The Crown of Tevindh

By E. Glen Hodges

The Crown of Tevindh is set in a troubled time for the Tevindh Empire, the largest and oldest nation in this part of the Known World. The Empire has been guided by the Great Bureaucracy for nearly two decades, ever since the assassination of the last Sovereign at the hands of unknown assailants. In the chaos of the attack, the fabled Crown of Tevindh disappeared and with it, any hope of selecting another to ascend the Oaken Throne. No mere wooden chair, the Oaken Throne is a powerful artifact, linking the Sovereign to the very land itself; without the Crown, there can be no Rite of Joining, and therefore, no ruler.

Yet the turmoil at the heart of Tevindh is barely noticed by the people of Collingstead, a tiny forest village on the very western edge of the Empire. There, the shifting fortunes of Tevindh are remote, that is until a discovery in the forests near the village embroils it in a struggle for power between the fading Tevindh Empire and the rising might of the Teovashim, a shadowy figure from the far west. At the heart of it all are a pair of youth, Esme Thatcher and Finn Smith, who must race ahead of the Teovashim’s hunters in a journey that will determine the fate of the Empire itself.

The Crown of Tevindh is the first in a new epic fantasy series, set in a world on the cusp of a new Age, where the actions of a small band of unlikely - and sometimes unwilling - companions will shape the future for everyone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: E. Glen Hodges
• Release date: Oct 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005821326

E. Glen Hodges

E. Glen Hodges wears a lot of different hats. He’s an educator, a researcher, and a public speaker who makes the rounds in the Pacific Northwest, where he lives with his partner and their son. When not working at a research university in the PNW or being a dad, he can be found streaming on Twitch and writing the occasional blog. His social media game is weak. It really shouldn't be, but it is.

Book preview

Prologue

Somewhere, water was dripping, a soft staccato in the dark. Shatef liked the dark. The dark was safety, it was solitude, it signaled respite – however brief – from the horrors of this place. Beyond the rough stone walls of his cell, he could hear the despairing shrieks of the others as they were slowly torn limb from limb by things the Master had pulled from some pit beyond the sight of the gods themselves – if any of the ancient gods still lived. He passed his hands over the rough basalt floor of his cell, buried deep beneath the ancient fortress he had helped reclaim for his Master. His hands rhythmically traced the imperfections in the rock as he tried to ignore the screams. He couldn’t see it, but with his hands he slowly traced his way across the floor of his cell, trying to find calm while the shrieks echoed around him.

But the calm could not last – it never did – and soon the jailors came for him once more. He struggled, he always struggled, until one of the red-robed figures cuffed him and he sagged in their grip. They dragged him then, his heels thumping out a staccato of their own as they bounced shoeless across the rough stone floors. Behind the doors that lined the hallway on either side, Shatef could hear the torments of the few of his men left alive. They had failed in their mission after all; death was too quick a release, too light a punishment for such a transgression against the Master.

He was brought to the questioning room. He knew it well. He had used it from time to time in his role – his former role – as an inquisitor for the Teovashim, the resurrected Gods-made-One. Now, it was his turn to be roughly seated in a sturdy wooden chair, his shackled feet chained to the floor and his hands to the table in front of him. It was time at last to be questioned by Vesarion the Harbinger, a rising figure among the red-robed zealots who occupied this place. He was a true believer, as were all the robed ones, but he was something more. Shatef feared him greatly, and when he at last arrived and seated himself across the table, Shatef felt dread trace its way around his heart.

For a time, they sat across from one another in silence, separated by the blocky wooden table. Shatef ached and he shifted with discomfort. The air was cold, and it bit at him through the holes in his ragged clothes. Speak to me, Shatef, the man said at last, his voice soft, even kind. "Tell me of your failings. The Teovashim abhors weakness in those who serve him, and you have served him so faithfully, until now. Tell me of your journey, and how it went so poorly."

Shatef’s lank black hair fell across his eyes as he slumped into the chair. He had tried to resist at first, to speak only of his successes while abroad in the lands of the pagans, but the time for that had passed. The time he had spent in the dark alone but for the screaming had broken him. He would fight no more. We did as you commanded us, Harbinger, he said through cracked lips. We crossed the breadth of the Tevindh Empire in stealth and came upon their capital. We slipped through their Skyward Gate and into the Old City and the palace at its heart. He cleared his throat and tried to moisten his lips. How long had it been since he had felt water pass them? The pagans had soldiers defending the place. They looked impressive, but it’s hard to look up when one is wearing a great helm, and so we passed above them across the rooftops.

