Prologue - Of Ages Past
'In ancient times, ten thousand years and more before the now, the world was not as it is today. Before the threads of heaven were woven into a girdle around the world, before traitors tore them down, before the celestial spheres long since broken by betrayal were even glimmers in the eyes of dreaming visionaries – in that dreaming age, Earth was a very different place.
'Magic was everywhere, in the long ago. It ran wild and free in rivers around the globe, criss-crossing the continents in unseen lines of mystical power. And where those lines met, places of wonder and impossibility formed. These were the sacred places of youthful humanity, where colours danced and sang in the night sky, where gentle plants blossomed and wondrous beasts roamed free. The spirit of nature itself mingled freely with mortal men, and things both wondrous and terrible were born of their union.
'The golden nations of this time will be forgotten by the men of the Age of Iron who follow them. Who now sings of the verdant vales of misty Vah, and remembers the witch-women who lived in the wild places, outside their stone-canopied cities? Unconquered Uren is fallen, consumed in fire, and masterless Matask died in ice. They were the ones who first discovered the arts of writing, of magic, of farming and herding and taming the beasts of the world. They raised the first towers so that they might be strong, and gave thanks in the first shrines to the world and the light. When shadows fell upon their hearts – as it did upon the folk of Nahelai, stripped of thought and shadow alike by dark powers – why, in time righteousness always prevailed.
'And in this world, in a land of ice and snow where it was an eternal struggle merely to survive, there was a queen of a hard-pressed people. They lacked the verdant lands of Vah, the rich mines of Matask, and lived humbly at the very edge of the world, where sea met sky. But the queen of these hardy folk – blue-eyed, silver-haired despite her youth – carried an air of destiny about her shoulders. She was but a girl when she took the throne, and yet her bright-hearted wisdom had her acclaimed by all. Only those seduced by darker powers dared contest her compassion.
'But the human soul is limited, and the silver queen wept as she realised she had not the power to care for all creation. Her tears touched the hearts of her subjects, and they responded. "Take our dreams," they said, "and our hopes, and our love. For you are the queen who has guarded us and guided us, and now we wish to aid you." And the queen was grateful, and swore to see their hopes and dreams safeguarded. As they slept, their dreams were turned towards her, and their thoughts and faith empowered her, lifting her up to such heights as none had held before.
'Enlightened by the trust and faith of her people, the silver queen's land prospered under her guidance, and the borders of her kingdom expanded as she welcomed others into her sisterly care. One by one, she hunted down the terrible monsters that roamed the icy wastes of her land, and led her people to call upon the magic that ran deep beneath the surface, drawing it up from where it pooled to dot the silver plains with lush enclaves where life was easy.
'And eventually she looked to the heavens, and took her kingdom up to the moon that hung in the skies above. There, she built a paradise of silver and crystal, which the conflicts of the world could not touch, and where all who were pure at heart were welcome.
'And she took the name Serenity, for – as she said – she was a bringer of peace.'
…
A silver fingernail traces across the writing on the ancient page, written in many different hands and much-edited, with many fragments crossed out and an entire section added in a slightly different style. Silky locks of hair brush against the crackling parchment as their owner bends to read the faded text. Then the dark-skinned woman straightens, flicking her night-black hair back, and crosses to gently place the book back on its shelf.
The room is large and open – larger than perhaps is necessary, for one could fit forty people across the breadth of this space, and it is longer than it is wide. But then again, perhaps not. Whoever built it clearly meant to create a sense of grandeur. Rich, faded decorations and lavish carvings adorn the cupboards and shelves along the walls, and the ceiling is adorned with a vast mural of a starry sky lit by a full moon. The floor, made of a milky stone, has paths worn into it by the passage of countless footsteps. A desk carved of some ancient wood – polished by long use – stands opposite the door, in front of a clear crystal pane that takes up the entire far wall. The view is almost unbelievable, a landscape of glittering ice and sparkling silver plains seen from miles above the ground. But she is used to the view, and it barely registers after so much time. She pays it no mind, lost in her own thoughts.
'Was that how it happened?' she asks herself softly. 'I cannot be sure. Ten thousand years and more have washed away the facts, and left only feelings in place of memories. This book feels true, but I have read it a thousand times, and I know it cannot be right in every detail.' She purses her lips reflectively, glancing out of the crystal window that made up one of the walls of her vast and roomy office. 'Though those events predate even me...' she adds, and sighs wearily. She seems very old as she does, though her face is youthful. Only her eyes, clear crimson, betray the weight of years if one looks carefully.
