by Ryan Peter
Far away from the Twin Cities stood the Monument, the city of the Outlanders, inherited from the ancient Genicoins who disappeared thousands of years ago. The Monument was the most ancient and powerful centre of learning and influence in all of Lexedore. Here was the Great Library, kept for generation after generation with books and scrolls and manuscripts that dated back for centuries, even to the great war with the Moncoin.
Tarkanyon the Outlander sat down and placed his hands into the sleeves of his black cloak while observing Luillan, the Keeper of the Great Library and one of his greatest friends. His long, bleached white braids fell over the back of his chair as he observed Luillan closely, who was clearly ignoring him, studying some large book on his desk.
Tarkanyon cleared his throat.
“They are sending you to Iza-Kiêrre, I hear?” Luillan said, turning another page but not looking up. “No doubt this is why you are asking these questions.”
“I haven’t even asked questions yet,” Tarkanyon said. “But, yes, that is why I am here.”
“Not even to visit an old friend?” Luillan asked, lifting an eyebrow.
“Friend? I don’t observe a friend down here.”
Luillan ignored him, turning a page in his book and pointing his finger at a line, seemingly with more important thoughts on his mind.
“The only friends you have seem to be your history books,” Tarkanyon said.
Luillan's left eyebrow lifted again and he turned another page. Finally, he took his glasses off but continued to look at the book. “They appear to have a good deal of manners at least,” he said. “Sometimes I cannot believe we’re even from the same Order.”
He sat back in his chair, placing his hands behind his head, after brushing aside his long, white braids. He was suppressing a smile.
After some silence he let off a laugh. “Let us then talk. I think I understand and know your questions already.”
“Perhaps.” Tarkanyon said. “So what is it you are studying?”
“Exactly what you will be asking. A complex history of the Sultans of Iza-Kiêrre and Ben-Kiêrre.”
He moved the book away.
“Sounds fascinating,” Tarkanyon replied. “I so love complex history.”
“Yes it is,” Luillan answered.
“What of recent events, first? Tell me what you know,” Tarkanyon said.
“You’re more acquainted with recent politics,” Luillan replied. He was always more interested in history than current affairs. “After all, this is why they are sending you. But I will tell you what I think.”
“Tell me, my friend.”
Stuffing a book marker in his book, Luillan closed it and stood up. He stared at a painting on the wall behind him for a while. Tarkanyon looked at the book and shook his head at the sheer size of it. Afterwards, he looked up and saw Luillan was still staring at the painting.
It was a rather large painting of the Library, with a shadowed man dressed in a dark coat standing by Luillan’s age-old desk, arms folded and looking at the artist. Tarkanyon never understood why the library had a painting of itself hung up next to the bookshelves, or who the robed man was, but he knew to ask Luillan better questions than that. Besides, he asked him once and received a history lesson that at once made his head spin. He wasn't in the mood for that – ever – again. He also noticed, before, that the painting looked slightly different in parts to what the library looked like now. The staircase seemed more colourful than it was now and the room also seemed bigger. But he was never patient enough to ask Luillan why.
Luillan, for his part, was muttering. “Perhaps history must move to the present... Yes, history must move to the present.” He turned around. “There is, of course, a prophecy about the Moncoin.”
“Which one this time? Most of the prophecies are used to scare the children. And many stories are used as an excuse to do some rather interesting politics.”
“Exactly,” said Luillan loudly, as if he suddenly found the answer. “Someone is trying to make a prophecy come true. We should expect it from the Twin Cities. They are, after all, steeped in the legends as the very people who saved the South from the Moncoin.”
“You, of course, believe that the Moncoin is real,” Tarkanyon said.
“You know my feelings on that. Yes, he was real, which is different. And perhaps the tales aren’t all correct. He may have been more, well, man than the books make us believe. Most of history seems to be more poetry and metaphor than history. But poetry and metaphor can often explain things a great deal better than simple language. Especially those sort of things which cannot be explained.”
