Entry 5: 2nd day of the month of Arborie, Spring of the year 897 Ibx. 10th Era:
Estoban was elated to hear the news of my acquisition of a map.
So elated in fact that he leapt across the table and kissed my cheeks left and right in a very Pastrieran fashion that nevertheless succeeded in bringing my face to a blush.
Regaining his composure, he reclaimed his chair, which wobbled slightly on the uneven cobbles of Tallenie Plaza, where we met for coffee.
Estoban grinned as he looked about the Plaza, “we ought to begin this excursion quite immediately, lest our new ally decides she wants to make even more money off that same map.”
“Which means, of course, that we are in need of a party,” he continued, “of which we are somewhat lacking. Have you given the idea any more thought since last?”
“Indeed I have. I believe we are somewhat agreed on our need for an Arcanist, in which our dear friend Yosefin will provide her services. And I do believe I would be no friend to Pyotr if I did not permit him the opportunity to give Eugeny a field test. Of course, this expresses extreme bias on my behalf, but I sincerely believe they will each prove indispensable in our endeavours.”
Estoban reclined in his chair, a mischievous twinkle animating his eyes. “Very good, my dear Enri, I am inclined to agree. I dare put forth yet another ally,” he ventured. “Allow me the privilege of acquainting you with Szacha Marya.”
Intrigued, I leaned forward, having heard the name once before. “Pray elaborate, Estoban, who is Szacha Marya?” I inquired.
Estoban’s grin broadened, clearly relishing the opportunity to regale me with this tale. “Ah, my friend, Szacha Marya, stands unparalleled in their mastery of both the alchemical arts and the very new art of the fire-arm. Their exploits in sundry skirmishes have borne witness to their prowess, their elixirs and potions singlehandedly turning the tide of many a dire strait.”
This was likely Estoban’s way of saying they are a very successful student in their fields, but I accepted his words with eager eyes.
The young knight continued, “just yesterday, I was requested by Szacha to accompany them into the Lorie Forest to the east, as they had many an ingredient to collect. Well as it turns out, my services were hardly required, as they reacted well before I did. Being leapt upon by wolves is no small event, yet they procured a rifle quicker than any hunter I have seen. Three wolves were shot dead at my feet before I had even drawn my blade.”
Estoban’s eyes shimmered with admiration as he continued his narrative. “Szacha would be an inestimable asset. With them by our side, we shall possess a paragon alchemist, equipping us with the means to surmount whatever chance encounters may arise.”
I nodded, thoroughly impressed. “Indeed, Szacha would be an asset. I place my trust in you, Estoban. Let us extend an invitation to them and ascertain their willingness to partake in our endeavour. With Yosefin, Pyotr, Eugeny, and Szacha’s, we shall surely be an indomitable force.”
“My sentiments exactly, Enri! Before the end of the week, we shall embark upon a momentous odyssey upon this treacherous path.”
As our discourse continued, the world around us seemed to recede. The bustling plaza dissipated, reduced to mere whispers carried on the winds. In that moment, our alliance secured, we locked eyes, and something welled up deep within me.
Estoban’s soft eyes smiled at me, and I averted my gaze. My beverage danced in circles beneath my nose, letting off streams of warmth. Something about Estoban called me to adventure, to journey open road with only a map and my wand. I trusted he would lead the party well, but I feel that I somehow wish for something more than just battle-brothers between us…
“Well,” Rising, Estoban spoke, “I ought to depart. Life and the afterlife awaits me.”
Upon seeing my shocked face, the paladin clarified, “It is a class from the Mystic magic course! Do not fret for me, Enri, death does not seek me yet.”
As he gathered up his satchel, I felt compelled to ask him for dinner. Or a film. Or a walk through town in the evening as the sun set behind the Hall. Life will be short, and shorter yet without a friend — do not deny destiny its desires. And yet, I watched the young knight bid me farewell and, spinning on heeled boot, join the pedestrian throng.
A terrible pain overcame me then, as if fate, denied once more, was throwing a tantrum against my soul, crying out for me to act! to leap up and run out after him in the street. Instead I sat there, stunned by my inaction and frozen in my shame.
What compulsion had come about me then? What necessity? Why had I felt so inclined to solidify my friendship with Estoban, like some politician sealing a treaty? Could it be that I?— no.
I overcame my paralysed state and stood, leaving a few coins for our coffees upon the table.
