Common Myth
Everything had gone wrong.
Galen sat stiffly on his chair at the southern edge of the glade, his knuckles white and his grip threatening to splinter the wood of the armrest. He cast his eyes once more around the circle that had been carefully arranged around the grassy hollow and tried to discern in the faces about him just what had changed them so radically in the last two decades to bring them to this loud and vicious impasse. His mind wandered from the argument for a time as he tried to assess the people who would settle it.
All of his guests had come with their own entourage. This was to be expected; indeed, no mystic would dare travel any of the roads in the Five Domains without escort. So here they were, hovering about the chairs of their clan leaders as though even here in the Circle of Six they were a fortress under siege.
To his left in the circle sat Thais Mistal now of Enlund—a girl he had known from that life before the Deep Magic had changed everything. Back in Benyn, when they had shared that town in common and little else, she had been a young girl he had barely noticed. But now they were both among the Elect and somehow the magic had chosen her as well to be one of the Thirty-six. She had followed him into battle on the Election Fields and she had followed him south across the hills and into a destiny that she could scarcely imagine. Now she was the head of Clan Mistal, a woman of elegant features whose eyes turned slightly down at the corners, implying a deep sorrow in her soul. Her cloak was feathered in vibrant purple and blue, hiding her frailty. Her once golden hair was now nearly white from the strains of her duties. Behind her waited several of her personal guard and her son, Lucian. Galen remembered that the young man had once been a companion to Caelith. Standing there, he somehow seemed amused by the argument raging before them.
Farther to the left beyond Thais sat Cyrus Myyrdin of the Dragonback, though Galen understood that the man had originally come from Southport in Hrunard. Galen had joined with Cyrus when he entered the Dragonback many years ago in search of Dhalia. They fought side by side then but had since grown apart. Still, Galen liked the older leader of Clan Myyrdin and had insisted that he remain among the Six over the objections of several other clan leaders and those of Cyrus’s own son, Evath, who wished to take his place. Cyrus was somewhat deaf in his left ear, which led to his disconcerting habit of turning his head away from Galen whenever he could not hear the speakers in the Circle properly. He was a powerfully built man, shorter than Galen but with broad shoulders and a grip like iron, although many now said his blade was sharper than his mind these days. His head was rimmed with a wreath of carefully trimmed gray hair, though the top of his head was so smoothly bald that Galen jokingly wondered if the man actually polished it. He was obviously having no trouble hearing what was going on in front of him now as he glared with bright and angry eyes from deep beneath the heavy brows of his broad forehead. Evath, ever present with his father, hovered nearby scowling just as deeply.
To Galen’s immediate right sat Uruh Nikau, the Palathian with the flawless dark skin. She sat with her arms folded over her chest, her head cocked to one side as she studied the spectacle before them.
Galen was no different, and he certainly felt under siege himself. Caelith stood next to him clenching and unclenching his fist.
The object of their common concern was Brenna Caedon of Hrunard. She stood in the center of the glade, the whiteness of her fur-lined robe contrasting with the near-purple of her face, which was framed by her carefully woven cascade of long soot-black hair. Before her, equally outraged, stood Haggun Harn, now of Urlund, though, like Thais, Galen had also known him from Benyn. His tall, older frame shook with rage beneath his own shabby robes, his slicked-back white hair quivering. Brenna and Haggun had been going on for some time and neither of them showed any signs of slowing.
“Your argument is worse than stupid, it’s unconscionably dangerous!” Brenna railed, her voice, Galen feared, carrying well beyond the glade. “All the Pir understand is force! We’ve tried to placate them for centuries and all it has ever gotten us is more death!”
“But you heard Galen,” Haggun shouted, his left hand jutting out toward the master of Clan Arvad sharply. “If we accept this offer, we put an end to all that!”
“What offer?” Brenna spat back. “To pack up our clans and travel to some mythical land to the south on the word of the very people—the very people who have spent the last four hundred years trying to destroy us man and child? Half of us would die from the journey alone!” Brenna glared directly at Galen. “That’s not an offer; that’s suicide.”
“And what would you have us do, Brenna?” Uruh said, her deep voice rolling evenly like a cool breeze across grass. “At least with his proposal, we have the hope to fight for a homeland that is our own.”
“Fight, surely! Yes!” Brenna said, stepping forward, her fist clenched, “but for something real! Fight for our own land here and take back that which was taken from us. The power of the Deep Magic should no longer be held like some caged beast. It should be released over the land, to strike down our enemies and win back the land for our sake and the sake of our children.”
“And when you have released this beast across the land, how will its hunger be satisfied?” Thais snapped. “Two decades of toil and struggle and we still know so little of this power to which we are neither master nor slave. If we become the plague upon the landscape, how then do we justify ourselves as being any better than those who hunt us now? You would argue for open war—”
“Better open war than to sell our future on the word of this Pir bitch,” Cyrus growled as he squirmed in his chair. “The Pir are mighty in battle, to be sure, but they give nothing with the right hand that they don’t take twice with the left. The application of a wee bit of keen-edged steel would gain us more in negotiations with that lot than all the words in the world.”
