The Chronicles of Arcanilius- Origin Stories

Trouble in Odgo

It began on a starry night when the planet Varga, in the Pleiades star cluster, in the constellation Taurus was steeped in confusion. The valley of ancients is usually a riot of colors with its yellow birches, blueberry bushes and green spruce groves thriving with activity. However, tonight it lay dark, motionless and silent. The feral beasts of the night that usually howl to stir their prey remained absent. The damp woody smell of the forest mingled with the rotting moldy leaves and weighed down like a thick blanket. Even the lake was motionless as if arrested in fear. Through the lattice of branches, one could glimpse that stars shimmered in the heavens above. They charted an ancient pathway, a secret guarded by the scribes of Odgo and coveted by the wizard Wadzviler.

These were turbulent times; rumors of war coupled with disappearances had plagued the inhabitants of Varga. Not new to the idea of war, the kingdoms could never seem to agree and often resorted to combat to settle disputes, but this was different. Children were being kidnapped from their mother’s arms as they slept through the ordeal, livestock vanished leaving no trace, streams turned red, and trees had uprooted themselves leaving behind deep graves. These attacks were insidious, it struck fear in the hearts of the untouched, it bred dangerous tales, and the kingdoms were subject to maddening hysteria.

The valley seemed to be contemplating that very notion, as it lay pensive. Even the tall birches refused to rustle in the cold, gentle wind that blew. The woeful silence was broken by two dark figures that hurried across the mystical trail that appeared a meter before and disappeared a meter after them. The impenetrable forest that was a maddening maze of tightly packed thick black trunks magically parted to reveal a path and then just as quickly reverted to their random pattern. There was a long low rumbling as the trees parted followed by a sudden sharp crack as they slid back to their former position. A few terrified birds hastily abandoned their homes and the air was ripe with the pungent aroma of freshly dug soil. The dense foliage crumpled and crackled under their thick leather boots and ferns clung to their robes as if begging to follow.

The two shrouded figures, one tall and muscular, and the other short and hassled, rushed through the forest. Their magical trail stopped abruptly before the spindle-shaped obsidian mountain called the Apogee of Odgo, which lay in the absolute geometric center of the valley. The forest retreated before the glassy mountain, a tall jagged peak that protruded in the middle and then tapered disappearing into the mist. Obsidian rocks that jutted from the red vargan soil gleamed in the shimmering night sky.

Eons ago melted rock from deep within the heart of Varga exploded with such force that it shaped the gleaming Apogee of Odgo. ‘Tears of Varga’ is what the locals called it and regarded it too hallowed to climb. The scribes who had no regard for superstition or perhaps as inventors of such self-serving fables had built a secret cave. Two lifelike massive stone dragons stood guard at the foot of the mountain. As the travelers approached them, the eyes of the dragons glowed with a blue hue, crafted with such cunning they led one to believe that they were solidified by magic and not chiseled out of stone.

The dusky young man lowered his robe exposing a clean-shaven head and dark, mysterious eyes and stood to face the dragons. Behind him was his little accomplice, out of breath and nervous. The night was dark, and the overloaded bag of parchments perched over the shoulders gave his accomplice the appearance of a mutated being. One of the dragons leaned towards the austere-looking man and glared, growling softly. The man whose smooth black skin glistened with sweat looked unperturbed and responded by emanating the same blue light in his ebony eyes. The stone dragon acknowledged and returned to its original position. There was a muffled groan as massive gears turned and the stone dragons swung in opposite directions revealing a dark cave. The travelers rushed in, and the stone dragons swung back sealing them in.

Hurrying inside, they entered a spacious spherical cave that glowed with a spectral light. The cave walls reflected the characteristic conchoidal fracture of cut obsidian rocks. The floor, which was polished black volcanic glass, was carved with the symbol of the scribes, the emblem that blazed on the front of their robes, the Flower of Life. The scribes believe that the creator's thought shapes nature and the ‘Flower of Life’ contains this pattern of creation. They harnessed the power of the flower of life to exploit the five elements: magic, air, water, fire, and Varga.

The 'Flower of Life' was carved on the smooth volcanic glass. It was an enormous geometrical figure composed of multiple evenly spaced, overlapping circles, arranged so that it formed a flower-like pattern with a six-fold symmetry like a hexagon. The center of each circle was on the circumference of six surrounding circles of the same diameter. Each petal had writings in seriform, the language of the scribes, instructions on how to harness the power of creation itself. The scribe knew his way around this secret chamber for he did not hesitate to dart towards the right. His assistant however overwhelmed by the surroundings remembered just in time to follow.

