End of Empires - N3S III

Written by Thlayli, posted by me

Prologue - The Council with No Name

“The sea is a web, and I am the spider.”

-Taracis the Cruel, Founder of the Vellari Exatai

A grated walkway made from cast iron traversed the sulfurous hall where the blood of the world was made.

Forged in an Alman blast furnace and assembled here from a thousand pieces, it was a marvel of engineering that no traveler would ever visit and admire. It was suspended over six giant furnace-vats of molten gold and silver, from which eddies in the metallic current cast up acrid fumes and billows of smoke.

The room was dimly lit, but the pools of liquid metal cast off their own light, lending a bright sheen to masks of metal and birthing shadows in corners and in the folds of a robe.

One by one, dull figures appeared in anonymous clothing, standing several paces apart from one another on the walkway, resting their hands on the railings. They did not acknowledge each other’s presence, and the occasional monitors tending to the forges and the vats in their quilted padding walked around them as if they did not exist.

After a long while, one of them spoke, the junior by tradition. She had a high, clear voice, bound to discredit her.

“The tapestry is about to fray, brothers. Our fathers’ foes are moving.”

They turned to watch as a siphon opened in one of the great vats, and a trickle of liquid gold poured down into a slim trough, spreading lines of fire across a latticed grid before drip, drip, dripping into circular molds.

“And Alxas does nothing, as ever.” The first speaker finished. “He mistakes caution for prudence.”

“And that is to our benefit, Sister Velexi, as it has always been.” The second speaker was old, very old, but his voice was filled with passion. “The Vellari are a façade that we allow to exist. The exatai-ta-nuccia, that is the true power, and it extends from Parthe to Dula. Empires have lived and died in its shadow, and their petty struggles concern us not.”

The speaker raised a quivering finger on an ancient palsied hand, like a master Oracle lecturing his acolytes. “The Karganai and the Saivekki cover themselves in our silk and get drunk on our wine. Let these dogs continue to be fed by our hand, and bark at another.”

“Brother Atteri is right,” said a third speaker, “and also wrong. Our chains of paper and ink hold Kargan and Athsarion in check, but that does not mean that they would not break them. Our factors may walk openly in Kargan, and the Karganai may allow it. But I was a factor once, brothers. Even as they traded with me and smiled with their mouths, their eyes were filled with hate.”

“Gold may rule, but do not forget the Satar lesson.”

They all knew the Satar lesson.

“Gold is covered in blood.”

“But despite their hate, Brother Rutarri, all our whisperers now say the Zalkephai are the flame that attracts the flies,” replied a fourth speaker, a squat, broad-shouldered man with an amethyst earring. “Let them tear each other to shreds as we profit from their foolishness.” He laughed. “Imagine it! Heretics and Aitahists killing each other while we sell to both sides? We could not devise a better outcome!” Several others nodded or murmured in assent, though Velexi exhaled in frustration.

The meeting turned to other matters, of internal disputes and the scraps of intelligence they considered cheap enough to share for free. After a time they dispersed one by one, having agreed to nurture Alxas’ caution and paranoia as they always had, to pursue their old ventures and renew their old policies, but never again to be caught off guard, like Nephrax before the walls of ancient Neruss. It was nothing new.

But two of them lingered on the walkway as the great vats finally finished their emptying into the lattice lines.

“Brother Kelekephi,” said the young woman who had spoken resentfully against Alxas’ cautiousness.

“Sister Velexi,” rumbled Kelekephi, a great bear of a man whose dark bristly beard protruded from under his mask. “You did not speak much against them,” said the larger man.

“They do not understand exatas,” replied Velexi. “They say that when Taracis spoke, you were enthralled and awakened. You were less than a slave. You were an object in his hand to be used.”

Kelekephi grunted in assent, a low melodic hum. “Exatas changes everything.”

Velexi knew that they would not be overheard. This place’s workers were too well paid, and too well watched. But even so, her eyes darted to the side out of force of habit.

“Who, then?”

Kelekephi spoke slowly and deliberately. “He is before our eyes, Sister Velexi.”

The realization hit Velexi like a thunderclap. “Not...the Zakraphetas?”

Kelekephi nodded slowly. “But we must forge him. Like we forge these.”

As he gestured, the workers finally scurried forward with hammers and chisels, prying apart the iron molds into which the gold had been poured to cool. As they looked down from the walkway, hundreds of coins glittered in the twilight, each bearing the shining name and motto of High Prince Alxas-ta-Vantyris. ESVET.

“You know the old men will fight us,” said Velexi.

“I am a banker who wields a hammer,” said Kelekephi. “Let them try.”
 
They're moving.

Let them. More fools they.

The potential for disruption is considerable. Many plans might be upset. We should act.

Any one scheme is expendable, no matter how much you may be in love with your own cleverness. The design does not care.

The risk is still considerable. We have waited too long. I won't do nothing.

He's right. We can nudge things without causing any unpleasantness.

Nudge? I did not say nudge. You both put too much faith in our abilities. He's unstable; more than a nudge is required.

The right death in the right place? You always did lack imagination.

The simplest methods are often the best.

And what could be simpler than watching?

We have watched for long enough.

It is too soon, and you know it. We will not jeopardize the design for impatience.

As it stands we could lose. Just a piece, maybe, but still a piece. Let me nudge, then, if you insist, so that we cannot.

As you wish. I know you will do it whatever I say. Your man is up to the task?

He is nothing if not capable.

Fine. But do not go too far. The white man walks, the grey lady runs, and the bear is stirring. We're close. Don't forget it.

*****​
Any fool can disappear. The real trick is coming back

-Found graffitied in Concourse chamber. Perpetrator unknown. Investigation ongoing.
 
BSmith1068 said:
Thanks. I think I am more interested in either the Hariha, or the more balanced Ayase or Yensai. Can I get a quick cliff’s notes brief on these guys?
Click to expand...

Definitely.

Hariha is a breakaway state from old Noaunnaha, the seafarers whose sway once extended from the current Hariha lands to the Trahana Empire. They retain something of the meritocratic, democratic government of their homeland -- the Ship-Captains each have a say in the government, and the most powerful among them rule through the Council at Hariha itself, which is a bustling trading port on the Sunset Ocean. Merchants from the country ply their wares as far north as Tin Tan Tar, where they buy silk, lacquerware, and other such luxuries, and take them as far south as the Airendhe (on the eastern side of the Trahana), where they buy tea and spices. It is rich, quite prosperous, and has a troubled relationship with the native tribes inland on the peninsula, who don't particularly like how they've been marginalized.

The Ayase of Gaci is a little complicated. The Holy Moti Empire used to rule here, but it fell apart over the course of the update. Lacking faith or a protector, the people of this region turned to the ideas of the Aitahists to the north, who promised, on the one hand, the favor of the Lady Aitah, on the other hand, freedom for the Godlike nobility to do what they want (the Godlikes are a strange bunch of nobility who claim to be descended from animal gods in the distant past, most prominently the Elephant, Cow, and Horse families), and on the third hand, military support. They've maintained a militant independence despite frequent hostility from the Kothari, and obviously the Grandpatriarchy, who view them as apostates. They aren't too fond of the Yensai Chiefdom, either. But they have a strong relationship with the Carohans, and sometimes peace or even treaties with the Ashelai and Kothari, who are both fairly pragmatic. They are ruled by a Senate on a pseudo-Seshweay model.

The Yensai Chiefdom is similar, without the Aitahist component. It is much more focused on the traditional clan structure of the old Uggor peoples (the Uggor being the dominant ethnicity in the Holy Moti Empire), and is ruled by a Council of Chiefs. They have a little more breathing room, and are more focused towards waterborne trade, though they are still hemmed in by the same foes. They are also Iralliamite, which means they have plenty of coreligionists around... though Iralliam is undergoing a schism right now.
 
Rihnit Leadership
​
Jagarakaso (National Goverment)​

Jagaraka: Miakaani II (34)
Physical Description: Female, Average Height and Body Build, Dark Brown Skin, Hazel Eyes, Long, Straight Black Hair
Personality: Intellectual, Athletic, Rational, Fairly Religious
Children: 3 Sons, No Grandchildren

Provincial Leaders ​

Amaroo Atani: Naldako Ret Okumu Yuta (Naldako of Yellow Crab) (Age: 41)
Physical Description: Male, Thin and Lanky, Short, Dark Brown Skin, Brown Eyes, Short Black Hair, No Facial Hair
Personality: Confrontational but Rarely Aggressive, Loyal, Athletic
Children: 1 Son and 3 Daughters, 4 Grandchildren

Samaroara: Óarrsa Ret Kitrr Jatko (Óarrsa of Fire Axe) (Age: 38)
Physical Description: Female, Average Height and Build, Dark Brown Skin, Brown Eyes, Wavy Medium Length Black Hair
Personality: Fiery Temperament, Confrontational, Very Religious, Idealist, Altruist
Children: 2 Sons, 5 Grandchildren

Agnato Gy Kbrilma: Ehemar Ret Nasove Suar (Ehemar of Bone Shark) (Age: 29)
Physical Description: Male, Tall, Muscular Build, Very Dark Brown Skin, Blue Eyes, Wavy, Long, Fire Red-Brownish Hair, Horse Shoe Mustache and Goatee
Personality: Calm, Easy Going, Rational
Children: 2 Daughters, No Grandchildren

Ayana Toqa Saon: Marruta Ret Ngata Ribbatt (Marruta of Mother Frog) (Age: 47)
Physical Description: Female, Slightly Overweight, Tall, Brown Eyes, Long Wavy Black Hair
Personality: Jolly, Compassionate, Fairly Religious
Children: 5 Sons, 3 Grandchildren

Ova Demroa Kanahi: Ijanar Rakanu Aursus (Ijanar of Metal Boar) (Age: 53)
Physical Description: Male, Very Tall, Lanky Build, Very Dark Brown Skin, Medium Length Curly Greyish White Hair, No Facial Hair
Personality: Remote, Emotionally Cold, Intellectual, Ultra Religious, Superstitious
 
Briefing on Concourse politics, prepared for Prokos Zirai's staff on occasion of Xideka's travel to Sirasona in 799 by the office of the Iveka for Concourse.

Current groupings discernible at Concourse

Faction led by Sadorishi, currently most powerful: Sadorishi, Serris, Mirai, us. Broadly characterized as austere, strict, in favour of hard line on Aitahists, close relations with Acca. Opposed to Alonite friendly relations with Aelonists, opposed to giving an inch on Faith prerogatives, resolved to defend Beratca and Xidevi at all costs. Others mostly favour maintaining status quo, lack progressive goals; our goals, of course, need not be stated. Exception is Vaban – not sure what his game is, but strongly suspect that he has one.

Faction led by Alon: Alon, Epinoë, Sygwin. Looser, less concerned with doctrinal purity, less concerned (to point of not being concerned at all) about Cyvekt, Siran threats; populist, insofar as distinction can be made. North-focused, concerned by continuing possibility of Zeek influence (since Zeek appeal strongest among their power base)

Faction led by Piriven: Piriven, Sattoros, Idiril. Pragmatists, care about money more than anything else, far more concerned with the Lovi and Kbrilma than with the politics of the northern world. In favour of close relations with Acca as long as present mutually beneficial situation obtains. Ideally would wish to overtake Daharai and Parthe on northern and southern routes, but for moment seem to be more concerned with not being shut out entirely. Sattoros something of outlier; current Piriveni association based more on personal feelings than strategic goals

Faction led by Risadri: Risadri, Raelae, Latosh. Disengaged from the rest; usually the swing votes, so work on them. Presently mostly do whatever Itaros thinks is best. Will change when he dies, and likely to be considerable disruption to Concourse politics; make preliminary preparations to exploit. Unfortunately, opaque nature of Risadrenes makes predicting actions difficult at best. Traditionally disinterested in outside entanglements, very keen on Faith, inclined to follow High Ward's direction.

