“So, what would everyone like to hear about today?” Skarpi rumbled. His deep voice rolling out like distant thunder.
There was a moment of silence that again struck me as ritualistic, almost reverent. Then a babble burst forth from all the children at once.
“I want a faerie story!”
“…Oren and the fight at Mnat’s…”
“Yes, Oren Velciter! The one with Baron…”
“Lartam…”
“Myr Tariniel!”
“Illien and the Bear!”
“Lanre,” I said, almost without meaning to.
The room went still again as Skarpi took a drink. The children watched him with a familiar intensity I couldn’t quite identify.
Skarpi sat calmly in the middle of the quiet. “Did I,” his voice rolled out slowly, like dark honey, “hear someone say Lanre?” He looked directly at me, his blue eyes clear and sharp.
I nodded, not knowing what to expect.
“I want to hear about the dry lands over the Stormwal,” one of the younger girls complained. “About the sand snakes that come out of the ground like sharks. And the dry men who hide under the dunes and drink your blood instead of water. And—” She was cuffed quickly into silence from a dozen different directions by the children surrounding her.
Silence fell sharply as Skarpi took another drink. Watching the children as they watched Skarpi, I realized what they reminded me of: a person anxiously watching a clock. I guessed that when the old man’s drink was gone, the story he told would be over as well.
Skarpi took another drink, no more than a sip this time, then set his cup down and pivoted on his stool to face us. “Who would like to hear the story of a man who lost his eye and gained a better sight?”
Something about the tone of his voice or the reaction of the other children told me this was a purely rhetorical question. “So, Lanre and the Creation War. An old, old story.” His eyes swept over the children. “Sit and listen for I will speak of the shining city as it once was, years and miles away….”
Once, years and miles away, there was Myr Tariniel. The shining city. It sat among the tall mountains of the world like a gem on the crown of a king.
Imagine a city as large as Tarbean, but on every corner of every street there was a bright fountain, or a green tree growing, or a statue so beautiful it would make a proud man cry to look at it. The buildings were tall and graceful, carved from the mountain itself, carved of a bright white stone that held the sun’s light long after evening fell.
Selitos was lord over Myr Tariniel. Just by looking at a thing Selitos could see its hidden name and understand it. In those days there were many who could do such things, but Selitos was the most powerful namer of anyone alive in that age.
Selitos was well loved by the people he protected. His judgments were strict and fair, and none could sway him through falsehood or dissembling. Such was the power of his sight that he could read the hearts of men like heavy-lettered books.
Now in those days there was a terrible war being fought across a vast empire. The war was called the Creation War, and the empire was called Ergen. And despite the fact that the world has never seen an empire as grand or a war so terrible, both of them only live in stories now. Even history books that mentioned them as doubtful rumor have long since crumbled into dust.
The war had lasted so long that folk could hardly remember a time when the sky wasn’t dark with the smoke of burning towns. Once there had been hundreds of proud cities scattered through the empire. Now there were merely ruins littered with the bodies of the dead. Famine and plague were everywhere, and in some places there was such despair that mothers could no longer muster enough hope to give their children names. But eight cities remained. They were Belen, Antus, Vaeret, Tinusa, Emlen, and the twin cities of Murilla and Murella. Last was Myr Tariniel, greatest of them all and the only one unscarred by the long centuries of war. It was protected by the mountains and brave soldiers. But the true cause of Myr Tariniel’s peace was Selitos. Using the power of his sight he kept watch over the mountain passes leading to his beloved city. His rooms were in the city’s highest towers so he could see any attack long before it came to be a threat.
The other seven cities, lacking Selitos’ power, found their safety elsewhere. They put their trust in thick walls, in stone and steel. They put their trust in strength of arm, in valor and bravery and blood. And so they put their trust in Lanre.
Lanre had fought since he could lift a sword, and by the time his voice began to crack he was the equal of a dozen older men. He married a woman named Lyra, and his love for her was a passion fiercer than fury.
Lyra was terrible and wise, and held a power just as great as his. For while Lanre had the strength of his arm and the command of loyal men, Lyra knew the names of things, and the power of her voice could kill a man or still a thunderstorm.
As the years passed, Lanre and Lyra fought side by side. They defended Belen from a surprise attack, saving the city from a foe that should have overwhelmed them. They gathered armies and made the cities recognize the need for allegiance. Over the long years they pressed the empire’s enemies back. People who had grown numb with despair began to feel warm hope kindling inside. They hoped for peace, and they hung those flickering hopes on Lanre.
Then came the Blac of Drossen Tor. Blac meant ‘battle’ in the language of the time, and at Drossen Tor there was the largest and most terrible battle of this large and terrible war. They fought unceasing for three days in the light of the sun, and for three nights unceasing by the light of the moon. Neither side could defeat the other, and both were unwilling to retreat.
Of the battle itself I have only one thing to say. More people died at Drossen Tor than there are living in the world today.
Lanre was always where the fight was thickest, where he was needed most. His sword never left his hand or rested in its sheath. At the very end of things, covered in blood amid a field of corpses, Lanre stood alone against a terrible foe. It was a great beast with scales of black iron, whose breath was a darkness that smothered men. Lanre fought the beast and killed it. Lanre brought victory to his side, but he bought it with his life.
After the battle was finished and the enemy was set beyond the doors of stone, survivors found Lanre’s body, cold and lifeless near the beast he had slain. Word of Lanre’s death spread quickly, covering the field like a blanket of despair. They had won the battle and turned the tide of the war, but each of them felt cold inside. The small flame of hope that each of them cherished began to flicker and fade. Their hopes had hung on Lanre, and Lanre was dead.