larger in their awareness. When they reached its base, Eradus dismounted, and motioned for Benda to do the same.

“We’ll leave them here, to find their raisla,” Eradus said. “They’ll find nothing better up that mountain and spire — but perhaps we will! Come then.”

The goleks nudged them affectionately, and Selef made a few huffing noises and chirps, which made Eradus laugh.

“Is that right?” he exclaimed.

Benda, scratching the scruff of Dema’s neck, turned to him. “What?”

“He just told me something,” said Eradus.

“Who?”

Eradus looked surprised. “You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“Forgive me, my dear Lost,” Eradus laughed. “I quite forget myself. Selef, he spoke to me in the tongue of his people.”

“I didn’t know they could talk. Well, what did he say?”

“He told me that the chief of their raisla, Machef, asked them why they travel with two kings…”

“Two kings,” Benda laughed. “What does that mean?”

“I guess we’ll see, won’t we, First Minstrel?”

Benda pondered what could be the meaning of this as he patted Dema’s soft hair on the tuft of her head one last time lightly, before turning them loose.

“They say goleks never lie. They never learned how,” Eradus said as Selef and Dema scampered away over the fields to join their raisla.

The two began their ascent along a rough trail which lead up into the embrace of the mountain.

“In any event, they’ll find us upon our return.”

They climbed then all that day and the next, camping light with no fire for two nights. The second night was cold, and Benda wrapped his cloak tightly around him. On the third morning, they rose briskly, and before the sun had risen to its zenith, they reached the base of the ancient crumbling city which formed the base of the Cloudspire. Benda saw it then, towering over him, and imagined himself high atop it, looking out over the sea. Somewhere in his mind, a parallel memory glimmered temporarily into awareness as if through a half-shuttered crystal, and fluttered away again.

Circling high above, they saw a great bird of prey against the crisp blue air, an eagle.

“I have seen this bird, I think,” said Benda. “Perhaps from the corner of my eye.”

“Perhaps in dream,” replied Eradus. “These past few nights, since we’ve entered his domain, he has no doubt been watching.”

They trudged on through the city, which was built into a naturally-occurring cleft in the mountain’s peak, which spiraled upward into seamless fusion with the base of the towering Cloudspire.

At the lower levels were empty storehouses with crumbling rooms, and the ruins of residences, long abandoned. They climbed on. Higher up were more stately buildings, with ornate columns and facades, but no less ravaged by time, and the hand of a whispered lingering violence which once shook this place. And then the base of the Cloudspire itself, a kind of ziggurat in form, accessible via a thin staircase which lead ever upward along the slightly inclined face.

They reached a plateau. From there, the sea opened up all around below them, though the mainland was obscured behind the spire. They noticed too, the eagle circling high above them still, but closer now, closer.

Up they went, another narrow staircase, a false step on which might send one tumbling back down at least to the lower level, if not the curling city below. But no false steps did they make, and when they reached the next level, they rested.

It was well past midday.

“There’s no telling how far up still we have to go,” said Eradus. “Or what we’ll find up there, as the day’s shadows lengthen into dusk and darkness.”

“You’re right, of course,” admitted Benda.

“Let’s circle round this platform to find the spire’s entrance, and we can reconnoiter what lies ahead.”

So they circled round the platform, their eyes on the sheer stone wall of the spire in the center, which stuck up like a bony finger. They circled once, and saw no trace, nor marks where a door or other entrance might be. They circled twice — for good measure — and found still nothing.

“How can this be?” said Eradus bemused “Though we’ve been here only a short time, look the hour grows late, now. And we’re no closer to the goal than before.”

“Perhaps there’s a trick to it,” said Benda. “Let’s look one last time.”

And so they circled thrice the bony finger of the spire’s base. As they went, Benda began to hum a wordless tune that came to him spontaneously. They could see now the full paranoramic sweep of the sea on one side, and the waters of the Edebian Passage far below, and the Kremellian peninsula and its own mountains beyond.

As they completed their third circruit, Benda’s tune built to a crescendo. And nearly just as it did, a secret stair appeared where before there had been none.

Eradus whistled, “Ho, there!”

They did not know its secret then, but this hidden stair had the property that it could not have been visible a moment sooner, nor if they had arrived a moment later, and certainly not without their having thrice circumambulated the axis of the spire’s base.

They took the stair and ascended to the first level. At the top, they found a low arch set in stone, and they passed into it. Inside they found a hollow, and they were very fatigued from their climb, and they immediately fell asleep.

When they woke, it was midnight and outside the low arch, the rays of the full moon beckoned. Benda got up and went out. On the stony landing which made up the first platform, he saw there a very old man with deeply creased, hawk-like features, a short grey beard, and a flowing robe.