Personalities

Sadorishi
Moril Vaban: Dangerous. Very smart, and not just smart for a Fatherless. Plays his cards very close to the vest, very difficult to get a read on. Glad he's on our side; keep him there.

Serris
Rodar Ksatri: Bland, inoffensive, not very bright, unimpeachable reputation. Seems to have been sent to Concourse mostly to get him out of the way of the Guardian Council. Follows Vaban's lead in most things, unless instructed otherwise by Guardian Council. Analysis of Council difficult since Ksatri's departure; need more access.

Raelae
Haekae Sayafa: Health fast declining, but mind seems intact. That said, still extremely abstract and impractical; doesn't seem to care about or even understand things, only about ideas. Avoid treading on favorite subjects; he WILL spend entire Concourse meeting lecturing on long-dead philosophers if you let him. Very difficult to change his mind; doesn't respond to pragmatism.

Alon
Elea Gyldwin: Appearance of Alonite decadence largely a front, or at least exaggerated for the benefit of onlookers. Hopes to be underestimated. Rapid rise in Alonite politics, however, clearly reveals tough, implacable, fiercely ambitious, and cunning, but not disciplined. Can be counted on to overreact if you push her far enough. Likely harbours significant affection for Aelonists, though this is also hidden. Likewise seems to harbour particular resentment of current ascendancy of Sadorishi faction at Concourse; need to watch her.

Latosh
Tarlo Raisos: Young, brash, stupid, overly muscled; the perfect Latoshi. Thinks every problem can be solved by hitting it with an axe. Towering but fragile ego; easily manipulated by implying cowardice. In awe of Itaros and Sayafa; only Itaros clever enough to exploit that. Not a concern

Mirai
Khasar Savira: Plays dumb. Is not dumb. Surprisingly subtle operator, but somewhat hampered by relatively narrow interests and experiences; as typical with Mirai, uncomfortable when you get him off his own ground. Plays foil to Vaban often, with considerable success; with exception of Itaros, others mostly unaware of their game. Valuable asset, but don't make him do too much.

Risadri
Itaros: Acts much the same as Sayafa: head in clouds philosopher. DO NOT BE FOOLED. Razor sharp, and far more worldly than a Risadrene has any right to be. Even knows more about military affairs than anyone but Vaban. Annoyingly good at manipulating Concourse; try not to offend him too badly. Don't try to trick him; it never works and he doesn't appreciate it.

Sattoros
Izara Sitticos: Wretched old harridan. Stupid, spiteful, incredibly petty. Very kind to her grandchildren, apparently. Treats Concourse as an opportunity to avenge whatever slight she's worrying over. Tends to reflexively follow Enirros on matters of importance. Easily manipulated.

Epinoë
Eilomenë Ximin: Sanctimonious as usual, but came up through the administrators, so is more capable than the last one: at least understands that money exists. Affects continued personal hostility with Gyldwin, but intensive behind the scenes communication suggests mending of breach. Hints of similar extreme ambition; watch closely. Could be brewing scheme with Gyldwin; either way, try to split them if possible.

Sygwin
Gryfu Hatrach: Eloquent, but somewhat insubstantial. Weakness for prostitutes; could be exploited, possibly. Unusually for Sygwin, not particularly grounded: much given to sweeping flights of idealistic fancy. Seems to wish he could make some grand effort to remake the world. Appears to harbour romantic aspirations towards Gyldwin, which she is exploiting; may be difficult to handle until breach can be created.

Idiril
Reman Torol: A damn monk. Doesn't drink, doesn't relax, doesn't have emotions, doesn't do anything but make money. Can't be bribed, can't be coerced, and doesn't play games; direct approaches advisable, even in extremely unsavoury matters. Can be swayed through the right arguments, though, and isn't strongly tied to anyone; appears to be playing some long game in the Kern, but isn't nearly as subtle as he thinks.

Piriven
Alvara Enirros: Hates Torol with a passion. Has to work for similar ends and does, though; outright confrontation largely limited to cosmetic issues. Likely under too much pressure from below to break with Idiril over said hatred; consequences of break severe, so avoid if possible. Other than that, ambitious: has designs on extending Piriveni tentacles across Ephis. Pipe dream, but indulge her when necessary.

*****​

OOC Disclaimer: Anymi evaluations not guaranteed to be insightful, unbiased, or even true.
 
Leadership of the Tephran Exatai

(mostly just me trying out names. Feel free to tell me if I'm defecating all over canon with my names, I'm not 100% sure what Satar names are meant to sound like.)

Redeemer: Pharaxes-ta-Marevi, dubbed "the Pious"

Prince of Wind: Athares-ta-Tephas

Prince of the Moon: Taexes

Prince of the Spear: Atharios the Spearlord (largely irrelevant)
 
I rely on names already used, I just mix them and add one thing or another. I've never been versed in ancient Persian names. :D

Anyway, if some of the names created by me sound weird, have the goodness to tell me.
 
A Tale During Teltaler

I took the small wooden screw and turned it, slowly. It had been expensive, but such fine craftmanship should cost a bit – it allows the string to breathe more, I think, and breathing serves any musician finely. So there I was, turning it around, fitting it to my friend Bard who sat next to me. We were somewhat known where we came from, but it was our first time playing in Kurchen. He played a straightforward white kasethel from Helt and I followed due, bowing my skeltheng. Our choir sang beautifully, I think, which such grandiose touch.

After our piece was done, people whistled as her eyes caught mine. I sincerely don’t know how long it was since I last saw such a pretty face. I signalled Bard to take a break, so he put down his kokor and enjoyed a drink while I walked down to her. She sipped herself, glancing back at me.
“You play it well,” she smirked.
“Yes, I have for some time,” I said, “Do you play?”
“I do,” she said, “I play the kokor, as your friend.”
“What a story!” I laughed. We sat there a bit, each taking a sip.
“So,” I said, “Do you feel like playing a piece with me?”
“Oh, I couldn’t.”
“I think you can. My friend should trust you.”
And so we went up there. Of course, Bard allowed her to borrow the old kokor. So there we sat for a bit, tuning to each other’s ear. The choir mumbled, preparing their drone to our strings.
“So what do you feel like playing?” I asked.
“Well, I know an old Frelesti trekelsat with a jumping-beat. ‘Stormful Dance’?”
“I don’t know it at all.”
She tuned the kokor a few notes down. “It’s kinda like this.” And she played the tune two times, the crowd gathered on the middle floor – jumping-beat tunes were quite the rage at this hour, with bellies so full of soul-eating.
“It’s in harmonic red,” she said, I tuned the skeltheng, and so we played together. The dance was indeed stormful – I made a few errors on the way, but the choir properly sang teren del and her eyes were furiously bound to mine, with an intense passion. Harmonic red, indeed, and so we played it several times that night.

Listen to Stormful Dance here.

I will extrapolate on the meanings of the musical terminology more at some point, but basically jumping-beat is a triolized underrhythm similar to swing and harmonic red is very close to our understanding of minor, but with an improvisational guidance as well as other implications of a natural chord progression.
 
