You remember. You remember your bedroom. Your spire towered over the otherwise squat buildings of the capital. Not that you considered yourself above the others, of course. Though you weren’t elected by any of the great clans in the conventional sense, you didn’t owe allegiance to any one of them, instead serving all of your people as a whole. A civil servant and, indeed, perhaps the most noble pursuit you could have dreamed for yourself. Though the spire held a myriad of rooms for different people and purposes, your quarters were situated at the very top. Compared to the prestige of your position, the room seemed quite bland. Your younger self might have been ashamed to have such an unadorned living space, but you had long outgrown the need for such gaudy trappings. You had what you needed, and that was enough.
You remember. You remember the grand council meeting. Despite the quakes, said the youngest, our people have been mostly unaffected. Yes, you said, but that is because we were lucky. Lucky? Asked the oldest. It is a blessing from the gods below, and a warning. Do not follow the wicked paths of our neighbors, and we will be spared from the smiting. Your blood boiled despite your centuries of wisdom and meditation. I’m sorry but that’s just not correct, you interjected. The gods below had nothing to do with this, and they won’t protect you if this catastrophe continues. Gasps from the clan leaders informed you without delay that you had already stepped too far. Your imprisonment, though humane and respectful, provided no surprise on that front.
You remember. You remember your research, a thousand years in the making. You were born without the spark that was so common as to be ubiquitous among your people. A score years a score over, you endured their pity. The slight inhalations and unconsciously released piteous moans as they realized you were that man. The one without magic. The one who had been shunned by the gods below, the one who would never know their love in this world or the next. After 400 years, you had had enough, and you left your clan. They hadn’t seemed too sad to see you go, but that didn’t matter to you. You didn’t leave for their benefit, you left for your own. You decided to take a pilgrimage across Mustatra, to immerse yourself in the cultures and magicks of the nations outside your own. By experiencing all the different forms of magic spread across the continent, you hoped that you could find a way to create your own spark. When you finally returned to your clan, over a thousand years later, you had been long forgotten by even the oldest among them. But you did not forget. You remembered. And as you presented your mastery of the arcane, you knew that they would remember you too.
Walkabout
You remember. You remember traveling north, deep into the Badlands. You barely had the supplies you needed to begin with, let alone the skills to actually survive out alone. Luckily, the Kingdom wasn't as warlike back then. You got picked up by a patrol before the thirst set in and were brought to the nearest undercity of theirs. They seemed fairly dismissive of you, but far from hostile. Rather than kick you out, a minor noble bemused by your idea gave you a right of passage to the capital. There, you applied to a mentorship in their arcane college. They touted you about as their first foreign exchange student, treating you like a prized pet. But you stuck with it. Far longer than they could have anticipated; of course, even if they had anticipated, they couldn't have done anything about it. Four centuries was a worthwhile price to you, but to them it was dozens of generations. By the time you graduated, more citizens of the capital knew you as a natural-born citizen of the Kingdom than had ever dared to speak ill of you in your entire life. When you left, a grand festival celebrating you took place, lasting seven days and seven nights. You cried yourself to sleep each of those nights.
You remember. You remember traveling west, through the horror-filled wasteland of the Expanse. You had no fear of the monsters now; even then, you weren't the same weak worm that had left the clan lands behind. You were wrong to have no fear; these were no mindless beasts, they were bred to murder trespassers. A fact you learned when, due to a stroke of luck, a native of the land stumbled upon you. Waving some strange rod back and forth, the monsters that had mere moments before been tearing into your flesh were mesmerized, like a trained dog watching its master's every movement. The stranger dragged you into a cave, and you became the first of your people to learn of the Anadi. Though they were hardly strangers to magic, their pursuits followed a somewhat more scientific path. This was perfectly acceptable to you. You learned from their Master Architects for almost two hundred years, and when finally you set out, you were cheered as the first example of cooperation between nations that the Anadi people had ever seen. You were not, however, the last.
You remember. You remember continuing west towards the legendary Empire about which you knew nothing but legends. Once again, however, you were waylaid; this time, however, it was not thanks to danger, but to camaraderie. You fell across a strange furred man, under attack by one of the Anadi's creatures. Though you lacked the proper implements to truly control them, you knew enough to distract the creature long enough for the long-eared man to scramble behind you. As you escaped together, he guided you towards a strange holdfast in the desert; of course, the hold was far less interesting than what it held. A massive creature, introduced to you as Aduenis, lived within, alongside several dozen more of the furry creatures, which called themselves "kitsune." The man who brought you there explained how you slew the monsters with nothing more than your wits, but you corrected him quickly. They're simply creatures, you explained, trained to act a certain way. Aduenis proposed a trade; he would teach you of the magic he wielded, if you would teach his people how to defend themselves from the monsters. You had a better deal in mind. In the annals of history, few would know that it was an elf who brokered the first contact between Zahras and the Archons.
You remember. You remember finally traveling to the Empire. When you arrived, you found an incredible society that had somehow successfully isolated itself from its neighbors. Just as your people had mastered the sand, these people had mastered metal and light. Once again, you found a nation not of mages, but of scientists. You greedily absorbed all the information they would allow you, but it was never enough. A part of you wondered if they truly distrusted you, or if they didn't even understand the science they purveyed. You never had the chance to get an answer.
You remember. You remember going south, to the Montane, the ancient holy land of the Kingdom. You expected merely to explore some ruins before returning home, but instead you found thriving communities. Exiles, some by law and some by choice, of the great Kingdom to the east, who had returned to their holy lands to study the magics of their ancient ancestors. They were all too happy to share their findings with you. You felt confidence, pride. You were finally becoming the man you'd always wanted to be. The wizard you'd always dreamed of becoming, claimed the magical powers denied you by birth. When the exiles asked your help in putting together a delegation, you were more than happy to oblige. It wouldn't be the first peace you'd brokered in your travels across the land. Little did you know that it would instead be the first war.
You remember. You remember the desolation. A purple haze hung in the air as you wandered the wastes for hours, days. It was a week before you finally stopping coughing up shards of bone. Not yours, of course. The exiles had left you unscathed in the attack; some sense of honor, perhaps? Or maybe they wanted you to live to see your failure. You didn't know, and you never would. When you finally returned home, you were welcomed as a hero. But in your heart, you knew nothing but failure. And when news arrived that the Kingdom had declared formal war on the Montane, everyone was surprised but you.
