We are told that history repeats itself. Indeed, similar circumstance begets similar outcome.
Smith writes, “History teaches lessons to the prescient. Time is a circle and not a line. And where the modern seems to supersede the antiquated, those who can see realize that humanity changes only in its outward guise and never in its soul.”
As you read The Fall of the First World trilogy, you will marvel as History precedes itself.
Es Atu
When earth was first sundered from heaven,
When God first rejoiced in the skies,
When evil announced its intention
With death to imprison all life:
Then we were born from the clouds and rain,
We were born for limitless pain,
We were born for tears and lies,
And made to wonder all our days,
And made to wonder all the days.
—Opening chorus of Sossian’s Of the Lost Earth
NOTE
There once was a world very much like our world. It was destroyed, its nations and its peoples broken and blown by the tides and reduced to a new beginning. A world very much like ours, with people very much like us—the first world. When it died, it gave birth to memories, which grew to become legends and myths.
These are the memories.
PROLOGUE
THE PRINCE OF ETERNITY
He came to the tavern as yet another day ended, under a sunset that reminded him of autumn. An isolated tavern in southern Emaria; animal skins drying on racks outside, horses shivering and coughing in the stables behind. The noises from within: Laughter, yells, songs, more laughter. Twilight ever seemed an autumn to him, and night, always a winter.
Jokes ceased in midsentence when he entered the public room. Women looked askance when he passed by, and their men trembled for no reason. Animals did not love him; not for the tastiest scrap of meat would any dog approach him. Horses nickered when he came too close. Birds flew farther away from him than they did from other men.
Was it simply that visitors here, outlanders, were uncommon? He had crossed the half-filled room, approached the counter, and spoken with the proprietor. May I have a cup of cold brew? Would it be an imposition if I did a few magic tricks by which to pay for my lodgings? Yes, yes, I’ll wait until the singer has finished. I’d like to rest a moment, anyway.
He had taken a table in a corner and stared at the floor, allowing the other patrons time to accept him.
The singer, a young blond man with a lute well cared for, finished and retrieved the few coins that had been tossed to him. He sat then by the large fireplace to examine them and bite them. A fat woman with greasy brown hair approached the young man to ask if he wanted supper now; the great rolls of fat on her upper arms shivered, and perspiration dewed the mustache on her lips. The lutist gave her a coin.
The intruder finished his brew and stepped to the center of the room, placed his bag on a chair, withdrew objects from it, and set them on a table. A few faces looked away. Impatient jokes passed, and laughter erupted. Finally the stranger faced his audience.
“I am an illusionist,” he announced. “Allow me a few moments to charm and entertain you.”
He stood proudly, regarding his audience through narrowed eyes. He was a tall man, nobly made, perhaps in his late forties or early fifties, the gray entering his hair and beard but the eyes still bright and brilliant, and with no hint or betrayal of disease or weakness in his frame. Surely, thought some in the tavern, this is a high-born man brought low. Surely this is extremely degrading for him, for surely he must once have known a life better than this.
There were soldiers in the tavern, a few young women, and men with the pallor of crime upon them. The intruder looked upon them and knew them all. The wonder of it had ceased long ago. Was it that souls migrated to new bodies after death? Or was it simply that this man here was related to the father or grandfather or a more ancient sire for whom he had done these same tricks generations ago?
“My name,” he announced, “is Eromedeus. My games, while very ancient, always seem new. Watch, and I will astonish you.” Look at them, he told himself. Look at that soldier, so far from home and farther yet from the dreams he once held for himself. Wouldn’t he love to embody the immortal fame he wishes for?
Look at that dog. A thief or robber or murderer? Wouldn’t he love to outlive his enemies, and outlive their sons and their sons’ sons, so that his crimes would become more forgotten than the first breath of life? What better refuge could he hope for?
