This is an extract from the beginning of my first book, Silent Skies.
It is a note bound with weathered string to the top of a hand-written, coffee-stained, blood-encrusted tome; a tale the bard has titled Flames of the Exiled and sent right into the heart of the Empire.
NOTE
THE STORY ENCLOSED
To His Imperial Highness Prince Zündenai, heir to the throne of the empire,
Peace be with you as you contemplate the many choices you must make that will define our future.
I visited your palace once. Such a majestic spectacle is difficult to forget. As I took in the soaring turrets and menacing wall-mounted trebuchets, I pictured that most famous siege which first spread your father’s name to every corner of Durnam. I pictured your beautiful, sprawling castle in flames, the marauding savages gathering behind the battlements to see your father’s army returning to reclaim their capital.
Your father razed his own castle to the ground in order to purge it of enemies.
His legacy is one of extreme tactical prowess, fire-tempered discipline and justice unbent by mercy. As you endeavour to build on this legacy, I beg you to grant me your attention for just a little while. Hear this story—my gift to Your Imperial Highness, to help you make sense of this recent chaos, the rise of your empire, and the exodus of the Taranor.
I know most have reverted to using the old title of the exiled people—Janzacs—but this is not for the best. Believe me, every moment they remain outcast, a fire burns yet in the heart of your empire, threatening to become a devouring conflagration. I know there are many enemies that demand entrance to an empire, and while it may be wise to refuse most, there are some few who might just bring the elements required to control the flames.
Let me explain.
I have been collecting and organising several perspectives on the events leading to the exodus of the Taranor. With all the confusion and bitterness rising in the wake of this turmoil of drowning islands and crumbling kingdoms, I feel it is essential that someone shine a light on what is now our history.
The story enclosed is rooted in the truth I have uncovered through my interrogations of the many people I have travelled with—primarily, a Tuthervarr, a lord, a monster missionary and a chimeric maven. My own part in the tale begins much closer to its culmination, so it may be some time before I introduce myself properly. For now, call me the Balizon Bard.
So, why am I giving this to you?
As I said earlier, I hope it is useful—an aid in your decisions. I believe it will be the first written history of the Second Era—and, as a friend has often told me, ‘history is the cornerstone of all knowledge’.
All that aside, I am a sentimentalist. I put my faith in Oldone—the god of the Old Way. He must be something of a sentimentalist Himself, for it is said that His glory resides in artworks, literature, and movements of music, and it is because of this that the stories told through these vessels have the capacity to transform us in subtle ways. I suppose I hold the hope that this story is solid and subtle enough to serve that function, and I accept that it is likely to be a vain hope in more ways than one.
You will notice, though, that in some passages, I have stated things that cannot be proved or gathered through interrogation. You will have to trust that I know these things to be true by different means—by intuition, by inference and by my understanding of the shape of the world and stories and people. In turn, I have trusted Oldone to guide my understanding of these things.
Now, to begin this tale, we shall go back ten years. We shall visit a campfire on a cold and rainy evening, in the wooded foothills of the Abnorans, some miles north-west of Fort Banam.
From there, I shall endeavour to build this account as one might build such a fire. In constructing this sacred place, the wood must be set just so: thin must lead to thick, dry before damp, a gust before a gale. So must the particulars of this tale be positioned, just as they were when it occurred.
The characters are scrunched in together at the bottom of things, some desert dry and itching to burn, others drenched, dripping and terrified of the impending blaze. The monsters writhe, as ever, below the bottom of things, ready to offer their seething spirit to fuel the inferno. The kingdoms and islands—the branches and logs—are gradually propped up above them, against each other, in such a way as to let the breeze permeate the concoction.
Here I stand, stone of flint in my left hand and blade of steel in my right. Watch the sparks fly. See the fickle flame begin to dance in the kindling of eucalyptus leaves. Smell the fragrance of their oil. Listen to the snapping of twigs as they respond to the heat. Feel that heat spreading fast. Taste the wisp of smoke on the wind, drifting towards you …
If you are old enough, you might remember this tale.
If you are young enough, you have imagined it.
If you are wise enough, you may even believe it.