Emerald of The Desert

“The Siranian people of the Sand Continent live among the sand in division among their own people, called Curatj. Each with their own Riy and Yir, the leader and the priest. They move often and do not put down anything as heavy as stones upon their yellow sand like what we did on our green soil. Their religion, or Urulk in their language, is completely different from ours not only in details, but in the literal depth.”

– Anonymous Author, Romadia, Third Century AI2.

“That creature bore the same flesh as the gods who created the realm, the El-dria, however its grace was much lesser, and its nature resembled that of mere beasts… In the deepest depth, it begged the El-dria, holding the corpse dearly as if holding its offspring, for a vessel. The El-dria granted its wish, and once again the corpse opened its eyes.”

– Tale of the Prásinos, Heladasian Mythology.

Chapter 1: Emerald of The Desert

“Step aside, old man!”

A traveler yells at his companion. His voice gets muffled by the sound of sand carried by the wind, constantly pushing on the side of his brown cloak. Seeing his companion has yet to take his hands off the door's stiles, he takes a step forward and pushes his companion back. The man in the grey cloak loses his balance, falls behind by a few steps before he gets a hold on the four-wheeled wooden cart.

The man in brown then stands next to the door whose borehole and handle have been lost to the wind of time, he produces a short metal stick from his luggage and strikes it into the door jamb.

The man in grey cloak looks at his younger companion putting his weight onto the stick, and then looks at the wooden cart upon which a large canvas is covering its contents under the dim light of a pair of lanterns. Then, his eyes catch a glimpse of light in the sandstorm above his head. Green light, green, and bright. He is bewildered, the colour of such kind of green is scarce for an eye accustomed to the desert. His eyes move up, looking at the blurry image of the enormous black stone wall, whose width and height expand to the ends of his sight. No, there is no green, only the hollow windows with sand sit on its stool and darkness lurks inside the place.

“Move your feet! Hey!”

The man looks down at the sight of his companion standing beside a collapsed door, revealing a dark hallway. They push the cart inside, carefully down the slope of sand flowing onto the cold stone floor.

The younger man takes a lantern from the cart to light his way ahead, followed by the man in grey cloak pulling the cart.

“Did you see a green light?” – The young one takes down the hood of his cloak and lowers his thick mask, exposing the brown-red skin and dark hair.

“Yes.” – The “old man” did the same, he is not much older than his companion, he has fair skin and yellow hair. The gaunt face appears small in contrast to the large blue eyes. The desert has taken its toll on the man.

“Did it say something?”

“No, was it supposed to?”

“Perhaps. Some men said a green light inhabits this castle, more of an illusion than anything.”

“What is this castle?”

“Don’t know, older than the Curatj at least, perhaps even before the time of the Romadians.”

“It’s old.”

“Yes.”

They reach the end of the hallway, and in front of them is another door. All the routes and staircases behind them are filled with rubble and sand.

The young man is about to strike his stick into the door jamb, but his hands stop as the door moves when slightly touched by his elbow.

“It’s loose.” – He opens the door, and steps into a hall, the creaky noise echoes in the silent darkness. He sees a ray of light in the middle of the large room with corners filled with rubble, sand, and pieces of wood. A light wind blows from the large hall into the corridor where they come from, air fresh and cool.

The light of the white moon is coming from a circular hole in the ceiling. The younger traveler looks up at the hole.

“It is the lesser moon.”

“A tower for Ien...” – The older mumbles as he sits down next to his cart, drinks water from a large leather waterskin.

The younger follows, sitting cross-legged in front of his companion. The older man leans his back of the cart’s wheel, with eyes looking at his feet. The young man speaks:

“The storm was unexpected, but we are still on the right route. You should expect to see Imperial watchtowers by tomorrow aftermete. Cathenia is near.”

“I shall hope in that.”

“Right, now close your eyes and--”

His ear catches a sensation in the air as he talks. The young man jumps up, his eyes staring at a dark corridor. His companion is startled at his sudden movement.

“Did you hear something?”

“Something being dragged. Stay here, I will go see.”

“You won’t best a monster with that stick. I go with you.” – The older man says as he stands up, on his right hand is a white pendant, in the center of it a red stone shines even under the dimmest light of the moon.

…

The men walk through a corridor. The ears of the younger have yet to catch another noise. Was it just the wind? The older walks behind him, he looks to his left, room after room sealed by metal bars with rusty chains lying on top of dead plants.