As I walked through the narrow alleys of the College town, I fixed my tie, ensuring it fit well beneath my cream sweater. I had elected to don my wand holster today out of eagerness for adventure, and so I checked that my wand was indeed still stored within.
The wand had been my father’s when he moved to Ecreslory. He often remarked to me that it had been in our family for generations, having been constructed during the 7th Era by mystic monks. The shaft is made of ebony wood, adorned at the base with a silver handle. Inscribed into the top of the handle is an inscription in the ancient elven language Eldfe, ‘fa deirothi leusin’ — do not let legacy fade.
As my first lesson of Dailunn would not be until the 13th hour, I decided to visit the College’s esteemed museum collection, which happened to be adjunct to my next class anyways.
The museum is located on the main road which bisects the entire town, in the first two stories of a fantastic limestone building. Brass-bolted doors lead off the busy cobbled road into a quiet lobby where, to the left and right of the doors and situated before the immense windows onto the street, many small tables are clustered about a lushly gardened fountain, with tortoises spurting clear water into a coin-filled basin. A grand staircase spirals away from the marbled floors up to the gallery, a brass banister following the steps up to where the curator’s offices are. Behind the ticket desk opposite the entrance, one can see through the entry doors into the main hall of the museum and the entrance to the collection’s main attraction — the 1st Era Thelonic tomb around which the building was established.
After paying the admission fee (a single bronze coin called a Choux), I crossed the threshold and into the main hall, which was illuminated by the vaulted glass ceiling. Passing by the now familiar statues of Ibex Thaumazon and the Perithneskotic Deer, I escorted myself to the east wing to admire the mithril artefacts there. In preparation for my lesson later in the evening, I attempted to translate some of the brass tablets written in the Original Tongue.
Most of them were political accounts, retelling legal disputes and the like, but one, a tablet of possession of land from the 1st Era, intrigued me. The name ‘SAROCHON’ was emblazoned a number of times in the text — that very same Sarochon whose letters I had still sitting at my desk in my apartment, where the midday breeze blows inwards the gauze curtains. I made a mental note to begin translating, before returning to the exhibition.
Almost too late I realised the hour, and hurriedly packed away my pocket dictionary. Now, my own heeled boots clicked with fervoured speed as I rushed back into the lobby, regrettably neglecting the other wings (on the ground floor, let alone the upper story).
Turning myself, I scampered up the grand stairs, letting myself in to the upper entry of the adjoining lecture hall via the door at the end of the gallery.
As I stepped into the lecture hall, I was greeted by the familiar sight of cascading rows of polished wooden desks and the redolence of time-worn parchment. The chamber hummed with the subdued murmur of eager students making final preparations for the imminent class. Beyond the closed door of his office, the muffled voice of Reverend Arvid could be discerned, undoubtedly engaged in erudite pursuits before the forthcoming lesson.
Torof Arvid is a priest of Thelonius from distant Lihat, the holy city of the Thelonic triad. Being from the southern reaches of the Great Continent, the Reverend was pale, with greying hair and a serene presence. He typically taught religion units, but being an expert on the 1st Era, he had been especially requested to teach this history class. I had heard from Estoban that the man was a very calm and patient mentor, and equally keen in his wits, comprehending not only the Original Tongue, but also Old Veld and Old Thelonic.
I swiftly sought out an unoccupied desk toward the back, so as to be undetected in my proximity to tardiness. The desk’s surface, bearing the polished patina of countless scholars’ labours, bore witness to the sanding of punished vandals caught in the act.
Seated comfortably, I allowed myself a moment of contemplation, reflecting on the conversation shared with Estoban earlier. The impending adventure stirred within me a mixture of excitement and trepidation. Assembling a party for our intrepid expedition would be no trifling matter, and the expertise of Yosefin would be crucial. Her mastery of the arcane arts promise to be an invaluable asset in our odyssey.
Then, of course, there was Pyotr, yearning for the opportunity to put his contrivances to the crucible. A sense of loyalty welled within me, urging me to afford him the chance to trial Evgeny. It bore risk, certainly, but my conviction in the ultimate dividends of his ingenuity remained steadfast.
Certainly, Szacha would be undeniably useful. Their prowess in combat and alchemy would leave us in a truly secure position. Alchemists are notoriously versatile, and that is exactly what we need. My hope is that they do not charge a hard bargain in their share of the riches.
Lost in ruminations, I scarcely registered my fellow students filling in the remaining spots of the lecture hall, their measured steps resonating upon the well-worn wooden floor. It wasn’t until the door to Reverend Arvid’s office swung open that my reverie was abruptly disrupted.