“Such as the Bird of Fire?”
“Yes, that one,” Luillan said. “You obviously did do some studying of your own?”
“Occasionally. When I'm in the mood for a headache. The Bird of Fire is a favourite children’s story. I just guessed.”
Luillan smiled. This was true. Children liked the story. He remembered liking it himself. Of course, those children eventually become adults, and then they disbelieve the story or just believe it in a new way. “The Meadow is real,” he said. “It got there, somehow.”
“A bird of fire, after destroying the Moncoin’s forces in the South and sending him back through the Great Passing by the Twin Cities, decided to die in the desert and out of it sprung a garden?” Tarkanyon said. “Yes, I suppose that’s how it happened.”
“Or it created the Meadow and went back to wherever it came from,” Luillan said. “Whatever the case, the Meadow is real and it flourishes in the middle of a desert, with a tree that we know has the words of a covenant etched on it by some or other ancient hand.”
The Genicoins, most thought. It probably was.
“But Tarkanyon,” Luillan continued. “I believe the Bird of Fire is the right trail. But I don’t know why. This appears to be the only reason why anyone would want to control the Twins. We know the history books say that the cities were used as weapons against the Moncoin – instruments of justice, as the writings put it. I have always thought that this was related to the Bird of Fire legend somehow.”
Tarkanyon frowned. “I’m not going to exactly get to the Twin Cities and solve a mystery that generations of people haven’t been able to.”
Luillan laughed. “Why not?”
“So you believe someone is wanting to control the Twin Cities? Sephobwe, no doubt.”
“Who else? He came from nowhere with some foreign philosophy that Ahmatein seems to be enamored with. We have dealt with him these eighteen years he has been Chancellor and Teacher of Ben-Kiêrre. I met him only once, briefly, when he came to visit us. He has only come three times even though we’ve invited him more than that, and never within the two years since he and Ahmatein burned down the Tree of the Covenant.”
“The Twin Cities are powerful and rich,” said Tarkanyon. “But the power they possess lies in their political position with regards to the legends. Their armies aren’t powerful enough to gain Sephobwe more power and gold than he already has. And he would never have won Iza-Kiêrre over by burning the Tree. Flat out war with the Twins will only weaken both of them.”
“They are going to war?” Luillan said.
“Ahmatein has openly stated now that this is what he wants.”
“It doesn’t make much sense, yes,” said Luillan. “Unless…”
“Unless?”
“It’s what I’m trying to say to you. Unless Sephobwe or Ahmatein know something of the Bird of Fire which makes the Twins more powerful than we know.”
“How powerful could it possibly be, whatever it represents?” Tarkanyon asked.
“Powerful enough to drive the Moncoin from the South,” Luillan replied. “The key has to do with Sephobwe’s teaching, I think. But we’ve no idea what it really is. We cannot get into Ben-Kiêrre’s schools and we’ve never been allowed to borrow any of the scrolls and teachings they have there. We only know fragments. We do know that Sephobwe claims to be from Kelagot, but we have no contact with the
Kingdoms on the other side of the Great Passing.”
Tarkanyon nodded. “You want me to find out more about the teaching when I arrive at the Twin Cities.”
“Yes,” Luillan said. “That is my advice. It's a very mystical teaching. It has much to do with discipline and passion, or the discipline of passion, and being embraced by The All. I am unsure what this means exactly. But that’s the best way to understand Ahmatein and bring peace to the Twins, as you are charged to do.”
“Very well,” Tarkanyon replied. “We will be sailing to Restom from here and then we will travel on horseback through Foré.”
“Send word, Tarkanyon,” Luillan said. “Every detail you can find out, send word.”
Tarkanyon placed his hands on his friend's shoulder's with a friendly grin. “Very well, my friend, I will send word. Thank you for your help. Be well!”