Written by Thlayli, posted by me

~~~

Burn the Witch
911 SR/800 RM

The hush of conversation slowly died away as the members of Concourse heard the tap, tap, tapping of a single pair of boots on the polished tile. He approached in silence, Serric guards on either side of the door snapping to perfect attention as he walked into the room, silver cloak draped behind him.

He paused to regard the room, and allowed the room to regard him. Taracis and now Alxas had abandoned the Accan dress of modern times to return to the traditional calligraphy-etched plate armor of ancient days. This itself was a message.

Everyone stood, from the occupants of the galleries to the Synothal Order heads and their coteries. Only two figures in the entire chamber remained seated: The High Ward herself, and
Elea Gyldwin of the Order of Alon, who smirked conspicuously at the High Prince as he passed, arching her shoulders in a regal pose that only served to accentuate her bosom. The first was a matter of protocol, the second a matter of disrespect.

“What follower of the Path is now to address Concourse?” came the ceremonial challenge from the herald.

“Alxas-ta-Vantyris, son of Taracis, of the tribe of Avetas,” came the reply from the prince.

“Well met, child of Manin,” said the High Ward. “You are welcome here.”

“Prince of the Light,” said Alxas, “and my dear friend.” He inclined his head to the seated woman, then turned to face the heads of the thirteen Orders and the audience beyond. “I have thought for some time about how to appear to you.”

His voice was quiet, but it carried, the excellent acoustics of the Seniar or some other trick of sound seeming to carry the mild, cultured Gallatene of the High Prince to every ear. He paused for a long moment, seeming lost in thought as the cavernous chamber was filled with conspicuous silence.

“There are many ways to appear to you. I could have come to you as a Satar warrior, a rider of the plains. I could have come as a merchant, prince among merchants. Or a diplomat, brandishing argument and precedent. Perhaps a scholar, with lessons drawn from truths.”

He raised his pale blue eyes, quickly scanning the figures in the galleries, eyes resting on one in particular. “But no. I think…”

“I think that I am here to be an Oracle.”

“On the fields of the Rath Tephas, the birthplace of my people, the Oracles would grant visions of the past and the future. That is what I offer today. Visions.”

“Yes, I realize,” he said mildly, as a small note of surprise appeared on the High Ward’s face, and those of the Order heads who had been briefed on Alxas. “You were expecting a discussion on small matters, of jurisdiction and taxation, swathed in platitudes about the strength of our ancient alliance.” He look a long, controlled breath.

“But I have spent my reign attending to small matters in small ways. I have done this for so long that I had begun to mistake competence for exatas.”

Another pause, another silence. “No longer.”

A small group of Accans in one of the side galleries began whispering to each other, and anyone paying attention would have noted that they looked highly alarmed.

“Those of the Fatherless know part of the tale I am about to tell, for it is one that has guarded their nights for centuries. It was what brought the Eighty Nine to the breach at Lexevh, and led them to their glorious deaths.

“In the beginning of time, the World was made, and there was no force to guide its upbringing. But there were countless intelligences upon it, which would whisper to the minds of men. Spirits, ancestors, latakar...they have carried many names.

“With time, these spirits gained human allegiance and grew in strength, such that some came to dominate the minds of many and demand worship as gods. This was the first era, the Era of Lies. Then, the coming of Taleldil changed the world. He broke the power of the false gods, killing many and driving the rest out of Earth. So that they could never return, he pursued them to Heaven.

“But foolish men continued to empower false gods with prayer and supplication. They regained their strength in the heavens, consuming one another until but few remained, two titans capable of equalling Taleldil: Opporia and Aitah.

“So began the second great era, the Era of Manifestations. Opporia chose a great Chief of Chiefs to be its champion, and the Aitah a series of women to serve as its hosts. So too did Taleldil have his chosen champions, the Redeemers and Aspect Masters. You know them in your tongue as Harada, and the champions of the false gods as Dalotha.

“I will not recount to you the end of that era: The War of the Three Gods, the Peregrination and the Third Apocalypse. But the great challenge was overcome, or at least survived. The Manifestations ceased. And those who fought for the dark ones were purged from the North of the World.”

“Or so we thought.”

Utter silence.

“But that was a lie,” Alxas whispered.

“We sit here in the presence of a lie, a lie forged three hundred years ago in the fires of necessity.”

“A Third Era began. Some have called it the Era of Silence. But for the False Prophecy, so did it seem. But I name it an Era of Deception. Denied its final triumph by two great champions of Taleldil, Talephas and Javan, the Dalotha Aitah realized it could not overcome the City of Man by frontal force.”

“So it began to corrupt it from within. As the Aitah used the mask of benevolence to cover its true intention, the destruction of those people not yet enslaved to it, after its defeat it took another mask. The mask of a virtuous maiden, born in your Light: A Harada.”

“I have proof that Aelona is not a Harada. She is a Dalotha, her daughter Kintyra is a Dalotha, her son Qasaraai is a Dalotha, and all who follow them and their debauchery are servants of a dark and false god.”

Concourse erupted in chaos. One of Elea’s strapping young attendants vaulted a railing and threw himself bodily forward towards the High Prince, to be tackled just in time by a particularly fast-acting Serric guard. Alxas looked down with mild curiosity as he snarled up at him on the floor, and spat on the Prince’s boots as he was dragged away.

Twenty minutes later, when the shouting had subsided to a dull murmur, and the last of the guards sent in to stop a fistfight between the Fatherless and Alonite entourages had finally trooped warily back to the entrance hall, Alxas still stood there, an island in a roiling sea of people.

“Surely, High Prince, you will present us this proof?” said Moril Vaban, his voice cutting through the clamor like a braised iron rod through soft snow.

“If I may have peace,” said Alxas. Spearbutts repeatedly slammed on the floor until the Seniar was silent.

“I assume that the Aitah is still recognized within the Halyrate as a Dalotha. Is she not?”
The High Prince looked at the High Ward, who tilted her head to the side in a gesture that could have been interpreted as assent.

“Your rival in Athsarion who claims your title also claims that Aelona is an Aitah, as do the Sirai and the Cultists. But your predecessors in Sirasona have long counterclaimed that this was a falsehood. Risadri proclaimed that Aelona was taken prisoner, raped by Khatai, and the name of Aitah falsely granted her by the Cultists.”

“I have found countless accounts,” said Alxas, “that dispute this claim. I shall provide them; but that is not my proof.”

“For long years, we have made the usual arguments, only to be rebuffed: Aelona's daughter burned the High Ward alive, and her son led the army that destroyed the League of Gallasa. She HERSELF claimed the mantle of the Aitah.

“But following the voice of Risadri, this was all dismissed as an Aitahist fabrication.”

“Even so, consider one final argument. The Sixth and final Aitah, the last incarnation of the Dalotha, acknowledged Aelona in writing as ‘my sister Aitah.’ These are the words of the Dalotha itself. They are no fabrication. But still, this is not my proof.”

“My proof is this. For centuries, a private store of the Scroll-Prince’s correspondence with the High Ward has existed, separate from the libraries of the Sephashim. It dates back to the founding of the ancient alliance in the days of Avetas.”

“When High Ward Risadri legitimized Aelona and Kintyra, just scant decades after the immolation, Arteras wrote to him in alarm. The public response of Risadri was that Aelona and Kintyra were virtuous maidens, teachers and healers, who led men to the Path, and whose names were soiled by Aitahist propaganda.”

“But in private, Risadri acknowledged something very different to Prince Arteras. He wrote that he knew that Kintyra had instigated the Immolation on her mother's orders. In fact, he knew exactly what Aelona and Kintyra were. But Risadri was a realist. He believed that by embracing the two Aitahs as Haradim, he might regain the allegiance of the North, restoring their loyalty to Wards appointed by him. This worship, Risadri further wrote, was never meant to spread to the heartland of the Halyrate, merely to act as a bridge for heretical Aitahists to gradually return to the Light."

"Risadri's plan, as Concourse knows, failed. The north of Athis did not return to loyalty to Sirasona, and the majority of the northern wards and northern people still hold loyalty to the heretic High Ward in Athsarion. Worship of Alon as a Harada did not extinguish Aitahist teachings; it allowed them to flourish."

“Risadri lied. He lied to the whole world, and the world believed him. His intent was pure, but his actions were not. And with them, the seeds of corruption took hold among the City of Man.

"And what has this toleration of Aitahists allowed? The perversion and destruction of Maninism in Sira? The slaughter of the Ardavani minority after the fall of Lexevh? The oppression of the people of Tisatar by the Oskedai? The debauchery of legal prostitution in the public court?
This, friends, is the truth. A mask of love and light covers a face of darkness, oppression and unrestrained lust. Would that Javan were here to oppose it."

"Now compare the unyielding military opposition to the Cult of the Goddess carried out by the Halyr, and the Fatherless who followed him. There, the Aitah has not been tolerated in ANY guise, and the followers of any Aitah, Third, Fourth, Fifth, or Sixth, have been destroyed or driven into the desert.

"Toleration of Aitahist beliefs in the north drew millions away from the Path. Destruction of Aitahist beliefs in the east preserved it."

“Risadri did not intend for the worship of Aelona and Kintyra to enter the very courts and halls of the High Ward itself. But here it is, and here it lies. Using the bodies of women as tools to increase their wealth, the Alonites have extended their tentacles ever deeper into the Halyrate. And while doing so, they have served as secret emissaries, spies, and courtiers for Athsarion.

“Yes indeed, Prince of the Light, the false High Ward seeks to supplant you in the name of the Dalotha, and the Alonites are his greatest tool for doing so. The very necklace that this...woman wears is but one of many bribes sent from Cyve to gain her allegiance. He gestured to Elea, who looked at him with a mixture of incredulity and contempt.

“I have learned that there is an Aitahist spy in this room, this very day, a courier of such bribes.”

Alxas’ voice acquired a hint of amusement as he looked up towards the galleries. “Perhaps you will see him run.”

Having been pacing and gesturing during his speech, he now returned to the center of the room, like a Disciplinarian of the Sephashim finally finishing his lecture. “I offered you a vision of the past, and the present. Now here is a vision of the future.

“If you allow this corruption to further spread, the day will dawn when you worship no longer the Light, but the woman who you falsely believed to be its messenger. And as days pass, and the truth recedes further into the darkness, this woman, these women, and the face behind it, will become your Goddess. The Halyrate will become a land of Aitahists by any other name, thanks to a silent campaign fought in the shadows.

“Even until the very end it may claim to be following the Path. But your worship empowers this false goddess, and casts us headlong towards a Dark Terminus where it reigns triumphant.
However, there is still a solitary hope for salvation. The City of Man has become corrupted from within, but it may be purified from within.

Alxas turned to face the High Ward.

“I ask the High Ward to allow a vote of the order heads.”

The High Ward was sitting forward in her chair, attention rapt. Her hands, white knuckled, were folded in her lap. “A vote on WHAT, Alxas?” It was unclear if she was surprised, angry, or incredulous.

The High Prince now finally raised his voice, and it echoed from the ceiling of the Seniar.

“EXPEL the Alonite Order from the Halyrate. PURGE the Aitahists from the City of Man.

He turned his head slightly towards Elea.

“Burn the witch.”

Without another word, Alxas-ta-Vantyris walked from the room.
 
Szahae Desert near Naesre, Maehoui Roshate, Faraghir i'Karghae
912 SR (Other chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7)

Pahalar yo Szaebalata
The Jabralah's Son​

He wasn’t sure anymore how long he had been riding for. Before sunrise, Pahal had decided to ride his stallion Szafaen into out of Naesre and into the Szahae. For weeks now he had been discontent to say the least, as Aer was across the Lovi with his father, visiting Caroha for some important business deal. Since Aer’s departure, Pahal had occupied himself with constant training, sparring, exercise, and riding. It was not enough however, and his restlessness was fast becoming too obvious to ignore. Kaghie had noticed, though when she asked him what was the matter, Pahal of course gruffly replied “Aelome’s sake, get off my ass!” Something also withheld Pahal from taking out his frustrations on the local Seshie population, as he had been wont to do, and though Pahal knew the reason, a marriage between Aitah and Taleldil would happen before Pahal would admit to himself the reason behind his restraint.