He said nothing to Benda, and did not move, but seemed still to acknowledge his presence. Benda, likewise, followed the sharp-eyed gaze of the man off to the far seas. As he looked, he felt that he were seeing a very long way away — an unfathomable distance. And all in an instant, he saw something which shocked him with its familiarity. A great green island in the faraway ocean. A hidden land once revealed and half-forgotten, sprung to life in his heart again, all of a sudden. Quatria.

He said it again to himself in the space of his mind. Quatria. And in so saying it, he woke himself up out of sleep. He was laying in the hollow, behind the low arch. He turned to see if Eradus had heard him cry out, but he wasn’t certain if he’d said the word aloud, or only in dream. The Fifth King, in either case, was sleeping soundly. Benda went back to sleep, and dreamt of the eagle, circling endlessly above them round the spire.

Having departed from Edeb Castle, Benda and Eradus made their way to the coast. They rode without incident, and arrived at last to the Arch of Passing.

The Arch was situated atop a low broad stone platform, elevated about the height of a man from the surrounding terrain, and accessible by a staircase whose steps were deep enough and spaced enough that their golek mounts could climb to the top without issue.

From atop the platform, they could look through the arch down to the troubled waters of the Edebian Passage, which split the island from the mainland many eons ago. Though the distance was not great for a boatman, the waters were dangerous enough that any such crossings had been long ago abandoned in favor of traversing by way of the arches.

The original builders of this portail system had been lost in the mists of time. Legends differed, Eradus explained to Benda, as to whether they had been built by the ancient Lagom or Ardeid peoples, or some other mysterious third party.

Benda looked dubiously from their platform across to the far shore, where he could make out another arch atop a similar stone platform.

“How do we cross?” he said. “It seems if ever there were a bridge here, it has fallen. And I see no ferryman to bear us to the other side.”

“Follow me,” Eradus said, urging his steed Selef on through the arch. Benda nearly leapt out of his saddle, when, as to all appearances, he expected the two to fall off the opposite side of the platform, tumbling down the cliff to the water below. But instead, they simply vanished. Benda looked around anxiously, and saw nothing.

Suddenly, his eyes caught a glimmer of motion, and he looked across to the far platform, to see a tiny Eradus and Selef waving from the other side. Holding his breath, Benda urged Dema forward — who seemed far less anxious than he. And where his eyes told him they should fall off the platform, Dema’s feet instead arrived onto the stone of the far platform, with Eradus and Selef standing slightly off to one side.

Eradus was smiling broadly, “I remember my first passing. I was as confused as you.”

Benda was looking back to in the direction from which they had come. “You’ve visited this island before?”

“Once, when I was a young man,” he said. “But there are other portails as well.” He did not say where. Benda was intrigued. Though his memory still failed him, he was fairly certain he’d never heard of any such thing before.

“Well then,” Benda said. “If you’ve come this way before, you must know the way to the Cloudspire. Take the lead.”

“Though I’ve visited the plains in the east of this Isle, never have I ventured forth into the Western region.” Eradus pointed toward the mountains in the west of the island. Amongst them in the distance, they could make out the outline of a lonely structure reaching up from one of the mountains, clear into the clouds and sky above. “I suspect we won’t have any difficulty finding it.”

They descended the stairs of the platform, and crossed the open plain below in the direction of the mountains. They camped for the night in the plain, not sensing any danger from beast or foul weather. Their goleks grazed contentedly as the stars above twinkled into sight, while night unfurled her splendid cloak. Eradus took the first watch, and roused Benda in the late hours of the night when it was his turn.

Benda breathed in the fresh sea air coming in off the plain, and calmly peered off into the darkness, as the embers of their fire died down. His eyelids were heavy, and he struggled to stay awake. Though he’d recovered his strength since arriving in Devera, and after Edebia, he was still troubled by the loss of his memory, and his inability to peer beyond the veil that occluded him from himself.

He awoke with a start in the pre-dawn light, and realized he had dozed off. He opened his eyes, and as they came into focus, he became aware of a huge black shape standing over him, blocking out the stars. He let out a slight, frightened yelp, which luckily awoke Eradus from sleep nearby.

To Benda’s puzzlement, Eradus laughed heartily. “There’s nothing to fear, friend. The sable goleks of this island are large, but harmless.”

Benda’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he was then able to make out the face of an immense, presumably wild, dusky golek staring down at him, sniffing. Behind this creature, Benda was able to make out Dema and Selef, who were scampering about, playing happily, sniffing, and tumbling with the other sables. Benda reached out a hand, still somewhat nervously, and the immense black golek near him allowed him to stroke his cheek, and scratch his chin, before scampering off to play with the others.