The old priest emerged bearing a stack of tomes, his steps filling the chamber as he proceeded to the lectern at the fore with wine-dark vestments billowing in his wake. The students swiftly settled into their seats, their collective anticipation almost palpable. The Reverend’s resonant voice cut through the expectant silence as he greeted the assembly, his utterances endowed with erudition and sagacity like lemon in a cool glass of water.
“Good day, esteemed scholars,” he began, his gaze encompassing the assembled cohort. “Welcome to Empire and Divinity: A Thelonic Inquiry. I expect this unit will treat you kindly, as the Thelonic triad has had an undeniable impact on the lives of every person since Ibex first discovered magic, and you will no doubt be in many respects familiar with the 1st Era.
“You will soon find, however, that the Thelonic Empire was far from simple, and indeed quite far from good. If you will observe beside me these 6 tomes, I shall describe to you a brief outline of what will be examined this semester.”
The fervour within the hall swelled, and quills poised above parchment, eager to capture the impending summary. I felt a surge of anticipation and a renewed thirst for knowledge as I scratched a new heading into my notebook.
The lesson passed by in increments, the weight of the midday seeping through the floorboards like sponge. Dust danced in the air before the Reverend like an ancient chorus, leaping in the yellow sun that crept from windows high. Often the old man would pause, drumming his fingers upon the wooden desk as if the word he searched for would leap down from the rafters which he searched. In that silence, the scratch of quills and pens sung like a choir in the still air of the theatre, sweeping across the pages in a harmony that snatched and plucked at the bow-strings of history.
Exactly on the hour, Arvid rose from his chair, straightening out his dark robes, and lifted the spectacles from his nose. Sweeping his gaze across the fifty-odd students in the hall, he stepped out from behind his desk and silently gestured with a single, gloved hand for the class to follow him. The hem of his robes sweeping the floor, he glided away to an adjoining room.
With all the haste and none of the elegance of the priest, the class gathered up their belongings — pens slipped away into their cases, wands tucked back into coats, gloves retrieved from belts — and scurried down the central aisle to file in through the stone archway.
This very room, awash with unnatural light from overhead bulbs, was an object examination room. Reverend Arvid, being so enthused for our education, had organised weekly viewings of artefacts from the 1st Era taken from the museum collection. The Reverend positioned himself at the centre of the room, observing through careful eyes the students taking up their positions at the tables which had been variously adorned with ceramics in that ancient fashion which seems to capture in a single breath the very being of human expression. The delicate scenes of myth and legend which play across their surfaces leap out at a glance, maintaining that classical ideal of beauty and melancholy which tears away at the facade of the modern aesthetic.
With the knowledge of ages overflowing from the vessels before us in hues of red and black, the old priest began his second lesson. Speaking more softly and gently – with the same silent veneration that one exhibits near a tomb – he introduced the figures painted in exquisite emotion upon the ceramics: Diam and Suefer hunting the Torhenian eagle; Ibex and Andalus in fevered battle; Espiana in her golden robes. Each scene, with its foliage and characters, created a presence as if motion and violence had been rendered into the very memory of sweetness, the expressions of emotion upon the faces of the legendary persons snatching up at the tears of the onlooker. One scene that seemed most prominent and most elegantly depicted was the Thelonic apotheosis, an array of officials, warriors, and mages surrounding the forms of the triad burning with divine flame.
“Apotheosis,” Arvid explained, “the assumption of a godly mantle within one’s essence, was no small feat, and yet to the divine triad, it was as if they had been a soft breeze licking at the curtains in an old home, racing about the halls as if they had lived there for an eternity already. Indeed, when one undergoes apotheosis, it is as if one has already been a god before, the retrospect of divine sight filling in the gaps of one’s life by creating prophecies not yet remembered. Where divinity and mortality meet, fire is always present, hence the heavy imagery of burning in both apotheotic and divinely judicial scenes.
“You will also notice that, as the Triumvir were becoming Thelon Nehwos — the heir to the cosmic order — attention is drawn to lineage: Thelonius himself was a Khana, a demi-god, a semi-divine warrior; his genus, attributed to Dehwos himself, the divine God, is displayed in the upper section of this ceramic, where a ray of sunlight shines down upon the man in his moment of ascension. The Thelonic apotheosis in particular was a social apotheosis, and this is certainly apparent in the figures in the scene. Now, if you will observe here on the left-most position—”
“Is it true apotheosis is possible without mantling an existing divine superstructure?” A student somewhere across the room interjected.