Finally deciding to check the time, Pahal looked into the sky, only to find that it was already past midday. He suddenly noticed the dryness in his throat, which had become so acute as to make clear the choice between returning to Naesre and riding onwards. He rode back towards the capital, urging on the equally thirsty Szafaen, apologizing to the stallion for pushing him so far. Not more than a mile outside the city, another rider came into view, coming straight towards him. As the mysterious horseman approached, Pahal was able to make out who it was rather quickly. The sun shone bright off the pale blond hair, a rarity in Sira. Saerhun uep Thiaghata was Pahal’s oldest friend, the closest thing he had to a brother. Saer’s unique hair and his relative paleness were the results of his Cyvekt blood. His father had traveled with the old Ward of Naesre to Cyve as a retainer once, and found the woman there who would later become his wife. After the old Ward’s death, Saer’s father joined Sahres Parceala’s household guard, and in the Parceala villa Saer would meet the nephew and niece of his father’s lord. Pahal and Saer were always getting into trouble together, with the ideas for getting in trouble typically being Pahal’s and the ideas for getting out being Saer’s. Saer was also a good friend to Kaghie, and so he had eagerly volunteered to join Pahal when the latter had told him that Kaghie was suffering the abuses of some fat Seshie pig. Now that Kaghie and Jaer seemed to get on, however, Saer had reluctantly made a tentative peace the Seshie. Being Pahal’s closest confidante, Saer also knew about his affair with Aer. Far from judging the obviously scared Pahal, Saer was amused that the jabralah’s son was taking it from a Seshie of all people.

Saer was also the only person who knew where Pahal went when he went for his rides. He must be looking for me. But why? Pahal was unsettled by this interruption of his routine even as he waved at his friend. When the two finally met, Pahal saw that Saer had been riding hard. What could he have been rushing for?

“Pahal, you’ve been out for quite a while.”

“Just a couple hours, not that long.”

“Kaghie said you left before dawn. Don’t try to lie to me, man.”

“Fine, you caught me. But what’s the rush? Your horse looks like he could drop dead here.”

“Airan’s fine, he’s tougher than that. I came all the way out here because your father wishes to see you. Urgently.”

Pahal felt the blood flow from his face. “Urgently?” He quickly imagined fifty things his father may wish to speak to him about, none of them good. “Well, I suppose I’d better not keep him waiting any longer.”

“No, you shouldn’t. What’re you out here eight hours at a time for? Miss your boyfriend that much – heh – ow!” Saer recoiled as Pahal punched his shoulder.

“Shut up man. He’s not my boyfriend…it’s just a series of…physical transactions. Let’s just get back before my father decides to send his whole targhane i’jabralah out to find me.”

+++​

“Did you enjoy your morning outing, my son?”

Pahal struggled to meet his father’s cold gaze. Szaebalar’s eyes gave the impression that every instant thousands of calculations were occurring in the jabralah’s mind, and yet it was a cold intensity, lacking any emotion or warmth. When he looked into his father’s eyes, Pahal felt the weight of nineteen years of expectations, expectations which seemed impossible to meet. Pahal was a fighter, not a political operator. Desiring only to end this meeting as quickly as possible, Pahal eventually managed to muster the courage for a reply.

“It was a fine day, father.”

“Good. You seem to have a lot on your mind as of late.”

Aitah, does he suspect?

“I believe, Pahalar, that you need some stability in your life. Someone who can keep you grounded. I am sure that you have enjoyed your days of whoring and rampaging around Naesre, but it is time for those days to end. Rajabralah Taghaer oun Marghala, the Sahres of Gharsae, has a beautiful daughter, Ithaelie. She would be a worthy match for you, Pahalar.”

“I’m..I’m sure she would, father.” Pahal could feel his fingers trembling.

“I will be going to Sahres Marghala’s villa later today, and I am sure that Ithaelie would be elated to make your acquaintance.”

Pahal felt as if he could hardly breathe. He knew that his father was not making a simple offer; Szabalar intended to have Pahal marry this woman and would not take no for an answer. “I’ve just remembered, father, that I have some duties to attend at the temple. Perhaps another day.” Before his father could respond, Pahal was out of the house and riding Szafaen towards the Temple of Aelome Tagharisa. There was no use in telling his father about Aer at this point, as that would only encourage him to expedite the marriage. Pahal’s mind raced, straining itself trying to think of a way out of this situation. All he knew as he climbed the steps into the Temple of Aelome was that he was in desperate need of guidance.

Upon reaching the Temple, Pahal rushed to the Ghamal i’Lahar, hoping to find someone to spar or, failing that, to simply practice his form alone; anything to calm the panic ravaging his body. His head felt numb, every possible course of action he could conceive of leading only to despair. Entering the Ghamal, Pahal assumed he was alone and was about to start fruitlessly striking at the air, when a moment later a most imposing figure entered his view. Pahal recognized her immediately; Aelie ade Nahrata, Ward of Naesre. Ward Nahrata had ascended to her position only two years prior, and being only thirty years old she was rather young for a Ward. In spite of her youth and relative inexperience however, she commanded an almost absolute respect from all around her. Nahrata was tall, her height being greater than the average man’s, and visibly strong, her lean, toned muscles coursing with strength and vitality. As blessed as she was with physical prowess, her mind was of even greater value. A pious woman, Nahrata’s word on the Aitahs, the Path, and the Light was to be taken seriously, as she spoke with the wisdom and balanced tone of one decades her elder. Nahrata had taken a personal interest in the Ghamal, and had quickly proven herself to be a more worthy teacher than the school had ever had; Pahal had himself sparred with her on multiple occasions, and rarely lasted more than half a minute before falling to the woman. Had Pahal been a more typical young man, he may have found Nahrata to be irresistibly enticing as well. She was wearing scant clothing, with only a small yellow silk wrap to cover her ample breasts and a short crimson skirt. Up both her legs were tattoos, writings from Aelome’s Whispers translated into Faronun and written in Faron text. The flowing script spiraled around her strong legs, up and under her skirt, leaving the ending hidden and, Pahal did not doubt, adding an extra and certainly gratuitous layer of desire. Similar tattoos encircled her arms and her exposed stomach, though not to the same effect. Although he himself found no desire in women, Pahal could still barely restrain himself from gaping in awe of the sight which the Ward presented.

Nahrata’s voice, soft yet powerful, broke the trance her visage held over Pahal. “It is a strange time to see somebody else here; what brought you here, Pahalar?” Pahal hesitated for a moment, himself unsure of the answer to that question.

“I…It seems that the paths to my future are disappearing left and right. My father’s expectations…I fear that they may force me to stray from the Path. For how can one reach the Light if one lies to oneself; if one lies to the entire world?”

“What do you speak of?”

“What my heart desires and what my father desires are in direct conflict. I am his heir, and of course he wants a grandson from me. And yet…”

“Aer?”

Pahal started at the name. “Wh…What are you talking about?”

“I have seen the looks you share when you are in the Ghamal together, the way you gaze at one another. Recently your sparring has shown a certain tenderness which I have seen before; do not think I am unfamiliar with the signs of love.” Looking at the woman before him, Pahal could not think of anybody who could refute that claim. “So, your father desires that you marry a woman, and yet you find yourself in love with a man. You know yourself, Pahalar; Aelome has made clear the Path, and you know what will lead you to the Light. If your father understands the Path and the teachings of Aelome at all he too will see the choice you must make. If he does not, know that sacrifices greater than one’s inheritance have been made for the sake of the Path. You must not rush to judgment however Pahalar; tell your father of your love, and seek his understanding.”

Pahal’s eyes sunk to the floor. “My father understands little other than politics, at least since mother’s death. And I am afraid to disappoint him; I feel as if I already do, with my limited acumen for politics. He has raised me to be a jabralah, to want to be a jabralah. If I cannot have that, I know not what I will be. Who I will be.”

“We must not let the expectations of others govern us, Pahalar. Your love will lead you down the Path, your love will lead you to the Light. Neither titles nor the expectations of fathers can do this. Now, come with me. I must speak to my colleague from Alemade who is here to visit the Rosh and the Pearl Chamber. Perhaps what we discuss will help you to find your future.” Pahal nodded, and followed the Ward through the hall which connected the annex of the Ghamal to the main atrium of the Temple of Aelome Tagharisa. Before the statue of Aelome stood a slight man, a head shorter at least than Pahal, who was himself already on the short side. The man beamed at the appearance of Pahal and Nahrata, and Pahal did not have to follow his gaze to guess what two things the man was looking at.

“Ward Nahrata, it is my greatest pleasure to see you! Your beauty only becomes more profound every time we meet.” Somehow Nahrata managed to maintain a polite face as she bent down to meet the embrace of the much shorter man. She quickly worked her way out of his grip even as he buried his face in her bosom, and turned to Pahal.

“Pahalar, this is Ward Paethaghefe oule Ogharala, the Rosh’s Ward and Ward of Alemade.” She turned to her colleague. “And this, friend, is Pahalar yo Szaebalata, nephew of Sahres Parceala.”

“Parceala’s nephew! What an honor; I have just met with your uncle this morning. Every day I praise Aitah that we have such a pious man in the Pearl Chamber.”

Pahal could barely keep from rolling his eyes at the idea of praising Aitah for his dull, boring uncle. “He is quite a joy to us all, to be sure.” He then withdrew from the conversation, sure that the two Wards had much more important things to discuss than his relatives. Ogharala turned to Nahrata, his face more serious and less ogling than before.

“Well, Aelie, it seems that the Pearl Chamber will not take funds from the treasury for the Chorus. I thought I could count on Parceala’s support, but even he seemed reluctant. They are certainly making it difficult to mobilize the Faith, even as the need for a Sierdhe Order grows more apparent by the hour.”

The Chorus…

“Parcaela must have wise council then, dear Ogharala, for you and I both know that for the realm to directly fund the Chorus would defeat the purpose; we cannot be tied so closely to such worldly interests.”

Yes…that is my Path.

“We simply do not have the time, Aelie! Every day I hear another rumor from Lemdeh – rumors about war, rumors about Sarkanda. Sira must stand with the High Ward, show that we are truly part of the Faith. How do you propose we raise an army outside of the Realm?”

“It is simple, Ogharala. We seek the lost. We seek those who do not know that they have the power to find the Path. And we show them that the Light is within their grasp. We give them a purpose.” Nahrata looked aside at Pahal with a knowing sympathy. Pahal now felt as if he had what he came for.

“Your Radiances, I believe that I must take your leave now. I have unattended business at home.” Pahal was sure.

“Farewell, Pahalar.” Nahrata gave him one last reassuring smile. Ogharala also gave him a nod, but seemed to be taking advantage of Nahrata’s distraction to steal one more leer.

With that Pahal left the temple and mounted Szafaen. As he rode home, he felt as if he was riding into battle, filled with equal parts of fear and exhilaration. What madness was this that Aer had driven him to? Never could Pahal have imagined that a mere Seshie would turn his entire world upside-down; though at the same time never could Pahal have imagined that a mere Seshie would give his world greater meaning and clarity than it had ever possessed before. Lost in thought, Pahal urged Szafaen through Naesre, and soon he was at his the door of his father’s villa. The exhilaration was gone, and all that remained seemed to be fear. Breathing heavily, Pahal pushed open the door, which felt as if its weight had increased a thousandfold since he had last opened it. He crossed the atrium and saw his dad sitting in the courtyard, feeding the peacocks as he had been when Pahal had fled earlier. Szaebalar lifted his eyes to meet Pahal’s; Pahal didn’t flinch.

“Did something I said scare you earlier? You seemed to have left in quite a fright.”

Pahal ignored his father’s question, and went straight for the jugular, hoping it would shorten the bleeding. “Father, I cannot marry Ithaelie.”

“Oh? Have you had your way with her already or –”

Pahal was not to be stopped however. “Nor can I marry any woman you may have in mind. For it – it is simply not in my nature. To marry a woman would be to deny myself love; to deny myself the Path itself.”

Szaebalar had never shown shock before, and it did not show on his face now, his only tell being the clench fist which was resting on his leg. “So, it seems that I did not account for every possibility. You have no desire for a woman, Pahalar?”

“No, father. It will not give me the love which the Light shines upon.”

“Very well…but…must I accept it? The end of my succession?”

A voice rang out across, clear as the waters of an oasis. “No, you need not accept the end, father! Through me your succession will live!” Kaghie walked down into the courtyard as her father and her brother started and looked at her. Szaebalar spoke first.

“What do you speak of, Kaghalie? You know that whoever you marry will absorb you into their succession.”

“Not necessarily. The succession can only exist among Sierdha, no? So if I marry outside the Sierdha, I can continue the succession?”