Tell me more, Shatef. Others in this place say that you speak so freely of your successes when questioned, but it is your failings that led you here. Speak to me of them.

He cleared his throat again. We were overbold, Harbinger, he said at last. We thought that with their Sovereign and her family dead these past few years, there would be few remaining protectors. He paused, staring at his questioner as the man brought a heavy water skin to his lips. He drank carelessly, and thin rivulets of water trickled down his chin to drip softly against the wood of the tabletop.

I am sorry, Shatef, I was listening so attentively that I spilt water on myself. The man Shatef called Harbinger brushed his long, blonde hair back from his shoulders and laid the water skin achingly close to Shatef’s hands. He dared not reach for it, though he was desperate. Please, continue your tale. I believe we are coming to the important part.

Shatef’s eyes were fixed on the water skin before him. We had learned that when the pagan Sovereign was alive, she would often sleep with the Crown near her bedside. Those we paid for information said that she believed it was speaking to her.

The blonde-haired man leaned forward suddenly and Shatef shied away. "The Teovashim knows of this rumour, Shatef. It is why he sent you, why I sent you to find the Crown. He began to draw his finger lightly across the table’s surface, tracing abstract designs as he stared into Shatef’s dark, terrified eyes. Where his finger moved, tiny whorls of white smoke rose from the blackening wood. What our master hungers for is the Crown itself, not stories of it speaking."

We were told it rested within the walls of the imperial palace! Shatef blurted. We were told that since the Sovereign’s death, the Crown had been hidden from view. We didn’t know that it was missing!

The man leaned back languidly and laid his hands gently on the table, palms down and fingers splayed. That is disappointing, Shatef, he sighed. "You not only failed in your mission, but you spent the Teovashim’s coin on bad information. He shook his head regretfully, as wisps of smoke curled around his fingers. Please, continue, Shatef. We are nearing the end of your tale, yes?"

Shatef nodded. He would be sweating, were there any moisture in his body to spare. We, we scoured the city for rumours – anything to tell us where the Crown might be. We spent coin for information, and when the coin ran out, we captured servants from the palace and put them to question. He swallowed painfully and continued. They were the ones who told us that the crown was gone.

Gone? The wisps of smoke grew larger.

"One of the servants claims that she had been in the palace the night the Sovereign was killed, my Lord. She swore to us that she saw one of the Sovereign’s guards – Ri’Gardan in the pagan’s tongue – running from the imperial quarters with something wrapped in a cloak. Please, my Lord Harbinger, may I have some water?"

"Soon, Shatef. Soon. Tell me of the Ri’Gardan."

Shatef tried to sit up straighter. We learned his name – Palidar – and we learned that he had not been seen in the city since the night the Sovereign was killed. We discovered that he had fled the city and that a small company of assassins had followed. He continued to stare at the smoke. One of the pagan families – one of those that control their Great Bureaucracy – was said to have hired the assassins and ordered the death of the Sovereign, but we did not care to ask which one. All that mattered was Palidar and the ones who pursued him.

Where did they go? Tell me, Shatef.

We were unsure, my Lord Harbinger. We captured a guard who claimed to know where the man had gone, but she was… unreliable. My associates may have questioned her too hard.

The blonde man flexed his hands slightly and thin traces of charred wood, like burrowing worms inched their way across the table towards Shatef’s hands. He jerked them as far from the table’s surface as the shackles would allow. West, my Lord! We think he came west, towards the frontier! Some of the rumors say he made it all the way to Chyrsanthium itself!

A man, on foot and pursued by assassins, crossed the whole of the Tevindh Empire, passed beyond its western frontier, crossed the Greensea beneath our very noses, and reached the Temple-city of Chyrsanthium? The smoking traces etched their way closer, coiling themselves around the metal plate that fixed the shackles to the table.

Please, my Lord! I only repeat the rumours! We tried to follow – we searched for clues! We found little more than whispers, fragments! Please!

When you left this fortress, we thought the Crown would be found in a single city. Now, you tell me that our search must now encompass much of the known world. This is vexing, Shatef, vexing indeed. The table’s surface was a spider’s web of crooked lines and the room smelled of burning hickory. Shatef strained against his chains.