And look at that young woman. Is she ill? She is dying. She’s trying to earn money any way she can, but she must hurry; there isn’t much time left for her. Time? Dear young woman, I would gladly trade you this ancient soul for your decaying body. But you would refuse. At the first hint, the first intimation, you’d cower in fear, and you’d clutch your dying body and hold it with all the fervor of a fish on a bank working its gills, dying the faster as it tries to live. You’d no more trade souls with me than you’d trade your past life for all the gold of all kings. Because it’s yours. Your life. And you’re a fool. You’re all fools. I’m a fool.
“My first attempt, then, at trying your patience.…” Eromedeus showed his audience two empty halves of a walnut, turned them this way and that so that all could be certain what they were. Then he cupped them between his palms, shook his hands, and pulled them apart to reveal a whole fresh walnut.
Grunts and faint smiles.
Eromedeus begged their indulgence. He cupped the whole walnut between his hands once more, shook, then released three walnuts upon the stained tabletop.
Voices called for beer or spread gossip.
Eromedeus took up a pink silk cloth, bunched it in his right hand, and tapped his fist with his left hand. When he opened his fingers, the silk cloth stood upright, balanced in his palm and twined like a rope, as sturdy as wood.
Now came some honest smiles—but no coins.
He bunched the silk again, tapped his fist. Opening his hand this time, he revealed, not a stalk of silk twine, but a flaming pink pillar—a short rope of flame, burning and flashing, erect in his naked palm.
That won them over. There was great applause for him, and three coppers.
Eromedeus carefully brought his cupped left hand down upon the right, enclosing the flame, pressing it until it was trapped, glowing between his long fingers. A word, and he opened his hand instantly—to let a butterfly flutter free.
More applause. More coppers.
Eromedeus bowed thankfully.
A rogue in the back, proud in his Emarian cavalry uniform, drew a knife from his belt and without warning threw it toward Eromedeus. It bit accurately into the wooden table before him. There was a hush, but Eromedeus did not assume this to be a threat.
“Show us what you can do with that knife!” came the drunken challenge.
Eromedeus smiled. He reached into his bag, withdrew his hands, and showed them to be empty. He began to move his hands softly at first but then more rapidly, until the deep tan of his skin created a blur around the hilt and blade. With a word, Eromedeus stepped back and pointed to the knife. It was no longer a knife. It had been transformed into a miniature pear tree with four ripe fruits among its leaves. Eromedeus plucked the pears, all four of them, and threw them to his audience. The ill young woman bit into one and pronounced it to be a perfectly fine, fresh pear.
The rogue who had thrown the knife stood up, glowering. “Are you a sorcerer?” he asked.
The word brought a nervous tension upon the house, but Eromedeus shook his head and showed the crowd his open palms. No scars; no marks; no brands.
“I am no sorcerer. Have I done evil?” he asked. “I am no charlatan, but neither am I some wizard whom you should fear. My tricks are feats of the imagination.”
That seemed to reassure them, although it was a lie.
“Would you like your knife returned?” he asked the cavalryman.
“If you
please!” came the response.
Eromedeus repeated the blurring motion with his hands, and the miniature pear tree once more became the knife—with part of the hilt missing.
“My apologies,” Eromedeus called to the soldier, holding up the weapon by its blade. “I gave away the pears, so your knife is no longer whole.” He flipped the weapon across the room; heads ducked as it spun through the air and dug itself into the wall beside the soldier’s face.
The cavalryman drew it out and examined it, shook his head suspiciously, but returned it to his belt. However, he had to take it out again to show his companions and others seated nearby.
One of those companions was a fat, jovial man who now reared up and waved to Eromedeus. “Come over here!” he bellowed. “I’d like to buy you dinner!”
Eromedeus bowed his head, pushed his magical objects into his bag, and collected his coppers—and gold—before crossing the room.
“Sit down, sit down,” urged the fat man amiably. He pulled an empty chair from an adjoining table, and his comrades shuffled to make room for the newcomer.
“I am Sir Jors,” the obese man introduced himself, slapping Eromedeus on the back. “Your tricks are wonderful.”