The young man is about to suggest turning back, but his eyes then catch a glimpse of light in the distance. To the left of a corner at the end of the corridor, a fire is burning, and its light falls on the floor.

“Fire ahead.”

“I don’t see any.” – The reflection on the stones is too dim for the other man to notice; however he follows suit. They stay close to the wall on their right side, and their steps slow down as they approach the corner where the light comes from.

The young man, with his metal pole firmly in hand, looks through the corner. About fifty meters ahead in the hallway, a torch half-burnt illuminating the rusty sconce holding it high above the floor, opposite an empty cell. There is no one, and the young’s ears catch no sound whatsoever except the quiet crackling sound of the small fire.

They walk into the corridor, and aside from the burning torch, there is no difference here from the hallway they’ve walked through, rooms filled with many shattered iron pieces and the cold smell of death. In front of the torch is a room with a shattered shackle, rusty like all the others, however,

“This is unlike the other rooms.” – The young man picks up a few iron pieces in his hand, and his other hand wipes the floor slightly. – “The shackle was up there a while ago, perhaps not very long.” – He looks at the iron chain hanging down from the ceiling, its low end is about his eye level. – “And someone fell down with it.” – The pieces resemble clusters. He figures that person had had the pieces fallen on top of them, thus when they stood up, the pieces fell to the side and were not spread evenly. He asks his companion:

“Do you get any signals?”

“No, the device does not respond.” – His hand pulls the side of his cloak backward, on his leather belt hung a white stone embedded in a pendant similar to the one held in his hand. The stone’s colour is indifferent even in the younger’s eyes, he sighs.

“This… is intriguing, but we do no good by wandering around, let’s just take the torch for fire and go back.”

“Perhaps they are still here, dragging whatever that was you heard.”

“A Siranian’s ear is no better than a priest’s magical tool. Come on.”

And thus the two men walk back, tracing their old steps through the stone hallway. The young Siranian walks ahead with the torch in hand, still burning the last pieces of linen wrapping around it. The priest he was supposed to escort is walking behind, looking to their rear with his magical pendant still in hand. Someone was here, or was not, as long as they are not here anymore, that does not concern us. The Siranian does not share his companion’s restlessness, for he just wants to go back to the cart, make a bonfire out of the torch with the bits of wood scattered around there, and rest for the night.

Thud!

They are about to reach the large hall where they left their cart when they both hear a sudden loud sound of something being dropped. The young man looks back, and as he sees the widen blue eyes, he knows his companion has heard the sound. They sprint into the hall, one expecting the worst, one hoping for a good nature traveler. The scene in front of them as they enter the hall freezes both.

Under the illuminative white moonlight, the canvas on their cart has been lifted and cast aside, and standing on it is a slender girl wrapped in a rag, rummaging through the goods on the cart. Her black straight hair is so long it covers her whole back, and they cannot see her face.

“What are you doing?” – says the young man as he approaches the girl, furious at the act.

Hearing the voice, the girl turns around. A small face and thin body, skin as white as the moonlight, her eyes open wide, and in the shock of the men, glow in their greenness, as pure and as refreshing as a polished emerald. That is the same green I saw, the priest recalls as he is taken by the beauty of her eyes, but as he sees the object the girl is holding on her left hand, his expression changes quickly.

“Wait! Aten!” – He yells the young man’s name as he runs up to his companion, showing both his palms forward. – “Apologize for startling you, we meant no harm. That is our cart, and we are just passing through this place, we will leave as soon as the sand calms. Can you please put it down?” – He speaks while his eyes fixated on the object in that girl's left hand, a silver wand with three white stones embedded in it.

“What is that?” – Aten asks quietly, from behind the priest.

“A weapon that wasn’t sold. Just let me see what she is.” – The man quietly responds.

The girl does not respond. Half a minute passes, but to the men it is much longer, and they look at each other in tension. Aten has no arcane knowledge, and in his eyes the opponent is just a child, he is puzzled by the priest’s caution. And as his patience is about to run out, the girl speaks:

“Greetings.”

The sound she made makes no sense to Aten’s ears. She does not speak Masiul?

“It’s Yriela, language of the Empire. Let me converse with her.” – The priest turns to speak to his companion, then he looks back at the girl and starts to speak in a foreign tongue. – “I am a traveler hails from Roma, your fellow Citizente of the Rélika. We meant no harm when we saw you. That is our cart, and we will leave as soon as the storm stops. Can you please put the wand down?”