"I can still be of service, my Lord Harbinger! I am the Teovashim’s most loyal servant. I can help narrow the search! I can return to the Western Frontier and pick up the Ri’Gardan’s trail to see if he left the Empire, and where he might have gone! I will follow him, Lord. I will serve!"

You have served us enough, Shatef. It is time for another to build on what you have done. The blonde man rose to his feet and leaned forward, resting his fingertips on the wooden surface. Perhaps your failings can be turned to the good after all.

"I live to serve the Teovashim!" Shatef cried out desperately.

Once, perhaps. But no longer. I am sorry, Shatef, but your failings must not be allowed to go unpunished. Shatef’s eyes widened as he saw thin filaments of light slip out from the man’s fingertips. They slithered as though alive, crawling slowly across the scarred tabletop, adding tiny smoking furrows of their own. With mindless determination, they inched towards him. He strained against his chains, sobbing in terror yet unable to take his eyes from the tiny glowing lines. He screamed as the lights touched the metal plate and began to flow up the chains towards his hands. He could feel the metal heating as they approached, and he redoubled his efforts. His skin tore as the shackles bit deeply into his wrists.

Death take you, Vesarion! Shatef spat as the delicate-looking threads of flame touched his skin at last. He threw back his head and screamed as they slipped beneath his skin and slowly wormed their way up his arms. His limbs blackened as they burned from the inside and with a dry crack, the bones of his arms snapped. He threw himself backward and tried to expel the glowing threads, the stumps of his ruined arms waving futilely as he screamed curses at his killer. The man called Vesarion the Harbinger simply stood, his lips curving slightly as he watched the man be consumed.

Death will take you first, Shatef.

Finally, it grew quiet, as Shatef’s smoking and blackened corpse slowly collapsed in on itself. Vesarion stepped out into the torch-lit hallway and beckoned a nearby guard to approach. Dispose of this, he said, and do the same with the rest of his company. He paused, and send a runner to the temple. I would like to assemble our most devout servants. It appears we have a great deal to do. He turned back to watch as the guard fumbled with the crumbling remains of the prisoner.

Perhaps we can yet make something of your failures, Shatef, he said softly to the smouldering ruin of charred flesh and bone. We will not let them discourage us. Patience, Shatef. Patience will bring the Crown to us. In time.

Part One: Finn, Collingstead

Chapter One

When Finn was a child, the borders of his entire world could be found no more than a hundred paces from the front door of his family’s home, set deep among the towering cedar trees of the Khellwood. Some of Finn’s earliest memories were of running along the shaded paths between the ancient trees, playing hide-and-seek with the other children of the village, and laying on the banks of the small river that tumbled out of the snow-capped peaks to the north to run swift and cold past his village.

As a child, Finn didn’t know that his home was called Collingstead, or that it sat on the western edge of the Tevindh Empire. It was a small, remote village of perhaps two dozen families located quite some distance from the nearest town. These facts too were outside of Finn’s concern; these were the sorts of things the adults bothered with. Finn, on the other hand, was far more interested in the sorts of things that occupied the minds of young children, like how to build a secret fortress from the boughs of evergreen trees, or how to dam up part of a small brook to make a swimming hole without earning a lecture and extra chores from his elders for his troubles.

Finn’s parents were both hard workers like most everyone else in the village though unlike them, Finn’s mother, Yara, also possessed the skills of a blacksmith. Most days, Yara could be found in the smithy where her heavy steel hammer rang out as she shaped the glowing metal she pulled from her forge. Yara was different many ways. Where most of the villagers were dark-skinned, with even darker hair, Yara was blonde, and she stood out from her neighbours like an aspen among hemlock.

Finn’s father, Jakob, was quite a bit darker – and shorter – than his wife, and his olive complexion and nearly black hair let him blend with their neighbours more easily. Unlike his wife’s vocation, Jakob’s labours often sent him deep into the forest to fell the ancient, towering trees and drag them by horse to the sawmill just downstream from the village. On days when there wasn’t much work to be done in the smithy, Yara would go with her husband into the forest to work the massive two-person saws used to cut down the largest trees.

Once the great logs reached the sawmill, some of the villagers would carefully peel great strips of bark from the massive trunks while others just as skillfully cut away the rough stumps of the branches that had been cut in the forest, before they would roll the logs down a hard-packed slope and into a sheltered pool below the mill. Sometimes the workers would feed the trunks slowly down a long chute towards a water-powered saw.