“Thank you.” Eromedeus did not miss the double stars sewn onto the man’s shoulder patches, indicating his high aristocratic standing in this country. Probably he had had little military training—but likely he had money, much money, and as friend to the highly seated, he held influence, even over this group of sharp-edged ruffians.
“Ilma!” called Sir Jors. “Bring him a dinner! Will you have dinner?”
“Certainly.”
“Bring him a dinner! And more beer!”
Eromedeus studied the faces of the other four, all of them soldiers of the Emarian army, and found scant trust in them. But the knife had been returned to its belt.
“Yes, those are excellent tricks,” said Sir Jors enthusiastically. “Are you certain you’re not a sorcerer? No, no—I mean no offense! Have you been long in Emaria?”
A thousand years, thought Eromedeus. “Not long,” he answered in a friendly tone. “I’ve traveled a great deal, but seldom this far north.”
“You must come with us to the capital.”
A few of his companions gave Sir Jors sharp looks, but the nobleman was clearly in command. “Yes, yes,” he insisted. “Have you ever met King Nutatharis?”
“I have not had that honor, no.”
“He loves wise men and tricksters and entertainers of all sorts. I’m sure he’ll reward you generously for your skills. Perhaps make a home for you in his court.”
“He’ll torture him,” promised the man with the ruined knife. “Learn what he has and feed his pieces to the dogs.” He showed his teeth to the other bucklers there, and there were grins around the table.
“Nonsense!” Sir Jors made a sound in his throat and confided to Eromedeus, “He’s been angry with the king because his brother was a traitor! What do you expect? Won’t you come to see our king? He’ll love your display. And you’ll help me get into his good graces by introducing you.”
Eromedeus gave the proposal some thought. Ilma, the overweight woman with the damp mustache, pushed her way to them and set on the table a plate of beef cuts and vegetables and two gourds of beer.
“Eat up!” Sir Jors commanded. “We’re riding back to Lasura tonight. King Nutatharis will be glad to receive you.”
Eromedeus began eating. Nutatharis, he thought. He was but a boy when I was last in Emaria. Scar on his left cheek. Thrown from the saddle. Now he’s king. And a temperamental despot, no doubt. Dangerous man. His great-great-grandfather was that pimp for the Nusarian regiments. His grandfather tried to kill me on the wharves of Elpet after he’d stolen the throne. Became angry when I turned his sword into a chestnut tree.…
PART ONE
A THRONE OF BLOOD
CHAPTER ONE
Two days out from Sulos, and Count Adred could not sleep. He sat up in his bunk. The roll and sway of the round ship on the ocean could not lull him to slumber; he was too troubled by worries and doubts, his moody concerns.
Then you had best return to the capital, yes, Mantho had told him. It will be expected of you. Give Queen Yta my love, won’t you? And her sons. This is such a sad day. King Evarris was a wise man, a strong monarch. After twenty-nine years of rule, it has become habitual to think of him ruling forever.…
Sighing, Adred pulled his bedpan from under the bunk, knelt and urinated into it, then carried it to the port window. Unlatching the window, he emptied the pan and set it aside, then stood there and watched the sea and all of the sky at dawn. Open waters had ever held him. In a way, it was surprising that he had not gone to sea for his livelihood. But he was a son of the aristocracy. The sea existed to serve him, not he, it.
Fully awake now, Adred left his window open and crossed the floor to his washstand, where he cleaned himself as best he could. He pulled off his nightshirt and dressed quickly in trousers, an undecorated long-sleeved shirt, and a plain vest. He was as comfortably careless about his appearance as he was cautious and deliberate in his thoughts. After lacing his boots, he stood back and examined himself in the mirror behind his door. Thirty-one years old—but he looked younger. Self-conscious, Adred stroked the beginnings of his beard. It was the fashion among the students and intellectuals and the liberal gentry in Sulos to sport their beards in emulation of the working men whom, theoretically, they championed for the reformist cause. Adred, on a dare from Mantho over a lost game of usto, had agreed to grow his beard during his return to the capital. Regarding himself now, Adred decided that the beard wouldn’t look bad at all, once it was fully grown and trimmed. He decided that he rather liked it. But his posture was sagging, he could see that. He was definitely in need of a good bath and some exercise once he was home in Athad.