Imprisonment
You remember. You remember sailing the sands west from Meridian. You sat on the deck, legs crossed, hands bound behind your back. Surrounded on all sides by 14 armed guards, two representatives from each clan. After everything you'd done for them, they were afraid of you. Afraid of what you could do to them. You shake your head. These shackles holding you down were meaningless. You'd have never lifted your hands against your people. You still remembered the horrible ways they'd treated you in your youth, but the fires of hatred had long since faded into the warm embers of pity. You didn't blame them anymore for their deplorable treatment of you, you just felt sad that they would never change. And, of course, the shackles couldn't stop you anyway. If you'd wanted to, you could have incinerated the small fleet of skiffs with little more than a blink of the eye.
You remember. You remember stopping at the fifth Diviner tower. You were quite proud of this one, you admitted silently. The council had initially scoffed when you suggested extending the line further north, said you'd never be satisfied with what you already accomplished. But you insisted, and when the first communication was established, the council claimed that it had gone exactly as they'd expected. Typical. Illandria came out to welcome you, her greetings clipped and measured. She'd already heard the news and knew this wasn't a friendly visit. She was the third master of this tower, and by quite a large margin your favorite. You saw the bright blue eyes of the girl, Yllia, peek out from behind the Envoy's dress. Despite the reality of your own circumstances, you smiled to reassure her, and she smiled back. Just as you'd expected, she'd done well with Illandria. Another tiny piece of evidence that you could do some good in this world.
You remember. You remember the exact path from where you left Illandria. 25,344 steps southeast. 21,584 steps south. They didn't want to leave skiff trails there so you left on foot. They forgot about the guard dogs of Zahras. Luckily for them, you did not. You never forgot anything. When the grating of tooth on metal began, the panicked soldiers took formation. The three council members panicked and threw themselves into the center, bumping into you without care for anything other than their own lives. It was sad, you thought, that these were the people in charge of the clans. You let the shackles slip from your wrists and began incanting. In their panic, nobody even noticed. As the pack of charging bipedal lizards neared, you lifted your hands and created a dazzling array of lights in the air above you. The beasts skidded to a stop, mesmerized by the recreation of their master's tools. Without a word, you gestured at the equally-mesmerized "companions" of yours to begin walking. Even on the march to your death, you would not let a single life end if you could help it.
You remember. You remember the chamber, deep within the cave. You were surprised to find the cage already prepared. Even through all their mistakes and deplorable actions, you'd thought better of the council. But, it seemed, this betrayal had not been in response to your most recent radical proclamation. It had been planned for quite some time. Wordlessly you stepped into your truly gilded cage. You couldn't help but admire the creation. A work of magical and, you suspected, scientific arts combined. Arcs of some sort of metal, perhaps copper, braided with... paramnesium? And telmarite, even. All suspended within the glass with which the clans had long ago conquered the desert. You couldn't help but chuckle, a breathless, mirthless laugh. This prison must have cost the council nearly the entirety of its stores, centuries of acquired wealth. All to keep you trapped. You turned back to them as they slammed the gate shut, locking it with shaking hands. Even now they feared you. As the cage was completed, you felt the magical field permeate you. Without a second thought, you knew that you would never leave this cage. Still, you gave your jailers one last look as they abandoned you to the darkness. "When your world ends, and everyone you love is dust, and you come back to me to save you... just know that it will be too late." Even from a distance, you could see right through the haughty brave faces they put on.
You remember. You remember every inch of your cage. How could you not? You've lived in the cage longer than you lived outside it, twice over and change. You stopped counting long ago, of course, but you can't help but remember every day of your imprisonment anyway. At night (whenever you choose for night to be), you dream of a strange young lad. He's a bit of an idiot, you've decided, despite his obvious intelligence. In your dreams, he can recite every individual chemical in any elixir he's seen, and yet couldn't for the life of him figure out why sneaking into someone's room in the middle of the night might cause that person some alarm. You sigh and turn towards the mirror. Many a day you've contemplated shattering this accursed tool. You're certain your captors are long since dead, and yet still their implements torture you. You see your face, the tiniest hints of age on your skin betrayed by your twisted, matted hair, grey and decayed. Despite nearly ten thousand years of life, you still feel strong and youthful. But you're trapped in this cage, and even with all your power, with millennia to consider and plan, you can never get yourself out. You'll be here forever.
Scattered
My memories are messy, choppy, like the dark waters of a storm. Flashes, faces, tearing through the shadows like a monster.
I remember. I remember a girl with blue eyes, scared and alone and so loved and she doesn't even know it. She sees everything but herself.
I remember. I remember an earthquake, the biggest one yet. For a moment I hear cracking and crashing, and I think my prison may collapse. It holds.
I remember. I remember a mind, a sweet mother providing love and guidance to the children she chose. Quite possibly the closest I've come to a kindred spirit across these lands, we had a lot in common for an elf and a rock.
I remember. I remember the expeditionary colony. Even farther north than the Diviner, both a test and an example of cooperation between the Clans and Zahras. I wonder what happened to them.
The Sun
I remember. I remember visiting every clan in turn, prostrating myself before them and subjecting myself to their rituals. Everyone agreed that the title of "Sovereign Sage" was befitting, but none of the clans could agree who should have claim to me. When I so foolishly and arrogantly suggested that I hold claim with all clans equally, they scoffed and guffawed and dismissed me. A month later, it was unanimously decided that I shall be beholden to each clan equally, and therefore must accept the rites and trials of each clan before taking the position. Typical. Even if they'd forgotten me, they certainly hadn't forgotten their boorish, spiteful ways. Unfortunately for them, I'd long outgrown such petty behavior. I'd complete each ritual, complete each trial, and take my place in Meridian to serve the people. The people, not the clans.
