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The truth was on the old vellum pages before him. Vayal was one of five trading cities which came to prosperity under the protective wings of ancient Zeheft. The others were Incaria, Kush, Ilios and Nefi, but of them all, it was Vayal which grew most wealthy, most powerful. Most ambitious.
In the decades when Vayal grew into the dawn of its military power, Incaria and Ilios were already being savaged by pirates from the outer realms, while Kush and Nefti had been battered by storms, shaken by the wrath of Volcos for so long, they were weakened. They were, Soran knew, easy pickings.
The inner realms of Kush and their neighboring Nefti fell to Vayal without a blow being struck in anger. Impoverished, feeble kings negotiated away their freedom, trading peace with Vayal for a torrent of young bodies to strengthen the imperial legions, and the grain and wine to feed them. Vayal grew ever stronger, and when they turned on Zeheft, there was little to stand between them and victory.
The first sovereign of Vayal’s empire was Medeios. He was priest and general, eldest son of a house that had grown wealthy on the trade in joss and silk, slaves and ivory. And he was as crafty as all his kind. He did not send a legion to hunt down the pirates, but offered the captains a treaty instead. If they sailed under the banners of Vayal, they were guaranteed the safety of imperial ports. Medeios took no interest in where else they plundered, so long as they left in peace the home harbors, and ships sailing under the empire’s colors.
A single year later, Vayal hired a vast mercenary army, recruited from the barbarian tribes of the Keltoi shores. They came west in multitudes, bringing their strange gods, bizarre rituals, their faith of the sacred trees, the standing stones, mist and water. Against such warriors -- savage and spiritual in equal measure -- the people of Zeheft were without hope.
Many fled in the very early days of the war, and they were wise to. Occasionally, trading vessels returned to Vayal with vague stories of Zehefti colonies which had taken root in distant lands. Aegyptos claimed one, as did Kriti and Troias, and even Jaymaca.
Soran had always been deeply skeptical, but according to the Annals, enough of the Zeheftimen escaped the bitter fighting for some shadow of their greatness to survive elsewhere. Did Faunos hope to find them? Was that where he was running to? Soran licked his lips and listened to the drumbeat of his pulse, loud in his ears in the cavernous library.
As the old city emptied out -- with the departure of the Atlantan diaspora and the casualty count of far too many battles -- the merchants, warriors and artisans of Vayal moved in. The Zehefti discovered themselves second class citizens in their own homes, laboring, often as bondsmen, in places where they had recently been nobility, or at least freemen.
And the priests of Vayal grew disgustingly rich, selling charms and spells to protect people from the evil which still lurked in the old city -- and would loom in every shadow there until the last witchboy was found and erased.
The first witchfinders were appointed within a year of the final, bloody battle which ended the war. Most of the direct descendants of Diomedas were found and destroyed in the ten years after. Finding witchboys became more difficult, and every year the hunt took Vayal’s witchfinders further from home. Soran had stalked his prey into the outer realms, and voyages to Ilios and Incaria were so commonplace, he had learned the seaman’s craft by spending weeks and months in the company of sailors. Priolas had taught him much of what he knew of ships and the sea, but there were other captains to whom Soran owed debts of gratitude.
He turned a page and his eyes scanned down the tight-packed columns describing the Zehefti high magic, for which Faunos’s people were so despised and so envied. And there, he checked in surprise, for the story was told of the second of the three foci.
The great gem was entrusted to a Zehefti high priest named Iridan, and it vanished only minutes before the soldiers of Vayal took him prisoner. He was tortured mercilessly for its whereabouts, but refused to speak. Prayers and incantations were the only words that passed his lips before he died under the abuse -- but his was no ordinary death.
In the moment of passing, an ancestor of Azhtoc threw over him a great golden net, and stolen words of high magic were intoned. Iridan was imprisoned, and he remained so. Soran’s hackles rose, his arms prickled with gooseflesh, and he heard again the thin, immaterial voice of the Oracle, whispering in the shadows in the Temple of Mayat. Iridan had suffered more than any mortal should ever have to, and death was only the beginning of his confinement. Anger churned in Soran’s belly. The desire to strike out against Azhtoc and Druyus was stronger than ever.