The Reverend stroked his moustache, silently constructing the answer under his closed eye-lids. When at last he spoke, he did so with an air of caution, “This is a question for the ages, young man. How a person might answer it depends entirely on their worldview: Did the god Sojer truly die and become replaced by Thelon? Or did the god survive and deny the Triumvirate their place in the divine paradigm? Perhaps one might exclaim that Sojer allowed Thelon a minor place in the divine paradigm, and should take the credit for the apotheosis instead.
“How could it be possible for the Triumvir to become Thelon Nehwos if another Nehwos, the god Sojer, already existed? but if Sojer died, as reported by the Chronicles of Divinity, would it not be appropriate to assume the easiest path to apotheosis for Thelon would have been to fill the empty niche in the divine paradigm? We cannot say for certain by whom, but the role of Nehwos is currently occupied in the divine paradigm, and so it is without question that some cosmic worldview is the most correct.
“If one is to take the Thelonic apotheosis as the first and only successful apotheosis in recorded history, then we can safely say that only through the assumption of an existing mantle can a mortal become divine. However, what cannot be ignored is the existence of local gods, heroes and demi-gods and saints who hold small amounts of divinity, in the divine paradigm: did these gods undergo apotheosis? whose mantle could they have assumed as beings with power that is only locally true, since no wholly divine gods have been found to be only locally powerful? should their divinity diminish or affirm the significance of the Thelonic divinity?
“However we may choose to see the situation, it is certain that your question is not simple, and cannot be answered with yes and no. If you wish to know more, I recommend for you to read Sullivan Marinar’s The Divine Paradigm and other Paradoxes.”
[A good essay I assure you. A.E.]
I penned down the name of the essay, the ink from my hasty notes turning my hands to black on the page.
Soon after, the hour of afternoon arrived that we were to depart. Rising once more, Reverend Torof Arvid bid us all farewell and good week, assigning Eira Dher’s Symbol & Expression: Modes of Communication in the Archaic Style as reading before next week’s class.
Muttering amongst themselves, the students filed away from the class-room in flurries of cliques. Bursting forth from those small doors to the adjoining museum, my peers took no pains to silence themselves in the stillness of the lobby, where just seconds before all that could be heard was the trickle of a fountain-stream and the turning of a yellowed page.
While many of them remained within the museum, browsing the galleries or lounging in the lobby, most tumbled down the grand stair-case in awkward bundles, rushing to the next lessons of the day.
I, for my own part, simply strode across the upper gallery, running my spindly, gloved, fingers along the bronze balustrade, arriving at the opposite door which led directly into the small office where I would have my next class: Classics, or the study of the Original Tongue.
Despite a similar subject matter, this class would have far fewer students than the previous thanks to the difficulty of the language. While most mages had something of a grasp on the Original Tongue — it being used as the primary tool for Mystic magic — many chose to only learn at the most basic of levels: pronunciation and transcription of pictograms. The grammar and syntax — being the very grammar and syntax of the Cosmos and of gods — is far too complex for most, and so many simply do not bother trying. Only the most passionate of scholars and the most diligent of Mystics choose to continue their studies of the script to the point of translating texts.
It is for this reason that our class had come by this point to a low population of four, each student being just as historically inclined as the last:
Gomohaya Tanuki was student of Mysticism seeking to continue the tradition of elite Tsunalf warrior-mages called Jikurai as his family had for generations before him. The golden-haired youth used to wear colourful robes of an eastern cut and weave to class before his father tragically passed at the hands of pirates on the Argen isles. Now, he dons clothes white as bone and with blood-red lining — a mark of his tarnished honour until he can avenge his father and claim his place in his household as master of wand and blade. Indeed, strapped to the young warrior’s belt always sat a small blade with a grip of knitted azure cloth that stood out against the starkness of his clothes.
Grumhilda Sjeric was a six foot tall Northerner whose anachronistic Mediæval dress in collaboration with her pale complexion made her look like a ghost roaming the streets of the College. Only the colourful embellishments that lined her tunic and skirt hinted that the young woman was very much alive and full of passion for the Mystic arts. She was training to be a healer, and wished to master the full extent of the Original Tongue so that no ailment may evade being vanquished at her hand. Besides her affinity for Mortomancy, the Njord was also skilled with the blade, frequently strapping her dirk to her belt ‘should the need arise’. Indeed, she had been scouted by many prospective adventuring parties for her utility, but declined on the principle of not fighting alongside any but her brother, who still lived in her home at Kviviknes.
