Dreams of the Quill

A Thing of the Past

“Snow, don’t you think you should see your grandson sometime?”

“If he has anything to say to me, he can come and say it.”

“He’s only eleven! You can’t expect—”

“Eleven?” asked Intra.

“Yes, that’s his age. Years, Snow? You know what years are?” Tone waved gingerly, then held up three fingers. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

Intra didn’t turn from his desk.

“Seriously, I could have guaranteed we’d hit senility before you, Snow,” Tone sighed. “C’mon, Gouff, let’s get back to the pots.”

“We can’t just lea—”

“Just leave him.” Tone sighed once more and pulled the tent flap aside. Intra’s grip on his pen tightened as cold air blew in. “Let’s move, Gouff. Now that he’s succumbed to age, we’ve gotta be all the more vigilant.”

Gouff looked at Intra’s frail form, bent over the crate that served as a desk, and swallowed hard. Tone patted Gouff on the shoulder and then exited the tent. Gouff followed. Intra blinked, and realized that he’d been looking beyond the pages in front of him.

He could hear his two old friends talking outside, but he couldn’t make out their words. Senility. Intra knew it as a term thrown around jokingly between his professors at the Harnecia Royal University. He knew it as a term they had stopped throwing around when it stopped being funny. Around the time Huun Koul was hired by the university, some close colleagues of Intra’s had begun throwing the word around just as Intra’s predecessors had, and that was when he realized why the term would eventually stop being funny.

Intra Noi, sixty-three, spent less and less time in Harnecia after he came to this realization. He would embark on an archaeological expedition that lasted a full year, and, upon returning to the university, he would linger only long enough to organize the next lengthy expedition. He avoided the world of academia, leaving the lectures and classrooms to the next generation and investing everything into his own research.

Thinking about his sixties, about how his best students had by then become acclaimed professors themselves, his eyes grew hazy and he relaxed his grip on his pen. Intra’s thoughts wandered further back in time, back to the first time he’d attended the graduation of a group of his students.

He remembered the deceptively well-groomed scholars, clad for that one day in ceremonial garb usually reserved for nobility, their eyes shining as they received their degrees. He remembered clapping. The man sitting next to him in the audience that day was a legend—Juuklin Talb, a westerner, the first foreigner to ever win an appointment at the university. Intra remembered how the ancient alchemist’s hands had trembled as he tried to applaud the graduating students. Intra remembered looking at the man’s moist cheeks, wrinkled and thin; he remembered almost crying at the overflowing joy in Talb’s eyes. Though Talb was frail, fragile, failing—he was happy. He had accomplished so much. Intra had nothing but admiration for the man he’d always been too nervous to talk to. To him, Talb was a symbol of the gratification that came with a long life in academia.

A week later, Juuklin Talb was dead, and the funeral was attended by the exact same people who attended the graduation. The king. Nobles. Associates of the university. The entire faculty. Recent alumni. Family and friends of the alchemy students who’d received the legendary professor’s guidance. Now that he thought about it, Intra realized that that was all. The same people who had attended the graduation, and no one else.

No friends.

No family.

His mind wandered yet further, back to his days as a first-year student in astronomy. He remembered how his father, now long departed, had taken him on a camping trip into the southern woods during a break from classes. He remembered how one day he had wandered too far from his father’s tent, and how he had gotten lost. He had wandered to the edge of the trees, and he had seen the southern sky.

His interest in astronomy had disappeared as he gazed at the flat, white expanse that hung above him. The sun had seemed diffused, diluted by vastness itself. The stars didn’t matter. There was only one planet, and it was shrouded in white. He had wondered how any human could live beneath that sky, how anyone could bear the oppressive nothingness of it.

He knew the legend of the Shaded Orchard, the story they told in his country about how when someone dies they’re really just disappearing into the peaceful gardens of the South. He had wondered if maybe the Shaded Orchard lay beyond the barren expanse before him, if maybe he could reach it. He knew that archaeologists sometimes investigated the southern woods looking for clues as to whether or not ancient civilizations had lived where now only nature thrived. Maybe, he had wondered, he could work his way up in archaeology and organize expeditions beyond the forest.

Intra laughed at his desk as he remembered the decision he’d made that day, his worn frame shaking. Tears streamed down his cheeks. Hysterical laughter became hysterical sobbing.

Between sobs, he struggled to keep from choking on the words he still remembered yelling at the sky.

Why do men need to die to find peace?!

I’ll cross the wastelands and bring my people to the Shaded Orchard!

Intra bent over his desk, crying silently, his tears blotting his manuscript’s ink. After several minutes had passed, he issued a long sigh, dried his eyes on the blanket he was draped in, and sat up as straight as he could, facing the ceiling of the tent.

“I’m too old for this,” he murmured.

Jeuni Huros winced as the throbbing in his arm grew stronger. He and his two companions, the Second and Thirty-third Holders of the Covenant, were walking across the southern tundra, their footsteps resonating off of the frozen ground. The beastman had just estimated another two days until they would reach their destination in the heart of the South. The last conversation the three had shared had ended in an uncomfortable silence when the beastman had reminded Kihara that Jeuni was at death’s door.

