XVII. Letter from the Council of Muxal

Letter from the Council of Muxal to the Council of Sarfan, second day of ninth moon, Old Year 298 (Alexine Year 1)

To the most eminent sirs of the Council of Sarfan, and to Alexius, Axe of the People, greetings from the Council of Muxal.

We are pleased to inform you that, by the grace of Heaven, the people of Muxal have unanimously agreed to your noble sirs' proposal of protecting our village from harm as Protector Village.

As you will undoubtedly recall, when our emissaries were sent to you two moons ago, they were guaranteed autonomy of rule on our behalf. We would be eternally grateful to you, noble sirs, if you would honor this agreement you made with our emissaries, for... [the] right of self-rule is one we hold dearly in our hearts... [and] we agreed to your sirs' proposal under that sole condition, for which we do not cease thanks and praise...

We are sending this message with our dear brother Triver, whom we hold dearly in our hearts, so that he may negotiate the terms of protection on our behalf... [and] five of our worthiest villagers have also been sent for our peoples to properly acclimate to your noble town... We would be grateful to your eminent sirs if they were allowed to trade and govern our own peoples on our behalf, for, owing to the great distance between our two towns, we are unable to send orders or messages quickly...

We hope and pray that your sirs' kind benevolence, which has saved many lives...


"... will now deliver our town from the evils that plague us." Saracid the Librarian puts the letter down. "Ends there," he says to Alexius, who looks up from his papers and frowns slightly. "Really?" he asks. "That's it?"

Saracid nods. "There's some candlewax seals at the bottom of the sheet if you want to take a look." The old librarian passes the letter to Alexius, who takes the wrinkled piece of paper and examines its bottom: four crude seals made of melted beeswax line up neatly at the final words, like little candles in a row. Below them are the names of the councilmen of Muxal, written in cramped, tight letters.

Alexius hands the letter back to the librarian. "You think they really want to do this?"

"Hmm?" the librarian asks, glancing outside: Ramaf is still talking to the messenger, who still sits on his horse imperiously, looking annoyed that he has to rein it into the stables outside the walls. The flickering torchlight barely illuminates the faces of the five villagers who came with him, arriving at the gate scarcely half an hour ago. They huddle close to each other and murmur under their voices. The first villagers of Muxal to settle at Sarfan don't even have a place to spend the night.

Alexius sets his papers down and stretches his arms out. "The council. Their council, I mean. You think they want to do it?"

Saracid turns away from the window: "What do you mean by 'it'?"

"You know," replies Alexius, shrugging. "The whole Protectorate thing."

The librarian laughs lightly. "I don't think anyone would really want to do something like that," he says. "It'd hurt any self-respecting village's pride, that's for sure."

"So it's all defense, then?"

"Probably. Why else would they come begging before us?"

"They didn't beg—"

"Please." The librarian carefully sets his spectacles down: "Those two ambassadors they sent," he says, "Ciofo and, uh..."

"Amil, wasn't it?"

"Mm-hmm. They're brothers, you know that?"

"No."

"I overheard them speaking in the square the day they left. All excited about that Pillager patrol you killed... 'like dogs,' that's what they said." The librarian shoots a careful look at Alexius before continuing. "Their father was killed in the raid of Maras, twenty years ago."

Alexius pauses. "Isn't that where Spayer—"

"Where his son was killed, yes." Saracid sighs deeply and stares out of the window again. The old librarian's face looks ancient in the flickering candlelight. "From what I heard, it was one of the bigger raids. Maybe fifty or sixty Pillagers overran the golems there. Everyone massacred, of course."

Alexius stares at the librarian. "You say it so casually," he says.

Saracid shrugs. "What else is there to say?" he replies. "That's what's always happened. It's the natural lifespan of any village: at childhood it toddles, at maturity it thrives and prospers. Then..." The librarian smiles sadly. "Well, I think you know."

"That's... horrible."

"It's nature."

"And you think that's just?"

"Of course not, but... look..." Saracid rubs his eyes and, wearily, looks to Alexius. "What was I trying to say?" he mutters to himself.

Alexius shakes his head. "I can't believe you'd ever call that sort of thing 'natural'."

"No village has ever avoided it," Saracid replies. "Five months or a hundred years. Eventually, all villages fall."

"Ah, but they didn't have walls, did they?"

"True." Saracid pauses to think for a second. "That's why those ambassadors from Muxal were so eager to agree with us—why they were so eager to sacrifice their pride. They see the Walls and they see hope."

"It's a wall, Saracid. It's hardly a beacon of hope."

Shaking his head, the old librarian replies, "You don't understand. It's their first time seeing anything like this."

"It's their first time seeing a wall?"

"Seeing resistance, Alexius. Seeing resistance against... against nature."

Alexius shrugs. "If you say so," he says, yawning and leaning back.

"Hope..." He thinks about the word. "Strange, isn't it?"

The librarian stands up and begins to extinguish the candles, taking care not to spill any beeswax onto the papers littered across the table. "We live in desperate times," he says as he reshelves the books. "And desperate times bring all sorts of strange things."

Saracid's footsteps are quiet as he leaves the hall. For the first time in a while, he cannot hear the groans of zombies in the night.