Chapter the First
In Which Two Young People, Unlike the Reader, Are Blissfully Unaware of the Doom Hanging Over Them
On the fourth day of autumn in the two hundred and forty-first year of the reign of Cherova the Third, the Gods—if one believes, as many do, that the Gods are responsible for the weather—had granted an exceptionally fine day along that portion of the western coast, forming a part of the region known as Zerika’s Point, that is called, for reasons of which we must confess our ignorance, the Sinking Hills.
The breeze from the Ocean-sea was mild and smelled clean, and even now, as dusk loomed, the air was warm and pleasant. The question of whether such a mild and delightful day is a fitting and appropriate way to begin a history in which the reader will bear witness to no small amount of violence, treachery, deceit, and sorrow (as well, to be sure, as proper proportions of laughter, honor, candor, and joy), is one we must answer in the affirmative, and for two reasons: One reason, the simplest, is that this is, in fact, the way the history began, and while mere statements of fact do not exhaust the study of history, even those desert-born mystics who are subject to the wildest flights of imagination agree that facts are where the study of history must take its departure. The other reason, however, is more complex, and we hope the reader will be patient while we explain our thinking in this matter.
It has been observed more than once that history, however broad or narrow its subject matter, and however sympathetic or detached the historian, and however momentous or trivial the final result, must inevitably contain elements of tragedy as well as comedy, for the simple reason that this is how all episodes, when thoroughly comprehended, eventually reduce themselves in the human heart. The author of these lines makes no claim of originality, but merely wishes to open this history by reminding the reader of this obvious truth.
This reminder, we believe, is especially necessary as we begin to set before the reader the history our duty has required us to relate, because of the sharp contrast between the events as they begin to unfold, and the expectation of the knowledgeable reader as to the direction in which they must inevitably move. That is to say, while our metaphorical curtain opens, perchance, on a setting that can only be described as happy, or even idyllic, we do not for a moment expect the reader to be lulled by this into thinking the events as they progress will continue in this fashion. Indeed, we flatter ourselves that the sophistication of our reader is such that a book which promised nothing more than soporific pleasantries would never have arrived in his hands to begin with.
Of course, the reader might justly ask why, then, we begin here instead of elsewhere? Above, we had the honor to assert in simple terms, here is where our history begins. Yet, wonders the student, could not this history begin fifteen years earlier, when a geologist named Veck found deposits of sealstone off the coast of Wetrock? Or five thousand years before that, when a sorcerer name Undira learned that sealstone often contains deposits of iron, lodestone, manganese, and occasionally even trellenstone, all protected by its marvelous properties from the ravages of the sea? Or yet before that, back to the First Cycle of the Empire, now all but lost in the mists of time, when bands of Orca came by sea, and Iorich by land, to tame the local savages and set up their dominions on this part of the coast?
Any of these might be reasonable choices, as each of these events plays an important role in the chain of causality that we have elected to set before the reader. But the exposition of history is more than science, it is also art—that is to say, in order to be successful, it must not only edify the intellective academic, but also stimulate the sensitive student, thus providing that unity of mind and spirit that is essential to true percipience. And it is here that we find the apparently arbitrary selection of the first element in our causal chain becomes determined by necessity: In a word, we are required to begin our history at that point which will not only provide the reader with an understanding of events in their unfolding, but will also excite all of the finer emotions—pity, catharsis, passion, elation—that are so necessary to the citizens of an enlightened society.
With this firmly in mind, then, as our reader finds his allotted seat (if we may be permitted to return to the theatrical metaphor upon which we found ourselves embarking), and as the last notes of the figurative overture fade in his ears, and his pulse, we permit ourselves to hope, slightly quickens in anticipation of the experience through which it is our humble duty to guide him, let the curtain rise on a particularly fine evening in the Seventeenth Athyra reign, in a place on the western edge of our Empire, some five hundred miles northwest of Zerika’s Point, on the outskirts of a hamlet called Wetrock, where a pair of young people are engaged in an activity that, if tolerably rare in the Empire, is at least not uncommon in this small corner of it: to wit, they are watching the Furnace, briefly visible as it sinks below the Enclouding, turn from a bright, painful yellow to a soft, gentle red as it appears to fall into the Ocean-sea far away. The colors produced by this display, reds and purples and pinks, are of such a spectacular exuberance that the historian must pause in his narrative—unwilling as he is to interrupt the relation of events that are the heart of any chronicle, historical or otherwise—to advise the reader to make a pilgrimage to this region just to see it.
As the reader will no doubt have already deduced that the two young persons to which we have just had the honor to allude will become important as our history proceeds, we should waste no time in providing a cursory sketch of each of them.
The young man, for so we will call him (they were of an age whereby we might, with equal justice, call them a boy and a girl, or a man and a woman), was of between ninety and one hundred years of age. He was neither exceptionally tall nor unusually short, though more athletic in appearance than one would expect of an Iorich. His eyes were brown, mild, and deep set beneath a strong forehead that spoke of determination, and his lips, which were full and pouting, though much given to smiling, as was proved by the lines around them, nevertheless tended slightly down when at rest. His cheekbones were high, his nose straight with perhaps a hint of point, and his chin had that sort of dimple that is called a cleft among the nobility. In general, his features displayed an open and trusting expression, one more suited to sudden laughter than to anger. His hair was of a darker brown than his eyes, nearly black, and fell straight, if slightly disheveled, to his shoulders, revealing a noble’s point that could only be said to exist by courtesy—should he ever wish to pass for a Teckla, he could do so without altering his hair. His chest was broad and strong, his fingers long and elegant. He wore a pure white shirt in the style of the time, which insisted that as much fabric as possible be present, and that it be bunched, gathered, and, if the reader will permit, corralled by means of cords and ribbons. Over this he wore a simple, thin, tan cloak which was, at present, thrown back over his shoulder, the better to enjoy the day. His leggings were the same tan as his cloak, and his boots were black and simple, if extraordinarily well made. He carried a sword and a dagger, though a close inspection would show that they appeared more decorative than practical.