Pahal’s look of surprise and hope turned to something a bit more disgusted. “You can’t be serious…him? Piggy?”

“Oh, shut up Pahal, I’m trying to help you. Yes, father, if I marry Jaer, who is Seshweay, and he consents to subsume his succession under ours, which is far more prestigious than his own, then your succession will continue uninterrupted.”

Szaebalar appeared pensive for a moment, a moment which Pahal suspected was far longer than his ever-pragmatic father required to make his decision. The jabralah then looked at his daughter with what seemed to be a newfound pride. “A most elegant solution, Kaghalie. Perhaps you should have been my heir all along; you seem to have inherited more of my wits, at least.” He turned to Pahal. “Pahalar, my son, we can officially transfer the inheritance later, but you are still my first child; do not think that I no longer care for you or your future. Have you figured out how you will make your way?”

“Yes, father, I believe that I have. It is my destiny, I believe, to add my voice to the Chorus.”

Szaebalar raised a skeptical eyebrow. “The Chorus…of Aelome? I never knew you were so pious, Pahalar.”

Pahal smiled. “I live for the Light, father.”

“You do know, my son, that the Chorus is only an idea right now?”

“The Light has laid out the Path for me so far, father. I must have faith that it will not fail me.”

“You are your mother’s son, to be sure.”

Pahal responded with a slight bow, and took his leave of his father. It was evening by now, and a cool desert night was coming in. Szaefan seemed to be in good spirits, so Pahal decided to go for another ride. He sprung onto the horse’s back, feeling lighter than he had in months, and rode towards the city gates. Just before he was about to ride into the desert again, a voice called him back.

“You going out again, Pahal?” Saer was riding Airan, who seemed to be in much better condition than he had been in the morning.

“Was about to. Hey, Saer, if I left, would you take care of Kaghie for me?”

“You’re leaving? For where?”

“I don’t know yet, but I know that my Path will lead me far from Naesre. Kaghie will be staying here; in fact she’s going to become a jabralah herself.”

“What happened to your inheritance?”

“Surrendered it. I’ve decided to pledge my life to Aitah.”

“You want me to stay here in Naesre while you see the world? I think you’re underestimating Kaghie.”

Pahal chuckled in confession, as he could not deny Kaghie’s prowess. The two had tussled before, and the outcomes were closer than Pahal might have been willing to admit. “You’re sure that’s what you want?”

“Pahal, you know that I wouldn’t be able to stand being around you sister if she was married to that Seshie, which I’m assuming is what your father has in mind if he’s letting her succeed him. Your father will be able to find her a good jabralahbar.”

“Fair enough, Saer. I suppose it wouldn’t have felt right riding to war without you at my side.”

“Yeah, if I don’t go I have no idea who will save your sorry ass.”

“Save me? You can’t even keep up with me!” Pahal laughed as he sped off through the gates, the Szahae wide open before him.
 
In regards to the backstories that everyone is posting, can someone tell me if there are specific guidelines that must be adhered to (excluding all the already established stuff within End of Empires), or can we be as creative as we want to be?
 
The Height of Summer

- the monk, Sadar: "Enlightenment is all about us; see the waves as they dance, feel the air upon your skin, hear the songs of birds as they delight in the wind beneath their wings. In each of these things may we find a grain of truth, if we should take the time to look." -​


He liked living at the top of the hill. Wherever he was in the city, he could just look up and see his home and its white towers - he wasn't afraid of getting lost. It had a name too, which he thought was funny. Most houses didn't have names. "Do you like being so tall, Estrandas?" he asked as he peeked out over the stone parapet at the garden's edge. The vista before him was of a patchwork of white and yellow buildings tumbling gently down the hillside until they met the great arc of the harbour. The Pillar of Truth sat quietly, it's bright dome bearing proudly the red of the Republic, its towers capped in verdigris. The banners draped from the heights of the Remmos drifted lazily in the breeze as ships from all corners of the world came and went at the teeming quayside. The wind moaned lightly through the eaves, and young Chitan took that for his answer.

He nodded to himself. "I thought so! You really can see everything up this high. It must be lonely though, here at the top of the hill. I feel that way sometimes." he said. He crouched down in the shadow of the wall, now, staring at the ants as they scurried across the paving stones. He took a rock in hand in idle play, dragging it around to chase the ants. Those that were too slow met their end atop Estrandas. "I know!" he said, holding the rock before him. "I'll take this piece of you with me next time I go out so you can come too!" Putting the rock in his pouch, he quite quickly forgot it, and ran about the gardens chasing butterflies with green and orange wings. He made a story in his head that he was a brave Daharai soldier, and the butterflies were wicked pirate thieves from Leun and Nahar. He couldn't let them escape, so he ran in pursuit from the shade of one tree to the next, from the side of one softly gurgling pond to another. A great brown frog snatched a pirate from the air, and plopped back down atop a lillypad to munch it. The frog was from Parthe, of course. A crafty frog, and he couldn't trust it - even though it had eaten a pirate butterfly. He looked it in its froggy eyes and stuck his tongue out at it.

"Chitan!" his uncle called from across the garden "Come here a moment, I have something for you to see." Chitan waved at his uncle Arasos and ran over to where he sat upon the bench beneath the banyan tree. Estrandas was his family's house and had been for a very long time, or so he'd been told. If any one of them belonged in the proud old house at the top of the hill it was his uncle, for he was the Exarch, and he looked it. His eyes were kind, his face was wise, and his bearing regal. Arasos patted the bench at his side, and Chitan hopped up and sat, kicking his legs. An enormous porcelain bowl filled with water was in his uncle's lap, and in the bowl swam a school of shining white-and-purple striped fish.

"What kind of fish are these, uncle?" he asked, dipping his finger in the bowl.

"Dancing flowerfish from beyond Sutonmai, from the lands of the Troan Emperors. A gift from a man of Helsia who has been my friend for many years. I think this is his way of showing his congratulations that I have taken up the mantle." Arasos said. He made a face at his nephew and they both laughed. His uncle stood up and carried the bowl to the edge of a clear water pond, decorative tiles of blue ceramic lining the bottom. Chitan followed him, and they both looked down at the goldenfish swimming pleasant circles.

"Do you think the flowerfish will be friends with the goldenfish?" Chitan asked. His uncle hmmed.

"I have been told they are gentle, and eat only plants. I suspect it is the goldenfish we will have to worry about... Fortunately, one is not much bigger than the other. Shall we see? I'm sure our foreign fish tire of their bowls and their journey, and should like a well-deserved rest." Arasos said. Chitan nodded enthusiastically, and his uncle slowly poured the bowl out into the pond. Both looked on with some worry as the fish darted away from each other, forming their own schools. But slowly they began to mingle, to drift each among the other. Chitan put his feet in the water, and giggled as the fish kissed his toes.

"They seem happy here with us. I hope they don't come to miss their homes." Chitan said.

"Many men from many places have found new homes in Epichirisi, and perhaps it shall be the same for fish. Our city may not be the biggest in all the world, but I am sure that it is the loveliest. The air and water move differently about our island, and those who are here find themselves content. This is something we understand innately, something those who live in foreign lands cannot. On our island we cherish those things that we have, and so too do we cherish new things, but one does not replace the other. Look upon the dancing flowerfish, and see them side by side with the goldenfish." Arasos said, and he tussled his nephew's hair. "Remember it, Chitan." he said, and he smiled as he walked off.

Young Chitan went on his way and shortly found himself floating a stick on a pond as he tracked a diving salamander - pretending the stick a Spicer galeo and the salamander an evil sea dragon. But through that day and the next, and indeed through all his years, he would remember his uncle's words. He would remember how the goldenfish shone and sparkled amidst the flowerfish, and how the flowerfish danced even among the goldenfish.
 
Prince Eater

Other Chapters: (1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8)


Naevu, Professor of the Faith
Seniar, Sirasona, The Halyrate 911 SR​


Pollen swirled about the floor like dancing southern spice. Naevu walked along the shadowed side of a covered brick path. Greyed stone pillars supported the shallow roof above. It cut through a garden, or their excuse for one, with shrubs of poor arrangement in bloom. The opening served more as a conductor of fresh air than a statement of beauty.

Sunbeams broke through where pillars did not shade. Three's ever awkward and oddly timed footfalls meant he held that childish superstition still. He walked beside, and slightly behind, Naevu, skipping from shadow to shadow with nary an effort.

The floor beneath was two-toned. The center tiles were stained an intoxicating, polished brown as a guide way, flanked with the same solemn grey composing the rest. He saw their reflections in shadowed stone transmogrified into stretched caricatures. With each hop, Three grew taller. The boy's tongue was firmly pressed to his lower lip, concentrating on the rhythm.

There was no music here. The halls of the Concourse were silent and carried whispers like shouted confessions of love from a mountaintop. Each step echoed. Distant conversations poured over him as a river in flood. There was no surprise to find each incomprehensible or, worse, insignificant. They knew how to speak without speaking, so the saying goes.

The City of Man held no secrets.

They crossed paths with a dozen Order functionaries, scribes, and the sort. Nodding in turn to each was only civil. Naevu knew most of the Orders by clothing alone, but some he did not. They matched none he'd seen, perhaps changing their style to thwart political intrigue or back alley bone breaking. Yet a more sinister possibility, he thought, were predators hiding from their prey.

At the center of the garden walk, the pillars were twice as wide apart. The design allowed enjoyment of the sun and flowers and the passing breeze. But here the light crossed fully, and Three stopped short as Naevu stepped into the warmth. He waited to watch the boy jump. Passersby did ogle at the peculiarity. Three took a running start and leapt, legs outstretched like an elegant dancer. But all games must end. Three's feet did not clear the light. The boy grumbled low.

A day's misfortune.

They came at the request of one Aelea to find another, a sibling across the channel. Naevu had enjoyed the Saepulum's quiet, if tense, company over the past two weeks, but now sought a different sort. The Concourse met infrequently, given the size of the Halyrate, and when it did it became a grand affair for the City of Man. For weeks the city was abuzz with rumor and conspiracy. The whores had never made so much. And historians, well, they salivated like lions over carrion.

Naevu clutched the hard spot on his chest, where the fabric wrapped a special gift. A womanly gift. With every passing eye he felt the weight of it, the worth of it, more. A statement sure enough to draw attention, for good or ill. He didn't mind carrying the burden, if only to see the faces when he unraveled it. He'd get a laugh, if nothing else.

They exited the garden path and entered a grand, crowded rectangle of a room. Bare walls and floors, highlighted only by the many-colored garments its inhabitants wore. He knew this room to be adjacent to the Concourse meeting hall, which, as he'd read, was another minimalist construction built for work and nothing further. The hall was twice the length of the Birthing Chamber in Lemdeh. Only here, there was no pool, pillars, or any form of furniture to rest one's aching joints. A great hall of mumbled conversation and a rainbow of dress.

He found quickly how underdressed a professor of the Faith was here. The Alonites were the easiest to spot for the audacity of their dress remained unmatched. They had no qualms with bare flesh. The Sadorishi, similarly, were familiar to him with their thick, multi-layered leather vests and chainmail assortment. The swords dangling from their belts strapped close across their bellies roused a tingle in the back of his mind. They wore earth tones and frown lines, intimidating. There was someone from each Order, mingling. He saw Eskarites and gave them a grateful nod, which they returned with knowing smiles. The others he cared little for, but did nod or greet them with upturned palms when they motioned for him.

Naevu scanned the room as he paced it, searching for one woman in particular. He was nearly disheartened, on the brink of leaning against a wall to catch his breath and rest his legs, when a hand caressed his left arm from behind.

"Are you lost, professor?" she said, spinning him around. She wore a wide smile, white teeth shining against sun-tanned flesh. She stood level with his eyes.

Naevu bowed his head. "Amasir Elea Gyldwin."

He waited for her to present her neck for what seemed an agonizing age. Alonites held to the customs of the north, and Elea Gyldwin was nothing short of a true Nechekt in that sense. But here she broke protocol, quite deliberately. She pulled her hands to his round cheeks and drew him into her. Lips locked and tongues embraced. Her body was warm, hot, a flame against his. Elea lingered perhaps a moment too long, or was it part of the game? Never mind, he thought. He enjoyed her taste.