I remember. I remember beginning in Dran-Ur. The seven clans agreed on very little, but one uncontested fact was that the Dranuk were easily the least hospitable people, and Dran-Ur the most miserable clan holding. Presumably, they hoped to discourage me immediately. Always one to disappoint, I am. As it turns out, the Dranuk's rituals were as simple as they were deadly: one must simply travel south, slay a weirworm, and bring it back. The good news is, the people of Dran-Ur enjoy a fairly friendly relationship with the Sinistrals. The bad news is, they're in on it, and they know to attack on sight if they see someone with red warpaint... which, of course, is mandatory. I could have covered the markings with magic, but I spent some time in Dran-Ur before taking the trial, and in that time I gained a newfound respect for the people there. They were harsh, it's true, but they lived a harsh life, and that was mainly out of their control, as the bigger clans nearby had claimed the warmer lands. So I kept the warpaint, and instead used a different tactic; I turned the weirworm against its handlers. It was quite simple really, given what I had learned in the Expanse, and I ensured the Sinistrals all survived the attack. When I returned with my quarry, the whole clan gathered before a bonfire and consumed its blood (this was, apparently, also mandatory). It was... quite the experience, to be honest. I didn't know that weirworm blood is a powerful hallucinogen, but I certainly do now.
I remember. I remember the people of Clan Ceram. Hardy and hearty, their trial was a drinking contest. Once again, I found myself leaning on the magic I had learned, only to reject it. It was custom that one attempt to outdrink the entire clan, from the youngest (well, the youngest that were old enough to drink of course. They were no Kuen) to the oldest. The more you surpassed, the greater honor you earned for yourself. Naturally, I outdrank them all. The Empire had.... let's say lax views on intoxicants. It wouldn't be fair to say that they were a bawdy and vulgar people, but they certainly knew how to enjoy themselves and imparted that experience onto me.
I remember. I remember the Zora heartland. Their trial was similar to that of the Dranuk, but of a very different intention; one must feed the entire clan for one meal, in whatever way you can. I could have summoned a feast at my fingertips and ended the trial then and there, but it felt... wrong. And I had too much respect for the megafauna of the coast to hunt one; with magic, it wouldn't be a fair fight, and without it, I'd be the meal. So instead, I tilled the land. Nearly a decade I spent, whispering and coaxing and tending my crops, until I had a harvest bountiful enough to feed each man, woman, and child. To see the people feasting upon gourds and greens that I had planted and grown with my own two hands... well, let's just say the metaphor wasn't lost on me. Nor on them.
I remember. I remember Scalding Spear. The Teknadt were warriors born and bred, and so they put me into the arena and told it to me plain: beat the champion and I can leave. I spent seven years in the pits, learning everything the masters there would teach me, taking every beating, every lashing, until my body was as hard and sharp as my mind. It wasn't until I put my foot on the champion's throat and raised my weapon in the air, feeling the crowds chanting reverberating in my chest, that it even occurred to me that I could have bested him with magic on the first day. Though I extended my arm only to help him up, the champion held it for several moments as he looked into my eyes and nodded. His respect was rarely given, and even rarer earned.
I remember. I remember the bloody Kuen. Though they prided themselves on their supposed "advanced" society, the fact of the matter is that they operated in a vicious, bloodthirsty technocracy they styled as a meritocracy. Their trial was to present something that the elders couldn't explain. I deliberated for several weeks as to what I should show them. I knew many, many secrets from nations across the continent. But each of them had been entrusted to me and me alone. Was the Kuen's acceptance worth breaking the confidence of a hundred dead men and women? I decided no, it certainly was not. They may be gone now, but their hearts and minds live on within me. So I presented myself. A Naja orphan, exiled and forgotten for his lack of magic, returned over a millennium later with untold knowledge and impossible power. They hated it, oh boy did they hate it, but after a month of deliberations, they finally conceded that no, they couldn't explain me.
I remember. I remember Plainsong. I honestly expected their trial to be about growing food (which of course, I had experience with), but instead, I was assigned care over a pregnant woman and told that I would pass my trial on the child's twenty-fifth birthday. For the briefest moment I was ruffled at the waste of my time, but I was well into my eighteenth century by that point. Another quarter century was barely 1% of my lifetime thus far, was it truly that much of a cost? And, of course, by the time the girl was born, I already loved her as if she were my own. I stayed in contact with Chelha long after her 25th birthday, until she married that Kuen man and moved south. She kept sending me letters, but I somehow was too proud to give them the attention they deserved. When she passed in the fire, I mourned for a year and a day.
I remember. I remember returning home to Sungaze. Tch. Home. Four hundred years there hadn't felt like home, and fourteen hundred away hadn't changed that either. But when I stood in the center and felt the sun on my face, that blind hatred from my youth melted away like ice. into the cool, refreshing waters of forgiveness. I looked around at the faces of complete strangers, people who had never known the outcast boy and had never hated him for being different. When I left the seven sands, it was because I hated it and wanted to grow beyond it. When I returned, it was because I pitied it and wanted to see it "fixed" (whatever that meant). But now, after half a century of becoming one with the clans, I found myself... loving them. No hatred, no pity, just honest and genuine love. They cast me out because I was without power, and yet... though I now had great power, they had accepted me without my even using it. The same qualities that had once earned vitriol had now garnered respect and adoration. Ironic. In the council's eagerness to "teach me a lesson," they had inadvertently taught me something much more powerful: love, not just for my people, but for myself.
I remember. I remember laying out in the sun just before noon, accepting the poultices and potions that the priests gave to me. As it turns out, there's a lot of "sit out and do drugs" rituals out in the desert. But, this was my last trial, and although I had saved it for last for my dreading it, I now welcomed it with open arms. It still, however, came as quite a shock when I heard the sun speaking to me.
Mindos . Naraam . Meyz .
I turned to the priests around me, hoping for some sign of recognition, but they all had their heads bowed in silent prayer, their hands clasped together. I looked upwards into the light, and I heard it again. A bassy, reverberating sound, not unlike Khopiri and yet... a language, in a way that she could never hope to replicate.
~Mindos~ ~Naraam~ ~Meyz~
Learn... Grow... Become...
How did I...?
I turned and looked back at the priests, but I barely saw them before I fell thirty feet back down and lost consciousness. I didn't know it at the time, but this was my first experience with my true birthright, a magic far older than the rest of my people: Astéri, the pure magic of creation.
The Song
I remember. I remember hearing the song. In every second, in every word, in every breath, I could hear it on the very edges of my perception. Despite my generally collected exterior, it was difficult to keep it a secret. Asking everyone you come across "Can you hear that??" is not precisely a good way to come across as sane. Still, I did as much due diligence as I could. Subtly asked around, and came to the firm conclusion that no, nobody else could hear what I was hearing. Concerning.