Ms. Lillian Kurudel was obsessed with the old 9th Era cowboys of her homeland in the plains of east Pastrier. On some days, she would attend class in a dandy dress, all frills and ribbons and with matching bonnet and umbrella. On other days, she would arrive in riding boots, chaps, a leather vest, bandana, a wide-brimmed hat, and a holstered revolver. (It once occurred to me that I was the only one of my peers who did not come to class fully armed, so I went out and acquired a thin pocket knife to be kept on my person during classes such as this). In any case, the young lady had a passion for the Romantic, delighting in both the levity of Modern literature, and the grandeur of Archaic epic. Many of the College youth sought her hand, but she cared not for the trifles of romance, only for the mystery of the Romantic Ideal. She often met with Yosefin on humid evenings to watch the knights spar and discuss ideas of youth and eternity.
Evidently, in such an eccentric class I felt very comfortable, with my own obsessions for the Archaic and the anachronistic. Sometimes after class we would meet for dinner down on the Boulevard to discuss notions of death and peace or knowledge and memory or health and marriage; always something in conjunction with the other for that is how the Original Tongue is spoken — through conflation: each word is a combination of two basic parts conspiring as one: a verb warped in aspect by a noun, an adjective pre-changed by a verb, two nouns in a dual meaning. We swore to live our lives this way, always in conflation with some ideology or another and never in a consistent union to anything but the Ideal.
Our professor was equally as eccentric and sentimental as the rest of us, and it was into her office that I walked now. Opening the door, I found myself in a room with a low ceiling, with only candles and an old ceramic lamp lighting the frescoed walls. A square desk grasped the centre of the space, its eight, leather clad chairs currently empty. Lining the walls were low wooden book shelves spilling over with bound tomes for all manner of subjects. Pressed up against the far wall, facing a fresco of an ideal youth violently massacring a wolf-cub in spectacular detail, was the desk of one Dr. Keira Sinwer, who now verily sat in her chair, murmuring to herself as she translated. The very sound of the ancient and sacred language seemed to fill the room with a weighty breath, as if the words hung from the ceiling like vines and had to be pushed aside to pass through.
Not noticing me enter, the professor kept her head submerged deep in translation, her silver curls suspended about her head.
Letting out the most melodramatic sigh muster-able by any mortal, I dropped myself into a chair, letting my belongings scatter across the table.
“Life must be difficult for a young student who thinks himself to know everything and have nothing, Enri,” teased the professor, not turning in her seat. “Haven’t you any excitement for the laurels of education to be bestowed upon you without any hardship to earn it?”
“I sigh not for the difficulty of life Dr. Sinwer,” I sighed again, “nor of education, but for the difficulty of Idealism. Just today I have pined and hoped and dreamed, but to have the knowledge that whatever it is that I pine for I shall never have pains me. How unjust! How cruel! Why should I ever long for something that is not mine to long for? I cannot help it and yet — perhaps even therefore — I do. What am I to do with my hope when I know it to be unjust?”
“The best kinds of hope are unjust, my dear boy,” she said, finally turning. Her large spectacles reflected the candle-light in her eyes, so that a crazed look seemed to wash across the Snow Elf’s face in manic inspiration. “It is good to sigh over Ideals left denied. Do not fret over the lesser events — theft, debt, punctuality — but those very things which concern the Cosmos — death, wisdom, passion. That is what is worth sighing for.”
She had lifted herself from her chair by now, pacing across dark, wooden floors in her brilliant green robes. She gestured with her hand as she spoke, holding it in the same form that the ancient orators were depicted, so that with each measured step and word, her hand would brush at the air before her like a painter creating a memory of art.
“Solitude, Enri, is what upholds a person’s passions, and what maintains a person’s memories. To remember amongst the many is to remember not at all, for the social memory can warp the truth withal far stronger than any Mystic. Testimon, that grand and foolish philosopher who perished at the hands of his wife, once said, “Tisi memanderui turbservi mollifer snerty bunfio pleradus.” ‘If one should call upon a memory, let it be brought only through a slave-crowd, who will never repeat the same recollection twice.’ After all, repetition is life’s greatest disappointment, wouldn’t you say? To dream the same dream again would to me be a nightmare, for I would know all the dialogue and yet never have pause from the author. Ah but here is Ms. Kurudel coming down the hall in her spurs. Let us begin.”