An ascending staircase on the far right of the room carried its occupants to the apex of the mountain. As the stairs revolved through the narrow tunnel, they softly squeaked and clanked. As they stood on the summit, icy winds swirled around them. For Varga was a land of extremes, the seven suns scorched the days but left the long nights bitingly cold. Varga was a moonless planet making the stars indispensable during the long nights. They were indicators of the season, inspirations for myths and every vargan culture paid reverence to the twinkling guardians. Tonight staring into the darkness from the tallest point made the heavens look like a map and the shining orbs as markers of a secret, as old as time eternal.

The flat mountaintop was unpolished, but the conchoidal fracture of the cut obsidian stones glimmered in the night sky, carved statues encircled the edges. Standing on top and looking below one could see the flat portion of rock that jutted from the middle of the mountain, giving it that characteristic spindle shape. There were deep winding ridges carved on its sides, and they spiraled all the way down towards the middle, like the spiraling grooves on a screw. The scribe walked towards one of the statues and reached out for a crystal ball that it was holding. The scribes although a somber lot that refrained from the corruptible pleasures of life had a great appreciation for art. Their secret caves and temples always abounded with excellent engineering and artistic excellence.

Lay the scrolls on the table, ordered the man, his eyes fixed on the crystal ball but his mind lost in a distant dark place that echoed the fear he was dreading. As a scribe he had been trained to be expressionless, his gait purposeful, his actions deliberate and his life devoted to the cause. But his heart and mind he kept free to feel and to think unchained and unfettered. He lit the crystal ball by rubbing it with his palm and creating in it the element of fire. The fire danced in the core of the polished crystal ball until it shone like a star. The sudden burst of light illuminated their surroundings.

There was a round opal stone table in the middle and seven rock statues of the Dawn angel, the harbinger of light, marked the circumference. The seven dawn statues were representative of the seven suns of the Pleiades cluster. The figures were carved out of white marble and rendered to evoke a sensuous maiden dressed in a flowing gown with urgency in her eyes. Frozen in action with her windswept clothes, holding a torch to her face she seemed poised to come alive any moment and impart an urgent warning. He placed the glowing ball back and then proceeded to light the next. As the apex of the Apogee of Odgo lit up, a beacon of light in the valley eclipsed by darkness.

The scribe stood to survey the valley, he rendered a commanding presence, not only because he was large, well-built, and affected magic but because he reeked of confidence. He was one of those rare individuals that drew strength not from their superior physical attributes or skill but from the song of his soul. He could have been a frail-looking man, and it would have made no difference.

It's done, replied his assistant placing the scrolls on the opal stone table. The table refracted the light from the dawn sculptures resulting in a vivid play of color that was spectacular. The opal stone table was alight with swirls of sparkling shades of green, white, and turquoise. She pushed her cloak back revealing long Burgundy locks that ended in braids that were entwined to create an elaborate hairstyle. Her high-necked purple silk dress shimmered through her dark velvet robe. She was no ordinary girl, her elaborately braided hair was the hallmark of royalty, and her glittering silk robe meant that she had been summoned for an official inquest.

Her opulence contrasted with that of the scribe, thick flowing brown robe with the flower of life emblazoned on the front. Clean shaven head, a thick broad leather belt across the middle with dangling pouches and no worldly possessions. The scribe walked over and ran his broad, square palms on the surface of the table and called upon the element of fire. The gentle swish of his hand dismissed the fact that a boy had practiced, but only the man could draw upon the five elements of Varga. Every movement had been practiced over and over again for years until it was perfected. Slowly the scrolls began to burn with a blue flame, and as the fire licked the manuscripts, they started to shrink and whither fading away into oblivion.

Is it really wise to destroy the maps of Varga? she asked.

Don’t be so hasty to judge what you don’t understand, he replied unperturbed by her lack of faith. It was good that she doubted, only a questioning mind would find the truth.

Her innocent face reflected the conflict in her mind. She turned to ask him but bit her lip instead. Her eyes like polished bronze shields widened with wonder asserting her tender age.

Watch and learn. You will need to decipher the map when the time comes, he said pointing to the table.