The girl stares at the man, then stares at the wand in her hand, and says, – “Yes.” – as she loosens her hand, and the wand falls to the ground.

Instantly, the priest thrusts his pendant with the red stone toward the girl, and casts:

“Tres Ragitta!”

The stone hears his voice perfectly, glows lustrously as three red points of light form in the air around it. The next moment three beams of light have pierced the girl’s body, in chest, neck, and head.

As the pendant stops its glowing and the men can see and hear the explosion of dust and sand behind the girl as those magic arrows strike the stone wall, to their frightened eyes the girl still stands firm on their cart. The young girl is still there, as if nothing’s happened, with her left hand raising to her chest, palm forward as if catching something. Directly behind her left palm is a clean hole on the rag she is wearing, at the center of her chest, but no skin is pierced, and not a single stain of blood.

The young Siranian does not understand what just happened, he looks to his right and sees his companion’s frightening eyes.

“That is just a kid, I could just push her down, why the magi-”

“Magus’s eye.” – The priest says in a trembling voice.

“What?”

“She raised her palm to be on an arrow’s path before it even appeared. I saw it. No men nor beasts could do such thing but a Magus’s eye possessor.”

“And what is that eye thing, a weapon?”

“It allows one to see pure Magie before they take form. Simply put, she is a Magus, or an heir-apprentice of one. Either case, we are very dead.”

“Then what happened to your attack?”

“Redirected or some sort of defense, probably, no surprise from a Magus.”

Observing the confusion of the men, the girl once again speaks in her pleasant voice yet unharbored any emotions:

“Why did you tell me to put down the stick?”

Her voice stunned the two men. The priest turns to the girl, who still bears a nonchalant expression, and struggles to speak as if his life depends on his words.

“I apologize, deeply. I thought you were a beast. I have heard some beasts take beautiful forms, the illusion ones…”

“What was that stick?” – She looks down at the wand on the ground.

“It… is a wand. A magic tool… Volatile and dangerous, so I thought…”

“Is the matter in it the same kind you have on your hand?”

“Matter? Do you mean Magie? Yes… yes, they are the same.”

“Are you a human?”

“Yes. I’m a Fairman”

“Is he?” – She looks at the man behind him.

“He’s a Siranian, the ear is bigger but… yes.”

“Am I?”

“What? Yes, at least you look like one to me.”

“What do you call…”

The conversation stretched out and devolved into the girl asking about the names of objects, about the castle, the dark sky, the moon, and its light.

“Ien…” – The girl mumbles the white moon’s name after she learnt it.

The priest now cannot help but ask, for this girl – or a Magus he has concluded – is appearing to him too strange to fathom.

“Forgive my rudeness, do you… have any memories?”

“I remember meeting you and seeing Ien.”

“But before that?”

“I remember a ceil, and that wooden stick” – She looks at the torch on the Siranian’s hand, its flame now has burnt out.

“How about yesterday?”

“When is that?”

“… The night before this night.”

“No.”

That confirms the priest’s suspicion, and his tension fades away. After a moment, a smile even returns to his face as he is immersed in his thoughts. Seeing that, Aten asks, as he did not understand any of their words:

“What did she say?”

“That girl might be a Magus, but with no memories, quite a severe case. And you were right, she was the one in the ceil at the end of that hallway, abandoned, or probably self-imposed.” – The priest takes a step toward his companion, speaks quieter. – “We are incredibly lucky. A Magus with her eyes intact, and a memory of a child. I say this is quite a treasure we’ve found.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Fourth Legion could certainly use her; we should take her with us to Cathenia.”

“What could the Fourth Legion use a child for?” – The man exclaims as he hears the idea.

“Do not let the appearance fool you! A Magus could easily alter her flesh. A single Magus’s eye will save thousands of Legionnaires.” – He put his hand on the Siranian’s shoulder, who is not used to talks about military matters. – “Don’t be so reluctant, you think mere men could coerce a Magus, even in the body of a child, by force? That’s nigh impossible. We just take her to Cathenia, then it’ll be the Legatus’s job to persuade her. The choice is hers to make. Or do you say we abandon her, whose mind is that of a child, here?”

“… Alright.”