“But, just think for a moment, what if it’s real,” Haggun spoke with emphasis. “What if the Pir are as weary of the war as we are? Think of the lives we would save and not just our own, eh? Think of us in a land that is our own and not just any land, but Calsandria, the very center of the ancient—”
“The center of smoke,” Brenna countered. “The center of misplaced dreams. You’re hanging our very survival on a phantom, Haggun—you and Galen both—on a place where the grasses are softer and the fruit falls from the trees into your basket. It’s only children’s stories. It doesn’t exist, Haggun—it just doesn’t—”
“It does exist,” Galen said, standing slowly.
“You’ve deluded yourself, Galen Arvad, if you think—”
“Mistress Caedon, your words have blown across the council quite effectively,” Galen said with a voice that commanded attention. “I think we all know its direction. Now you shall have to endure a little breeze of my own.”
Brenna abruptly sat down in her chair, the palms of her hands pressing down on the armrests and her elbows bent outward. She was quiet for the time being but it was obvious she was far from finished. The boy standing next to the chair laid a hand on Brenna’s shoulder, which seemed to calm the woman a bit.
Galen turned around toward Caelith. The young man nodded curtly in response and ducked quickly back into the woods behind him.
“Calsandria,” Galen began, shaking his head as he turned back to the Circle. “The Throne of the Gods; the Pillar of the Sky—it’s all a myth, a story to distract children, a ‘phantom,’ I think you said, Brenna. I believe you’re right. The Mad Emperors are gone and with them the glory that was Rhamas. Maybe they had the powers of the Deep Magic, as some have supposed, and lost it. Maybe they had another power that we know nothing of. Maybe it is just as well that they are gone into the mists and now no more than a half-remembered tale.”
Galen could hear the rustle of leaves behind him.
“Or, perhaps, it is more real than we know.”
Caelith burst from the brush at the edge of the glade. A brightly clothed man with long, curled hair was firmly in Caelith’s grasp, his hands bound tightly before him. Caelith shoved the man forward, pushing him off balance and causing him to tumble into the center of the glade.
“May I present Margrave the Magnificent, Loremaster.”
Margrave rolled painfully up to kneel in the grass of the glade and then looked around. “By the gods!” he murmured with wonder, then broke out into a radiant smile. “The Mad Masters of the Soulless! How wonderful!”
“Margrave,” Galen said, stepping forward.
The Loremaster struck a noble pose, the picture of the bound martyr, speaking to some audience seen only by him. “Brought in chains before the Dark Council . . .”
Galen blinked. “What chains?”
Margrave looked up and winked. “Don’t worry, sire, I’ll fix it all up later. This is going to make a great epic song! Just work with me and everything will be fine.”
Galen sighed. “Margrave, tell us the truth of Calsandria.”
Margrave closed one eye, cocked his head, and considered for a moment. “There may not be that much to tell of the truth, sire. But if you will permit me a small indulgence, there is a great deal I could tell you that isn’t.”
Galen shook his head.
Margrave shrugged.
“Just answer my questions directly. Does Calsandria exist?” Galen asked quietly.
Margrave looked up. “Of course, sire!”
Galen could feel Thais lean forward in her chair. Uruh had not moved but her eyes were on the Loremaster, considering him. Cyrus squinted attentively.
“How do you know?” Galen said with studied ease.
“Well, sire, I’ve seen records of it.” Margrave smiled, then cocked his head to one side as he considered the matter. “The Pir have confiscated most of the ancient writings, of course, but not all of them. They still exist in places here and there across the land. I’ve seen fragments of trade records on the Dragon’s Teeth Isles, lists of goods shipped from Calsandria long before the time of the Dragonkings. Oh, and there were pillars in Vasskhold, before the Pir obliterated them, that spoke of the southern trade routes—the ancient Dwarven Road—and mentioned the name of Calsandria as—now how did they put it—oh, yes, as ‘the end of all roads.’ The stones of Mount Evanoth had extensive records from the period that talk about the fall of Calsandria but say little of the city itself and nothing at all of its location.” Margrave turned his head to look upon his audience with his most winning smile. “Even so, be assured, my lords and ladies, Calsandria did indeed exist.”
“Are we now taking council on what is truth from an—an actor?” Brenna sputtered in derision.
“Madam!” Margrave responded, his dignity apparently wounded. “I am a Loremaster! We are entertainers and historians with very strict guild laws and ethics! We know more than anyone that one has to know the truth in order to tell a convincing lie. I assure you that nothing is more important to a Loremaster than the ability to know where the truth ends and the lie begins.”
“That’s all well and good for you, Loremaster,” Uruh chuckled to herself, “but that leaves us with a liar who assures us he is telling the truth.”
Galen stepped forward to stand next to the Loremaster. “Lady Dhalia attests to his voracity. She saw him in her vision and knew that he carried the truth of this. He only confirms her long study of this matter. Her word will be sufficient for this Council.”