The table had seven silver metal rings, six of them entwined to form legs that held the opal stone table top. The six rings ended into the ground while the seventh circle framed the opal stone table and had four arrow-shaped pointers that lay opposite each other, serving as direction pointers. Two knobs protruded from the front, one shaped like a seven-pointed star and the other looked like a spike with a flat end.

The last of the scrolls had charred leaving behind black ash. The blue flames died out, and the black ash began to rise, slowly dancing until they found their spot, and there they rested glowing with a blue light.

The spot that glows represents where you are. Moreover, these are the alignment of the stars in the universe. If you wish to know more about your location, then turn the star-shaped knob clockwise.

He then turned the star-shaped knob, and the ashes whirled forming mountains and flowing rivers. A little spindle-shaped mountain glowed. He turned the knob further, and the ash swirled to create the valley and a miniature version of the mountain, which was about a foot high.

If you wish to know if you have any unknown company in a one-mile radius, then turn the other knob, he turned the knob that looked like a spike with a flat end anti-clockwise, and the black ash duplicated their surroundings.

Friendly forces will have a blue hue and enemies a red tint, he said, bending towards the ground and placing his hand on the middle of one of the table legs. He then pushed it making it lean towards the center and proceeded to do this to all the three alternate legs of the table. As the legs touched each other, the ground began to crack, and the table started to shrink. The circular legs ripped from the ground turning it into a glittering sandy heap. The large opal stone table had shrunk to the size of a ring; he picked it up, blew the sparkling dust off it, and placed it on her left middle finger.

Naherna, this is the famed ring of Arcanilius.

She stared at the ring; it was an absolute replica of the opal stone table. The six metal rings that had previously formed the legs of the table had fused together. She gazed into the opal, and it began to clear up revealing the heavens. Constellations, planets, and stars all swirled past until finally focusing on Varga. A vast emerald planet with deep blue oceans nestled in the cluster of stars that was home, Pleiades, the seven dawn sisters.

For a moment she was transported to another realm, the echoes of war and destruction didn’t hound her. There were far more pressing matters than the responsibilities and duties of a princess, like the creation of life, our purpose, how everything came into being. Why the stars looked like a map of the heavens and where did they lead?

Naherna, we have work to do, his voice boomed in the stillness of the mountain. He had begun turning the seven statues of Dawn so that they faced outward their bright light charging a considerable distance before dissolving in the thick, unforgiving mist.

Naherna snapped out of her brief astral projection and quickly rushed towards one of the statues and pushed it gently. It revolved making a grinding noise as it faced outward. When all the seven figures were turned to face outward, there was a click as if a lever was triggered and the middle portion of the mountain that protruded out like a ring began to swivel. The mountain groaned and grumbled.

Yohan, what is going on? asked Naherna her eyes wide open and surveying her surroundings. The ground was shuddering, the mountain was creaking in protest, and here she was on a precipice, in the middle of nowhere. Not one to be mistaken for a coward but neither was she a heifer that did its master’s bidding.

Patience, stressed Yohan staring at the dark nebulous cloak that shrouded the land. His mind traveled to the session with the scribes earlier that night, Mahar the scribe leader had called for a war assembly. All the scribes had gathered, the reports were in, all the mysterious attacks across Varga were the doing of wizard Wadzviler. Burnt villages, children missing, monsters found roaming about freely, and many scribe allies either missing or found murdered. The political situation of Varga had always been delicate, but now it was seriously volatile, with each kingdom suspecting the other of foul play. A perfect strategy on the part of Wadzviler, if his enemies were divided, then he could play in the shadows while they attacked each other.

Warmongers of the most vicious sort inhabited Varga, the land of the seven suns. Treacherously divided in their language, culture, beliefs and most importantly history. For each tribe, race, kingdom, and religious alliance held dear their version of vargan history. The story of Gods and demons predominated most of vargan culture, but across borders, their Gods and Demons often interchanged. Not one for discourse, the inhabitants of Varga knew of only one way to establish the truth, a fight to the death. The Victor decided the history and most importantly the future, which was always war.