Eradus yawned, looking after them, “Their race inhabits only this island. They live still wild as once all goleks did, in innocence. Let us sleep a bit more, as dawn is not far off. We need not keep watch with them nearby. Tomorrow we climb into the mountains, and will need our full strength.”

Benda slipped back to sleep easily, and dreamt of Dema and Selef playing happily amongst their wild cousins.

What remained of the once lush Drynarean forest thinned out on the north-western edge of the province of Devera, where now passed the newly-dubbed Benda Lost and Eradus, king of that land. Their golek mounts, named Selef and Dema — intelligent beasts themselves — had guided them carefully through the trackless forest without incident.

As they reached the edge of that wood, Eradus drew the party to a silent halt, and held up his hand, pointing off over the hills of Mareto. In the falling evening light, Benda Lost could make out in the distance, where the hills gave way to steeper mountains, a glowing white figure, a four legged creature with horns. No, he squinted, looking closer. Antlers. A stag of marvelous stature, seemingly luminous from within. Benda felt his heart leap forward in joy at the sight of it.

“Surely, a good portent, the sighting of this beast!” said Benda, once the creature had vanished. They had watched it for several long breathless minutes.

“Aye,” replied Eradus. “But night falls, and soon will come the Hunters. We shall camp here.”

And so they did, and in full light of day, on the morning next, they traversed those hills, and came near the place Eradus estimated the glowing stag had been visible to them the night before. There was a lush green stream bed, near a clear mountain spring, flowing from a cleft in the rock. They stopped to water their steeds, descended to drink deeply themselves, and filled their water pouches. All were rejuvenated, and pressed on.

Come nightfall, Eradus directed them to make camp in a sheltering rock cove which he knew along the trail along the mountain pass which linked the two kingdoms of Devera and Edebia, into which they had now entered. The next day, they followed in the same pattern, riding during daylight and camped at night without incident. And on the afternoon of the third day, they arrived at the Castle of Edeb, dwelling of the Fourth King, Martis Ovnis Delgar.

As Eradus was well known in this place, news of their arrival reached the ears of the Fourth King before they had entered the town surrounding the castle. Newer considerably than the Castle of Devera, Eradus noted to Benda that the castle here was larger, and the village more populous and vibrant.

“It brings me joy to see the bustle of this place,” he said to Benda. “I come here whenever my duties, and the seasons, permit.” They went on in silence a ways, through the village outskirts. A small band of children formed in their passing, running behind and teasing after their golek mounts, who suffered their games with good humor.

“Martis is wiser by far in lore than I,” Eradus said after some time. “If anyone will know the significance of the song you sang, it is he.”

When they approached the gates of the outer wall of the castle, an escort of three guards rode out to meet them. Their golek mounts took the time to smell Selef and Dema, and vice versa, as according to the customs of those people, while Eradus and the guards made small talk. When all was in accord, they rode on through the close streets of the outer castle, and passed before the inner gates. All dismounted, and the goleks all were lead away to frolic freely together at pasturelands preserved here within the outer bailey of castle expressly for this purpose. The entered the inner wall and looked about at the fabulous stonework of the artisans of Edeb.

In no time at all, Eradus and Benda Lost were ushered ceremoniously into the hall of the Fourth King, who embraced Eradus, and welcomed him into his home. To Benda, he introduced himself with a certain vigorous solemnity, reciting his full name and title: Martis Ovnis Delgar, Fourth King of Kremel, and King Under Cloud.

Benda bowed low, with Eradus introducing him in turn, “This is Lost, First Minstrel of Devera.”

“Lost?” Martis replied quizzically. “It is a peculiar name. May you here be Found, First Minstrel of Devera.”

He lead them then into a side chamber, a more comfortable salon off the Great Hall and throne room. Many plates of delectable foods were spread on a long table in the salon.

“Make yourselves at home, my friends. Eat, and drink, and let us speak together of pleasant things.”

They ate together then, as night fell and lamps were lit, and starlight twinkled into view. Wines were brought, and the three contented themselves in one another’s company and conversation. At length, Eradus told the tale of their discovery of Benda Lost, who he and his brother had found parched and bewildered, and his subsequent recovery at their castle.

“There is a mystery here,” Martis observed. “That a man is shipwrecked alone, with no knowledge of his past, his companions, or his home…”

“Aye,” agreed Eradus. “And that mystery deepens, my dear friend, in the discovery that this lone lost man is a singular musician and minstrel, who sings in an unknown language which is yet comprehended somehow still in perfect clarity and completeness by the ears of the heart.”

“You speak too kindly of a lost wayfarer,” said Benda.

“Then let what was lost be found again,” said Martis. “Sing us this mysterious song, the power of which has brought you all this way.”