Indeed, while the old teacher had been waxing poetic, Gomohaya and Grumhilda had taken up their seats at the table and, just as Dr. Sinwer had identified with her keen ears, Ms. Kurudel came in, her spurs clinking with every step.
With each of us seated at the table, having each shaken hands with the others and made greetings, we began the lesson.
This semester, we would be studying a play by Criones called The Waning of the Sun, a tragedy from the 5th Era about a demigod of legend named Ceyladon, Weaver of Glass. The poor man had received a prophecy in his youth that he would be second only to sky-tearing gods and night-dancing angels but would only be remembered by grass, so that his entire life he went about surpassing all in might and wit but being untold in his glory. To this end, the Thelonic triad came about in their power and might and surpassed him into godhood abounding in poets, thus fulfilling his prophecy. There, the tragedy reaches its climax, where Ceyladon, first of Thelonic Knights, submits himself into the very coven of Kairon Warlocks against which they warred in the hopes of reaching glory. Instead, the demigod, driven mad with power, slaughtered his family and fellow knights on his hallowed ground, transforming himself and them all into pillars of stone. With only one knight being saved by the will of God to be left as witness to the horrific scene, the play ends in a brief dialogue between him and the newly divine Thelon Nehwos, who instructs him to reform the knights and complete the destruction of the Kairon.
In the first lesson, we did no translating, instead discussing the concept of the Narrative Destiny and the difference between a Divine Protagonist and a protagonist of a story or play.
[The Narrative Destiny is a concept which was first coined in the 4th Era which describes a certain mystic state of being wherein the spirit of the Narrator — God — pays especial attention to an event or series of events of certain import to the Divine Paradigm. A Protagonist, therefore, is essentially the ‘main character’ to whom the Narrator and indeed the audience pay close attention to or may even witness the events through. Enri, of course, possesses this Narrative Destiny, although he does not yet know it. A.E. ]
While Ceyladon was a great hero of the 1st Era and the protagonist of The Waning Sun, he simply never could have held the Narrative Destiny, it being foretold that he would be surpassed only by gods, referring of course to Thelonius, who was indeed the Divine Protagonist of the 1st Era.
“Destiny,” began Dr. Sinwer following a brief dialogue between Gomohaya and Grumhilda about the Mystic implications of Narrative Destiny, “is inescapable. In some cases it can be warped or changed by means of Mysticism or miracle, but at the very crux of it, one cannot escape their own fate. It is by God’s will and memory that things can come about, and it is therefore by God’s will and memory that things will come about. Ceyladon could well have hired all the poets and singers he wished, but the Narrative did not belong to him. What is important to remember is that, although he is the subject of the play, he is not at all the hero of the story. His title ‘Weaver of Glass’ is apt not only for his distinct affinity for annihilating his opponents in a storm of glass needles, but also for the invisible nature of his great deeds. Ceyladon was not able to come to terms with his irreklipedas forsem — unrecognised glory — so that he was never able to achieve apotheosis as his demigod cousin Thelonius could.”
Soon enough, the hour came about, and we each twisted our way from the table having marked out the lines that were to be completed by tomorrow’s lesson.
With classes for the day complete, I made my way through the narrow streets and blinding spires of the college until I reached an old building with an ornately carved wooden facade and a sign above the door that read in a sharp serif font: “Lamont’s Cellars, est. 780 Ix.” The shop in question, with tinted windows and a porch on the second floor, was one of the better establishments in the college, providing good drinks and excellent entertainment for its loyal patrons, of whom I am one.
Entering, I was immediately met with the thrilling runs of Il Peruic being played on the piano. Frau Lamont, a giant of a woman with an equally enormous care for her patrons greeted me with such jovial volume that the pianist, Filipe Mazoe, paused his recital to reel from the sound.
With a resounding laugh, Frau Lamont lifted me off the wooden floorboard easily with two hands. “Enri! What such pleasure I have in seeing you again! Welcome back! Have your classes treated you well? Has your home in Ecreslory remained as beautiful as ever? How are your parents? When will that father of yours visit?”
Evidently, I had been visiting Frau Lamont since I had first attended, and indeed when she had discovered that I was the son of her old brother-in-arms, she quickly ensured my continued attendance at the bar by way of employing the young Mazoe to play my favourite arrangements of piano movements from the Imperial Age.