The young woman next to him, her hand upon his arm in a gesture displaying mostly affection, though not devoid of an agreeable hint of possessiveness, was also easily seen to be an Iorich. Her eyes were bright with wit and intelligence, her gentle forehead spoke of kindness, and her chin displayed a firmness of character. Her hair, notwithstanding its pronounced curl, was of much the same length and shape as his, that being the style among Iorich at the time, though its color was a shade or two lighter, and her noble’s point was far more pronounced. Her nose was small but well-proportioned, her cheekbones as high as his and even more strongly pronounced, providing her a face in which strength of character would seem to have the advantage over cheerful disposition, yet her lips tended naturally upward, and it could not be doubted that she was accustomed to smiling. If he appeared rather more athletic than is usual among Iorich, she seemed doubly so, with stout legs and wide, strong shoulders supporting a graceful neck. Her breasts were full and high, even under the loose tan doublet she wore over a simple white shirt, her hips strong without appearing large, and the carriage of her back, perhaps her most distinctive feature, was powerful yet relaxed, reminiscent of the Northern white wolf, with its confidence in its own power. She, too, wore sword and dagger, yet hers were simpler, more businesslike, and gave every appearance of having been used on more than one occasion, though whether in practice or in more serious conversation could not be determined.
These are two, then, with whom we have chosen to concern ourselves, and, now that the necessary introductory stage—of which we hope the reader will forgive the brevity—is past, it is time to discover something of the words being exchanged as they watched the glowing ball meet the horizon.
After a certain period of silence, during which, the reader may be sure, they took no small degree of pleasure in each other’s company, the young man, whose name was Eremit, pronounced the single word, “Children.”
“Well,” said the young woman, who was known as Livosha, “what of them?”
“Do we wish them?”
“Ah, you say ‘we.’”
“Well, and if I do?”
“You perceive, my friend, that I am unable to answer this question regarding we, for the simple reason that there are two of us, and I am only able to know the mind of one, that being myself.”
“I confess your point is well taken, but then—”
“Yes?”
“Should you tell me your own opinion on this matter, and if I were to then tell you mine, it would be strange indeed if we were not able, by working together, to determine the answer to the question as it applies to both of us.”
“I do not dispute you.”
“And then?”
“Well, I will tell you.”
“Good, for you perceive I am eager to hear.”
“This is it, then.”
“Yes?”
“I am most eager to have children with you.”
“Ah!”
“And is this the answer you had hoped for?”
“To the very word!”
“Well, that is good then,” said Livosha decisively. “The decision is made.”
“And that decision is?”
“We shall have children. Perhaps several.”
“I am the happiest of men,” declared Eremit. “Although it should be added that my esteemed mother, she whose lands we are now occupying, and her husband, my father will, without doubt, be filled with joy as well.”
“You think so?”
“Nearly. Am I not the last of my line? You must understand, my dear Livosha, that to such aristocrats as my mother and father, well, there is little that matters more than seeing their line continue.”
“How, and does this not matter to you?”
“Oh, I am not indifferent,” he said, reflecting. “And yet, that is not what concerns me most regarding the question of children.”
“Ah, what does?”
“You wish me to tell you?”
“I do, and the proof is, I asked.”
“That is true,” said Eremit, struck by the extreme justice of this observation.
“Well?”
“Well, but it seems to me that any child who comes from your loin and from my seed must be someone with whom I should delight in spending time. Does it not seem so to you?”
“My dear Eremit—”
“Well?”
“Well now it is you who have expressed the very words I most wished to hear.”
“Ah! In that case—”
“Yes, in that case?”
“It would seem to me that I ought to kiss you.”
“Oh, I agree with this plan!”
“Then I shall carry it into action.”
“And this very instant, I hope!”
“You see, I do not delay.”
And with these words, he took her in his arms and kissed her soundly, she returning the caress with an enthusiasm that could not be mistaken, after which they both turned and continued watching the Furnace and the waves that crashed upon the rocks before them.
After some few minutes he sighed.
“You have sighed,” she said, proving that she was not unaware of even the subtlest expressions of the man with whom she stood.
“That is true,” he said. “I do sigh.”
“But, what are you thinking that causes you to sigh in this way?”
“I am thinking of the three years that must elapse between now and when we are to be married.”
“Ah, three years, well.”
“Yes?”
“It is a long time.”
“It seems like forever,” he said.
“Still, we shall at any rate be busy during this time, which will help.”
“Busy? Ah, you mean the preparations for the wedding.”
“Well, that, yes. And other things.”
He frowned. “Other things, my Levoshirasha?”
“Ah, ah! I love when you call me that!”
“Well, that is why I do.”
“And you are right to.”
“But, what other things, my beloved?”
Copyright © 2020 by Steven Brust