“Good, then let me speak to her. Remember, do not provoke her. A Magus casts magic as natural as breathing; she does not need to be aware of Magie.”

The priest then turns to the girl:

“I have a suggestion to make.”

The girl does not respond, but he knows he got her attention with the green eyes staring at him. He then tries to speak in a manner that he once saw mages and Maguses speak to each other at the Archive in Roma:

“As the matter stands that you have neither the knowledge of this world nor a mindfulness of your well-being, continuing to reside here would in certainty bring no good but harm, no matter how great a Magus you are. The two of us are on our way to Cathenia, a populous province and the centre of Rélika culture in the region. On that cart, as you already saw, are silver, steel, and weapons we have or are left with after trading with a Siranian tribe. Aten here is my navigator, and by his words, we shall reach Cathenia by tomorrow aftermete. I suggest you go along with us, that would certainly do you better than staying here. You could even trace down those who have abandoned you in this place.”

“Yes.” – The girl responds instantly as if giving no thought to the suggestion.

“That is settled, then.” – They approach the girl, looking up at her still standing on the cart. – “Can you tell us your name?”

The girl thinks for a moment, and her eyes stop staring at the man the for first time in their whole encounter. She looks down at her feet, then up again to the men’s eyes and says:

“Rune.”

Rune? Sounds more like a name from Heladas than Rélika, the man thinks for a moment, then he introduces himself. – “I am Ganni, a priest. It is our pleasure to escort you.” – He raises his hand upward, toward the girl on the cart, but she does not respond, he laughs as he says. – “This is a handshake. Two people hold each other’s forearm to show mutual trust.” – Without a word, the girl shows her left arm, to it the man lightly grabs her wrist, and she does the same to his (unable to properly grab the man’s forearm however, for her hand is much small). She releases the man’s arm as he releases hers.

“Now then, could you please step down from there.”

“Yes.” – And in a childlike manner, she jumps off the cart and lands on the cold ground. To Aten’s surprised ears, her bare foot touches the ground with no sound whatsoever.

They proceed to sit down and rest for the night. The girl, sitting with her legs stretched straight, seemingly untired after the whole encounter, continues to ask Ganni her endless stream of questions. To which Ganni indulges her by answering every single one until he falls asleep, while Aten quietly observes the girl from a distance.

“What is a name?”

“I think it is sound, or a word associated with a man to differentiate himself from another man.”

“What is Magie?”

“It is a natural force that every sentient being has the potential to command.”

“Did you?”

“No, I can’t command the Magie, it was this pendant that commanded it.” – He shows her the pendant with the red stone.

“What is a Magus’s eye?”

“The eye that can see Magie, like yours was able to see the matter in the wand. Only Maguses possess it.”

“What is a Magus?”

“One with the ability to command Magie completely.”

“What is Rélika?”

“It literally means ‘Empire.’ The country’s name is Inkognyte Rélika, a powerful Empire. It is to the North of here, across the ocean.”

“What is North?”

“Hmm… A direction.” – His finger points to the way he remembers as the North.

“What is Fairman?”

“A species of men, which I belong to, tall, bright skin, small ear, clumsy, calculative…”

“What is Sirania?”

“The people in the Sand Continent, where we are sitting on. Brown or red skin, large ears, hear and run good, good with directions on sand.”

“Are there other kinds?”

“A lot. You are heading to Cathenia so you will see a Lanesiian soon. They look like cats and dogs, animals you will soon see as well, with claws and tails…”

“What kind do you think I belong to?”

He looks at the girl’s face and ear, then to her hands and feet.

“A Fairman, but…” – He looks at the girl’s eyes, its greenness, and its glowness in the dark, no Fairman’s eyes are like that. That straight black hair is also uncommon. – “I don’t know, you look like a Fairman, a Lanesiian, and someone from… Hakaku at the same time.”

“What is Hakaku?”

“A place to the East…”

…

Ganni opens his eyes as Aten shakes him on the shoulder.

“It’s time to move.”

“Right.” – Realizing he had fallen asleep while talking with the girl, he looks to his right. The girl is still sitting in the same manner as last night, her legs straight, and the green eyes still staring at him, motionless as if a doll. He wonders if she’s got any sleep.

“Let’s get going, Rune.”

“Yes.”

The men give her an old brown cloak that smells of dust and sand, which is too big it covers her down to her ankles. They have not a spare pair of shoes, so they wrap her feet in canvas cloth and hope it is enough for her to reach Cathenia.