The stairs from the library corkscrewed up. Every few steps a small flame insignia had been carved into the stone and in the centre of the insignia was a small hole, which Luillan had once said held a precious stone in the days of the Genicoins - a different stone for each level of the Monument, to represent what that floor was meant for. The insignia of the flame belonged to the Genicoins, a race of beings that lived thousands of years ago and – according to legend – brought their magic and knowledge, known as the Wealth, with them. It was them that taught man how to fight and how to build.
But they also brought their war with the Moncoin with them — a twisted and evil Genicoin who lusted for more knowledge and more power than was thought to even be possible. He created the Riches, a bent form of the Wealth that enabled him to transcend even his own form. But most of what was known about the Genicoins and the Moncoin was shrouded in mystery and legend, and Tarkanyon preferred to take a pragmatic view.
But he was still an Outlander, who kept the peace in all of Lexedore and who were known as the “Seekers of the Wealth”. It was said that this was their charge from the Genicoins, but Tarkanyon believed it was simply their way. Peace and diplomacy was the only way to keep a great war like the one with the Moncoin from happening again. In Tarkanyon’s mind, the Moncoin was more a metaphor for war and evil, even if he was a real person of some sort at some stage of Lexedore’s history, while the Wealth was a metaphor for peace.
The Great Library was ten stories tall, with five basements and two under-basements. These two basements no one except some members of the Council ever entered. Not even Luillan had seen them. As Tarkanyon continued to climb the stairs he thought of what he had learned — three days of studying and rummaging through books and manuscripts all over the library. He would never have learned half as much if not for Luillan.
Approaching the top of the stairs he took his exit through large double doors laced with imagery of the flames and two large squares in the centre of them. The squares always represented knowledge in Genicoin imagery.
He was now in the Room of Antiquity, a large museum with strange relics and statues and small icons and paintings of various sorts adorning the walls and halls, right up to the high ceiling. There were paintings of kings and queens, Outlanders and heroes. Dionysus, the leader of the Outlander Council, was examining a marble statue of a woman in a cloak, holding an eagle by its tail, in a glass case. The eagle's legs stretched out in front of her as if it was about to land.
Dionysus wore a long white cloak as all in the Outlander council did. It was simple in its design, with no embroidery or anything attractive about it. His white braids stretched to his lower back, and he had a beard and moustache that grew across his upper lip and down his neck. It was bleached white, too, as he was also of the Fourth Order before being part of the Council. (Those who joined the Council became the Fifth Order.) His slanted green eyes were the only colour besides white you could find on him, as he was pale in complexion as most Outlanders were, which made his body look as if it was drowning in white. These eyes met Tarkanyon's own green eyes.
“What is it you have learned?” Dionysus asked him abruptly. “It has been three days.”
“Much. But I am unsure what it all means. I think once I arrive there, I shall be able to put more knowledge together.”
“You know your mission, Tarkanyon,” Dionysius said.
“We trust you.”
“Many say Sephobwe journeyed through the Great Passing from Kelagot. This seems… improbable to me. None dare to venture through the Passing because of the Madness of the Hircoi which is said to haunt it.”
“The Madness can still be found in many places,” Dionysus said gravely. “Most of all, in the hearts of corrupt men. So they say. I have met Sephobwe and he is a strange man — impassive and cool, but not mad. This convinces me he is from a different origin.”
Tarkanyon nodded. “I agree. It is getting late. Tomorrow, at first light, we will leave. I will address the rest of the Company.”
Dionysus placed both his hands on Tarkanyon’s left shoulder and closed his eyes. “May it go well, my friend. Send word quickly,” he said. Then he turned around and got back to his study of the statue.
Tarkanyon walked into the courtyard and found his company that he was to lead in the expedition to the Twin Cities. Nine Outlanders, excluding himself. He respected every one of them. The open air and the sound of the fountain in the courtyard refreshed him. It was far better than the dusty and mouldy smell of the library.