“If it please you, my lords,” Benda said, addressing the two kings, “I shall begin.”

Benda took up the harp Eril then, and plucked masterfully at its strings. Though he remembered not yet its provenance, he could sense deeply that the instrument was made just for him, as it responded to him, and he to it with a kind of seamlessness which as he played transported him and his listeners to another realm.

He sang, then, a song — different than the one he’d sung before the Fifth King in his hall, but which he felt was somehow contiguous with it. Another voyage in the same country, if you will. As before, he lifted up his voice in harmony with Eril, not knowing what would come out, and a sweet and mellifluous melody in an unknown tongue poured out of his lips.

In their minds’ eyes, the three men shared a vision narrated and moved along by the words of Benda Lost in the mysterious language. The story of a man, wandering alone in a cold place. He sought the red spear which had been driven into the ground at the Place, generations ago. Though neither the First Minstrel, nor the Fourth and Fifth Kings knew the words (Martis, in fact, recognized a few of them here and there), they all saw this same man, toiling through the cold to find the Place, around which all the world turned.

And when he arrived to where legends said it should be — must be — he found it was broken, cloven with violence a little ways above where it jutted out of the snow.

The witnesses to that song saw the man jostle the part of the shaft and point still wedged into the snow, and it would not budge. So he took up the broken shaft, and set off, trying to find the New Place. Through the words, and the music, and the emotion of Benda’s performance, they understood intrinsically, each of them, the gravity of this man’s actions, and that if he did not find and mark the New Place, around which all things must turn, all would spin out, and tumble into darkness.

Benda’s last mysterious couplets hung in the air, and with a few concluding plucks, the harp Eril fell silent. They sat a time without speaking, marveling in the silence that came after, as they had marveled in the fullness of the song, and the visions it had inspired.

After a long time, Eradus spoke. “I feel that I have seen this man before,” he said. “Perhaps in dreams.”

“And I,” Martis added, “have heard this tale before, long ago, I think. Though in another language, and without music. Let me try to remember…”

“You recognized the language?” Benda said, excited.

“Not quite, but I recognized some words which sounded something like Ancient Kremellian,” replied Martis. “Though, I might not have understood so well their significance, were it not for the inner luminous vision your playing enjoined in me.”

“In all of us, I think,” Eradus agreed.

Benda nodded, “Yes, I saw him too. Real as though he were here, standing among us, and yet not. Distant and imminent, at once.”

Martis continued: “I don’t remember well, nor with completeness, the saga I heard in my youth, but I believe this man is called by many names. I shall call him the Old One — older than any living man. The Survivor. He was said to have watched generations rise and fall. And whether it was he who had driven at the dawn of time the Red Spear originally into the Place, or whether he was present at that ceremony when some other hero or king performed that sacred act, I know not.”

“The legends say that the wickedness, greed, and negligence of the people summoned forth a being from the Outer Darkness, who feasted on cruelty, and who lead them in their turning away from the Place. All things were tilting out of balance, and the Red Spear was broken. And this is segment of the tale of the Old One, who was the last to still remember what to do, and his effort to set things right.”

Eradus asked eagerly, “And did he succeed in this undertaking?”

“I don’t recall in full,” Martis said. “I think he plunged the shaft of the Red Spear into the New Place, but the enemy was not beaten, and the people did not change their ways, and it was not enough to stop the changes already underway.”

Benda recalled then the song he’d sung at the court of the Fifth King. “And the people were sorrowfully forced to leave their homes, and sojourn across the waters.”

“Like you,” Eradus said. “The Lost.”

“Across the waters, yes,” said Martis, gesturing upward. “And across the sky. For in those days, the two were joined.”

They sat again in silence for a long time.

Eradus finally spoke, “While we’ve learned something today about the music, we’ve learned precious little still about our musician, and why he knows songs of far off times in a language whose outlines only the most well-tutored among us can begin to understand. Would that we had more to go on, so that he who is Lost may become Found.”

“Go then to the Arches and pass through with my blessing,” began Martis. “Cross you to the Isle of Edebia. There you will find the ancient and abandoned city which was once our ancestral capital. And in its center, ascend to the Cloudspire. At the top lives an old man, a sage — not the Old One of legend, to be sure — but one far older and wiser than I. For he was my tutor in youth. It is he who spoke these rhymes to me so many years ago, and he who — if his mind has not failed him — may have the key to this lore, and perhaps a way to find what has been Lost.”

So it was agreed, and they rested a few days in the Castle of Edebia, and refreshed themselves. And on the third day, with their mounts, they headed north to the Edebian passage, the waterway which split the mainland from the Isle, and all that lay beyond.