The girl looks back at the black castle for a while as she walks out of it. With a clear sky now the whole size of the castle appears mountainous, with its walls – many parts have fallen – stretched out to both horizons – and its towers rising to the center of the sky from her eyes. Then she looks at the blue sky, and then the sun. She stares at it until called by the men ahead of her.

The girl stays at the rear while the men pull the cart with two ropes ahead of her. After a while of walking, they enter a road, a clear flat route in the middle of the waves of sand. No other travelers are in sight, and the heat of the sun brutally contrasts with the coolness of the night she knew. Her sweats roll down to her mouth, and she tastes it with her tongue.

A scene of a wavy horizon covered by waves of sand is being gradually replaced by a hybrid scenery of sand, green trees, and rocky hills with yellow and white stones. Gentle wind flows to their face, cool wind that wipes away the girl’s sweats. As the sun passes through their heads, watchtowers made of stones and wood appear on the horizon, about twenty meters in height, on top of them flies a bright red flag. As the girl looks down from a hill, there are other towers on the distant horizon, and many behind them, some accompanied by various stone buildings, and a system of roads, trenches, and ditches lying on the vast field between them, only a few straight routes are cutting through them – one of which the girl is standing on. On the farthest distance in front of her, is a place covered in greenness of fields of crops and trees, and many yellow buildings and towers next to one another.

They walk through the shade cast on them by the high towers. Occasionally there would be shadows of a person looking down on them from atop the tower, but there is no voice calling for them, and the gazes from the towers don’t last long.

The wooden cart pulled by the men rolls into a much softer soil. Rune’s feet now step on a dark and slightly moist brown earth, which loosens on each of her steps. On her left and right are fields on lower land, so many and so wide they fill up her sight to the horizon. On the fields are trees about four to five meters, their crowns are filled in bright green by their pointy little leaves. Standing on the fields are many people wearing straw hats and their faces wrapped in white clothes, some of them have fair skin, but others brown like Aten.

On the outskirts of Cathenia, Ganni and Aten stop their cart by the door of a white stone building, its walls stand side by side with a watchtower and its red flag. They knock on the door, and greeting them is a man clad in the greyness of his chain mail armour on top of a white pair of short-sleeve tunic and trouser.

“What is your name?”

“I am Ganni, I trust you know that name.”

“Of course, I was instructed to show you hospitality in this post. I have had the stable and your lodgings prepared.”

“No need the stable, the poor thing died on the sand, leg ripped off by a Starus. Just open the storage.”

“That will be done.”

The soldier is about to turn away, Ganni calls after him. – “Wait, one more thing. Where is Legatus Lucius?”

“Legatus Lucius is in Talmor. A squad of Framentarius Guards has arrived at the port, our name right now is not as clear in Roma as we expected.”

“Do you know when I will be able to meet him?”

“I am not in a position to know. If the matter is urgent, I would advise you to speak with Tribunus Ennius here in Nardor.”

Ganni bites his lips, the name of the Framentarius Guards gave him a bitter taste on the tongue.

“I see, thank you. I shall stay here for the night first. And is it appropriate for us to be three people?”

“What? My order was to have two guests.”

“There won’t be any problems. She just a little…” – He looks to Aten as he speaks, wanting to show the soldier the young Magus he found in the desert. But as Aten looks behind, there is nothing in sight except the footprints of the two men and their wooden cart.

…

In a town square centered around a large tree, adjacent to a stone bridge lying across a small river, on the stone bench, underneath the cool shade of the tree, sit a bard and her lute. Her large hat is worn so low it covers her eyes in its shadow. Her long chestnut hair falls on her petite shoulder enclothed in a robe that has seen the wind of many places, its hems are tattered, and its original yellow dye is now a mixed shade of white and sand. Her thin fingers produce a song of a distant place through the string of her brown lute, and she sings a poem in a clear, lovely voice that enchants her audience.

When her fingers stop and the lute rests on her lap, the town people clap and put down flowers and grapes on the sides of the bench, to which she smiles and slightly bows her head. As she looks up, a glimpse of greenness appears in her view, much different from the greenness of grape leaves, it was as shiny as a polished emerald under sunlight. The light comes from under the hood of a petite figure in a brown cloak, a pale girl whose face shows no emotion, but her eyes staring with attention.