I remember. I remember giving up and doing something I never thought I'd do: pray for help. In my travels, I'd met gods. Real gods, who provided divine magic to their followers, not the lip service "gods below" of my people. I wasn't a fan of the religion when it had been seemingly responsible for my suffering, and I had not grown an appreciation for it after coming to experience what I would consider "truer" religions, but at this point I was desperate. So I did something stupid: I prayed to the gods below. And, surprising none more than me, I received a vision- or, perhaps more accurately, a message. "Look not below, outcast. Look up." So I looked to the sky, and I saw the light.
I remember. I remember the way the sun felt on my skin as it bore down on me. Even on that first journey, I wondered if I was going insane. Staring into the sun focused the sound, tilted it from dischordant notes into the harmony of a word. I had but to follow that harmony and I would find.... I don't know. An answer, I hoped. A solution. An ending. Telling the council that I'd completed their trials was satisfying, but not quite as satisfying as telling them "Actually, I'll be back. I've still got some stuff to do." The looks on their faces were priceless, to be sure.
I remember. I remember where the song led me. Several miles northeast of Meridian. I'd later realize out that I was directly above the holdfast of the Archon Endra, known to the rest of my people as Armesza. But in those moments, all I could feel was the power. Like the focusing of a dozen or even a hundred different dimensions of energy, coalescing into what I needed the most.
NARAAM
~Naraam~
Grow.
As I spake the word, I felt it for the first time in weeks. Silence. The song was gone, and yet I could feel that the power to hear it was still within me. Now, however, it was my choice. My decision. And I decided to continue seeking, not for power but for curiosity.
I remember. I remember following the song once more, south, nearly eighty miles, until I could hear the thrum of power coalescing once more. This time, however, I did not slake my thirst immediately. I allowed myself to observe, to study, to learn. My initial assumptions, it seemed, were much more accurate than I had expected. It seemed to be a sort of ley line node, except with far more intersecting lines than should normally be possible. The main throughline, which I had begun to sense, was a massive cord of pure power that seemed to run all the way from Endra Hold to where I was, and continue onwards. At this particular point, however, a vast array of ley from what I can only assume are magical dimensions far different from our mortal world intersect, which must have been what allowed me to access this higher understanding of the song. Excited to test a new hypothesis, I opened myself up to the convergence, absorbing the knowledge of a new word, a new truth.
RO
~Ro~
Balance.
I remember. I remember approaching Cirvinnos Hold (oft known as the Hinterclaw), no longer following the music but instead my own memories of the maps that Omoro had once shown me. I was quite sure that the first convergence I'd found had been above Endra Hold, but this would be the test. I entered the hold with great respect, explaining to the enigmatic Archon that I was merely visiting and wanted only to pay my respects. But the truth was, I needed to familiarize myself with the layout. And as I returned to the sands above, as I walked to the point directly above where Cirvinnos lay, I proved my hypothesis true. Precisely where I expected, I found the very same ley line of power that I had left well over 200 miles to my east, and another convergence at this precise point. It seemed, consciously or not, that the Archons had arrayed themselves along this deeply potent ley line. Were the convergences responsible for their particular choices of homes, or did the convergences arise because of the Archons' presence? At least one convergence was wholly unconnected to an Archon, so it would stand to reason that they can exist without Archons. Regardless, two data points is a line, but three is a trend. Khemra Hold wasn't too far, and I needed to know. Preparing to continue my journey, I stepped into the convergence.
NAHLOT
~Nahlot~
Silence.
I remember. I remember the great golden dragon, welcoming me with open arms (figuratively, of course). It seemed he expected me, which I did find somewhat surprising. I knew the Archons must have some way of communicating, but I'd honestly expected it to simply be messengers and travelers. Perhaps they were all connected in a deeper, more profound way than I thought? Khemra Hold had an interesting surprise awaiting me, however. Although it was indeed a node of a deeply powerful ley line, it was actually wholly separate from the one I'd previously followed from Endra to Cirvinnos. A fascinating idea, that two (or perhaps even three!) ley lines of such deep potential arced their way through the land. I briefly entertained the idea of an intersection between them and the kinds of magic that could be wrought from such energy, but I quickly dismissed it. I was no conqueror, and I had no need for such strength. But this convergence at Khemra, which indeed I found exactly where I expected, taught me that I was correct. And that was all I needed.
KREIN
~Krein~
Sun.
Exuvia
I remember. I remember the letters sitting on my desk for nearly half a decade, unanswered in any meaningful way. "Dearest Sovereign Sage, My lord the Archon of Courage humbly requests a return visit from you some time soon. His Eminence Silvermeyn delights in your presence and feels it has been far too long since the Hold has been graced with your kind, wondrous personage and, if I may be so bold, I should be delighted to meet such a powerful and respected figure in my people's recent history. Should you find the time, the Archons would be endlessly grateful and I promise your past kindness will be returned twelvefold. With warmest regards, Prime Adeptus Maya of Silvermeyn." I was so busy with my own work, keeping the Clans in check and looking after the people in ways the council would not, that I simply couldn't find the time. Each letter received its response, a terse but embarrassed "thank-you" and regretful acknowledgement that I couldn't leave my post at the moment. I was too caught up to read between the lines, to see the desperate request for help hidden within the casual request for a friendly visit. Why should all twelve Archons be thankful for a casual visit between friends? The only reason I eventually ended up going was the kind (but pointed) allegation that perhaps I was working too hard and needed a vacation. They were right, of course, but that visit was no vacation.
I remember. I remember arriving to the rocky crag that marked Vrindr's home. I was surprised to find another sledge parked outside it, but not nearly as surprised as I was by its make. It was not a sandsailer of waverider design; it was instead a fairly simple sled, large enough only to hold a single cabin for two. At its front was a pair of ropes, attached to a massive worm that looked remarkably similar to Endra (save for the size, of course), which awaited patiently and docile in the sand. A Zarasi bioform, as beautiful and deadly as ever I've seen, basking quietly in the sun like a perfectly-trained lap dog. Their civilization had evolved rapidly in the past century, although few elves were as acutely aware of it as I; even my understanding, however, was lagging behind the truth it seemed. I hadn't heard of any anadi traveling this far east (or south, for that matter) before, and my mind was already aflutter with the possibilities. A coincidence? A wild one, if it were. A lone pair of adventurers exploring the "untamed" southern desert? Unlikely, with a creature of that size. The food cost in raising such a creature alone could bankrupt an average Zarasi covert, let alone the design requirements. Someone of rank, then? But why travel so simply, an unadorned and unmarked sledge, to the farthest reaches of the dune sea? There are three Archons with the Expanse, and another six that are closer and easier to access than Vrindr. As I descended the hidden passage, I was lost in thought.