Two of the stronger workers would bend their backs over a large steel crank that, when turned, drew logs along a spiked chain towards the saw. A thin trickle of water eased the passage, but it was still hard, hard work. Yet the mill could turn an ancient cedar into all the planks and boards and beams needed to build a house, and so the men were well-paid for their effort.

Twice per season – except during the winter when the river was ice-filled and treacherously cold – the village would gather and assemble the fruits of their labour into a series of large rafts, bound tightly together with chains that had been pinned to the logs. Atop these logs the millworkers would place smaller stacks of cut timber and then they would set off for the lowlands. With long, sturdy poles and spiked boots, the log drivers would carefully guide their massive cargoes through the swift currents and sharp bends in the river towards the lake town of Belloc, and to the lakeside markets where their timber would be sold to builders and shipwrights and furniture makers. Collingstead’s timber was in great demand and so the profits from a single log-drive could feed the village for months.

Finn was still far too young to ride the river down to the lake, but he was old enough to sit with the husbands and wives of the log drivers as they hitched up their wagons and followed the log booms down their tumultuous trip to the lake. Who rode the river and who rode the wagons was a fluid sort of thing, dependent more upon the individual circumstances of the people involved than on any convention or tradition.

Once the wagons arrived in town, the villagers would meet at a large, clean inn called the Foggy Sunstone, located on a street above the harbour and away from the noise and bustle of the waterfront. There, they would divide up the earnings among the families, and then they would celebrate their good fortune with food and song and rich brown ale. Sometimes too much ale, but then again, many of them had just spent the day taking a wet and dangerous ride down the river.

The dancing and drinking and merry making may have been fun for the adults but for Finn and the other children, it was the town square that called to them. Early in the morning, while most of their parents were still recovering from the night before, Finn and the other children – under the watchful though somewhat bleary gaze of their parents – rushed down to the common room, where they would wolf down their breakfasts and then sit impatiently fidgeting until their parents released them. Then, as the last bites were eaten, and the last fork lowered, the children would jump from their seats and rush out the door of the inn. Eagerly, they pounded along the cobbled street towards the town square, and all the wonders it contained.

Belloc was a typical Tevindish town, and as the western gateway to the Empire, substantial work had been devoted to its construction. Its larger streets were paved with wide, flat-topped cobblestones, and lit at regular intervals by wrought iron sunstone lamps, which glowed feebly in the early mornings. This far from the metropolitan centers of the Empire, the sunstones were of somewhat lesser quality, and so each evening, watchmen with long slender poles topped with rawhide knobs would walk the cobbled streets, and when they reached a sunstone lamp, they reached out with their poles to gently tap the stones to wake them. The stones gave off a soft, deep-toned ringing when struck and so every evening was filled with the chiming of the stones. The buildings themselves were sturdy, with stone foundations and neatly plastered wooden walls. In this part of the Empire, slate roofs were currently in fashion and so many of the newer buildings in the square sported darkly tiled roofs that were slightly upturned at the corners. The older roofs were of course covered with cedar shakes and sealed with resin and much of the town smelled thickly of evergreen.

The central square was an open, bustling place, even in early mornings, and the cobblestones gleamed wetly in the morning mist. A fair-sized town, by Imperial standards, Belloc routinely saw visitors from beyond the borders of the Empire who stood out among the generally dark-skinned Tevindish citizens. At one stall, a tall, broad shouldered woman with a fierce-eyed hawk on her shoulder haggled over baubles with a bronze-skinned frontiersman. At another, two men in the brightly dyed linen garbs of Chyrsanthium laughed uproariously with a sly-looking Tevindish Tinker and her guards. Finn and the others, having been here before, rushed across the space and crowded around a shop window on the western side of the square. Through the window, Finn and the others could see the wonders contained therein.

Shelves upon shelves of sugary pastries and fruits candied with beet sugar beckoned to the children outside. These were rare delicacies to the children, many of whom would have happily sacrificed their lives in their forest home for regular access to the shop’s contents. Each time the families of Collingstead made their way to Belloc, the children would invariably find their way there. Other shops in the square held a plethora of wonders, from hat makers and clothiers, glass wrights and tinkers, tinsmiths and toymakers - even the occasional sigilist or alchemist from beyond the edges of the Empire, all come to sell their wares - but it was the sweet delights of the baker's window that always drew the children first.