Athad. There to extend his sympathies to the family of the dead king. Evarris’s death portended much. It was a swift end and not a dissolution. Adred did not trust it.
But there was time enough to worry about that. He left his cabin quietly and made his way down the gallery of the Delios to the stairs and up to the middeck. Seamen were busy at lines on the poop and forward decks. Adred walked toward the starboard rail, inhaling the good strength of sea air and water.
There was a mist on the waves. The early sunlight played in bars through the mist, falling in bright lines and teasing the waves with flashes of light that jumped everywhere, went away, and came back as though they were alive and dancing. They might have been human thoughts or human souls, those quick, dancing lights on the water, newly awake and joyful.
“…so this poor fellow dies, you see?” spoke an elderly nobleman to Adred’s right, gesturing to a companion who, like the speaker, was dressed in fine silk, an embroidered vest, and fashionable boots. “He enters the Silver Portals and is greeted by some minor god and is promised an eternity of goodness. Which is fine, but it seems rather dull. So the beggar looks down from the stars and sees a rich nobleman in one of the hells. Flames are erupting and everything is gas and smoke, but the rich man’s bouncing a beautiful young woman on his lap—yes! right!—and he’s holding a wine jug in his free hand.”
“Yes, yes, go on,” urged Fashionable Boots, his lips working in anticipation of an eruption of laughter.
“So, so the beggar says to the god, he says, ‘I don’t understand. I spent my whole life humbly, doing good works, and I remember that nobleman being a coward and a liar and a hypocrite. You sent him to Hell, but look at him! He’s having a splendid time. He has a woman on his knee and a wine jug. What did he ever do to deserve such a reward as that?’ And the little god says, ‘All things work according to divine plan. Do you see that wine jug?’ ‘Yes, I see it.’ ‘It has a hole in the bottom of it. Now, do you see that woman?’ ‘Yes, I see her.’ ‘Well, she doesn’t!’”
Fashionable Boots guffawed, slapped the joke teller on the shoulder, and stomped the deck with great delight. �
��The wine jug does and the woman doesn’t!” he repeated, laughing, and wiped tears from his cheeks and coughed. “Oh, oh, that’s a good one, Semma! I’ll tell that one in Bessara!”
Adred smiled slightly out of politeness because he had overheard and turned to walk farther down the middeck. Behind him, Semma the joke teller began a new one.
A knot of sailors was a short distance away and there was a woman with them, an ill-dressed young woman holding a baby in her arms. The child was perhaps nine months old; the mother held onto it protectively, bouncing it once in a while, as she talked with the sailors.
“It’s a fine son you have there.”
“Thank you.”
“And will he grow up to be a sailor?”—grinning.
“I imagine so. His father was a sailor. He’d have liked him to.”
“A sailor? Out of what port, if we can ask?”
“Herossus. Our home was in the south, and he usually sailed from Herossus.”
“Is he aship now? If I meet him in port, I’ll tell him you’re well and that he has a fine—”
“He’s dead. He was killed in a storm six months past.”
“Very sorry.… Did he—never see the boy?”
“No.”
“Very—sorry.…”
The young mother turned away, memories coming, although she couldn’t blame the sailors, although she had come to terms with her loss, or thought she had. As she crossed the middeck she passed Adred, who could not help having overheard the conversation. The baby boy cooed and giggled and reached out with his pink hand, attracted by the amulet Adred wore about his neck.
The mother paused and eyed Adred carefully across the gulf between two separate and distinct houses.
Adred smiled and held out the amulet on its chain so that it twinkled in the sunlight and amused the baby. “It fascinates him,” he said.
The West Is Dying Page 2