The beastman looked at Jeuni and noticed him clenching his teeth.

“You know, that obelisk we passed earlier.”

“What about it?” asked Kihara, walking ahead of the two and not realizing that the beastman wasn’t addressing her.

“Mmm, I just wanted to tell Master Huros a story, to take his mind off the pain.”

“Good idea,” said Kihara.

“I don’t need you to baby me,” sniffed Jeuni, stomping along next to the beastman.

“That obelisk, the one Kihara called ‘the pessimist.’” The beastman ignored Jeuni’s irritated glare and continued. “I knew the midlander who first discovered it.”

“Ohh, that guy?” asked Kihara.

“‘That guy?’” asked Jeuni.

“Mmm, a famous Harnecian archaeologist. King’s told me all about him.”

“Back in the days of kings,” snorted the beastman. “My younger brother funded the man directly, actually. Only later did we find out that he was long dead before any of our money reached him. The nerve, to demand funds of the government for decades and then to kick the bucket when the coffers were finally opened. That geezer was such an ass.”

“You’re rambling again,” warned Kihara, giggling slightly as she spoke.

Jeuni sighed. The beastman always got carried away when he tried explaining things. The short juggler didn’t mind much, though—the content of the beastman’s stories was less important than the tone with which he delivered them, a comforting, soothing tone that washed away Jeuni’s pain.

“Right! Anyway, Master Huros, there was a man named Intra Noi. Have you ever heard of him?”

“I have not.”

“He studied at the Harnecia Royal University, first astronomy and then archaeology. He was a hard worker. He was admired by many for his research already just as a student, and he landed himself the most beautiful woman in Harnecia for a wife. I was a little jealous, actually, as I had grown up thinking she would be with me forever. Then suddenly we were adults and she was in love with Intra. Del Herald…”

“Don’t get too sentimental now, King,” chided Kihara, looking back over her shoulder. “She never was Del Herald. Your love was one-sided, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, it was,” admitted the beastman. “She never was Del Herald. She was Del Ollin, and then she was Del Noi. And then she was dead, but that came later. Intra Noi. After he graduated, he went straight to being a professor at the University. He specialized in the South, in the snowy regions beyond the woods. He was the first Harnecian to organize expeditions beyond the forest, to attempt to penetrate the frozen wastelands. Everyone back home thought that the Shaded Orchard lay beyond the forests, that peaceful place where the dead relaxed. When he brought back findings, people were incredulous. ‘Which Western artificer helped you construct those?’ When he lectured about the snow plains, ‘did you turn your map upside down and go to Cresso instead?’”

“Cresso?” asked Jeuni.

“You’re asking for an even longer tangent,” chirped Kihara.

“Cresso was the empire to the north of us for centuries, finished off by Byhr only in the last couple decades. You’ve heard of the Federated Mining Towns, yes? Those are the remnants of the empire. Small towns nestled away in the northern mountains. It’s cold in those regions, cold and dry. Like here. Very little grows, and people tunnel into the mountains to seek warmth. Lots of snow, the only snow that Harnecia knew of. So when Intra came back with his tales of a white South, he was ridiculed. People called him ‘Professor Snow,’ just to mock him.”

“Sounds rough,” commented Jeuni.

“It was. He never made it very far with the people, see. He was celebrated in the University, but he was held in contempt by the people and so the government couldn’t do much to help him out. He was even seen as a heretic by some, because the Shaded Orchard was seen as a holy place, one reserved for the dead. Many thought he was trying to get there for his own good.”

“Why would that be seen in a bad light?” asked Jeuni. “I always dreamed of going.”

“You grew up in a different era, Master Huros,” the beastman explained. “Before Byhr popped up, everyone clung to their nation’s religion, believing that the only way to escape the war-torn midlands was through faith. For Harnecians, that was faith in life beyond death in the Shaded Orchard. After Byhr, though, religions around the world were simply discarded. ‘The Holy Empire of Byhr.’ Byhr showed the world what a god can do, and the world lost faith in myths. Men ran left and right, some seeking shelter in Cresso, some in the West, some in the East, some in the woodlands to the South. These days, those who break the mold and run are seen in a heroic light. You have two choices if you’re a midlander now: resign yourself to a fate of incessant strife, or escape. The world admires a deserter, Master Huros, but you understand how things might have been different.”

“I think so.”

“So, Master Huros, was Intra selfish?”

“It sure sounds like he was.”

“He had the most beautiful woman in Harnecia as his wife, yet he neglected her. He was offered the most prestigious position in the University, but he turned it down in order to continue sending expeditions south. He was a bizarre man, Master Huros, and my brother and I were puzzled by him.”

“Who were you and your brother, anyway?”

“The Herald brothers,” quipped Kihara. “Ring any bells?”

Jeuni shook his head.

“Before Harnecia became a confederacy of the eastern realms in order to stand against Byhr, it was just one country in a sea of city-states and small nations—the sea known as the midlands.” The beastman paused, furrowing his brow as though trying hard to remember something. “The Kingdom of Harnecia, it was.”

