Of Crowns and Ashes (Chapter 1)

“When war is young, and red wind’s cloak burns, and the sun fallen from the clouds, he born alone on the seventh hour of the brightest day will claim the name Ka’athan. He of crowns and ashes who will stare down a thousand thrones. And in his steel hand he will burn them until they melt. And with Light his hammer, he will forge the world anew.”

-excerpt from the Seven Karethian Prophecies

Chapter 1: To March With The Dawn

‘To study the Ka’athan is to study foolishness and wisdom, love and hate, war and, yes, even peace. And to think of the Ka’athan as one man, one prophet even, is folly beyond compare. The Ka’athan is a man of many men, some for him, some against, but all bound together equally in his presence.’

Scorching winds of ash whispered over a landscape of rubbish. Tires, bags, plastics, bits of rusty metal, so many old things long forgotten. There had once been a city here. San Francisco they had called it- though you would never know. And the wind howled like a wolf. But it was not a wolf- there were no wolves.

This world was a world that had known so much destruction that most would not have called it a world at all. Its surface harbored few inhabitants: roaches, rats, and Intgars, the only things braving the deadly winds. But below the mountains of decaying trash, life had found a way.

Hidden away from the winds, a slow ballad played, the music coming within a bunker that had been mined out long ago. Its walls, once having been simple stone, were covered in ornate paneling and colorful draperies. The artisan draperies were large, stretching over easily three-quarters of the vast dance hall, and sown of the finest silk the Lord’s power could afford.

The old underground chamber had been made to look like a royal manor, and if you didn’t look to closely at the cracks or breath too much dusty air or simply try to walk out the door, Ved supposed it did.

People lived here, in the deep underground, because it was safe. There was food and water, but most importantly, for as long as Ved’s memories showed, there had been stability. Sahj serving nobles, nobles serving Lords, Lords serving the Lord Commander, and Ose M’edra pulling strings from the shadows. It was a multi-faceted system, but save for the occasional bloody revolt, it worked well.  

Of course, nothing was perfect, and for every hardworking Sahj, it seemed there was another that disappeared into the night- running off with the Intgars most likely. Intgars, Ved hated that they were needed, that they could not be controlled, but there were not enough of them to change anything. Ved’s hand twitched against her thigh- tonight would change everything. Trying to calm her nerves, she let the music wash over her. The ballad was a sad one with many names: For No One, De’athan Dia, Fae’ Di’Famer. Tonight, it was called Of Light and Loss. That was one of the newer names. Newer names- they could have been called that if anyone remembered the older.

From the balcony jutting out over the dance hall, Ved looked down through her translucent veil. It was beautiful in its elegant way. The musicians drifted slowly in their movements just as the dancers did, and the deep string section coated the slender woman’s voice in blankets of harmonious sound. Dancers moved in silken flocks, lesser lords and ladies intermingling like flying crows.

Something caught her attention. A young thin man- more of a boy really- in a dark blue overcoat and white ruffled shirt had approached a woman sitting off to the side of the ballroom. Traefa Drovere, she was the Lord’s daughter and her uncalloused hand seemed to be the unspoken prize of any evening like this- that is if you would risk the Lord’s wrath of course.

Ved frowned at the boy. He was not unattractive, but he was a boy and a fool boy at that. The Lady Drovere had no say in who she would wed, and he should know that- the woman had turned down far greater men than he.

Asking the Lord’s daughter to a dance was akin to tying the noose around your neck. The boy had made the figure eight, wrapped the middle, and slipped the end through the upper loop, all that was left was to find a pole. Ved sighed and looked away.

She let her eyes drift towards the brilliantly glowing chandelier. The tiny fragments of glass strung across thin wire ropes seemed to reflect and amplify the light of hundreds of candles, all scattered throughout the room and some on the chandelier itself. There had been a time when the chandelier would have stunned her, but, compared to those in she knew in Catr Sur, it was little more than a twinkling candle.

The song swelled to its peak, catching her ear. It was a good tune that had been changed so many times that Ved was not even sure the original had been a ballad at all- after all, the older memories often had no sound. Ballad or not, she whispered a stanza to herself:

‘And in her eyes you see nothing,
No sign of love behind the tears,
Cried for no one,
A love that should have lasted years.’*

The words were much different now than what they had once been, than what she remembered, not worse, just different. And the melody had survived, even without the correct words and that was more important. Words changed too often. Feelings, emotions, melodies- in Catr Sur, in the memories, those were the few constants.

Ved looked down and as she expected the boy had disappeared. His name would have been added to the list before they swiftly escorted him away for his foolishness. There was no doubt that tomorrow he would be convicted of some heinous crime: theft, blasphemy, even murder. He would be brought before a court of seven and found guilty. Ved had no memories of anyone acquitted before a court of seven.

“Ose M’edra. May I speak with you for a moment.” The Lord’s voice was thin and high, and he had never worn a beard. He was an older thin man, though many thought him boyish. Ved did not. The man had killed more men than most would ever know.

Ved rose as she always did- calmly and slowly- and her foot faintly tapped with the song. She was Ose M’edra, an advisor but so many other things. The dark veil, hanging over her face like a wall of serenity, brought lines of fear even to the boldest Tratan lord; it was a symbol of Before, a time long forgotten and long remembered.  