The Annals became increasingly vague in the pages detailing the events in the closing days of the war. So much was unknown, even to the Zehefti chroniclers who kept the document; much more was mere speculation. Soran groaned as the texts -- which had been so meticulous in earlier years -- degenerated into almost disjointed accounts of what was thought to have happened, who was believed to have said what, and why.
The information for which Iridan died remained lost, but the chroniclers faithfully recorded the belief of the day. Iridan’s life mate was the general, Hellas. Both were trapped in the vault beneath the Temple of Naxos, and only one could escape. Iridan gave the Eye of Mayat to Hellas, and turned like a stag at bay to face the soldiers, who broke into the temple minutes later.
Hellas -- like the Eye of Mayat -- vanished out of the world. The general was not descended from Diomedas; there was no Power in him, and if he actually touched the great crystal it would burn the flesh from his bones. But Hellas could get it away from the Empire, safeguard it, until a day came when a seventh son of Diomedas was born, nurtured, fetched to manhood.
“Faunos.” Soran whispered the name hoarsely. “You’re the One, aren’t you? It has to be you.”
He had lost track of time as he read, absorbing everything the ancient book could tell him. Not until the lamp began to stutter did he realize how late it was. The wick was burning down, and with a start he realized that the tide would already have begun to turn. He had an hour to get back to the quayside -- Priolas would be as good as his word. The Incari would leave on the tide, with or without Soran.
The wick stuttered again and went out. Uterine darkness settled like a shroud over the library, and Soran swore softly. It was darker than a tomb as he fumbled his way back to the shelf where he had found the book. He set it back there, under the copper casting of Hados. If he was lucky, no one would ever know it had been read.
With careful fingertips he felt his way along the wall, found the reading desk, and the door. The passageway was empty, dim, with a shaft of blue-white daylight streaming in from the stepway. Wanting no more than to breathe free air, Soran hurried back toward the stairs.
His head was filled with the images, ideas, mores, of another age. Knowledge was dizzying, overwhelming, and he did not hear the footsteps until it was too late. The scribe was coming down the steps, returning to work. Daylight from the gate above blinded Soran, but he caught a glimpse of an astonished face -- a shaven head, and the short white tunic of a junior priest in the service of Helios.
In the decades when Vayal grew into the dawn of its military power, Incaria and Ilios were already being savaged by pirates from the outer realms, while Kush and Nefti had been battered by storms, shaken by the wrath of Volcos for so long, they were weakened. They were, Soran knew, easy pickings.
The inner realms of Kush and their neighboring Nefti fell to Vayal without a blow being struck in anger. Impoverished, feeble kings negotiated away their freedom, trading peace with Vayal for a torrent of young bodies to strengthen the imperial legions, and the grain and wine to feed them. Vayal grew ever stronger, and when they turned on Zeheft, there was little to stand between them and victory.
The first sovereign of Vayal’s empire was Medeios. He was priest and general, eldest son of a house that had grown wealthy on the trade in joss and silk, slaves and ivory. And he was as crafty as all his kind. He did not send a legion to hunt down the pirates, but offered the captains a treaty instead. If they sailed under the banners of Vayal, they were guaranteed the safety of imperial ports. Medeios took no interest in where else they plundered, so long as they left in peace the home harbors, and ships sailing under the empire’s colors.
A single year later, Vayal hired a vast mercenary army, recruited from the barbarian tribes of the Keltoi shores. They came west in multitudes, bringing their strange gods, bizarre rituals, their faith of the sacred trees, the standing stones, mist and water. Against such warriors -- savage and spiritual in equal measure -- the people of Zeheft were without hope.
Many fled in the very early days of the war, and they were wise to. Occasionally, trading vessels returned to Vayal with vague stories of Zehefti colonies which had taken root in distant lands. Aegyptos claimed one, as did Kriti and Troias, and even Jaymaca.
Soran had always been deeply skeptical, but according to the Annals, enough of the Zeheftimen escaped the bitter fighting for some shadow of their greatness to survive elsewhere. Did Faunos hope to find them? Was that where he was running to? Soran licked his lips and listened to the drumbeat of his pulse, loud in his ears in the cavernous library.