'Well,' she sighs again, after a long moment's thought. "Time and past to begin my search anew. I have yet to find those I seek. And word from Earth worries me. More so than usual.' Her lips quirk wryly. 'Promises to keep, promises to keep,' she murmurs with a hint of sardonic amusement, and stands to go. A flick of her wrist opens the door to one of the richly decorated cabinets, behind which hangs a vertical pane of water, mirror-like in its stillness. The woman's ebony skin turns a lustrous black for a second as she collapses down on herself into a smaller shape. The water ripples briefly as the nimble form darts through it, and the office is left empty once again.
Now let the eye pull back from the empty office. Let it pass through the crystal window even as the cabinet door swings closed, and see the wall outside – some unknown stone that is harder than marble, more lustrous than pearl. It is decorated with fine carvings that tell a saga that spans thousands of years, which seem to sing even as they are viewed. The gaze is drawn downwards, and the height of the tower is revealed in truth – for it is no mere tower. The spire stands miles high, staring down upon mountains, narrowing as it rises like a needle piercing the fabric of the sky. This lofty office is on the highest floor, with nothing above save open sky and the shifting silver-white dome of the heavens.
Now look again, not downwards this time but out. Like a bird taking flight from its window-ledge perch, let the view move out across the ice plains, slowly at first but fast picking up speed, across argent arctic fields of snow arranged just so for their aesthetic beauty. They are dotted here and there with patches of verdant green in lush reserves, steam rising from rich rainforest to condense on the inside of the crystal domes that contain them. Movement can be seen within them, but they pass behind and fade into the distance too quickly to make out what prowls within.
Far up ahead, a shape moves. It is an enormous fortress-city, a day's hard walk from side to side of the soaring citadel walls that surround it. A vicious blizzard beats against stone and ice, gale-driven snowflakes freezing on the glacier that buries half the city. The enormous edifice drifts across the land, a stone ship sailing upon a frozen sea. But rather than parting before it, the spurs and sheets of ice vanish into the oncoming wall as if merely passing through a curtain of mist, and appear again from the other side once it passes over them completely.
But enough time spent here. Fly onward, faster and faster, as rainbow light glimmers overhead in arcing paths that pass between the rippling veils of colour that drift across the sky. The weather shifts unpredictably as the miles fall behind – where a blizzard howled mere moments ago over the travelling conurbation-citadel, it is now bright and warm. Shifting beams from the heavens play in rippling patterns over the ice fields, their illumination hinting at half-hidden shadows buried deep beneath the surface. In some areas the whiteness melts, flowing away to leave slick featureless plains under the areas of unnatural heat.
Soon, the wide and open lowlands give way to the foothills of the mountains. Slow, as they approach, and see another city, nestled between the horns of a crescent of mountains. This metropolis is darker, though unfrozen, with a chill wind whipping at its streets. Unlike its sister-stronghold, it is stationary, scarred savagely in ages past by some fearsome force that carved a bloody path of destruction across it. A blackened rift still wounds the ring-wall, and the streets are empty and all but deserted.
Yet even this is left behind as the gaze moves ever onward, up and over the mountains. The snow gives way to bare rock at their uttermost heights, and cairns have been raised there on the high peaks, inscribed with symbols both new and ancient. A group of figures gather around one even now, ant-like in the distance as the mind's eye flashes past them. They dance, slow and solemn, around the graven monolith they visit, in a ritual of both remembrance and regret.
The peaks fall away in their turn, and the eye skims across snow once more. The layer of ice is thinner now, though still a formidable slab, with deep, dark water beneath the hoary crust instead of land. To one side, the light dims and darkens until nothing but blackness can be seen, a moving void of light which veils things unseen in many years. And ahead is the edge, rushing ever closer. For no sea borders this land, no ocean touches its shore. The dome that rises from the coast to stretch across the sky is a shimmering, shifting wall. Uncounted trillions of tiny fluttering, flickering silvery-white shapes make it up – are they butterflies? Ribbons? Petals? Snowflakes? Stars? It is impossible to say, so chaotic and random is their swirling and spinning. For all that can be seen through the eddying curtains, they might as well go on forever – nothing is visible beyond.
But plunge into the ever-changing barrier nonetheless. Let the currents carry the eye forward through secret paths and hidden tributaries, across many years and a shadow's width of distance. Eventually, the whirling silver shapes dissolve into foam and froth before giving way entirely; to a bright sunlit sky and a warm refreshing breeze, above a vibrant and bustling city.
And perhaps more importantly, to the beginning of a story.
…