I remember. I remember meeting the first of the two anadi present, a woman by the name of Alesha. The name immediately struck me, but I gave no indication of recognition. She seemed quite uncomfortable with being here, and was not particularly interested in conversation with me, deftly dodging and avoiding my casual interrogation. She did, however, let slip the only other hint I needed to understand the situation: the other passenger was her brother. So it was that, when the smiling young Maya guided me to the Archon's chamber, I was not surprised to see the Master Rex, appointed lord of the Zarasi civilization, standing with his arms crossed before the great white dragon. He was similarly unbewildered by my arrival.
I remember. I remember the Archon's speech, slow and thoughtful and careful. Often he would glance to Arteshe, almost nervously; despite having only met Vrindr a short handful of times, this behavior was entirely alien to me. The Archon of Courage, the most powerful god among gods and sole savior of his civilization, hadn't ever once given even the slightest hint of anything besides utter confidence. But here, now, he seemed meek and... afraid. Not just of what he was telling me, but of the anadi's mere presence in this hallowed chamber. "Rainen..." spake the dragon, his glowing blue eyes impossible to read. "You are... aware of my people's past, yes? Of the Archon Wars?" I nodded slowly, mimicking his nervous glance to Arteshe. "Once, the Archons battled across the planet in a destructive war that nearly led the world to ruin, a holy war over a powerful relic called the Exuvia, until you took a stand and called a cease of hostilities with the last eleven of your brothers and sisters." I recited perfectly what Vrindr had once explained to me in this very room, and he shook his head. "This is... mostly true," he explained. "In the beginning, there were ten-thousand-and-one of us. But we were not gods then, only monsters. Monsters built for war, for glorious battle." His muscles tensed as he breathed in and out slowly. I understood, in that moment, the truth of his words; I could sense not only the pain of his past actions, but the sadness he felt. Not for what he had done, but for the fact that he had stopped. I wondered how many Archons Vrindr had killed with his own talons and fangs, and how the drive for death within him must burn every fiber of his being, every second of every day. I thought I was powerful for overcoming my weak, mundane nature, but this... this was real power. A creature of death that had chosen life, of war that had chosen peace, and the desire he fought at every waking moment. But this was not the biggest revelation of my evening, not by a long shot.
I remember. I remember Vrindr explaining what he and the other Archons had learned, what sick discovery had prompted his desperate but quiet cries for help from me, the only outsider the Archons felt they could trust. I looked on in horror, not just at what he told me, but at the Master Rex, standing silent and unperturbed throughout the entire speech. Why, I wondered, was Arteshe here for this? Had Vrindr become so desperate for my help that, his calls unanswered, he turned to Zahras instead? But my confusion was swiftly allayed only to be replaced with more: Arteshe had been the one to reveal that cruel truth to the Archons. "Vi Talas," he said, "the greatest mind of my people, is the one who figured it out." He looked at me expecting my understanding, and I shook my head. "But... ho-" I tried to ask, but the anadi man cut me off rather abruptly. "Trust me when I say, Sovereign Sage, that if I even tried to explain it to you, you still wouldn't understand. But he's never wrong." I sat in silence for a few moments. I couldn't help but feel that these... "war" minds his people had created were a bastardization of their first elder, Khopiri, a creature I considered more fondly than perhaps I should, even despite her flat denial of it when I asked her. But this truth, however it had been discovered, was not taken lightly: indeed, it seemed that upon hearing it, the Archons themselves understood it to be true, even as outlandish as it qppeared. "So now... you know." said Vrindr. "And thus my request... please. Help us. We cannot allow this to happen, no matter the cost."
I remember. I remember leaving Vrindr with a promise, a pale gift but all I could dare to offer at the time. A solution to save an entire civilization, an entire race, and quite possibly the world itself. All worlds, even; the true breadth of consequences was impossible to predict. Arteshe stopped me outside, putting his hand on my chest so roughly that it knocked me entirely out of my stupor and nearly led me to conflict then and there; luckily my instincts were suppressed quickly enough, and I looked him in the eye. "There's something else we need to discuss. Equally as urgent," he said, his expression as hard as steel. I felt myself scoff unintentionally; what could possibly be as urgent as this revelation? But as I took in the slight grays of his beard, the severity of his gray eyes softened in the slightest by the arc of his eyebrows, I realized that I was seeing a fairly young man who was being crushed by the weight of responsibility, of revelation far beyond his years. I relented and followed him to a quiet meditation room nearby. "There's catastrophe coming," Arteshe said quietly. "Not just what Silver- sorry, Vrindr was talking about. Still not used to the idea that they've been lying to us about their names this whole time... But something's coming, something that threatens everyone on the planet. "Five thousand years of death and darkness" kind of catastrophe. And we..." Arteshe let out a shuddering sigh, and for the first time his tough exterior shattered into a million pieces as he looked down and collapsed backwards into the wall to support his weight. "We can't stop it." Furrowing my brows, I instinctively reached out a hand to his shoulder before catching myself. "But... surely we can, my friend." I said meekly, before clearing my throat and repeating with confidence, "Whatever it is, tell me and we'll figure it out. I haven't met a problem yet that I haven't been able to solve-"
I remember. I remember him cutting me off, throwing his hands into the air before sitting on the meditation seat, head in his hands, defeat in his heart. "You don't... you don't understand, Sage. It's... inevitable. When I say we can't stop it, I don't mean it's a big problem or that it's tough. I mean we can't. No matter what we do, no matter how hard we try, it will happen." In his shaking breaths, I saw a broken man who had been shouldering this burden for years. I couldn't help but empathize. Wordlessly, I sat next to him and put an arm around him. "I don't... I still don't understand..." I offered slowly, and he took a deep breath. "You're exiled by the Council of Meridian for heresy against the Gods Below. Chelha's daughter survives long enough to have a grandson of her own, and she names him after you. He kills Khopiri. Greyhawk is the first Archon to die. You're buried in an unadorned grave a few hundred yards from Diviner V. And I send my best friend to die in a hole a hundred miles away from his wife and unborn child." As he choked out the last few words between sobs, I felt my mind swimming in confusion. All I could let out was, "But... Chelha doesn't... have a daughter..." Arteshe wiped the tears from his face and sniffled. "Today's her birthday," he said.