Varga endured as a primitive race ruled by magic and superstition. Vargankind’s fatal addiction to violence had thwarted their progress, much of their resources were spent on rebuilding, and the kingdoms and free territories had come to a conclusion that the toll the war took was not worth it. Taking advantage of this mindset, the scribes joined hands with the High Priestesses’ of the Ziggurats. Together they forged an alliance of a thousand year peace treaty between the various factions of Varga. Only one Kingdom abstained, Degonda, the land of the dragon kings, under the rule of wizard Wadzviler. For the longest time, they were content with skirmishes with the neighboring free territories that bordered Degonda in their greed to expand their borders.

However, these disturbances were happening in the middle of the night, in the heart of Odgo, Warillog, Lowlands, and Medur, simultaneously. Conspiracy theories abounded now that safety was being threatened, diplomatic tensions were at an all-time high with accusations lacing every conversation. With the whole of Varga on lockdown, the peace treaty that was once hailed as the most significant achievement of Varga was reduced to a devious trick to get the kingdoms to lower their defenses. The scribes that had once commanded the respect of all nations were now eyed with anger and distrust.

The rumbling of the mountain jolted him out of his recollection. The middle portion of the mountain was, in fact, a separate ring that was slowly swirling on the circular grooves, like a nut that was traveling up a threaded screw. There were four markings on the mountain ring, and it began to glow, the markings were in seriform. The revolving ring, the middle portion of the mountain that had given it the spindle shape, slowly rose to the summit and halted. The outer ring unlike the top of the mountain, was polished and the symbols that were carved on them glowed brightly, translucent beings appeared from them like rising smoke and slowly took their form. An owl, a unicorn, a lion and an eagle rose, and with a hoot, a neigh, a roar and a screech, they flew away.

The council of Arcanilius is now in session, said Yohan pleased. Seeing the light from the dawn statues would ease the tension of the vargans. In times of trouble, everyone looked to the scribes for guidance. It would send a message across kingdoms that the scribes are in motion. Wadzviler would no doubt try to attack the mountain and dim the light. Would the old magic hold, he wondered?

This is the most powerful weapon of the scribes? Naherna’s voice betrayed disappointment. Here they were facing the most feared enemy of all time and vapors were supposed to help?

There are things deeper than what meets the eye, Yohan tried to hide his frustration. The owl represents wisdom, and she will roam the lands to find the one soul worthy of her gift. The unicorn represents the quest for truth. He will roam the world searching for the soul with a pure heart. The lion represents courage. To fight against Wadzviler, the Malefic, we need a strong leader. The eagle is the symbol of knowledge. She will find for us the keeper of knowledge. To defeat Wadzviler, we need to have wisdom, courage, knowledge and the ability to differentiate the truth from the deceptive. These four warriors, the council of Arcanilius, will lead us to victory against Wadzviler.

But where is Arcanilius? asked Naherna, apparently not impressed with spectral images. Naherna was young, but she had seen enough battles to know that death wasn’t exciting, it was messy, painful and the scars never healed. Wisdom, truth, knowledge, and courage were captivating words, but when swords clash, there isn’t dialogue, just blood, and gore. The righteous don’t win wars; the mighty do. Tactics and strategy decide the outcome and a large army that always helps.

The last one died a few days ago, we have yet to appoint his successor, replied Yohan.

I thought the great Arcanilius is supposed to live forever. What do you mean by the last one has died and what is this about appointing a new Arcanilius? asked Naherna, her face evoked an expression of betrayal. Her fair skin paled further and her eyes danced with hurt and confusion. The scribes, she was beginning to find out had more secrets than the threads in a spider’s web, fatal twists, invisible until you find yourself entangled for doom.

Everyone has to die, especially heroes, said Yohan with a sigh. He had been very close to the last Arcanilius, Scribe Drogo, who had been over a hundred and lost count. With his wrinkled skin, love for fermented juices and an overdose of wise sayings he made a perfect father figure and Yohan, like any orphaned lad, had been quick to regard him as one.

You mean every time that we would hear of the great resurrection of Arcanilius from the jaws of death; there was no such thing. Someone had been appointed to act as Arcanilius! said Naherna in disbelief, Is that why the great Arcanilius never shows his face?

Not all were men. Many were women. Why do you think all the scribes shave their heads, never maintain facial hair and always talk in a modulated tone? asked Yohan with a smile trying desperately to change the topic.

Are you a female? asked Naherna unaware that she was examining Yohan with the diligence of a naturalist inspecting a specimen. She had known Yohan as a little girl, and he had been a novice in training. At the temple, he had been her instructor and mentored her in the duties of a loyalist to the scribes. She had always taken him as an elder brother, but he had always remained formal though she would catch him occasionally flashing her a smile or having a hearty laugh at her antics.

