Novels

Lamberly is a large province on the southern edge of Garm, and easily accessible by train. The nearest airport is the World Airport just outside of Roshkana, and transit from there to Lamberly province is cheap at 5N a head on the Silverail Train line. Most transit to and from Lamberly province stops in Lamberly city, where the Museum is located.

The Museum itself is located on Prosh street between the Valley and Dale roads, and all five major bus lines have a connecting stop. The Museum is well sign-posted, and the commuter-service agents are plentiful and helpful. If you think a bus looks too packed to get on, try to get on anyway, as Lamberly has a culture of packing in commuters; you probably won’t find a bus or train that’s any less packed.

I must admit, to start, a bias towards the land of Garm.

When I first began my habitual jaunts, escaping from the cloistered confines of University and the drudgingly familiar, I first went to Garm. It is in this bright land of soft flowers and strong buildings that I was first introduced to our fantastical world, and all the marvels that lay hidden inside it.

I will never forget, at the age of twenty-four, sitting on the roof of the Hostil Rivore and watching the sun set over the Lamberly skyline. The smell of fresh evening bread filled the streets below, and the square across the way was filled with minstrels playing a Va de Runde. Laughter and singing and the soft clink of earthenware ale-mugs filled my head, until it seemed like the world was full of nothing but joy.

I swore then and there that I would see the whole world, and taste of all the beauty and joy within it.

I am always amazed by the people I meet who sincerely see no value in traveling to foreign countries. Perhaps they are too mired in their ways or comfortable with their habits, so that the idea of experiencing a foreign land sounds exhausting. Perhaps they are frightened of looking foolish or clumsy to a foreigner’s eyes. They might even be one of those unfortunates who believes that their own culture is the pinnacle of society, making visiting other nations a natural downgrade. I call them unfortunates, because these are the people who need travel the most, and yet are the least likely to do so.

I believe traveling to foreign nations is vital for a comprehensive view of our world. You will see people very much like yourself behaving frighteningly different, as well as amazing similarities to people who are completely different. The rich variety of experiences in this world are things to be marveled at, not feared or shunned. Experiencing the cuisine of another people may open your eyes to flavors you never imagined. Your new favorite food might be no more than a train or balloon ride away!

It is in the nature of these books to begin with something of an autobiographical nature. Not being one to break with tradition, I find myself at something of a loss. The obvious beginning is to detail where I am from, yet in my case that question is very difficult to answer.

Perhaps you wish to know where I was born. Or, possibly, in which nation I grew up. Different again is the nation in which I have spent most of my life. Instead, you might wish to know all about where I currently live, or else where I perform my daily work. Different still is where my mothers call home, and different again is where they each are from.

Truly, “from” is not so simple a word as it may seem. Indeed, the venerable and ancient Farseers of Raiy do not have the word ‘from’ in their language. Instead, they have the word eres, which might be better translated as “grows out of” or “pulls from.” For them, the ’now’ is a hungry beast, feasting on countless experiences and influences such that there is no extant past ‘from’ which to come. The past has created the present like a child building with blocks.

I, however, am not a Farseer, nor have I lived in Raiy, nor do I speak the language. Instead, I am a widely traveled lover of life and the exotic, the curious and unfamiliar.

There is a village on the edge of Madrain, called Ostra. Ostra was the smallest town on the island to have docks, kept mostly because of the dry season, when the nearby island of Galgasan passes close to Madrain. Trade was plentiful in the dry season, and merchants came from the nearby villages to share and barter their goods.

But this was the wet season, a time for the wise Madrainian to tend to their meager fields, or hunt the ordinarily ferocious wild boars that stalked the nearby jungles.

Kerrom was not wise. He knew this, and had known it from before he left the island to become a mercenary. He had known it before he arrived at Erosea and sold himself as a guard, and spent over five years of his life protecting his employer’s shipments. He had known wisdom was beyond him ever since that day, so many years ago, when he earned the name Sephehar.

And let this be a lesson to you, dearest beloved, for though it would have been wise for Kerrom to do as his king had commanded, he knew in his heart that he could not commit such cruelty as was his duty. So is Wisdom a virtue only when it accounts for the heart, and compassion.

Know this, beloved, for it is one of many truths this story will teach you. There is much allure in the act of ruling over another. While Teschemar’s heart beat strong at the thought of returning to Herathia with blood on his sword, on the other side of the Autumn Wall, Ceinneret’s heart beat faster still.

While Teschemar knew the battlefield, Ceinneret knew gossip. It is like a plague, spreading from person to person, through the air on wings of whispers. The Court of Cast was a plague pit for rumor. Hidden diseases from all across Cast found their way to the lords and ladies of her throne-room, until all were infected.

Even the strong can fall to this disease, but for many years it had avoided Ceinneret. Her place on the throne was a convenience for everyone, and to threaten it was to court chaos. Her father had ruled Cast as a beloved king, and even those who still ached for his rule would not be so quick to defile his bloodline.

But what of Rukiya? Was she slain among the carnage that was the Winged Saqur’s great assault? Was she burned where she was tied on the whipping cross in the courtyard? When the Slavemaster dropped his lash and ran, was she left to die?

No, dearest beloved, for the slaves who watched her punishment did not leave her side. They released her bonds and together they ran to the only shelter they knew, the slave-quarters in the depths of Terras Bastion. The battle raged about them as they ran, and they hid with their fellow slaves until the slaughter was over. They cowered in the darkness until the door was opened by a Herathian solder, who ordered them to leave and line up in the courtyard to be counted.

For it was the way of Tarras Bastion that the spoils of war were great. The great King of Madrain, had sponsored privateers and pirates to plunder the trade-lanes of the cloud-sea for years, and his coffers were bounteous. There were few in the whole of the cloud-sea who were richer than he.

But amidst the chaos and slaughter, what should happen? Kerrom opened his eyes. In the darkness he stood, as he felt the earth around him shake. High above him, noise, glorious noise, rained down like diamonds from above.

Now Kerrom knew the sounds of battle, and while he did not know of the Winged Saqurs nor of Teschemar’s rage, he knew no soldier would join him in the darkness. He knew he was safe from their swords and rifles.

But Kerrom did not wait. His first thoughts were of Rukiya, and how he needed to protect her.

Now hush! Listen! Hear the silence of the night, that fateful night, when Rukiya slipped through the slave-door and crept out towards Kerrom’s pit.

Close your eyes. Tightly now! See the darkness that filled the corners of Tarras Bastion, the long and deep shadows that hid her from the Madrainian’s watchful eyes.

Brave and clever Rukiya, she knew how to be still as the tree, silent as the rock. She moved as silently as a quayla, and like a river-rabbit she hid in the shadows until she was certain there were no predators around.

At last she reached the Pit. She pulled back the wooden door and whispered into the darkness, barely loud enough to be heard, like this. “Kerrom?”

But what of Ala, once called Rukiya? Did she live the rest of her days a slave to the Madrainian King? Did she succumb to the despair and madness that claimed so many slaves? You know she did not, for else how could she midwife the Wailing Hour?

But it was many days before she found herself again, before hope once more curled in her breast.

That day, The harsh voice of the Slavemaster broke over Ala’s head like a whip, calling her to him. She ran to his side and knelt down, bowing her head in fearful reverence.

He had but one command to give her: “Fetch Bread and Water and take it to the Pit.”