I remember. I remember leaving Vrindr Hold in a daze. The things Vrindr had told me had been difficult to handle, but possible. What Arteshe told me, however, had stunned me utterly. He wouldn't explain how he "knew" these things that had not yet happened, but I could guess. By the time we left that room, I felt closer to him than I had been with any other person in my entire life. His sister was relieved to finally be leaving, having not the slightest clue the earth-shattering discussions that had taken place hardly around the corner from her comfortable, plush waiting room. The days of journey back to Meridian washed past like leaves in the rivers, and I found myself at my desk looking at a letter. Addressed to nonno Rainen, from nilinaChelha. She and her husband had welcomed a child into the world, a girl. Yllia.
I remember. I remember studying for nearly a decade. Keeping in contact with Arteshe, with the Adepti. Searching anywhere, everywhere, for some way to protect the Archons. Not just from what they feared, but from what I knew was coming. At the depths of my despair, I went north to Inhamex, to beg Arteshe for answers. We found comfort and solace of a kind in each other, the only two people on the continent who could understand each other's burdens. But I found no answer, because there was no answer. I couldn't save them. It was inevitable, just as Arteshe had told me. So I offered to Vrindr the only solution I had: hide. Remove themselves from the world, hope to be forgotten, and in that silence and nothingness perhaps there may finally be peace. The Archons conferred, and came to agreement; they would sacrifice themselves, their entire civilization, to protect that secret. Vrindr, I think, was the only one to see through me. I can't imagine, then, why he went through with it. I was with him as he laid himself to that deep Dreaming, the tears flowing freely as I watched creatures I considered friends and allies, agents of good, effectively throw themselves upon the pyre for the lie I sold them. The most powerful man on the continent, I thought to myself with cold tears of rage. I slew a whole civilization, a whole race, and quite possibly the world itself with nothing more than my words.
The Pharaoh
I remember. I remember when the Council of XIV doomed my people. I had skipped the last few council meetings before that one... closer to a dozen, if I'm being honest. I'd always had a distaste for politics in general, and the Council members in specific, and after so many centuries it had become quite clear that my presence was rarely required (and my advice even more rarely heeded). My work was better done in my spire, or out among the people, so it was for mutual benefit that I mostly ignored the Council. But that day, my participation was explicitly requested, so I obliged. I was quite surprised when I saw Aleriia in the chambers, and even more so when I was made aware of the justification for her presence.
I remember. I remember the design of the Council. Seven sands, seven clans. Two representatives chosen from each clan, one to speak for the people and one to speak for the land. In theory, this meant that everyone got equal representation and the desert sea upon which we lived would be kept safe and well. In practice, the speakers of the sands (selected randomly by lot from all those living in a region once a decade) were rarely qualified enough to actually champion their intended causes nor invested enough in the democracy of our land to do much besides enjoy the lavish benefits of the Council seat. On the other hand, the speakers of the clans were more often than not lifelong politicians who campaigned harshly against any opponents who might threaten their centuries-long reign on the Council. A system riddled with flaws which I had once worked tirelessly to dismantle before eventually relenting that I'd likely never enact any sort of meaningful change on my stubborn people. In fact it was that same melancholy of failure that had been responsible for my eleven-year absence from Council meetings. A cruelty, that what should have been my moment of triumph was twisted and turned against me, against all of elfkind.
I remember. I remember Aleriia. At first we had much in common, almost startlingly so. She was of the humble Talis family of clan Naja, a family which had unfortunately suffered a catastrophic tragedy nearly a century prior of which Aleriia, just barely a breath before reaching adulthood, had been the only survivor. She also suffered a fairly unique affliction amongst our people; born without the spark of magic. A Naja orphan without magic. Had she been born a mere two thousand years prior, she would have been the same pariah I was; hated, disgusting, tossed aside while those around her hoped she would show the decency to starve herself to death and save society from suffering her presence. But now? Why, the Sovereign Sage himself was born without magic, didn't you know? Aprimality was a sad but surmountable disability in modern society. A mere disadvantage. She was living proof that I had made positive change, and a part of me loved her for it. Far more parts of me loved her for far more reasons.
I remember. I remember her tragedy. I had, like most, heard much of the terrible explosion in Sungaze that had nearly annihilated the line of Talis (and, in fact, had annihilated four others, and devastated another dozen). In truth, I was there. I shielded the rest of the town from the falling debris with my magic, and as soon as the sky was clear I rushed into the cratered district to look for survivors. I pulled nine screaming survivors out of the glass and sand that evening, although Aleriia was not one of those I personally rescued. Theories abounded in the regrettably gossip-heavy wider culture of Meridian; a Kuen project gone awry, a wild terror attack from the so-called Dreamers of Nexos, or even a divine smiting of some terrible criminal by the gods below. Ultimately no conclusion was ever reached, a fact which I never forgot. I realize, now, that the solution was painfully obvious.
I remember. I remember first meeting her. Ninety-six years later to the day, I was in Sungaze working to restore a pair of crop fields that had suddenly gone blighted. I was nearly outside the town, on my way to the crater to pay my respects (as Sungaze returned to this area each year, it slowly distanced itself from that tragic reminder of its past) when I saw a woman already standing there. I silently joined her, not wishing to interrupt her, but she spoke first, idly saying that she came here every year to remember what she lost. I remarked that it was somewhat distressing, how quickly an ostensibly-immortal people forget the past and wondered aloud if it was a conscious choice. She turned, smiled at me, and left me to my own devices. That evening, as I visited the affected families to provide them the food that had been lost to them, I saw her again. I would have recognized her stunning green eyes anywhere even from our short meeting at the edge of the crater. The kind smile on her face as she beat me to my own game: delivering food to the victims. We shared a tragic beginning, we shared a passion for making our world better and brighter, and eventually we would come to share a bed.