No, but Mahar the scribe leader is. The scribes believe that true enlightenment starts with encompassing the female and male, like the flower, He pointed to his chest where the 'Flower of life' was emblazoned on his robe. The scribes believed that the 'Flower of life' held not only the seed of life but of creation itself, novices were made to meditate daily on them to learn to harness the five elements.

Naherna found scribe logic to be beyond comprehension, how could one be both male and female? In their bid for illumination, she felt they had left common sense behind, far behind.

If this is supposed to be such a guarded secret then why are you telling me this? Naherna folded her arms as she often did when someone teased her intelligence. It was frustrating how everyone with a robe always indulged in sophistry.

Wadzviler is having the scribes stalked. You know how tedious it was for us to get here. We need a representative, someone who Wadzviler will not suspect.

Silence ensued; Naherna slowly dropped her arms as the realization that she was the representative dawned on her. Her big brown eyes somehow seemed bigger, and her lips parted, but no sound followed. Silence deafened the land, and only the hoot of an owl reminded one that life still existed.

Yohan, pleaded Naherna. Far from representing the honored scribes, I have not even come of age, Naherna remembered scribe Nessed’s monolog on how responsibility on unripe shoulders always resulted in disaster. Scribe Nessed was an adviser to her Father King of Odgo and secretly her tutor which he made amply clear, was not of his choosing. Scribe leader Mahar was oddly fond of her, and that made for unwise favoritism, or so scribe Nessed thought.

The coming of age is merely a ritual. Thirteen is no worse than eighteen. Responsibility does not come with age, and in your case, it will come with necessity.

What about wisdom and knowledge?

What about it? asked Yohan starring into her huge caramel eyes. He couldn’t help being drawn to her innocence. Scribe leader Mahar was right; the spark of the ancients lived in her. Wisdom is the ability to see beyond what is visible, and knowledge is knowing everything that is known.

Exactly! Forget about seeing beyond; I can't even understand what meets my eye. Regarding knowledge I know nothing, said Naherna turning her head to the left and staring at the ground below. The conversation she had with scribe Nessed replayed in her mind. Scribe Nessed was assigned to explain to her, the secret of the ancients. Naherna, according to scribe Nessed, lacked the talent to comprehend such knowledge. 'Hopeless' was what scribe Nessed had summed of her abilities.

You know that you know nothing. Hence you know everything important. That is all that matters.

Yohan, stop talking in riddles. Representing the scribes is a grave matter. I can ill afford to go wrong, Naherna couldn’t believe that she was chosen as a scribe representative. A war with the most dangerous adversary in centuries was looming on the horizon. All of Varga was plunged into uncertainty and alliances were being tested, only the unquestioned power of the scribes sustained a fragile United Varga. Somehow a thirteen-year-old Odgo princess as scribe representative didn’t strike her as an empowering decision.

Naherna, when scribe leader Mahar selected you as our representative many scribes objected. I was one of them.

Why did scribe leader Mahar select me? asked Naherna trying to suppress the hurt that exploded in her heart. She had been arguing she didn’t want the responsibility and now she was hurt that Yohan objected to her appointment. She didn’t understand her emotions sometimes; they never seemed to align with her thoughts. He thinks I’m incapable? That thought stole her confidence, and she tried to brush it away, but it lingered in the shadows ready to pounce.

It might have something to do with the Oracle she received when she inquired as to who should be made our representative.

Are oracles always accurate?

Oracles are about the future which is one of the most uncertain aspects of our existence.

Yohan, if oracles are not accurate....

Naherna, one of the first lessons you have to learn is to stop dissipating your energies towards issues that cannot be undone. You have to focus your thoughts towards accomplishing the task ahead.

I am just scared Yohan, so much is at risk! self-deprecating thoughts danced in the shadows of her mind.

When one fights for a cause that is just, know that one is aided by a power that is beyond good and bad.

Naherna turned away and took a deep breath, wrestled in her mind with premonitions of disaster that seemed to bombard her. For a revered and highly intellectual community such as the scribes, this decision was ludicrous. Perhaps there was something more to this decision? Intuitive reasoning? A foretelling maybe that dictated such a rash verdict? Then again when anything is labeled as superior even foolish acts stemming from it seems shrouded with wisdom, such is the truth-bending ability of power.