She broke off and gently dabbed her glistening lips with subtle grace. The entourage standing close by wore wicked, knowing grins. Three, it seemed, could not even look upon the woman.

"That was rather unusual," he admitted to Elea. She tilted her head. Cinnamon hair, shoulder length and curled, fell to one side. A sprinkle of star-like freckles striped her cheeks. She stared right through him. He was in her world now, mere inches from her face. If not for his protruding belly, she might stand closer still.

"Nothing is unusual, professor. Everything is as it is," she replied, words carried on sweet, spiced breath. She glanced across the hall to be sure if anyone noticed her. They would be blind not too. "I was uncertain if you'd pry yourself from the Saepulum long enough to see me."

Her Cyvekt was rusty, so he changed to Gallatene. "I would never make you wait, Amasir," he said.

She slowly slid her hands down her bare sides, resting them on her hips. She cut a powerful pose, demanding obedience without a sound. Elea wore diaphanous yellow silk in slender strips, tied about the back of her neck to hang across her breasts and meet below her navel, leaving her back, sides, and center open. The fabric crossed over itself twice at the crotch, fanning around the buttocks to form long tentacles of skirt tails about her thighs.

Little was left to the imagination, but his took what it could and ran with it. The heat he'd felt still warmed him as if a fire burned deep in her core. If he was to touch, he'd surely be scalded. Naevu shut his eyes to gather himself, but that did as much good as looking right at her.

He remembered the gift. Naevu removed it as Elea's eyes traced his motions.

"Were you met with hospitality?" she asked.

"Oh, indeed," he said, unraveling the soft cloth around the gift. It was heavy in his hand. "Initially they toyed with my time and made fun, but they warmed up soon enough. They showed me things I wish they hadn't and many things I'm glad they did."

The cloth fell to drape loosely on his palm. Inside, a shining star of earthly wealth sat. Naevu felt eyes stabbing holes in him. A sapphire cut to hold and amplify light wrapped in a cage of polished silver chain. As large as a songbird, the necklace was worth a ship's load of spice. A very large ship.

Elea stifled a gasp, not breaking her pose. An impish glaze crossed her eyes. Naevu knew exactly what this was.

"A gift," he said, inching his hand closer to her. She stood so close now her belly pressed into his. Confident fingers wrapped the necklace as Elea pulled it to her face. She hid her excitement well, as if it was a common thing.

"Your sister did this, I know," said Elea, examining the gem. In a way she was right. Aelea was his adopted sister, by way of his master.

"A gift," he reiterated, "congratulating you on your recent success in the Order. A personal gift owing no return. The truest and deepest affection intended. From one woman to another."

She handed it back, letting the chain coil in his hands. Elea turned around without a word, holding her hair to the side. Naevu reached around, forearms resting on her exposed shoulders. The back of her looked as good as the front, if not better. After he'd locked the chain, she spun around. The pendant hung low down the center, chain sunk in her cleavage, and swung just south of her breasts.

"You're a dangerous man. Do you know that?" she asked. He could only smile. "Moril will cry havoc."

Naevu shot a glance at a passing Sadorishi in full, decorative chainmail. "Is there no end to their seriousness?"

Elea snorted. Naevu pulled a wax sealed note from his vesture. It'd been so light compared to the necklace he'd nearly forgotten it. He handed it to her.

"From my sister," he said. The two women shared names, so it served him best to differentiate them. The more he thought about it, the more alike they seemed. Only Aelea had never been as downright startling as this fireborn beast.

Elea handed it off to a young man in her entourage. Naevu could see the faint outline of a blade hidden beneath his silk shirt. The world suddenly seemed alien.

"I know what it says," said Elea, sliding a hand over the pendant. "I've seen the records, heard firsthand accounts. Some of our own are in that wretched place. Yet the answer is the same. No."

"It was quite a walk, but I expected nothing more than your audience, Amasir."

"I am surprised you weren't gutted in the shadows," she said, never dropping the smile. "They're following you."

"Sadorishi?"

"Worse," she said. "I expect you know well enough the reason for this Concourse?"

"Accan quarters," he replied. He didn't know much more than that. He'd spoken at length about it with Jmala in the archive. And Jmala was merely going on word of mouth. "I saw the prince's guard, yesterday, from a distance, but never him."

"You won't see the prince until he wants to be seen," she said, sighing. Her hand rested on his belly. "It's not often they send an actual prince for these things. I've put on my best for it. Do you like it?"

"There's not a man in the world that could lie well enough to say no."

She laughed, louder than she should have. "I love men like you. True to Alon. Comfortable in your desires. They love to hate it." She paused for a moment to stare down a passing Eskarite. "Parthecan poetry?" she asked.

"Oh, yes," said Naevu. He turned briefly to check on Three. The boy stood with his back to them.

"That would have been a wonderful gift," she admitted with no subtlety.

"A copy would undermine the value of the original, would it not? They have the only translation. It's only fair. It wouldn't interest you in the least," he told her. "Parthecan poets would find a woman of your tastes a bit too excessive."

"So I've heard," she said. "What you can't have you want most."

Naevu smirked. "Our Accan friends seem to agree," he said.

"Some forget that no man owns another." One of her entourage whispered in her ear. The message was lost to him, but her face hid nothing. Excitement. Something had changed.

A gong rang. The sound thundered through the hall and triggered a shiver down Naevu's spine. The crowd began to shuffle and their voices picked up to speak over the new commotion. Soft hands as hot as noon sun pinched Naevu's chin, drawing his attention back to her. The crowd poured through a two-wide doorway into the Concourse hall.

"Go in last," she advised. "Speak of the Dahaiaou and they come. Will you stay, after, professor? For the dinner?"

Naevu's stomach grumbled. What kind of question was that, anyway? Did he look a faster?

"Of course, Amasir."

"Good," she said, stroking his left arm in a way he wished she hadn't. "Maybe I'll hear those poems." She began to walk away, flanked by her entourage of six. "I'll be the judge of what interests me."

Naevu pulled Three close by his tunic collar. The boy yelped, but soon quieted down. They watched Amasir Elea Gyldwin leave, and it was as rousing as it was distracting.

The hall emptied like a glass tipped over. The Order members, leaders and functionaries, were taking their places in the next room. Naevu inched forward, being sure to look behind him. Her warning hadn't been one of protocol, but of safety. Go in last, he thought, so none can stab you in the back.

The Concourse hall held hundreds in a half-circle of rising, stone seats. Again, they opted to exclude cushioning and modern comforts such as armrests. But the hall was cool, much cooler than the Sirasonan climate should have allowed, and he attributed it to the well-designed openings on the ceiling that pulled air upward in a soft spin. Facing the half-circle was a grey stone dais for addressing the Concourse. The lowest and closest seats, raised a few feet above the speaking dais, held the thirteen order heads. Guards encircled them. Naevu found a seat, second row up, in a far corner of the room well removed from the Order heads and the High Ward herself at the center of them. His eyes still worked well enough to see the details, including Elea stroking the pendant about her neck and the hateful glances of Moril Vaban.

There was a delay. No Prince of Acca entered. The various Orders began to take their seats and mingle once more in the thin, stretched galleries connected to the far sides of the chamber. Naevu took a seat, pulling Three close beside him. There was enough room to not feel caged among the crowd. He could tell by their dress a few Alonites had snugged up around them. Comforting.

Boots clapped against the stone floor. Naevu stood again, but only because it seemed the thing to do, as a silver mask appeared in the gentle light of the hall.

~*~*~*~​

The Silver Prince turned an accusing eye to Amasir Elea Gyldwin. Black pits of seething contempt replaced eyes in the mask. Naevu could hardly make out the Accan's features. He seemed a living statue haunting the Seniar.

"Burn the witch."

Three short words like axe blows on an ancient tree. Princely words cut deep and bled the organism. Cold Accan business, nothing more. Silence fell over the chamber. Prince Alxas spun on his heels and walked out, slow with intent.

Naevu smiled as wide as he could when he looked to Three. The boy couldn't understand Satar or Gallatene. The bemused look on his face showed how much he'd gathered from the Prince's speech.

In Faronun, Naevu told the boy, "They're having us killed today." A mortified expression crossed his face as in a panic he considered his surroundings. He'd no intention of the joke being taken seriously, but Three'd yet learned proper humor. He patted the boy on the head.

The Order heads stood with the High Ward, conversing among themselves. Elea Gyldwin remained seated. The rest of the hall stood and the silence cracked. The chamber roared with conversation. Naevu watched Moril Vaban, the Sadorishi head, leave with powerful strides and a tail of twenty armed men.

Naevu turned to a nearby Alonite. A short, rapid sequence of quivering erupted on the man's lips as he looked to Naevu. He was taking this far too seriously.

"When do we eat?"

~*~*~*~​

It would be another hour still before the tables were set. Naevu had forced Three into a corner and stood with their backs to the wall the entirety of the wait. At this point, and he hated to admit it, he was doing it mostly to frighten the child. No daggers lunged into his heart. And he expected none would, least not in the High Ward's house.

He'd carried on a conversation with a man named Gyrsun, some Nechekt fellow that spoke fine Cyvekt. The man was party to Elea, and liked to remind the gallery every few minutes with loud, stupid comments. Their palaver devolved into intense racism that put a sour taste in Naevu's mouth. You can hate a man for his actions, but not a people for their birth. At the first opportunity, Naevu fled his new friend.

Servants brought in an assortment of opening dishes and the wine flowed free. They'd moved into another large chamber, split off from the Concourse by a lengthy gallery. Here four long rows of wooden tables with individual chairs for each guest lined the place. Guards in heavy, silvery armor stood at each entrance. It didn't help him feel safe. Quite the opposite, truly.

People took to their seats, as if assigned. This left Naevu in an awkward position. Elea was one of the last Order heads to return. The High Ward had vanished, as had Moril Vaban. Elea's guards pulled Naevu and Three along to the far end of one table, where, much to his satisfaction, the first course had already been placed and he was comfortably away from unknowns.

Elea looked exhausted, as if she's had it out in a fist fight. She took to the wine with swift, massive gulps, draining one goblet in a blink of the eye. Naevu contemplated poison, but was far too hungry to give a damn.

The first dish, held in a fine ceramic bowl, was fried dough noodle in a beef broth with an assortment of local vegetables. The noodles were still crunchy, and Naevu ate them before they went soggy.

"Should I be worried?" he finally asked Elea. She held a goblet to her lips, now stained red from the too-bitter wine.

"It'd be in your best interests," she admitted. The pendant still hung from her neck. The gem smeared with finger marks from incessant rubbing.

He saw the tension. A thousand scenarios must have run through her mind since the prince's call. How would it affect her? What would people say? It hadn't been entirely out of the blue, but it had been blatant. Burn the witch. Not nearly as insulting as Dalotha calling, but what men spoke as they wished. Until someone killed them.

"So, you're advising me against visiting a dozen brothels tonight?" he said, trying to dminish the gravity of the situation. It didn't work.

"Never would have placed such huge balls on the guy," said Elea in her own lightening of the mood. "No one's ever spoken to me like that. I've got to admit," she said, gulping wine, "I loved it."

There we go, he thought.

"Exatas," said Naevu. "Quite exactly the definition." Naevu slurped the broth from the empty bowl. Three still picked at his. A waste.

"Are you staying long, professor?"

"I had intended to stay another week, but now I may change plans. As soon as I'm home, she'll send me off again." He chuckled, but then thought about all the walking he'd have to do.

"I'll hear your Parthecan poetry tonight," she said. It wasn't a request.

"A veiled attempt at insulting everyone?" he asked.

"How's it veiled?" she said, sipping more wine. "You're a spy and I'm a witch. Would you rather be alone or in similar company?"

A servant plopped a heavy iron platter in front of him. It held a tender piled of lamb and beef. He'd read of Gallatene animal stuffing and wondered how a lamb cooked inside a cow would taste. Naevu poked it with his fork, letting it fall from the bone.

"Great point," he said, scanning the room. The Sadorishi were thin here, still off with their barking master somewhere. "I would take your company over many others, witch or not." He laughed.

Elea waved off the meat course. Shortly, a berry tart stacked with a mound of otter berry stained gelatin appeared. It jiggled like a plump breast when she poked it. Naevu hurried through the meat so he could have some of that.

"Have you ever seen a man like him?" she asked, slurping up a spoon full of gelatin. He watched her swallow it with intense fascination. Now, he really wanted some.