Eventually, the owner of the shop, an ebon-skinned man whose heavy accent identified him as a plainsman from far to the west came out to the small throng pressed up against the glass of his shop, and to each gave a small bag of thin cloth containing an assortment of sweets. With a growl, he then shooed them away from the store and, laughing, the children ran on. Later, one of the parents would stop by with a small bundle of wedge-shaped coins and thanks to give to the shop owner, who had lived in Belloc long enough to recognize the log-drivers’ children by their clothes and even a few by their faces. Their families always paid what was owed and would frequently pick up a few treats for themselves to share while the children were otherwise occupied.

For the rest of the day, the villagers of Collingstead traded and purchased and caught themselves up on the news from the lowlands. Then they rounded up their children and, after counting heads, returned to the inn for one last night. Despite the excitement of the day, most of the children – Finn included – fell asleep almost as soon as their heads hit their pillows, leaving their parents to sit near the hearth with mugs in hand. Early the next morning, the villagers would load up their now-heavy wagons and set out on the narrow road to Collingstead. No matter what else happened in Finn’s life, he would always remember those early journeys, surrounded by friends and family, just as he would always remember the tiny village in the forest where everything smelled of cedar.

Those wagon rides were long. In clear weather and with dry roads, the trip from Belloc to Collingstead typically took about a day by cart or horseback. If the wagons left Belloc by noon, they would arrive in Collingstead well after nightfall. If the wagons were heavy or the weather was worse, the trip took longer. To pass the time, the adults would frequently tell stories, more to keep the children from becoming too restless than out of any real desire for the telling. For the most part, the stories were about famous battles, or local legends, told by the elders as they had been told to them. On a few rare occasions however, the wagons were accompanied on their trips back to the village by traders, itinerate Saradi priests in their soot-blackened robes and ever-burning lanterns, or other wandering souls, and they were often pressed into service as storytellers by parents whose stories had been told and retold a dozen times over.

On one such trip, the returning wagons had been accompanied by an imperial scholar, who had been traveling from town to village throughout the frontiers of the Empire, cataloguing the lives of the citizens, and conducting something of a census at the same time. He was a friendly, easy going man of middle years, with hair already shot with grey, and a slight squint, probably due to his many hours reading by candlelight. He and his horse, a sedate chestnut mare he liked to call Lovie, walked alongside the lead wagon where Finn and several of the younger children were riding.

The time he had spent in study had given the man knowledge of a great many of the ancient legends and tales, some of which he claimed even predated the great Catastrophe, an ancient apocalypse that had annihilated fully half of humankind and ended the great and wondrous empires of the distant past.

Eventually, after much wheedling and begging by the children – and with promises that the children would share their sweets with him – the scholar, who called himself Simnell, agreed to tell them a tale to pass the time. Taking a long pull from his water skin, and leaning back in his saddle, he began, when I was a young man, I happened to spend a year or so assigned to cataloguing materials in the Library of Lost Histories, where material that survived the Catastrophe is studied. The Library is in the sturdiest building on the grounds of the Tevindh University. He looked at the children, If you ever get the chance to visit the university, be sure to stop at the Library, it’s a magnificent place. The whole thing is built with granite walls and great iron-framed windows. The inside is brightly lit by enormous Chyrsanthium sunstones that hang like the hearts of tiny suns from long chains bolted to the ceilings. The building is warded against fire and flood and weathering, and I truly believe that were the whole of the Tevindh Empire to be pulled down, the Library would be the last building standing.

Anyway, Simnell continued, I spent most of my days in that Library. My job was to help the masters there translate ancient manuscripts and compile the stories they held into new volumes. Many of the texts that have been unearthed are in poor condition, and without our work reproducing them, the knowledge they held would soon vanish. He smiled in remembrance. Some of the texts were from the Old World, written long before the Catastrophe, but my personal favourites were those written after that world-changing event.

Why? Finn blurted out before his father shushed him.

Simnell laughed with good natured indulgence. I’ve found ‘why’ to be the most interesting question to ask, child. I suppose I enjoy post-Catastrophe writings because I’m less interested in the world before its ruin, and more interested to know how our ancestors rebuilt from its ashes. He leaned towards the children’s wagon somewhat theatrically. would you like to hear a story about how the world both ended and began?

Yes! they shouted excitedly.

Very well. He straightened in his saddle and took a deep breath. Behold! he began, in the days before the ruin of all our world was fair and green, and our gods the Ourisa walked amongst us. These were bounteous times, where need was absent and want was scarce.