I remember. I remember the argument that tore us apart. We'd tried for over two hundred years to poke and prod, change our society for the better. Me from my position with the Council, her as a citizen traveling the sands teaching, preaching, and beseeching. And at the end of it all, we had nothing to show for it. Not a single one of the XIV would pass even one vote in my favor, and the people at large, despite adoring Aleriia, would never move themselves to act on her words. I was nonetheless determined to keep at our work; I'd proven with my very life that patience was a genuine strategy, that with time I could make change. But Aleriia had grown impatient. The problem, she told me, was the Council. Everything we do, every inch we fight for, is stolen away by their backwards, selfish rule. I even agreed with her, mostly, but I ignored the firebrand way she spoke of it until she finally whispered what I never imagined she could. You could get rid of them, she told me. With a snap of your fingers, the Council could be dust and you could rule the seven sands. Imagine! A ruler that actually cares for each and every one of his subjects as if they were his own family, because they are! A ruler with not only the mind of a philosopher, not only the heart and love of a father, but the power to make the world better, safer! Our people do not need an atrophied leg accomplishing nothing but propping itself up, we need a fist, a Pharaoh, to grasp greatness and pull us all to it! We need you, Rainen. She broke my heart that night when she spake that, but I fear I broke something far worse of hers when I commanded her leave: her shackles.
I remember. I remember the beginning of my end. The speaker of Zora brought the meeting to order. Our house, he said, has been divided and weak for too long. It is time that the seven sands become one, for the good of all its people. I was silent, not in fear or dread, but in sadness. It was clear in an instant that the knife had already been slipped between my ribs with exacting precision, the betrayal complete as the only person I'd ever truly loved stabbed me in the back in the worst possible way. This Council, he continued, will now vote to install Aleriia Talis Naja as the first great Pharaoh of the Seven Sands. The vote was, naturally, unanimous. Aleriia's deep green eyes were tinged with what I hoped were tears of heartache as she quietly accepted the throne she had wished for me. No dark smile, no twisted sense of pride or accomplishment. Just our shared grieving of what had been, what could have been, and what we've become. Shared, but divorced. Disconnected. Broken in a way that can never be mended.
The Mother Stone
I remember. I remember the first time I met the Mother Stone. Even the existence of the Realm of Zahras was widely hidden for much of my life (although, for better or worse, that was changing); the ancient history of the Zarasi people, however, was a deeply-veiled secret even to many of their own scholars. One such scholar, however, was chosen to impart this secret history to me in Dahnar, their most beautiful covert beneath an oasis. In an age long since past, the scholar told me, an empire long since forgotten ruled over much of both Mustatra and Huraon. Ruled by vicious tusked humanoids, that forgotten empire conquered and enslaved not only the lands of Alyabis, but the underlands as well. The anadi were one such underground people, a small but thriving community which was brutally enslaved by an enterprising warlord in the region.
I remember. I remember the reverence with which the anadi scholar spoke of his ancient ancestors. The anadi then, he said, did not have humanoid forms; they were only arachnids, and they were a kind and peaceful people. The warlords crushed their egg clutches and destroyed their arts and histories until nothing remained but the colorful hairs on their bodies and the words in their hearts. So, the anadi adapted; in the throes of their species-wide servitude, they adopted an oral history, their people's memories made immortal through story and song. They spun ornate weavings and curtains out of their silk, knowing that their lords would tear and burn them down but they would simply weave them once again. The anadi slaves were spread across the region, prized for their physical adaptations; they were made to excavate and mine, using their legs to traverse strange caverns and their web to fortify weak tunnels. But all across the expanse, the anadi's hearts stayed true and much of their culture remained intact.
I remember. I remember the hushed tones as the scholar continued. Only a few decades after the coming of the warlords, a child was born who would come to be hailed as the savior of her people. She was called Zahra, the flower which would bloom into who we are today. Zahra, as a young girl, discovered in her explorations a peculiar crimson rock, which sang songs to her when she was lonely or sad. An orphan from infancy, Zahra came to call this rock Khopa, or "watchful mother." As she grew, Zahra was forced into the mines like the rest of her people, where she discovered another, smaller red rock much like her khopa. Despite the risk, Zahra hid the rock and took it to her khopa, placing it against the larger rock. As Zahra sang with Khopa, it absorbed the new rock and its song became just a little bit brighter. So Zahra decided that she would keep collecting the khopa and bringing it home to mother.
The attentions of the empire had long since passed from their homeland, but the local warlords kept the anadi people (and a dozen other races) oppressed and enslaved as much from spite as necessity.
I remember. I remember the entire cavern thrumming with excitement as the story moved forward. Before long, Khopa began to speak with Zahra. Not in words, at least the way we use them now, but with her song. Zahra listened to Khopa's song and understood Khopa's frustration and empathy, angry at Zahra's plight and with the warlords that had brought such great suffering. As Khopa grew and grew, it became harder for Zahra to find more of the red rock. So she did what any anadi would, and turned to her community. In a year, the story of Khopa the kind rock had spread across all the anadi slaves across the continent, and a thriving system of hidden transport ensured that all the red rock found by nearly any anadi was secreted away and delivered to Khopa, who sang her songs of strength and hope to any who would listen.
I remember. I remember the thrumming growing quiet. Khopa, said the scholar, had far outgrown the small shard of life it had once been, and Zahra was the speaker to a grand cathedral of blood stone. The anadi never worshipped Khopa, not truly; but just as young Zahra had once called her, the kind mother Khopa listened to the plights of all her children, sang songs of love and encouragement, and offered as much guidance as she could offer. Inevitably, however, the underground movement was discovered; no anadi would dare give up their community, but the warlords used twisted magic to hunt down the source of their slaves' quiet rebellion. Zahra, giving her last speech to her community and family beneath the watchful hulk of Khopa, said that she would give herself up to the warlords to protect the rest of their people. Khopa, thrumming with a deep rage and fear, sang a song she had never sung before nor has she since; a song of mourning, sacrifice, and death. Khopa blessed Zahra with a kiss and she went to the surface, giving herself willingly to the cruel overlords which crucified and burned her.
I remember. I remember the darkness in the scholar's eyes, the imperceptible bass vibrating through my bones. Zahra burned, but in the flame she bloomed into a burning rebellion, the kind that the warlords could never have foreseen. In a week, each of the warlords that have overseen Zahra's execution were dead and thousands more were sick. In a month, all the mines in Mustatra had been closed as the warlords desperately fled the scouring plague which left them burning and rotting in the sunlight. In a year, the empire was dead, what few survivors remained had fled to the planet's edges to escape the sun. The millions of enslaved people were unscathed, immune to whatever wasting disease had claimed their captors. And all the while, until the last flag of the forgotten empire was reduced to ash, Khopa sang her song of death.