"No, but I know of men like him," he replied, eagerly taking a tart dish from a passing servant. It hadn't been intended for him.
 
The High Prince of the Vellari Exatai leaned against a cold stone wall in the heart of Seniar. A couple hundred yards from Concourse he'd found an alcove in the hallway, slightly out of view, and had paused there for a moment to catch his breath and compose himself. The silver mask he wore gave no hint as to his mood, but his bodyguards were accustomed to their Prince, and could see his fatigue and discomfort from the lines of his body, even armoured as it was. None of them said anything, of course; they were allowed to concern themselves only with his physical safety.

“Alxas!” A loud, clear shout came down the hall, the sort of shout more usually employed for giving orders on a battlefield. The Accan guards immediately formed a barrier in front of their Prince, who pulled away from the wall and turned to see Prelatyr approaching, trailed by a dozen or more stone-faced Sadorishi. Alxas motioned his men aside, and stepped towards Vaban with an expansive gesture. “My friend, I am surprised to see you so soon. What can I do for you?”

Vaban stopped a half dozen paces away from Alxas, and his Sadorishi formed up to either side. Vaban regarded the High Prince for a long moment, and despite himself Alxas began to fidget slightly. Vaban's countenance was unreadable. “You can take your mask off,” he said at last.

Alxas blinked in surprise. “What?”

Vaban stepped forward slowly, and his men did likewise. “You heard me. Take that mask off, before I do it for you. I want to see your face when you lie to me.” Vaban's tone was even; only the cold fire burning behind his grey eyes betrayed his fury.

A particularly bold Accan guardsman jumped forward at that. “How dare you speak to the High Prince that way, you insolent wretch!” he cried, and grabbed the Prelatyr's shoulder and tried in vain to push him away. Vaban looked at him contemptuously for a moment, as a man might regard a mosquito, then hit him hard in the face with a mailed fist. The Accan collapsed, his mask shattering into a hundred pieces. His compatriots swore and reached for their weapons, but the Sadorishi were faster: in little more than the blink of eye the Accans had blades at their throats.

“Guardsmen,” Vaban said distantly, his attention still fixed on the man on the floor, “we're not going to hurt your prince, but if you do something stupid we might have to hurt you. I think you should put your weapons down before my men make you eat them.” The Accans eyed each other nervously, then as one man looked to Alxas. He swallowed hard and gave an almost imperceptible nod: the Accans dropped their weapons and the Sadorishi relaxed, though they didn't sheathe their swords.

“You don't seem to understand, Accan,” Vaban said, addressing the first guardsman, who was recovering slightly. “You are not in Atracta. This is Sirasona; this is not your city. And in this city a Prince counts for no more than a stablehand.” The Accan had managed to rise to all fours. “I didn't say you could get up,” Vaban continued conversationally, and then kicked him in the stomach. The unfortunate guardsman collapsed again into a moaning ball of pain.

Vaban stepped over him and advanced on the High Prince. To his credit, Alxas stood his ground, only flinching slightly when Vaban reached up and ripped his mask off with one swift motion. Beneath the mask the Satar's face was pale and had a distinctly greenish tinge. Vaban turned the mask over in his hands and regarded the imperious expression it permanently bore. “Pretty thing,” he whispered to himself, and then he fixed those burning eyes on Alxas, who quailed visibly. “But a pretty face doesn't make a diplomat, any more than pretty armour makes a soldier.”

“Have they decided when to hold the vote?” Alxas said, trying and failing to affect an air of nonchalance.

“Ah, the vote. You really don't know what you've done,” Vaban said softly. “The first vote will be tomorrow. Deliberations will take perhaps five minutes, or somewhat less, and then thirteen of us will stand against the motion and that will be that.”

The High Prince looked horrified. “But, but, that can't be! I've brought documentation; they have to see the documentation! If Concourse just looks at it they'll see. I'm right. You know I'm right, don't you?” A plaintive tone had crept into his voice.

“What I know, and what they know, is that you came into our house under false pretenses and ordered us to plunge the continent into the bloodiest struggle it has ever seen. It doesn't matter what I think: the Order comes first, and if the Order is to survive it cannot be seen to be acting at your behest. And so yes, I'll be standing against with the rest.”

“Ahh. That's...unexpected...unfortunate.” Alxas licked his lips. “Wait, what do you mean the first one?”

“You see, Alxas, the vote on our censure has not yet been scheduled.” Vaban smiled; it was utterly mirthless. “It turns out that Concourse isn't pleased when a foreign prince shows up and claims one of their own for his God. I count three certain yeas. It should be interesting.”

“That's terrible! I'm so sorry. I had no idea that this would cause you such trouble, my friend.”

Vaban gave an exaggerated sigh. “That's the problem with wearing a mask all the time: you never learn how you actually appear. You're a terrible liar, Alxas. You knew, because I told you. You did it anyway. You don't know the rules to this game, Alxas, but you still tried to play me. I did not know that exatas meant STUPIDITY!” He roared the last word, his composure breaking at last, and Alxas jumped backwards despite himself, his back hitting the stone of the wall. The Prelatyr composed himself with a visible effort, and then continued, his voice once again controlled and even, “I know the rules, Alxas. I've been playing for a very long time. If you want to keep your remaining friends on this side of the sea, I suggest you listen when they give you advice on how to play.”

Alxas stammered out “But I didn't...it wasn't meant to...they told me th-”

Vaban cut him off with a raise of his hand. They stood there in tense silence for a moment, then Vaban chuckled. “Ah, they. I should have known. There's always a 'they' with Accans, isn't there? Well, 'they' have, as usual, mistaken pointless complexity for cleverness.” Vaban shook his head. “Go home, Alxas. Go back to your wife and your children and your old, familiar games, and try not to let them drive you into any more errors.” Vaban stepped back, and Alxas let out the breath he'd been unconsciously holding. Some of the fire had gone out of the Prelatyr's eyes

“No, there must be something I can do here. You're right, the nuccia...they misled me. I shouldn't have listened, but we can fix it. Surely we can fix it, Vaban! I'll talk to Concourse again, I will clarify, I'll-”

Vaban shook his head firmly. “You'll go home. Right now the only thing you can do to help is get out of Sirasona and let me try to contain the damage. If you feel you must do something, do it to them once you get back, because anything you do here will make things worse.”

Alxas slumped. He suddenly looked very tired. “I didn't want it to go like this, you know.”

Vaban was not a man much given to sympathy at the best of times. “You should have listened, then. And you should listen now. Because I'm still your friend and I don't let my friends walk unwittingly into catastrophe, I'll tell you that word of your speech has already reached the Sirasonan mob. They're not happy. No one back there,” Vaban jerked his head in the general direction of Concourse, “is likely to care what happens to you just now. Montoss would find a dead High Prince an embarrassment, of course, but she's distracted at the moment. I suggest you go out a side entrance, you go straight to your ship, and you go soon, or there will likely be unpleasantness, of one sort or another. If your guardsmen cut you a way out through a mob Gyldwin is likely to overreact.”

Alxas nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, yes, excellent idea, thank you. I'll go at once. I hope that once this has all blown over we can put things right.” Vaban paid him no mind; he appeared to be lost in thought, and to have completely lost interest in the Satar. The Prelatyr absently murmured some agreement and turned to go, his hands unconsciously worrying at the silver mask as he went. That drew Alxas' gaze, and his eyes widened and his hand flew to his uncovered face. “Ahh, Prelatyr?” Alxas said uncertainly. Vaban turned back, and under his renewed gaze Alxas found that the words escaped him. Instead he made a helpless little gesture towards the mask Vaban still held. The Prelatyr looked down as if noticing it for the the first time.

“Ah, how thoughtless of me,” he said, and a relieved smile began to spread across Alxas' face. It died a split second later, as Vaban thrust the mask towards the closest Sadorisk. “Take it to the forges. Melt it down.” The Sadorisk nodded and trotted smartly away. Vaban stared at Alxas' horrified face, as though daring him to protest. The High Prince opened his mouth for a second, but thought better of it. “Consider it a lesson and a promise. The next time your puppet-masters decide to screw me, you'll lose more. Tell them that.” And then Moril Vaban turned on his heel and walked briskly away, his Sadorishi falling in behind him, leaving the High Prince staring impotently after him.
 
The Crippled Prince

Part One:

“Have mercy on the cripple, for the heavens have robbed him of his dignity. Restore to him what heartless gods cannot.”

-Taleldil, Foundations 4:12, Kaphai

---

Unlike the endless smoke-palled warrens that stretched to the north of the great grey bulk of the heptagrammatic walls, its deep dark portals watched by silent, bored men in skins of steel and more careful pairs of eyes set high in the towers, the southwestern gate second from the sea was known for its beauty, the path escorted by lemon trees and carved ornamental hitching posts like eager maidens leading the pregnant bride to her husband's embrace.

But Zna never failed to feel a creeping sense of unease when he reached its arch.

When the mighty yet aging fortifications had been restored in advance of Marev's great raid so long ago, some long vanished Vedrix known only by his mark (and never by his face) had carved the dressed stone into fanciful shapes, perhaps hoping that in the battle-smoke some terrified Xieni peasant might mistake them for a dread creature bound by Accan genius and carried here to ravage his very soul, turning his trembling knees into the beginning of a one man rout that would then spread to hundreds and thousands of like-minded soldiers.

Other gates had predictable shapes, the cockatrice rampant, latakar writhing in an incomprehensible mass, a pack of snarling silver wolves.

But this particular gate, perhaps reflecting its orientation towards the land of the coin-counting sailor men with friendly voices and eyes colder than a Zalkephic winter, held their selfsame terror beast of myth. It rose over the gate, a dozen tentacles stretching omnidirectionally like a sunburst that had collided with a Faronun treatise on curvature, some almost to caress the side of the portal like some great aquatic mother hen watching over her precious egg. Above its manifold arms rose a great cerebral crest of a head, ovaline and three times the height of a man, crowned with a mask of waves and a single eye. As if you could comprehend the treasures I guard, it whispered.

The giant squid.

Zna touched the tips of his three longest fingers to the bark of his mask as he passed into the long darkness under the arch. To be a man who doubted magic and monsters was the surest way to an early death and a heaven of horror. Nothing but the feel of cool air and the clap of wooden sandals on damp stone accompanied him into the dark, though a soft rustling above him made him close his eyes. Fear not the Shadow.

"The ninth son was made to be wary," said the voice of a man close enough to touch him in the darkness.

"For he had seen both loyalty and deceit," said Zna in the coded reply.

A smooth cylinder of ivory was pressed into his left hand and he nestled it to the flesh of his palm before passing it into the nonexistence of his pockets, there to dwell with eight copper nellai, twine, the knuckle bones of his grandmother, striking stones, a strip of stale flatbread in the final stages of architectural collapse, and a carved, painted figurine of a deer the size of a child's thumb.

Zna squinted as the light grew, and as his night-blindness was burned away he came upon the Rath Mekthelas. It was a cobbled square with the open space of a small bedroom surrounded by a profusion of secondhand fish stalls for the terminally lazy who would not make the harbor pilgrimage, a public brazier for the hearthless enforced by a fire code holier than God, an ancient oak tree looking extremely regretful that someone had decided to plant it here surrounded by a nebulous crowd of children playing, scampering, and falling from its lower branches, and a clearly-sedentary Oracle leading four craftsmen, two craftman's wives, and eight craftsman's apprentices in the First Form of Tranquility as an unintentionally ironic civic demonstration.

On its corners lay the dim bulk of the quarter armory, the happy little verdigris dome of the local vedas before which the Oracle and company expostulated their bodies, and a cut-rate chalking house of low-level commodity trades for the utterly desperate merchants who lacked the credit necessary for a nuccial floor mask and its deep discounts, filled with noise and the bray of confused animals, vegetables, and minerals being haggled for less than they were worth.

Zna took this all in, but the tip of one hair on the lustrous, disheveled head of the Apex of Cities. A Taudo itinerant-borderline beggar was unnoticable and unnoticed as he shuffled through the scene into one of the thousands of dusty, narrow, and strangely beautiful man-made valleys of the place called Atracta, passing under green cloth overhangs proclaiming an unofficial neighborhood association with Kelekephi. He was swept up by the current of people and carried along as a solitary whitecap on a torrent of bobbing heads.

---