The children crowded against the side of the wagon; their eyes wide as they let the scholar’s words wrap around them. In Finn’s mind, the words took form, and he was carried off to the world before the Catastrophe.

"Now in those days, the magics of our ancestors were great indeed, and they bent their will upon the world to shape it into forms that might please them. With careful thought and patient hands, the geomancers sculpted the contours of the earth and moulded whole cities from the stone. Above them, the sky-wardens held the storms at bay, and brought rain where it was needed, and sun as well. And all the world became a garden, kept for the glory of the Ourisa, who dwelt upon the slopes of sacred Ahnhammerund, the Seat of the Gods.

Great were the workings of our ancient kin, counseled as they were by the Ourisa. Some were eager to dwell near their gods and so caused their cities to shake themselves free of the earth and drift across its face like clouds of metal and glass and stone. Others burrowed deeply into the bones of the world searching for secrets and riches and when they found what they sought, built outposts like honeycombs of onyx and bronze in the deep places where sunlight could never reach.

In the oldest tales, some few of our kin were said to have built doorways from this world to the next, weaving patterns from the primal forces they drew from the Web of Creation. Like the Ourisa themselves, these sacred travellers stepped out amongst the stars and carried the light of civilization with them. But these tales are mere fragments, obscured behind the thick veils of history and the sorrows of ruin to come. For despite their greatness, and despite the presence of the Ourisa to guide them, our kin were only human."

Simnell paused to take another sip from his water skin, smiling as he looked at the faces of his audience. The children’s faces were rapt, and they weren’t alone; their parents had crowded in as close as the wagons would allow. The scholar cleared his throat and raised his voice, louder this time. "Now it came to pass in the twilight of the Old World, a great doom was wrought. Perhaps our kin grew too arrogant, believing themselves to be gods as the Ourisa. Perhaps they ceased to listen to the counsel of their divine guides. We shall never know the cause of the great Catastrophe, but we live amidst its consequences.

There is little known of the Catastrophe save this: the cities were the first to burn. They erupted in an instant, all at once, and the fires that consumed them raced across the land like a wave of annihilation. So great were the eruptions that when they at last subsided, nothing was left behind but glass-filled scars on the face of the world; cities that once soared across the skies tumbled and struck the earth like hammers. Great chasms opened and swallowed entire nations, and the seas boiled. Mountains buckled and fell, and new peaks clawed their way into the sky as the earth screamed in agony. Most of our kin were consumed in an instant, while the rest fled into the wilderness, to cower and weep as the world went mad around them.

As the fires subsided and the land calmed, a quiet darkness enfolded it as a poultice covers a wound. The sun disappeared behind a cloud that would not lift, and winter came to even the warmest lands. Our surviving kin crept from their shelters to behold a new world around them. What had passed had returned them to the rudest of states, and many of those who had survived the fires succumbed instead to despair. Life was hard then, and the choices to be made harder still. In the face of extinction, our ancestors grew savage; mercy grew scarce.

But no winter can last forever, and in the fullness of time spring came at last. The sun returned and with it came warmth, and hope. In this new world, filled with strange new life our kin rebuilt. They sought out one another and built new tribes and new nations. Some warred with one another but most were content simply to live.

And what of the gods? What became of the Ourisa in the dark and lost years after the Catastrophe? Perhaps they departed to travel again amongst the stars – searching perhaps for less foolish children to guide. Could it be that they abide here still, but in hiding? Perhaps they are ashamed that their guidance had led to such ruin? Or had they perished in the flames alongside their children? Perhaps they are truly gone and those among us who call to them in prayer merely worship their ghosts? Yet some believe they are neither dead nor in hiding, but dwell apart, waiting for a time of their choosing to reveal themselves once more. Perhaps, if we are pious and just and virtuous, they will reveal themselves to us and walk beside us again."

His story finished, Simnell drank once more and looked at the children, staring at him transfixed from the wagon. I trust my story has met with your satisfaction? He asked, stretching out his hand towards them. Without a word, the children gave up some of their sweets to him. But not everyone was content with the story they had heard. One of the villagers, Old Dell frowned and turned to the scholar, forgive me, friend scholar, he said, but shouldn’t there be more to the tale? What happened next?