“Yes, my lord Drovere.” The reply came curt and swift- proper etiquette was important especially towards someone who thought themselves your superior. 

The lord sitting on the throne above her was one of twenty-five Tratan Lords. A powerful man- the triad of onyx rings wrapping around his fingers and the suncast staff in his hands declared it so. Ose M’edra served those like him, lords, nobles, even the high lord himself; though, the opposite could just as easily be said.

“Are you prepared?” The Lord’s boyish voice had shrunken to a faint whisper, and he fingered the sun shaped brooch pinned on his scarlet and gold-fringed coat. Scarlet and gold, passion and wealth, the colors of Drovere.

“Yes, my lord.” She had seen this moment many times in the memories, in Catr Sur. A turning point, a grand proclamation, it would come soon.

Below the Lord’s podium the nobles danced in a type of blood, an invisible blood that hung over each of them like a specter, but never wetted their gilded coats and silk-gloved hands. It bound them to Drovere stronger than any chain. She couldn’t see the blood, but she knew it. A thousand deaths driven deeply beneath generations of peace.

Ose M’edra, they called her kind, fitting that in the old tongue it meant, those who remember.

Drovere stood from the throne and raised the suncast staff above his glistening head, and the dancing petered to a stop. Beneath his gaze, the dancers stood as still as statues that had been frozen in a cold ice and a violinist’s cheeks went red as his bow slipped from his hand and clattered to the ground.

Ved turned as well, preparing to give the ceremonial address. The seal it was called, and it carried great weight. Every word spoken under the seal would be bound in Catr Sur, permanently etched across the eternal memories of every Ose M’edra.

“Hear the decree of the Lord Drovere Tratan, Holder of Oedsu, Hand of the True Lord. By the eternal wisdom of The Order and the might of the Lord Commander, may his words be heard across time itself,” Ven declared, mustering her strongest voice and watching the crowd. They were nervous, but no more than they should be.

“You all.” Drovere gestured to the crowd doing his best to sound booming and powerful. “You who I know as friends, and you who I know as enemies.” He nodded knowingly, seeming to acknowledge no one person specifically. “It is time to join ourselves together. Every day our holdings diminish, and our grip weakens. I know you can feel it. How many of you have lost Sahj? How many of you have had your most loyal servants disappear? This is no war, but we are losing. Do you not feel the chains creeping around your wrists? We have been brought low, but we will sink no lower. If this is peace, then there is no peace. If this will be life then I am a dead man.” Drovere paused, letting his words ring across the hall. Ved had orchestrated this with the man, planning every detail, even helping with the speech itself. In Catr Sur there had been one similar, one that had been used for the same purpose. That revolution had succeeded; this one, this one would inevitably fail.

“So, I ask you, my loyal subjects, lords, ladies, vassals alike, why must we stand aside and cry Peace! Peace! For this is no peace! Every day of quiet war our borders shrink and what is ours, what has been given to us by the Lord Commander himself, fades to nothing. Why do we stand aside? There is only one light we follow and that is what we know. What better judge of the future is there than the past?” Drovere glanced wavered towards Ved but only for a moment. “For centuries the House Balfan has ripped us apart slowly. But we will be ripped no longer.” He raised his voice almost shouting. “Is this life that is no life at all? Is this peace that is no peace at all? Is this so valuable as to be bartered for the chain and collar? No! I say NO! We have tried everything, signed everything, and now only one course is left untrodden. One course, I say! This is no declaration of war. This is a statement of fact.”

Ved scanned the crowd- by now they would have figured out what was coming. What must come. Surprisingly, the boy was still there as well, an unimportant blue spot among the mass of nobles. She hoped that this war would be crushed quickly- wars were a nasty business too much death for her taste.

“In one month, we march with the sun. We march as the sun. We bring the dawn. In one month, we march. Praise the dawn! Shake free of the chains and March WIth THE DAWN! WITH THE DAWN! WITH THE DAWN!” Drovere began chanting and, either out of fear or genuine passion, the other nobles joined him, the room bursting into synchronized cacophony.

The chanting continued until the throat of every nobleman and servant alike had been worn rough as a sanding paper. And not once did anyone seem to question what had happened. Ved was sure they had many questions but, as a rule, nobles were scheming cowards. Openly, they would chant and shout as loud as anyone, but after the ceremony had finished, Ved didn’t need Catr Sur to tell her that most of them would come to Drovere alone and with their demands. And the one’s that didn’t, her own memories told her they would only be doing so to seem less wanting.

As the chanting died down, the musicians readied themselves- the red-cheeked violinist picking up his bow from the floor- and began to play a fast and moving tune. The twin violinists played high staccato attacks, and the bass and cello players provided the thunderous melody. It was a deep song, a song for war. The singer tilted her jaw and sung the heavy tune to life:

‘We live in a world where blood is not gore,

Death is not death,

And war is not war,

We send out our brothers,

Our sisters,

Our mothers,

To bring the dawn we see,

We are right,

We are bold,

We are brave,

We bring the light,

from land to sea,

Yes, we are right

We fight the same fight,

Who would disagree?

If blood is not gore,

If death is not death,