Alright! What are my orders? asked Naherna, resigned to her role as Representative of the scribes. The bright light of purpose had banished the shadows, for a while.

You are to make your way to the Ziggurat of Kir. Deliver this scroll to Selna the high priestess, Yohan handed over a cylindrical wooden object that he pulled out from deep within his robe. It never ceased to amaze Naherna how scribes could pull out such collections of objects from their rather slim robe. The casing was plain, but the round cap at the tip had the emblem of the scribes carved on it, an owl, a unicorn, an eagle and a lion separated in the middle by a flaming sword. Appoint for yourself a tracker, a brave knight, a wizard, a warlock and a loyal aide. Do this before the next Starfall and keep this mission a secret. Use the ring during your mission; it will prove helpful. Along the way, you will find our secret aides who will assist you, however, be wary of Wadzviler’s spies. They will appear red on the map.

Then walking towards the heap of glittering sand, he kneeled down and began to fill a crimson pouch. He tied a cord around it and placed it into his robe.

What is that?

Stardust, from the mountains of the Lostmacderns. It comes in handy to make potions. Come we must leave.

Yohan headed towards the stairs, and Naherna followed him. The stairs now began to descend carrying its occupants back to the cave below. Yohan stood in the center of the room in the middle of a geometric flower. He was staring at the writing on the floor and was lost in deep thought. Then suddenly he walked towards one of the numerous petals, knelt down, and began to feel its edges with his fingers. He then pressed one of the sides of the petal, and it revolved exposing its back, which had the same drawing. There was only a slight difference, which only a trained eye could notice. The action caused the rumbling of stones and the stairs slowly revolved exposing its back that was a wall of cut obsidian rocks that flushed with the rest of the cave. The pathway to the stairs was blocked making it impossible for anyone to reach the summit through the cave.

Yohan and Naherna left the mountain and headed back to the magical trail. Naherna turned around to look at the Apogee of Odgo. It no longer looked spindle-shaped, now that the Council of Arcanilius was in session. The light from the dawn statues seemed to echo a pledge of hope throughout the dark valley.

Yohan, said Naherna. Where have the scribes left for?

To the Oracle at Haiden, replied Yohan whose eyes scanned the dark valley as if it were well lit. Scribe leader Mahar had ordered the novices to be taken to the safety of the hidden chambers accessible only at the Oracle of Haiden. The Ochre temple would be the Wadzviler’s first target in his campaign to destroy Varga. The vaults were emptied and taken to the library of the ancients, bands of scribes were sent to fortify prime locations across Varga. Naherna was called in, despite vehement protests from scribe Nessed and the seventh scroll was given to her as a symbol of solidarity with the Odgo kings.

Yohan had been selected as a guide and charged with initiating her as scribe representative. The handing over of the ring of Arcanilius had always been a grand affair with the presence of the high priestess, elven council, and all the noted scribes, but times were different now. With Wadzviler murdering anyone loyal to the scribes, it was best her identity remained a secret, and she served only to pass critical intelligence to the various faction leaders. Yohan loathed having to use a child. The scribes had sworn an oath to protect the innocent and not place them in harm's way for their benefit. He too like Naherna was learning that scribes had many rules much of which they broke as it suited them.

But who will guard the Ocher temple? asked Naherna.

What do you value more? The fortress or those who are protected by the fortress?

Why do scribes always talk in riddles? Wondered Naherna to herself.

The temple is sacred because of the scribes, replied Yohan not wanting to divulge too much. Without them, it is just stone and paint. Besides, we have the treasure with us.

The seventh part of The Sorcerer’s riddle? completed Naherna, stroking the slight bulge in her cloak.

Guard it with your life, said Yohan. Just making sure that Wadzviler doesn’t get his hands on it, guarantees victory.

If Oracles aren’t accurate, why is scribe leader Mahar at the Oracle of Haiden?

To inquire as to who should be the new Arcanilius.

Naherna stared at him confused, how could critical decisions be based on oracles that are inaccurate?