Some of the company were practising the Art of Bo, a slow dance used for teaching fighting techniques with the bo staff, the weapon of choice of the Outlanders. Drius, always the fighter, was exercising the Dance of the Stream. His black braids – representing the Second Order – tied back in a pony tail. He was to be the Third Leader of the expedition; third in command.
Chrisolian, who was Second Leader, was sitting on a stone bench by the courtyard fountain with a small book in hand. He was also of the Fourth Order but had shorter white braids than Tarkanyon. Others of the company were lying under a tree on the grass, Poiternium with long red braids (Third Order) lavishing them with music on his guitar. Tarkanyon was enjoying the soft tune, sighing deeply as he drew nearer.
The other from the Third Order – Moyna and Jerenic — were crowded around him enjoying the warm sun. Kalrius, another Second Order in the Company with his black braids, was standing and observing Drius as if Drius was giving him a lesson in fighting.
Turrik, a Second Order Outlander, was standing and leaning against the tree behind the others, his hood enigmatically covering his head and face. He was cutting slices from an apple. Merexia of the Fourth, the last of the company, was washing his face in the fountain muttering something to himself.
They all looked up at Tarkanyon when he arrived, but didn’t stop what they were doing.
“Greetings,” said Tarkanyon. “It’s good to see you all so hard at work.”
“We are being led well!” said Turrik with his raspy voice. “Perhaps you should meet our honourable leader himself, Tark… Tark… something or other. I cannot remember.”
“Drinking again?” Merexia said. Turrik turned to him - you could feel the stare even through his low hood.
“News. Dernium has sent an army to Iza-Kiêrre as well,” said Tarkanyon.
“Why?” asked Chrisolian.
“Well, Chronalia wants to uphold their treaty with the Twins,” answered Tarkanyon.
Chrisolian frowned and rubbed his stubbled beard. “But this is a battle between the cities, not between the cities and another country.”
“Chronalia is extending their influence,” said Drius, continuing the Dance of the Stream.
“Perhaps too much,” rasped Turrik.
“Perhaps,” agreed Tarkanyon. “But we shall see their agenda when we meet with them in Iza-Kiêrre.”
“Were we not welcomed by Ben-Kiêrre?” asked Poiternium, not missing a beat on his guitar.
“No, the sultan has not sent word.”
Turrik grunted and chewed a slice of his apple.
“When
do we leave?” Chrisolian asked.
“We sail tomorrow morning, early, on the Milljata to Restom. It's quicker by boat, as the rains are moving in. From Restom we travel east towards the desert and the cities.”
“We must travel through Foré?” Turrik said while still munching. “No doubt they will find use for us there too.”
“Yes, I’ve heard the King of Foré is struggling to keep his Kingdom in order,” Poiternium said. “It's been some time since I’ve been to Foré.”
“There have been revolts,” said Drius. “Especially in the villages up north, where we’ll have to pass through. Regrettably, I had business in Foré three weeks ago and saw much on the road that bothered me.”
“Business?” Turrik said. “Ah, with a lady friend, no doubt.”
The Company burst out laughing while Drius gave Turrik a defiant look. “Yes,” he said, “to a lady friend – to deliver that sweet smelling letter you charged me with.”
Laughter roared again and Poiternium began to strum the melody of a well known love song.
“First light we leave,” Tarkanyon said as the others began to join in the song. “Meet at the docks.”
Tarkanyon left their bantering and climbed the stairs leading into the passages of the Monument, enjoying the warm sun as it shone through the open hallways and lit up the pillars in the passageway. They were a glistening marble. Even in the smallest detail, at the base of each pillar, and at the top – it extended very high up – he could see the flame insignia.
The hallway led through into the inner rooms, twisting and winding stairs leading up and down the Monument which stretched into the sky. A cool breeze blew down the hallway; tomorrow it would rain.
Tarkanyon sighed, he would have to do some politics when they reached Restom. He was not looking forward to that. But he wasn’t going to worry about it. At least not yet.
CHAPTER THREE
