The Truth of the Matter

A fragment from the Dustsong and Westsong Cycles

In this book are recorded the true words of Hasuu the Grey, called also the Son of Vapor, who has walked the earth since before the time of the Redeemers. He has seen and heard many things lost to the generations. But here at the end of days, Her Excellency, the Queen of Shihreh, has ordered his words set down, that the children of the realm might remember what has been. So says the Chief of Scribes, blessed of the Wright, in the eight-hundredth year of Shihreh.

Our past is full of beginnings. How is a fellow to know the proper place to start? It may test the patience of anxious sorts, but I have found it’s usually best to start a story as far back as possible—y’know, to avoid confusion. Afore I, Hasuu the Grey, was tall enough to carry a spear or strong enough to roam the hills below the Fangs, our bard taught me and my brethren stories of the elder days.

Afore those days, all the bards knew, the Wright lived with his children, the spirit-folk, in an undying kingdom above the sun. There he sat his throne and scripted the tale of the ages. When he’d finished, the sun cut an arc through the blanket of fog covering the earth—like one of those infernal bird-riders’ axes that’ll slice a body or a beast in twain (begging your pardon, milady). That’s how the days of the earth began, as a realm of light amid the dark.

But in the in the shadows the sun had left here and there, foul creatures reared their heads. Livyat and Duiz were the mightiest of the lot and lorded over the lesser darkling-beasts. Terrible, motherless monstrosities they were. The Wright knew nary a good thing would sprout wherever the Serpent lurked or the Aurochs rampaged.

And so the Wright called up a host of his children. The bard told us they were clad in armor fashioned from clouds. I spoke of that to C’haeros once, and wouldn’t you know, the rascal—err, the blessed Paladin, begging your pardon again—laughed right in my face. I had reckoned he’d forgotten how to laugh, truth be told. So I take it the old hill-bards added a few flourishes.

In any wise, the Wright told his army to don their armor, of whatever sort it was, and said, “Sons and daughters, polish your shields and dip your blades in the fiery moat, for we descend below the sun. Let us prepare the earth for something new!” With that, he led the host through seas of fire and vapor, down to the earth. He himself sought out the lords of the darkling beasts, while his children battled their minions in the festering shadow-places.

When the Wright found Duiz, he trapped that lumbering titan beneath the earth, below the deepest sea. Duiz never was much for swimming, you see. Then he caught sly Livyat from the sea and imprisoned her, in turn, in the bowels of the earth. Just afore the Wright sealed her up, Livyat lunged at him. That was why we could always see her fangs jutting upward, jagged and reaching for the heaven-realm, on all sides of our valley.

Once this victory was accomplished, the Wright strode across the earth, his host of sons and daughters arrayed behind him. He sang the ballad of life, as I understand it—the prologue to the tale of the ages he had already crafted. Throughout the earth, the words of his ballad wrought living things, plants and beasts of sundry sorts. And last of all, afore the Wright and his scions returned to their undying kingdom, he sang the final verse. So it was that he wrought the folk of the earth.

The firstborn of these earthly folk were the man called Ghrem and the woman called Lae. Leastways, that’s what our bard taught us. The Wright loved them specially, Ghrem and Lae. For a birth-day gift, he fashioned them a dwelling place in a hidden hollow of surpassing beauty. Most folk, back in the day, would tell you to look for their hollow atop the longest of Livyat’s fangs. A few reckoned their home was still there but swallowed up by the unseen realm so no living soul could find it.

The truth of the matter, or so our bard claimed, was that the hollow lay among the lowest of the fangs. Though no earthly soul could spy it, an ancient tree towered over the supposed spot. There the chiefs and bards of our kinfolk would gather from time to time—reckoning, y’know, that it was sacred.

Now, I never laid eyes on that tree myself. I don’t rightly know where Ghrem and Lae lived or if those were the names they called themselves. But sure as Southrons would spit their mate for a cuppa, I’ll tell you what followed. . .