At least its impartial and no one dares to argue with an Oracle, said Yohan reading Naherna’s mind. He had grown fond of Naherna over the years and despite being warned by scribe Nessed to keep his distance, ‘it doesn’t suit a scribe to get attached. We are called for much higher purposes and will need in time to make sacrifices; it helps not to care too much.’ These were treacherous times, and scribes themselves were being hunted. A child stood no chance even if that child was a warrior princess experienced in battle. For this was a war destined to be unlike anything Varga had ever seen, for it was prophesized that the heavens would come down to wreak havoc.

How do Oracles work?

There are many kinds of Oracle readers, said Yohan pausing to recollect. There are those who use animal bones, they write the question on the bones and heat it in the fire made from burning special woods and spices. They then interpret the cracks that appear along the bone.

Naherna twisted her face in disbelief and Yohan nodded his head gesturing that yes, it is unbelievable but entirely true.

Then there are Oracle readers who go into a trance, smelling the rotting carcasses of beasts and see visions.

Naherna stopped, folded her arms across her chest, and Yohan laughed, one of the rare occasions she had seen him do so. She had a mind of her own and a good one at that, with opinions that she wasn’t afraid to voice. She’d make a good scribe, and he had heard that her sword skills were impressive.

There is even one Oracle reader who interprets the tinkling of a cauldron when hit by a chain blowing by the wind. However, said Yohan placing his arm around Naherna nudging her to move along. The Oracle of Haiden is different. She is an ancient soul with a heart swollen with secrets. The light in her eyes is fair, and her words shape destiny.

What did she speak of me?

Yohan observed Naherna, she was young and her spirit dampened by the awesome responsibility. He was angry by their decision to appoint her. He vehemently opposed her election, but it was more out of concern rather than a lack of faith. These were challenging times and the scribes needed to be formidable, recruiting a young girl made them look foolish. Naherna was, as scribe leader Mahar pointed out, strong-willed, levelheaded and a defender of truth, qualities most desirable in a scribe representative. What scribe leader Mahar had left out was that she was only thirteen.

Yohan knew all too well the aches of a young heart laden with responsibilities beyond their time. He faintly remembered his early days as a young boy of five playing with his older siblings, especially the eldest of the brood, Jerovan.

All his memories were from the top of Jerovan’s shoulders as they raced towards the village pond or meadows. The smell of valleys covered with lavender still perfumed his heart. The aroma of his mother’s meat pies always watered his mouth. The war stories that his father and uncle brought back with their skirmishes with the raiding parties of Degonda had initially filled his heart with pride and now only reminded him of the reason why he lost everything.

All he remembered was waking up in an inferno, the smell of burning flesh and wood had choked him, and to this day even the sight of the sacred fire in the Ocher temple vexed him. It was the last Arcanilius, then an ordinary scribe, who had found him roaming in the deserted, burnt village calling out for his family. He had been taken to the Ocher Temple, and there he began his training as a scribe under Kirtak the official scribe tutor. As he entered the marbled entrance of the temple, the high door shut behind him sealing away the lavenders, the refreshing dips in the pond, the laughter in the meadows, meat pies and the warmth of a family.

More important things like learning seriform, deciphering the ancient drawings of Fenra, the possessed. Completing the calculations of the Pelutus, the mathematical genius who had been slaughtered before his time by the barbaric Mendusus, who weren’t tutored by Kirtak about the importance of his work. More important things like saving the world had replaced childhood. Only the last Arcanilius saw differently. Secretly he often remarked that the scribes were a fanatic lot, who would go mad if they ever discovered that the world would continue just fine without them.

All he had with him that served as a faint reminder of his past was an old parchment that had a strange drawing on it. A sun and beneath it a diamond-shaped crystal with strange writing on the top and bottom. Light from its right was blue, and light from its left was red, and it brought down the fire. His uncle had shown it to him before folding it and sealing it into a leather amulet that he tied around his little arm saying, never take it off. Yohan pulled back his sleeve and rubbed the leather that was now old and tattered. You could even see a bit of the parchment from where it had thinned away.

In the heart of a young maiden, the future will depend, Yohan’s voice was grave. A hint of anger flickered in his eyes. Why must the young always suffer? He asked himself.

Did she say that I was the maiden? asked Naherna.

The logic of the question baffled Yohan. He sought to derail her thoughts and as he knew her well, spoke of enchanted elements.

When you get to the Ziggurat of Kir where the high priestess Selna resides, seek the Chamber of Oracles. It is at the bottom of the ziggurat.

I have never seen a ziggurat, but I have been told it is beautiful, Naherna immediately found herself in the ziggurat and imagined being escorted to see the high priestess.