Galen glared. None of the Council would challenge Dhalia’s ability or her word.
“And so what if it does exist still?” called a high voice across the glade.
Galen looked up, surprised that the words were coming from the figure still standing with one hand on Brenna’s shoulder. Only now did Galen realize that it wasn’t a young man at all, but a tall woman with cropped hair dressed in a traveling tunic. “Every child among the clans was raised on stories of Calsandria and the great lost Empire of Rhamas. They helped us sleep at night in our innocence but now we have grown and are facing the waking world. The Rhamasians could not save themselves; how does finding them save us now?”
Uruh shifted in her chair. “Mistress Eryn, you forget yourself. Your voice is not to be heard within the Circle.”
Ah, Galen realized. Eryn Caedon—Brenna’s daughter. Galen smiled. From what he had heard of her, the dragons themselves could not prevent the girl from expressing her opinion, and the more contrary, the better. “Even so, her point is a good one and I shall answer it. You are right, Mistress Eryn, the stories of Calsandria have been instilled in the hearts of all of us. We have long wondered if its avenues really were golden or its walls crusted with jewels or whether the Throne of the Gods really existed. But more than anything, we have wondered if they were our forefathers—if they held the Deep Magic in their time. Is this power we know so little about the same power that made them great? What did they know about it that we do not? Most important of all—if they with all their power were doomed to fail, what might we learn from them that we could avoid their same fate?”
“You ask a great many questions, Galen,” Cyrus muttered. “Questions that cannot be answered.”
“No, Cyrus, they must be answered,” Galen intoned. “The Edicts of Enlund are only now going into force; humanity slaughtered because the dragons themselves are mad for our destruction. If Urlund joins them, then where are we safe? Where can we hide? More than just hide; where can we live? The Pir are offering us all a way out—for their survival and ours. We must act and we must act now; we must gather the clans and prepare them to leave—”
“It’s too hasty,” Brenna interrupted. “We must wait—”
“We cannot wait!” Haggun shouted.
“Hold!” Galen said, his voice booming over the rising objections. “There is a more acceptable way!”
They all turned toward him. He took a deep breath before continuing, his voice more even as he spoke. “We can quietly gather our clans to ourselves. While we do, we shall send a company of scouts ahead. If they do not find Calsandria, then we shall be in no more danger than we are now. But should they succeed and discover this fabled land, then—and only then—shall we follow and leave the Five Domains forever.”
Thais chuckled briefly. “Indeed, Galen, should this company actually discover Calsandria, I doubt any of us could prevent the clans from taking up a pilgrimage. But who could we all agree on to determine the truth of this illusive Calsandria?”
“I will go,” Eryn said. “I want to see this child’s fable for myself.”
“My son Caelith shall lead an expedition,” Galen said, ignoring the young woman with a voice that defied dissent. “His raiders have but recently returned and they are available for such a quest.”
Thais shook her head. “Galen, we all owe you much, but I think we would trust you a little better if you learned to include us in your grand plans.”
Galen smiled in return. “I should think Caelith would also appreciate the company and protection of his friend, Lucian of Clan Mistal . . .”
The young woman’s voice was more adamant this time. “I said that I will—”
“Mistress Eryn should hold her tongue until she can learn when to use it! Nevertheless, I suspect that Clan Caedon will insist that their favored daughter join as a witness to the expedition, is that so?” Galen cast a questioning glance toward Brenna, who nodded with a polite smile. “As I thought. They shall take Loremaster Margrave here with them as well. His knowledge of Rhamasian lore should—”
“Truly?” Margrave beamed. He stood at once in his excitement, somehow instantly releasing himself from the ropes that bound him and tossing the cords to an astonished Galen before bowing deeply to the Circle. “I present myself gratefully before this majestic assembly and put all my understanding at your disposal in this noble quest! And my promise to you all is that I shall unfailingly immortalize every terrifying moment, torturous maiming, and tragic death in song and poem upon my return.”
Galen interrupted the speech by gathering Margrave’s costume in his large, powerful hands and pulling him backward abruptly. The Loremaster staggered into Caelith, who grabbed him quickly with his powerful left hand while slipping the tip of his dagger under the Loremaster’s chin with his right. Margrave smiled once more but held his tongue.
Galen continued. “As I was saying, his knowledge of Rhamasian lore should help us determine if the true Calsandria has been found or not.”
“And who, do you propose, to lead this group into the Forsaken Mountains?” Haggun asked. “The noble Caelith’s abilities are formidable but have the Pir told him the way?”
“Inquisitas Berkita has provided us a guide—a Pir monk who knows the location,” Galen answered haltingly.
“Why do they not just tell us where to find it?” Uruh asked cautiously.
“It is a condition of their telling us. They want to verify their discovery as much as we do.”
Cyrus sniffed. “And just who is this monk we are supposed to trust with leading our sons and daughters into lands from which no one has ever returned?”
“Jorgan Arvad.” Galen tried not to whisper. “He is—I have another son.”