I was utterly barraged with questions, but attempted with some amount of patience — as is required with such overwhelming personalities as Frau Lamont — to respond each. Within minutes, I was seated at my favourite table in the upper gallery, with a small glass of Deran scotch in hand and a plate of ‘Evening Pastries’ as they were so called.
Having now settled in, and with the resumption of music, I allowed myself a moment to gaze out the window at the ‘Duelling Club’ gathering in the park across the street. As the gentlemen lunged at each other, blades clashing with a cunning swiftness, I found myself watching with an intense interest. Having watched the martial prowess demonstrated by the duellers, I am certain that the physique of the modern man has not stagnated into the inertia of lethargy, despite what Ermau Kamix might think about the 10th Era. After all, although the club takes the art of duelling for sport, I am certain that martial war is not the only means to a healthy body.
With my thoughts turned to war, I remembered the journal which I had tucked into my bag this morning and which contained the diaries of Sarochon Kulsun. With renewed excitement, I withdrew the book and resumed my translation:
[Editor’s note: Enri has evidently chosen to translate in the a way that favours style and theme rather than rhythm or literal meaning, so naturally one must take caution in reading his interpretation of the text]
‘Cha pneksi æthi te gieviu cha
huec pseuthe wo shautsū hen giegno
pnæsh chē te vœ te thi te djo pniem.
I en thetsiu djeuc Lihat giegne de
muke pseuthæ chē giegniu sucheu
en pnuec rheuchoik chēn hēroœ chuwiz?’
1. Excerpt from the now lost ‘Epic of Sarochon’
By the side of sky-tearing gods and among the ranks of demigods
There I do call upon the horn-tongued angels to permit me to begin
This song which Blood and God and Prince binds in holy air.
It is in god-touched Lihat that any holy tale must begin, and yet,
Who was it, oh evasive angels, that began that first calling [5]
At the towering senate-house in which those heroes did meet?
For it is only prophets who can inspire such dividing beginnings
Among the councils and armies of men, so that the name
— Oh that terrible name! — could be spoken aloud: Nihilus Brymetheos.
Tell me, angels, how that name could disband families [10]
And undo the identities of gods? For now ill-fated Sarochon,
Youngest and smallest of the Knights of Thelonius,
Will tether the ropes between Divine and Mortal
And thrust Destiny upon the Paradigm of God.
It was Thelonius, King of Kings, that first came to the senate [15]
Carrying an inquiry against death-eyed Nihilus Brymetheos.
Before the council and the warriors and the Ibex and the Kathan,
Addressing all and announcing greatly did that King speak:
“Blessed are you, oh holiest of counsellors, who with fiery speech
Advise the city of God toward glory and divinity. But now a cloud [20]
Hangs over the sacred hill, and the prophets sing of death and godhood.
We have each done our part to fulfill the rites and wash out death
From our clothes and our dreams, but nevertheless bad omens have befallen us.
Though we have desecrated many temples and killed many priests,
We are still clean of such sins, for we did these things in the name of God [25]
And in the name of the city, which is most holy by name and deed.
We knights of Lihat itch not for battle nor glory, but a curse on the city
Stains the very empire which we each swear to protect.
How then, may we defend our city and our spirits from error?”
Nodding in thought was the senate when one and all of them spoke: [30]
“Noble King, your presence in this chamber spills divine light.
We forebode that north, in the lands of Castrix and of Kairon,
Who still clutch at desecrated land with witch-black fingers,
And who snatch up the bones of fallen warriors for the sake of their dark magic,
There does annihilation await you all in the guise of death-eyed Nihilus. [35]
Zhaireb, that fortress which you freed from the Kairon warlock Toloir,
Has befallen injury and ruin at the hands of the Kairon now,
Lest any Castrix take up a military position there. Those warlocks
Inhabit that land now, being more accustomed these days to places
Of ruined and scorched rubble than well-walled cities of stone. [40]
The gods and the soil have directed that the Kairon must be annihilated.
Go there. Make war on the foul people who threaten our state.
And let Ibex, First Mage and Lord of the Mystic arts, establish his school
There, so that evermore it will be a college of the church of Lihat
And a bastion against the terrible abomination that is the Kairon.” [45]
In response spake holy-worded Kathan with gesturing hand:
“The God has truly consecrated you, oh holiest of counsellors,
For your words are truthful, being the words of God.
So we princes three and our knights twelve shall take arms
And go forth to those places where the will of Gods snatches [50]
At the hearts of beasts and men and in the fields and streets
Of nations growing from the shadowed streets of well-walled cities.