"It was masterfully done, Brother Kelekephi."

"They are masters, Sister Velexi."

"They neutered our efforts to have Alxas act effectively by making him act incompetently. And furthered their own interests into the bargain."

"It will backfire on them."

"Perhaps, but this forces us to accelerate our game."

"You have your assets, and I have mine."

"So be it."

---

The world was formed out of shadow, and he knew his place in it.

He was waiting for the enemy in the rocky hollow with naked steel in his hands. As three warriors fanned out to surround him, he flowed his body into the dance.

He spun, and the tip of his whirling sword sectioned neatly through the neck of the the black-masked foe behind him. He heard him fall to his knees as his heartbeat spurted gurgling blood into the dust. Seeing the other two advance on him, he dashed nimbly behind a boulder, drawing his bow and shooting a barbed arrow into the surprised man’s face as he rounded the corner. It plinked off of his mask.

Not giving his enemy’s ally any time to squeeze into the rocky crevasse beside him, he deflected the incoming slash off the side of his his arm-buckler with a jarring impact. Getting inside the man’s guard, he slammed his dagger hard into his stomach, then bull rushed him backwards into his ally. He fell on top of him, clutching the hilt of the blade buried in his abdomen and crying out in pain.

Snatching up his own sword from where he had stuck it in the earth, he raised his blade and brought it down in a furious overhead stab, piercing first through one man and then the second, impaling them both to the ground and each other. Triumphant at last, the victor roared the might of his exatas as three trained soldiers bled out on the ground, mute witnesses to his power.

At last, he was a true warrior. The High Prince himself would praise him.

At last...

He awoke. He opened his eyes, and he took a breath.

And he felt, for the thousandth time, the shriveled leg that would never bear his weight. The twisted back muscles left of his spine already trembling with effort from trying to lift his head. And the gnarled half-excuse for a hand perpetually hidden beneath a silver glove.

A cool breeze was coming in through the window, hinting at a gentle autumn to come. There was birdsong, as well. Virenna, the song-thrush. He lifted his head to try and look, and the pain lanced down his side as his left arm shook. He grimaced, gritting his teeth and pushing his working right hand and leg to their limit, straining...straining. After about a minute of excruciating pain and effort, the prince had finally managed to raise his head enough to see out the window.

Then his wrist buckled underneath him and he fell flat on his back.

Not for the first or the last time, Idraxis wept.

It was often this sound, and not the bell he had been given, that summoned the slaves. They entered softly on bare feet, two rather beautiful, dark-haired and olive skinned women, unmasked in the privacy of his chambers as was their custom.

“Look at the poor prince, feeling so sorry for himself,” said Elerri, his favorite, smiling wryly.

“Oh Taleldil, pity me for being richer than a god and having beautiful women take care of me,” echoed Zicce.

He wrestled himself into a slightly more upright position to stare at the women, crimson bed linens slipping down off his emaciated, partially deformed body.

“Tell me, Elerri, do you like being a miserable slave?”

“Everyone is a slave, my prince. Especially you.”

He forgot the pain for a moment and laughed. Teaching his slaves how to mock him had been one of his better inventions.

“At least I am a slave who has slaves, then.”

Elerri lifted his arms up for him to put on his undershirt, ignoring his groan of pain as the crippled arm slowly straightened out, while Mecci wiped his sweat-soaked face with a cool cloth.

“At least I am a slave with only one master,” she said. “I am owned by Idraxis, son of the High Prince. But Idraxis, son of the High Prince, is owned by his father...and the court…and the exatai, and his frail, twisted little body.”

She touched his chin with a mocking smile and then gave a derisive snort at his appalled reaction, flicking a bit of lavender water into his face.

That was another game they played, where she acted as if they were equals, as if her body was not for the taking, as if he could not order her to perform every service his mind could imagine. But in truth, he did not want to, both out of revulsion for what he was and the knowledge that her ‘love’ would be just another service that she provided. Set the morning fires, beat out the tapestries, pleasure the prince. And suppose she did love him back, what then? That would be even worse.

They both knew the truth of this, so instead they played these little games, and that was why Elerri was his favorite.

“Well,” he said, as they continued to dress him, “you have convinced me on the merits of slavery. We must inform the Aeritai that the debate is over.”

“If they come to try and free me, I will hit them,” said Zicce, as she levered the prince into a sitting position. “It is better to be a slave to a Prince than a free woman anywhere else.”

“As if a woman is not a slave to her family whoever she is,” replied Elerri, draping the majestic robe of a prince around Idraxis’ shoulders.

“She could always become an Oracle,” said Idraxis, looking at her.

“Oh, but I am an Oracle. And here is my first prophecy: I will be branded and sold to a fat merchant with three chins if YOU are late.”

He paused for a moment and then groaned. “My father’s return?”

“We have had word by bird. His ship docks even now.”

The two women each draped one of his arms over their shoulders, and slowly eased him to his feet.

“Give me the crutches,” he rasped.

“My prince, you are too weak.”

“I WILL WALK TO SEE MY FATHER!” the Prince roared. Both slaves flinched.

“Let me go,” he said.

They let him go.
 
FAQ On Parthe’s Government and Society


So Parthe’s just a Republic, Right?

Well, it’s sort of a republic in the fact that there is no monarchy and that there’s the Innermost Guild acting as a senate. But --


What do you mean “sort of?”

The thing is, the organizers of the Republican Revolution knew they didn’t want any kings, but they’re unsure of what exactly they did want. So they contacted all the local experts on the matter to help them. Needless to say, they got a lot of conflicting advice. Instead of overthrowing all the old governing structures, they just subsumed it under the new Innermost Guild. Established by the Tarsylan Compact, the Innermost Guild forms the basis of today's Republic.


What does the Innermost Guild do, then?

The Innermost Guild (Pamar Hasneun) is the Neun which represents all Parthe and which handles revenue collection and distribution, foreign diplomacy, as well as establishment and the maintenance of the bureaucracy, or the Neunthe. They are also the final court of appeals. They are lead by a rotating First Sibling, depending on the gender of said member, who determines daily business not directly stipulated by the Tarsylan Compact.


Does the First Sibling Rule?

Not really no. The First Sibling has great power over the internal direction of the Innermost Guild for a moon, but their terms inevitably shifts. Even then, vital business as stipulated by the Tarsylan Compact are to be completed on various schedules, else the Innermost Guild would be locked inside their chambers until a decision is made (or everyone starves to death). The most important of such is the “budget” (every season), and rulings on individual cases (three nights).


Does the Innermost Guild rule?

Well, there are important powers the Innermost Guild lacks. They can’t create laws, which is handled by the Neunthe. The most they can do is convince the Neunthe the importance of some law or another, and perhaps threaten to not pay them. They don’t have direct power over the entire military, either. Although the Republican Guard is entirely loyal to the Innermost Guild, they are few, and much of the military and fleet are under various separate Neuns. Finally, they’re often too busy arguing to do much more than basic maintenance of “business as usual”. When the time comes to act though, they can do so with shocking speed and efficiency: most members already know what’s necessary to get others to budge on various issues, and if they don’t, they’ll learn soon.


Hang on, that seems a bit convenient…

Yes, I have built in a panic button in case you [CENSORED]s try to obliterate my masterwork too quickly :p


Ok… Wait, what’s a Neun? Is it just a Guild? Why can’t you just call it a friggin Senate!? Why is their leader called the First Sibling? Couldn’t you call the guy the Speaker or Exarch or something? WHY DO YOU HAVE SO MANY NON-ENGLISH TERMSSSSSS!???

Whoa man, calm down! One thing at a time!

A Neun, often translated as a Guild or a Brotherhood, has a deeper context. In Ancient Parthe, there are two bonds which are held sacred: Ink and Blood. If Jarthe is the bond of Blood and of Filial Loyalty, then the Neun is the bond of Ink and the Compact. These bonds can not be broken lightly, often requiring ceremony and mutual agreement, although the specific Compact could change the requirements. Those who break Jarthe or Neun were shunned as demi-human. These days they would be imprisoned and put to work. Small Neuns are often called Nenuns, and generally consist of extremely important contracts, closest friendships, and vital partnerships. Larger Neuns, though, are long lasting and are based on firm compacts and generally consist of guilds, brotherhoods, and companies. The Tarsylan Compact acts as this bond for the Innermost Guild.

A Neun is not a Brotherhood or a Guild because it’s much more than those concepts. Although Neun could be used to establish a Brotherhood or a Guild, or serve as a way to “adopt” friends.

A Hasneun, then is a Political Compact. Although smaller Hasneun forming “city councils”, “prefectures” and “provinces” exist since the time of King Wendicas, the Pamar Hasneun is the greatest, most ambitious, and most powerful such Neun formed. As the “Neun of all Neuns,” the name “Innermost Neun” gains more meaning. It isn’t called a Senate because it serves a much different purpose than a senate, as well as provide a different governing paradigm. And we’re not using any of those titles, because the Parthecans who drafted the Compact wouldn’t. Silly you.


Hey, I’m not silly!

Next question please.


No really, cut that out of the record.

Oh sure. *snicker* Next question please.


So what determines who gets in the Innermost Guild?

Attendance is based entirely on the Tarsylan Compact. Theoretically, every organization and family with some power gets to send someone and hold equal power with everyone else. Recently, however, the power players and factions have been slowly consolidating. The other requirement is that whoever they send has to be able to make decisions for their group, unconditionally (although limited consultation is allowed). Needless to say, the full Guild membership is rarely available.


Why does the Neunthe/Bureaucracy have so much power?

Because it is one of the last remaining institutions of the Monarchy and the Royal Court. The Neunthe is the collective term for all the bureaucratic and governing apparati directly responsible to the Innermost Guild. The Republican Guard, Fleet, and Tax Collectors are all Neunthe. So are the Hasneun of Zarcasca, Cende, Dasca, and other cities and regions. They are a mix of national agencies, ad hoc organizations made permanent, regional governors and mayors, as well as parts of the military.


Why does the Innermost Guild let the Neunthe have so much power?

Well, many in the Innermost Guild are from the Neunthe, so no conflict there.

But more seriously, they know they couldn’t handle it. The Neunthe are more authoritative but also narrower in jurisdiction, limiting their effects. And if any cause trouble, it would certainly affect or scare the others enough to cause “appropriate” retribution. Besides, there are other Neun the Innermost Guild have to deal with.

Finally, the Republican Guard are fiercely loyal to the Innermost Guild’s safety and proper functioning according to the Tarsylan Compact. Similar to the fierce loyalty of the Royal Guard to the King according to Comden’s Code of Laws.


Wait, Other Neun?

Sure. There are many other Neuns which are outside of the Neunthe system. These occur usually because they’re weren’t designed to be political, grew far too strong to be considered as part of the Neunthe collective, or very new.


Um, can you give me some examples?

Sure. There’s the Jarceun, or Archives, the gatherer and safekeeper of knowledge. Then there’s the Taparsunuen, the original Neun of Suneuns (Merchant Guilds), which is horrendously wealthy and powerful. Finally, there’s the Resunlimnuen, an ambitious cabal which currently rules Ethir behind the scenes.


So wait, what do they do?

Well, they do whatever they want. Sometimes they are given a seat in the Innermost Guild, rarely they are not. Whatever the case, these Neun are often more influential than the Hasneuns and Neuns of the Neunthe because they aren’t as bound by geography or lineage.


This is all very confusing…

Yes well, it makes sense for the Parthecans.


But how does it work, if at all?

The Neunthe handle day to day government. Hasneun rule regions. Pasneun manage specific areas. The Innermost Guild is composed of various Neunthe, Jarthe, and Neun heads and primarily manages the Neunthe, the budget and foreign policy. The First Sibling manages the flow of other business. Meanwhile, powerful Neuns serve as the distant face of Parthe far beyond the Innermost Guild’s jurisdiction.


What does this mean for me?

It means that Parthe may seem disintrested and bored upfront, but beneath there are plenty of desires and ambitions pointing in all different directions. Sometimes, what you want may be denied, but accepted later due to concessions and backroom deals. Conversely, you may get what you want, in exchange weakening the very party which gained you your desired deals. If you really want something, you’re better off figuring how to please as many of the members as possible, or convince them that what you offer is the best deal they can get.
 
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