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.

Long Ago and Far Away was an old PBS show hosted by James Earl Jones. With a brief introduction, the show was a vehicle for children’s stories, oftentimes from foreign countries or based on old folk-tales.

I had an old VHS with several of the shows recorded on it, and I watched it regularly. One of the introductions had James Earl Jones reading an atlas, looking at maps of far-off lands including “The Cheese Palace of Pushka, capital of Brotzt,” “the Kingdom of Zeep,” and the “Outer Minor Mutaan Islands.”

Being old enough to know a bit of geography, I knew these were made up places; but as Mr. Jones said, after wondering why he had never heard of these places before: “but that doesn’t mean I can’t imagine what it would like to visit.”

That idea has stuck with me for over thirty years, and so here is my own atlas, which I flatter myself to think that one day might inspire someone else with places they’ve never been.

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.”

But praise Atamato Cintona, the shackled boy, for he found his courage and feared neither Master Gentamo nor his own foolishness. So bright burned the hope in his chest that he left the Great Library and marched to the poor districts of the Free City.

There he acquired, with what little coin he had along with the promise of more to come, a tiny room above a food-shop, barely big enough for even a street-laborer. The roof leaked, and the street outside was full of mud and raucous noise. The smell of stewed seaweed below the floorboards made him sick, and his bed was almost as threadbare as his cap.

It was here that he began his many foolish experiments to find the truth of things. He dreamed such madness as to make the scholars and professors of the Academy blush. He hung a giant pendulum in the middle of the room, and marked its rotation to see if the cloud-sea itself turned as the islands did. He climbed onto the roof on the clearest nights to catch glimpses of the glittering ice crystals, to see if they moved or remained still. He drew diagrams, wrote formulas, and poured himself so deeply into his experiments that he often forgot to eat, which was fortunate, considering his empty purse.

Now what of Atamato Cintiona? The Prezon’s Navigator did not remain with the ship when it reached port. So shaken was the poor boy by his experiences that he purchased passage home, to the Free City of Imbari. It is here that the boy who would soon be shackled found himself. Such was the fortune of the privileged navigator, that with but a promise of service did even the meanest merchant provide passage to wherever he wished.

When Atamato was young, he thought the streets of Imbari claustrophobic, filled to the brim with citizens going about their daily lives, talking and shouting and calling to each other. How he had hated the streets then; there was never any time to be alone. Now, the crowded streets of Imbari felt welcoming. It was here he had studied for eight years, learning about the systems and numbers that guided the islands on their path. Levers and springs, gears and slopes, brand new maths and sciences were constantly being discovered in the Free City. Great thinkers and philosophers created their own academies, spreading the gospel of science and math.