A great deal, Simnell admitted. In the centuries following the Catastrophe, our ancestors struggled merely to survive. Nothing would grow in the early years, and food became scarce. Some turned to… desperate measures to stay alive, while others simply dwindled to nothing.

And then? Dell pressed.

Simnell shrugged. And then, the survivors began to rebuild. In this part of the world, a few small kingdoms emerged, and a new culture took shape. Over the centuries the kingdoms grew in size and influence but one – Ketha – eventually gained supremacy and united them all into the Tevindh Empire.

What about the magicians? Finn piped. Are they all gone now?

You mean the geomancers, sky-wardens, and those who work the primal forces? Simnel asked.

Yes. Are they real?

"Oh, yes, though they are quite uncommon. I have met only a few geomancers in my life, and most prefer to remain well away from cities. As for the others, the Empire calls them saotha now. Many serve in the Imperial Legions, and the others can be found throughout the Empire."

Are they as powerful as they were in your story?

"I do not believe so. My research leads me to believe that the power of those ancient saotha is lost to their modern relatives. Perhaps they have simply forgotten how to work such powerful magics. Besides, I’m not sure that sort of magic would be allowed today."

Aren’t they dangerous? Finn pressed, "these the see… seath…"

"Saotha? Simnell corrected him. Yes, but their powers are a danger they and their peers keep in check, and if any saotha becomes too dangerous, their peers… take steps to fix the problem."

He smiled at the little boy, "Powerful saotha – of the sort we heard about in this story – are quite rare, he said. The only ones who are ever a danger to us are those who simply cease caring about the effects their powers have on those around them, and in those cases, their fellows are quick to act."

"Because they don’t want to see saotha who lose control?" Old Dell inquired.

No, the scholar replied, "because the worst threat in the world isn’t a saotha who loses control; the greatest ruin comes from those whose control of their gifts never weakens, but who no longer care if their whims create suffering."

I don’t understand, the villager admitted.

"For a saotha, because anything is possible, anything is possible; it is only their conscience – their sense of right and wrong – that keeps them from committing unimaginable horrors. It’s why the first lesson of any magic user is this: just because one can do something, doesn’t mean one should. Self control, my good man; self-control and an unwavering moral compass are the keys to all safe magic use. Knowing when to act is not as important as knowing when not to."

"So, the rest of us simply need to have faith that saotha will watch each other because of their personal morality?" Dell demanded.

Simnel smiled thinly, "Well, that and their instinct for self-preservation. If the saotha became too dangerous, it wouldn’t be long before any child who began to manifest arcane abilities would be killed. Saotha may be powerful, but they are human with human frailties. A saotha who drinks poison will die as easily as anyone."

The scholar’s description of the rules governing magic and its uses surprised Finn, who had always imagined that true heroes never thought about refraining from using the powers at their disposal. Besides, what sort of story ends with a morality lesson that boiled down to If you have power, don’t use it! Finn sighed and lay back in the wagon, contemplating the absurdity of people who measured wisdom by doing nothing. Above, the sun arced through the sky, steadily marching towards its bed in the west.

Chapter Two

As Finn grew older, the edges of his world grew with him. Where the adventures of his early childhood never took him beyond the edges of the village’s houses, they soon encompassed not just the village, but also the nearby forest, and the sunny open glen just below the village where long-haired cattle and sturdy sheep grazed on the tall grasses and broad, leafy plants that grew in abundance. His adventures also became group affairs, as he was joined by several other village children. Together they would peek into the barns and outbuildings of their home or climb into the branches of nearby trees to survey the lands around them. They would imagine they were explorers out charting lands never seen before, and they would make up fantastic stories to tell one another about the creatures that lived in the deep woods – razor-fanged drakes and bark-skinned treefolk who were said to steal children and turn them into trees.

Once, on a dare, Finn and his friend Esme Thatcher – so named because of her mother’s vocation – crept into the forest until they could no longer hear the village behind them. As the cool dark of the forest closed in around them, Finn fought to keep the rising tide of fear at bay. He and his friends had told so many tales about monsters living in the woods that he half-believed them and now he could imagine that the worst of their conjured monsters were lurking behind every tree. Soon, the worry became too much to bear. I think we should go back, he whispered loudly to Esme as they moved softly through the hushed undergrowth. We’re too far away from the village already.

You can go back if you want to, Finn Smith! Esme replied, frowning and pushing her tangled brown hair out of her eyes. I’m not afraid! Though she was only a few months older than Finn, she