But tell us how we should travel to that place which simmers with Fate,
Whether by day or by dusk or by the clandestine creep of night,
Whether by foot or by horse or by bronze-tipped boat on salty wave, [55]
Whether under imperial standard or under holy shield or under Mystic wand.
Of course, what would be the best of these ways by your divine decree,
As spoken by you in this hallowed court and among our dearest friends.”
So then spake Philerix, who had first divined these things to the council:
“Heroic knights and princes of the holy city and the hinterland, [60]
You have done well to protect yourself from ill-deeds passed.
But know that God punishes for deeds yet to be done,
And you each have a destiny yet unfulfilled by neither Seer nor Poet.
I warn you, go to this place along the even sea, lest you find your journey
Impeded by the fiery storm of that most holy Lohacs Mountain [65]
Or by Gehran deserts and skin-ripping sands swept away.
To-morrow, take up by its shaft the imperial standard,
Which now whistles before all the citizens in the forum.
Arm yourselves well, with greaves of bronze and blades of iron.
And stock the bronze-tipped hull of the ships down in the harbour [70]
So that you may round the Kyuerwin Cape and sail north-bound.
Heed the word of neither messenger nor seer as you travel,
Only marking well the words spoken by Ibex himself, who will assign
As your guide into Castrix shores and Kairon hills, his student Sarochon.
He indeed hails from the wine-rich Zhaireb, and will take you there [75]
To that place where once you rescued him from Toloiric clutches.”
Thus he spake, and at last responded many-witted Ibex, first among mages:
“I indeed will prepare my Mantic forces, lest antinomian voices
Hinder us from our most holy task given over by God himself.
We will heed the words and warnings of you all, senators, [80]
And set iron and oak upon the Kairon, who were once teachers to me,
And indeed even to Sarochon. Him I entrust with our guidance,
So that we may board the bronze-painted ships with still minds
And stiller waters, and with hearts aimed to destruction.”
Thus speaking, the meeting became completed, and they [85]
— The senators and the princes and the knights twelve —
Went forth to their shallow quarters and retired to a cosmic sleep,
Since the councils in those ancient days were held in the evening,
When time was narrow and heat was swallowed by the stars,
So that the lengthy speeches of orators and citizens would become bearable. [90]
That next morning…
There I chose to pause. For in fact Filipe had begun to play a nocturne, and the bar-hands had begun to illuminate the room with electric globes that hummed and popped in their casings. Realising the late hour, I decided to finish my meal of salmon on a tomato purée which had been brought to me in my studies, and thereafter return to my apartments.
On the dark waltz home, one could easily make out the hue of industrial light from the cities on the horizon — that of Mevilles to the east and Hellhest to the west.
Though it was early in the week, it was early also in the semester, so the other students were not yet inclined to holing up in offices and studies for the evening. A chill breeze swept through the mud-brick alleys in a way which caused a whistle to blow around every corner, so that one’s attention was drawn this way and that even walking down an empty street. The street lamps now cast long shadows along dusty pavements, so that even as the odd alchemist or Mystic shuffled along clutching at their coat, they seemed to dance with the wind like an ancient choros.
Perhaps by chance, or perhaps simply by virtue of sharing a room, I encountered Pyotr on his own journey home, having spent the entire evening sighing loudly in the courtyard by Yosefin’s house — though once he had realised she was not home, having presumably stayed in the Great Hall after her dinner to debate with a professor about the quantitative arcane value of bismuth or something of the sort, he decided to hang up his proverbial hat and return home.
We decided to split a bottle of cider over dinner as inspiration for the evening’s studies, and indeed we soon found ourselves dancing about and laughing like the leaping priests of Esera, who stomp their feet like hares to rush out the miasma of the day in festive fervour.
Cider-drunk and jovial, we each claimed our desks to a gentle Prelude humming from the gramophone. While Pyotr fiddled with Eugeny’s eyes, I sat and translated the prologue of The Waning Sun, though I must admit that reading it back over now that it is morning, I can find neither sense nor depth in what I wrote.
Nonetheless, with each of us — Carnelius included — having been fed, we dimmed the gas-lamps and shuttered the blinds against the night, so as to shutter the lamp’s gas and dim the night’s light. With sheets abandoned to bed-corners and the window left ajar (the blinds crashed softly with a titter against the frame thanks to the gentle breeze of the night), Pyotr and I stretched ourselves out in our beds, chittering and giggling like song-birds.