It’s a temple-tower, square at the bottom rising to a tiny room on the top. The Ziggurat of Tenmek is the most beautiful. It is seventy feet high, and it has been cut out of a rock mountain. There is a huge square hall at the bottom, which has beautiful carvings of vines on the walls. The sculptures of the angels of divination act as pillars supporting the ziggurat. A beautiful marble staircase leads each floor to the one above. The floors keep getting smaller until they lead to the divination room at the top. That is where the prophet or prophetess resides.

Yohan’s words succeeded in freeing her mind from the heavy burden of the mission, and it floated in the imagined walls of the Ziggurat. Visions of magnificent stone temples that reeked with mystery and intrigue played on her mind. Hidden chambers, laden with secrets as old as time beckoned her.

Chill winds prodded her, dragging her back to the valley of the ancients. As she lifted her head to the sky to straighten her cloak, she noticed the watchful gaze of the silent observers since time eternal. Her mind floated into the ashen canvas that was pricked with luminous rays. Yohan stopped abruptly, and Naherna whose head was arched staring at the stars bumped into him.

Naherna, light your ring.

Naherna turned the star-shaped knob clockwise and then pushed the knob. An image projected from the ring, the valley and a path that trailed from the Mount of Odgo with two figures with a blue hue in the middle of the track. Yohan sighed with relief and proceeded. Naherna followed him, and as she was about to turn off her ring, she shrieked. Ahead of them, a massive battalion of red dots lay in wait.

What is it Naherna? asked Yohan turning back, his eyes widened at the sight of the red dots.

I can’t see figures, just dots, what does that mean?

They are cloaked warriors. When one is cloaked, one cannot be seen and hence appear as dots on the map. Come, we have to abandon the trail.

Yohan and Naherna stepped into the thick dark forest. Without the noise of the parting of trees to alert the intruders, they were safe, but the tightly packed trees slowed them. The barks of the trees were rough, and they scrapped against Naherna’s leather gloves, the damp moss oozed as she pressed her hand against them to climb over knotted roots. She pushed across dangling vines, clinging ferns, fallen branches, and stamped tall crunchy grass. The exertion made her breath deeply the sharp forest air of moldy leaves and damp soil fused with the refreshing smell of blueberries and birches. The forest seemed alive and leaves wet with dew slapped across her face demanding to be noticed. Was it the council of Arcanilius that had breathed new life or was it the hope of dawn? Creatures had begun to stir, and the forest was abuzz with the sound of insects first a whisper and then slowly gathering momentum to a heady rhythm. Every once in a while Naherna turned on the ring and noticed that the cloaked warriors were headed towards the Mount of Odgo but unable to access the magical pathway they too were making slow progress. Yohan and Naherna reached the lake of tranquility.

Yohan removed a leather-encased scroll and tapped the water, a sheet of glass that reflected the lustrous heavens above. Ripples formed that kept growing until it reached the end of the lake; an enormous green sea monster rose and swam towards them. First, it raised its shiny, smooth green head that encased two large oval beady eyes. A long neck tapered behind giving rise to a bloated body with large spikes that ran across its spine until it finally disappeared down a wispy tail. It bent its head and allowed Yohan and Naherna to climb on its back, the spikes serving as saddles. Its cold, waxy soft skin throbbed gently, reeking of seaweed, Naherna was reminded of the rocky beaches of Odgo. The boisterous Odgo Royals would tear down the shores with wild laughter and all manner of sports, which always involved sand. She would find it in every crevice, fold, crease, orifice, and space. After her brothers had left for their expedition, the family never returned to the summer palace. She missed the sand, the gritty feel of it between her fingers.

The creature sighed deeply; its breath brought back memories of grilled fish, slurping oysters and happier times. The beast seemed gentle and not the sort that cared much about the land dwellers. The great beast glided silently through the water and transported the travelers to the other side. A chestnut colored horse stood before them, horses in Varga had a telepathic bond with their masters and often appeared when their masters needed them. As Naherna approached her, the mare nickered and Naherna instinctively began to rub behind the mare’s ear. It was a sharp cold morning, but Naherna felt warm in her soul.

Vargans had a spiritual relationship with their animals for they were not treated as lesser beings but as members of a larger family. Sentient begins with a capacity to love for it takes all that and more to be devoted