As the old city emptied out -- with the departure of the Atlantan diaspora and the casualty count of far too many battles -- the merchants, warriors and artisans of Vayal moved in. The Zehefti discovered themselves second class citizens in their own homes, laboring, often as bondsmen, in places where they had recently been nobility, or at least freemen.
And the priests of Vayal grew disgustingly rich, selling charms and spells to protect people from the evil which still lurked in the old city -- and would loom in every shadow there until the last witchboy was found and erased.
The first witchfinders were appointed within a year of the final, bloody battle which ended the war. Most of the direct descendants of Diomedas were found and destroyed in the ten years after. Finding witchboys became more difficult, and every year the hunt took Vayal’s witchfinders further from home. Soran had stalked his prey into the outer realms, and voyages to Ilios and Incaria were so commonplace, he had learned the seaman’s craft by spending weeks and months in the company of sailors. Priolas had taught him much of what he knew of ships and the sea, but there were other captains to whom Soran owed debts of gratitude.
He turned a page and his eyes scanned down the tight-packed columns describing the Zehefti high magic, for which Faunos’s people were so despised and so envied. And there, he checked in surprise, for the story was told of the second of the three foci.
The great gem was entrusted to a Zehefti high priest named Iridan, and it vanished only minutes before the soldiers of Vayal took him prisoner. He was tortured mercilessly for its whereabouts, but refused to speak. Prayers and incantations were the only words that passed his lips before he died under the abuse -- but his was no ordinary death.
In the moment of passing, an ancestor of Azhtoc threw over him a great golden net, and stolen words of high magic were intoned. Iridan was imprisoned, and he remained so. Soran’s hackles rose, his arms prickled with gooseflesh, and he heard again the thin, immaterial voice of the Oracle, whispering in the shadows in the Temple of Mayat. Iridan had suffered more than any mortal should ever have to, and death was only the beginning of his confinement. Anger churned in Soran’s belly. The desire to strike out against Azhtoc and Druyus was stronger than ever.
The Annals became increasingly vague in the pages detailing the events in the closing days of the war. So much was unknown, even to the Zehefti chroniclers who kept the document; much more was mere speculation. Soran groaned as the texts -- which had been so meticulous in earlier years -- degenerated into almost disjointed accounts of what was thought to have happened, who was believed to have said what, and why.
The information for which Iridan died remained lost, but the chroniclers faithfully recorded the belief of the day. Iridan’s life mate was the general, Hellas. Both were trapped in the vault beneath the Temple of Naxos, and only one could escape. Iridan gave the Eye of Mayat to Hellas, and turned like a stag at bay to face the soldiers, who broke into the temple minutes later.
Hellas -- like the Eye of Mayat -- vanished out of the world. The general was not descended from Diomedas; there was no Power in him, and if he actually touched the great crystal it would burn the flesh from his bones. But Hellas could get it away from the Empire, safeguard it, until a day came when a seventh son of Diomedas was born, nurtured, fetched to manhood.
“Faunos.” Soran whispered the name hoarsely. “You’re the One, aren’t you? It has to be you.”
He had lost track of time as he read, absorbing everything the ancient book could tell him. Not until the lamp began to stutter did he realize how late it was. The wick was burning down, and with a start he realized that the tide would already have begun to turn. He had an hour to get back to the quayside -- Priolas would be as good as his word. The Incari would leave on the tide, with or without Soran.
The wick stuttered again and went out. Uterine darkness settled like a shroud over the library, and Soran swore softly. It was darker than a tomb as he fumbled his way back to the shelf where he had found the book. He set it back there, under the copper casting of Hados. If he was lucky, no one would ever know it had been read.
With careful fingertips he felt his way along the wall, found the reading desk, and the door. The passageway was empty, dim, with a shaft of blue-white daylight streaming in from the stepway. Wanting no more than to breathe free air, Soran hurried back toward the stairs.
His head was filled with the images, ideas, mores, of another age. Knowledge was dizzying, overwhelming, and he did not hear the footsteps until it was too late. The scribe was coming down the steps, returning to work. Daylight from the gate above blinded Soran, but he caught a glimpse of an astonished face -- a shaven head, and the short white tunic of a junior priest in the service of Helios.
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