“Wait a second,” said Jeuni, putting two and two together, “Kihara calls you ‘King’—were you—”

“No, that was my younger brother. Kihara calls me what she does because I’m the last living member of the old royal family. Though it’s not really ‘living’ to be a Holder of the Covenant.”

“Still, you’re royalty?”

“Not anymore,” laughed the beastman. “Not anymore. Now, where was I? Intra Noi… eh, I forgot where I was going with it all.”

“That’s what you get for rambling, King,” teased Kihara.

Jeuni sighed, mildly miffed.

“There was no point to any of that?”

“Jeuni, I’m sure that if you think hard enough you’ll discover the hidden meaning.”

“Not really.” Kihara stopped walking and turned around to face the beastman. He was looking up at the sky with a neutral expression. “I just wanted to tell Master Huros a story about the past.”

He continued walking south and, after exchanging shrugs, Jeuni and Kihara followed.

“So, Jung. You have hidden knowledge from those who sought it.” Commander Tomora Ynthon narrowed his eyes as he spoke. He sat at one end of the long table in his quarters, staring down his aide, who sat at the other.

Jung gulped nervously.

“You lied to the men about Elkut’s visit.” When Jung didn’t respond, Tomora added, “is this true?”

“Y-yes,” Jung answered. “I thought it best to—”

“I understand you have noble intentions, Jung. You’re young, you’re courageous and optimistic, and you think you have to know best. You have no experience, and you’re naive. Most commanders would be sickened to have you as their assistant, but I consider myself lucky. I can still shape you.”

Jung shrunk back in his chair. The term “shape” conflated with all the times the aide had heard Tomora referred to as “Psychopath Ynthon” in the last two days, and he was afraid.

“I’m going to tell you a short story, Jung, but first I need you to admit to me, in your own words, that you concealed the truth from my wizards.”

“I did!” Jung cried.

“You did what?” Tomora cocked an eyebrow at his assistant.

“I lied to them—I told them everything was okay—I made them think Elkut was handing over the troops!”

Tomora sat upright, removing his weight from his elbows, and smiled benignly.

“Now, Jung, you do not understand why this is bad. Allow me to transport you back roughly twenty-three years, to the birth of a nation. I was nearing the end of my twelfth year in this world. Even at that tender age, I was quite keen on current events, so I followed this all very closely. I woke up one morning, and Byhr existed. Overnight, the turbulent midlands saw their politics become even more hectic. A week later, I got my hands on a copy of Byhr’s Better World Recipe. I became physically ill reading it. The injustice the so-called ‘Holders of the Covenant’ claimed the right to exercise in founding and expanding their empire scared me. I remember thinking, already then, what if these doctrines are adopted by other nations?

“Now, Harnecia used to be on top of the midlands. Culturally, it was magnificent. It had a flourishing academic sphere that nurtured the finest musicians, theorists, and composers. Five years after the birth of Byhr, the last King Herald of Harnecia died of old age. He wasn’t replaced. His children, all capable warriors while alive, had died in battles against Cresso. His wife had succumbed to illness shortly after giving birth to the last of those warrior sons. His only living—and by living, I mean presumably living—relative, his older brother, had gone missing on the eve of Byhr’s creation.

“The royal family existed no longer, and petty nobles from all the miniature nations and city-states surrounding Harnecia cannibalized the once-powerful kingdom. They federated under Harnecia’s banner and created a council similar to Byhr’s. They propped up a ceremonial king; the law was set down in a document similar to Byhr’s. The new government of the Harnecian confederacy abandoned the arts and sciences in favor of building up military power. Schools were closed and professors put out of work. Harnecia closed the door on knowledge and learning. It concealed information from its people and gave them weapons instead. All of this was done, in name, to combat Byhr, a ruthlessly militaristic nation that gave no thought to culture. All of this was done with noble intentions, all of it to protect men… from the truth.”

Tomora laughed quietly after delivering those last words in a whisper. The commander was well aware that he had unfairly twisted Harnecia’s de-emphasis on learning to resemble Byhr’s censorship. Who was protecting whom from the truth? Harnecia, its citizens, from the truth that they couldn’t win against Byhr? Byhr, its citizens, from the truth that their country was illegitimate? Tomora snorted. Perhaps he was protecting Byhr’s citizens from the truth that the alleged Holders of the Covenant were simply doddering old men. He shook his head. No, he was determined to prove to Byhr that its god was a hoax. He would do it in style and he would bow low before the audience of the world when all was said and done.

Jung, who had listened with rapt attention to his commander’s story, blinked as Tomora laughed.

“Is that it?” he asked.

“Yeah, that’s it,” smiled Tomora. “Remember: hiding the truth from men is always wrong. Bringing it into the light is noble.”

Jung nodded.

“I am going to go speak with the men shortly, to tell them the plan I devised yesterday. You, Jyunor, Gayne Huros, and I will set out at dawn tomorrow. Go get some sleep.”

“Yes, sir.”

The commander and his assistant rose from the table at the same time. As Jung made for the door, Tomora cleared his throat.

“Byhr can’t be beaten at its own game. Harnecia will lose.”

“Sir, we are Byhr,” Jung said, turning back in the entrance to face his commander. “Why do we need to be able to beat it?”