I remember. I remember a sorrowful, hopeful song reverberating through the walls. In the aftermath of Zahra's rebellion, all the anadi people fled to Khopa, their once-small community returned as one at last in a far larger congregation than had ever happened before. As Khopa's song of death came to an end, it evolved into a new song, a song of hope and love and guidance. The anadi stayed with Khopa, and over years eventually they began to understand her as Zahra once did. They understood the hope that Khopa sang for, the vision of a future as one people that she and Zahra had wished for, and they sang the song of hope, the yamiri, along with her.
I remember. I remember the cavern song growing, rising with both intensity and beauty as the scholar continued. A generation passed, and then another, and before long none yet lived who remembered Zahra, only children born to a life without chains. But the song endured, the mother stone remembered, and so when their cavern was full and it was time to spread their seeds back to the now-emptied mines their ancestors had once worked, the anadi took with them the song of hope and the memory of a blossoming flower. They called themselves the land of flowers, and sang the song of the hopeful mother, and they remembered the scars inflicted upon them by those of the surface world. The Realm of Zahras, as it would come to be known, spread far across the land we now call the Expanse, and though many leagues separated their settlements, they each remembered Khopiri, the Mother Stone which they had fostered and which had, in turn, gone to war on their behalf.
I remember. I remember the scholar concluding his story, guiding me in to a small chamber with a person-sized crystal of the red mineral, genesion, reaching down from the ceiling above a large bowl of sand. A series of loud, metallic notes played in sequence, vibrating the sand in such particular ways that it formed into words in aleanka. Without even reading, the scholar smiled. "She likes you," he said matter-of-factly.
I remember. I remember meeting with Master Saanvi many years later, in that beautiful cavern beneath the oasis. I'd never met Saanvi in person, but we had exchanged several letters before now, most recently in which she alluded to an important project and asked for my input on several odd topics. Now, with her masterwork on display before me, I could understand her secrecy. "Hello, Sovereign Sage Rainen Kalles Naja," a head-sized grey beetle 'said' to me in a stilted voice a few moments after the great mound of flesh had blasted sound like a horn, "It is wonderful to finally meet you." I recognized the sound; it was the same "language" that the genesion "spoke" in… No, I was being rather insensitive I realized. It was the same language, that Khopiri did indeed speak. A language all but impossible for a being like me to intone, but perfect for a rather hulking chunk of living metal… or a creature with no discernible limbs or sensory organs.
I remember. I remember Master Saanvi explaining to me the principles and ideals that had led her on such a radical journey of creation. At first, I admit I was not only confused but alarmed; even being familiar with the "warforms" that existed already, being shown a colossal "warmind" meant to "guide" their nation was a startling and worrisome prospect. But Saanvi reminded me of their ancient history, of the horrors from which Khopiri had delivered them. It seemed obvious, I realized, that for the anadi, "war" was something that someone else did on their behalf, to protect them. An unfortunate consequence, of course, of the translation between languages with wildly different cultural bases, but one that was eminently understandable if one had the correct knowledge. The warforms which covered the surface were the physical shield, a barrier which protected their nation; the warmind, then, would be a shield of their minds, their culture, their souls.
I remember. I remember looking Master Saanvi in the eye, waiting for the punchline which never came. "You… you must be joking, Mis- Master Saanvi," I corrected myself. "You want to make another Vi Dahnar?" She was quick to correct me. "Oh, no, not another one of him. Different ones. Probably seven or eight of them, to be safe." I collapsed into the seat that she had provided for me, the day's revelations far from over it seemed. The great warmind spoke up, quickly translated for our benefits by two of the beetles; one for aleanka, one for primieri. "Despite your many strengths and accomplishments, Master Sage, would you trust yourself to singlehandedly take responsibility for the entirety of your people's culture, your histories, and all the myriad opinions and works that every elf has created? I do not believe that I alone could capture all the facets of what it means to be Zarasi, and Master Saanvi agrees."
I remember. I remember finding a private perch at one of the highest points in Dahnar, a place where I could be with Khopiri in private. I sat down, leaning up against the velvet stone as I spoke aloud to her. "The more I think on it… the more it makes sense. Whether in Dahnar or elsewhere, they've always had you watching over them. I can't say there's not a… a beautiful symmetry to it, to a network of more creatures like you. Watching over them, guiding them like a parent. But… well, not to be crass but… shouldn't one make children, not parents?" The rock tickled my neck, and I relented. "Alright alright, maybe the metaphor needn't be extended quite so far. But, still. Khopiri, tell me now, where there's no one to hear or judge you. Are you okay with this? Do you think this is a good idea?" In a moment, I sunk ever so slightly into the red stone, a quiet and relaxing tune vibrating through me and nearly putting me to sleep as the stone gently massaged my neck and shoulders. I had my answer, it seemed.
I remember. I remember laying a stack of a dozen scrolls on the table in front of Saanvi the next morning. "Step one, redundancy. If you want them to be connected, then over the span of the region a single root won't work. You're going to need dozens, maybe hundreds; if a single stray shovel or gnarly earthquake can isolate every covert in your nation, that's a problem." Saanvi raised her eyebrows in mild surprise, but as I spoke she began nodding along and taking notes.
"You'll also, I expect, need a means of communication throughout the realm. For the sake of security, I'm guessing you don't want every warmind message to be delivered to every citizen every time, that leaves us with a bespoke communication room in each covert, likely under the supervision of the local Master Reeve. And the master Author, of course, to ensure the biological components are maintained." Saanvi placed a hand on her forehead, muttering "Of course…" to herself.
"And finally," I continued slowly, "That liquid you told me about. Zoiqualine. If you're planning on handing over so many major pieces of infrastructure and defense to the warminds… then you should retain control over their food. I neither recommend nor endorse using starvation as a tool for control over any group of sapient creatures, but in the event of a dire emergency…" I trailed off, suddenly aware of the presence of the first such sapient creature I was suggesting may one day need starved as a tool for control. A booming reverberation broke the silence, translated moments later by the beetles.
"I agree. One of the other warminds may some day decide that it knows better than the rest of us, or better than you. A point of failure is a point of security; but, in the same vein, there should be a backup. One unknown to the warminds, to be used only if Dahnar is compromised."
And so it was decided that yet another nation's most critical secret was entrusted to me. That secret, like every other, is one I still remember.
