There is so much to tell, and I can scarcely imagine where to begin.
My father was consumed with the pride of the D'ni, he spent every day of his life writing and linking. He visited the people of the ages he wrote, and took their culture from them and introduced D'ni culture into them. He took their land, their people, and their trees. He taught them to write, and then left them.
He called himself a missionary.
My father, the Great Reeves of D'ni, savior of the D'ni that fled the disease and lived in slavery, was a king to the common people, and a murderer in my eyes.
He blamed it on faulty writers and impure blood when the cultures he introduced began to link to unstable ages and never return.
They were primitive peoples, and believed it to be another sign that the D'ni were gods, and that they were imperfect and flawed races.
He married to a woman well above his years, but she was a logical choice, much more intelligent and wiser than he.
However there was little love between them, and he referred to her in his journals and his speeches to the people as a partner and a guide, rather than his wife. He believed this was the proper way to treat another of his kind.
He had no love. No love for his wife, his only son, or the people that he saved. Of course there are legends, legends say that at one time he did love his wife, and that he loved the people very much, but there are people who believe legends are half truth and half exaggeration.
I am the son of Reeves, and my name is M'buhir. It was a name chosen for me by my mother, whose name I have forgotten, my father scarcely said it, and the lack of water today causes much forgetfulness.
I remember the reason though, like the scar across my face, why she named me it. She told me that she had a dream that I would lead, and that I would one day hold much power. In her culture, the diluted D'ni, as my father called them, M'buhir meant Incomprehensible power, or in short, Omnipotent.
She hoped that a name like this would bless me, though as you will soon know, it only cursed me into weakness.
The people call me M'buhir Roreeves, I cannot escape my fathers name, and my father has already chosen me as his heir.
Heir to a swamp.
But his intentions were not altogether in the favor of his people.
He abused his power, and forced many of the Weak into being his bookmakers and inkmakers. He told the people during his speeches that these so called "Weak" were being given another chance to become stronger by serving in a special guild.
Though I haven't seen the rooms where they are made, I have seen his books.
The paper smells of sweat and the ink is uneven with areas of red.
The ages aren't unstable according to physics, and they show no bizarre signs that would show them to be condemned unstable ages.
The first is Hootsayth, it means Achievement. It was the first age he wrote and it reflects humbleness. It is the forest age and it hears.
The second is Tsahno Mahn, it is the everlasting existence and the beginning of pride. It is the jungle age and it sees.
The third is Shoo Yahr, its name means Dead Day, for it was written during my father's mourning over the death of his wife. It is a dark age, and it speaks.
The fourth is Gahro Hevtee, for by the time it was written, his pride was already enormous, and he dwelled in his greatness daily. It is the Garden Age, and it deceives.
They are the Blood Ages.
When my father discovered their amazing powers he constructed pillars for them. They reach above his palace where they can see, hear, and speak. When the maintainers (that is, those that maintain the pillars and guard them) near them, they are often said to feel watched and violated. The books are supernatural, and they are feared by even my father.
My story begins on the day of the anniversary of my mother's death. I am 17 flood season's old, and my father is teaching me the precious art.