Dusk was falling.

  Sorrah rose from his seat and stretched, letting out a satisfied sigh. He rubbed his aching eyes. He had spent the entire day bent over papers. The amount of work kept increasing, while the pay, inexplicably, did not.

  He pushed the shutters open wider, and a fresh ocean wind rushed into the room. Evenings were still cool, with the occasional frost. Spring, as always, was in no hurry. Having put things in order in the lazy southern lands, it strolled at its leisure across the Great Mountains. For that reason, the weather in Sardas had yet to improve.

  In truth, little had pleased him in Sardas lately.

  Already exorbitant imperial taxes continued to rise, while work grew scarcer with each passing day. From the first defeats of the western army to its total rout, a miserable half year had passed, and the number of ships in the harbor had dwindled drastically. Now it was more profitable for merchants to sail a little farther south, to Eridian Mutaaresh, and—even at greater expense—unload their goods in warmth and comfort. Sailors knew which way the wind blew, and merchants knew where the wind of change was blowing.

  If not for the need to feed my family, Sorrah thought, I’d be writing poetry—or traveling.

  He would go see the Crown of the West, wander through the poleis of Erida and Vafia, where the days are long and the shadows longer still; sing of the beauty of their maidens and the taste of ripe fruit. And then—southward, from vineyard-covered hills to lifeless deserts, and perhaps farther still—to the last rivers, to the edge of the world.

  He sighed, gazing into the distance at the darkening sky, which reminded him of the ink he still needed to buy.

  Because of all the misfortune in the harbor, pay had kept shrinking. And paper, ink, and quills—always indispensable in his accounting trade—had nearly doubled in price.

  Was all this happening because people had forgotten to whom they once dedicated their lives and for whom they built this city? They had turned away from Freedom and bowed to Abundance—and now stood on the brink of losing both.

  Sorrah massaged his temples, heavy with the fatigue that had long since become familiar. He wanted to work a little longer, but light footsteps approached. Otis flew up the stairs and flung the door open—as only the youngest child would.

  “Papa!” He shook a huge leather-bound book, nearly half his own size. “You promised you’d read to me today once you were done!”

  “Oh—” To be honest, it had completely slipped his mind. Some father he was. “Yes, of course, I’m finished already.” The work could wait until tomorrow. “Hop up, little hare,” Sorrah smiled, pointing to the fur-covered bench. He had made it himself, and the hide of a wild forest bull he and his father had taken on a hunt long ago.

  Sorrah lit all the stone lamps he had and sat down beside his son.

  Books were expensive, so he was glad they had a few—and especially this one: A Tale of Seas, Rivers, and Flows from the Creation of the World to the First People. It was written in Old Continental, which differed only slightly from Eridian, but the text was difficult for Otis, so Sorrah read aloud and taught him the language. He himself knew three languages.

  “So,” he said, turning the page, “we stopped just before the most interesting part. Ahead of us lie the Flows.”

  He began to read the flowing, poetic text:

  From the ethereal waves of the Primordial Sea arose the star-filled sky and the firm earth, and from it the Rivers of Blue Agave took their source. But before humankind, the turbulent, life-giving waters brought forth the Flows:

  The first and eldest was named El Kaitus—the Flow of Blossoming—Awakening. She is the idea of every beginning: birth and the kindling dawn, the morning song of birds and the rise of a new day, the first spring shoots in the fields, the first leaves—and, of course, children.

  Sorrah cast a brief glance at his son and stroked his head at these words, then continued:

  Among different peoples she bears different names, yet invariably, all who are devoted to her must honor cats, for she is the Mother Cat who dwells among flowers.

  But all good things have a darker side. The Rivers of Blue Agave demand blood sacrifice, and their depths are strewn with sharp, thick leaves. In people there is anger and contempt, ill temper and ill deeds. And the Flows, too, have their shadow, wherein lies that which weakens them. The shadow of Awakening is haste-born error, the pain that accompanies any change, and at times—youthful naivety.

  “Are cats really magical beings?” Otis whispered, as though someone might overhear. “Nadi has a cat, but she’s fat and stupid. I don’t see any magic.”

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  Sorrah chuckled softly.

  “The southern peoples believe cats are divine messengers of Blossoming. And in the west—just beyond the mountains—they’re dearly loved as well, though more out of simple kindness,” he shrugged. “So it’s everyone’s choice whether to believe in their power or not. But in any case, one must not harm the living or the weak. One should treat every belief—and every life—with kindness.”

  Otis nodded thoughtfully, and they continued:

  After the little cat, a great cat emerged from the Primordial Sea, its fur shimmering like ethereal waves. The Puma, king of the mountains—the Flow of Sharp Stones—Trial.

  “Anyone who enters military service these days devotes themselves to Trial,” Sorrah added.

  The Flow of Sharp Stones is the hardship of our lives. It is growth; it is pain and the strength of will granted to each of us to endure adversity. Day after day, solving great and small troubles alike, we bow to Trial and pay it due respect. Patience, valor, and overcoming—we share all these with it, and act in its glory.

  “Learning to read is quite a trial,” Otis sighed, and Sorrah laughed again. Indeed—it truly was no easy task.

  Every endeavor is a small trial. Each walks upon sharp stones in search of their path—some shod and supported, others barefoot. For some, Trial breaks them; for others, it tempers them. Yet there is no evil in this. People are free to accept or refuse the hardships the Puma grants them. But in the shadow of Trial lurks reckless risk—taking upon oneself what cannot be borne; and sometimes darker things still: conquest, humiliation, annihilation, bloodshed, and war—for false or true ideals, or even not for ideals at all, but for the right to be called strong, to be called a pioneer capable of anything.

  A shutter slammed somewhere at this heavy moment. Otis flinched, but quickly recovered.

  “Perhaps we should stop for today?” Sorrah asked.

  “No!” the boy cried. “At least one more!”

  “The sun has already set,” Sorrah nodded toward the darkened window. “And who promised to help Mother and Sister at the market tomorrow?”

  “Oh, Papa!” Otis pouted, furrowing his brows like a child.

  “All right,” Sorrah smiled. “One last one.”

  Next came the Flow of Twilight Shadows—Finality of Being—but Sorrah decided to leave it for another time. It was not wise to read to a child before sleep about a Flow where even without shadow there dwell rest, acceptance of inevitability, and mortality. So, turning the page, he moved on to Memory.

  People are bound through the Memory of ancestors, through the Flow of Time’s Sands, which preserves the past and multiplies knowledge. And all who contribute to wisdom or draw from it bow to Memory.

  “Oh! Just like you!” Otis exclaimed. “You count ships and cargo, write things down and remember them. Memory must like that!”

  “Exactly,” Sorrah nodded, and continued, slightly changing his tone as he looked at his son. “From craftsmen and smiths to chroniclers and readers—anyone who takes a book in hand to learn more,” he raised an eyebrow meaningfully, “strengthens and sustains Memory.”

  “Just like us now.”

  “Just like us now,” he agreed, and read on:

  Whether the knowledge be magical or mundane, great or ancient or simple—all of it is the Flow of Time’s Sands. Memory is often depicted as a person, yet always a different one, for it embodies all who have ever lived. This unseen substance that we gather and pass on shapes the world for those not yet born. And yet Memory, too, has its shadow, where dwell detachment, idle contemplation—and worse still, unforgotten grievances and a life lived in the past.

  Sorrah spoke the last words on an exhale.

  “That’s all. Enough for today.”

  Otis nodded.

  “I can’t wait until you read me about all the Flows,” he said, peering into the book and turning a few pages. “Next are the Heavenly Houses,” he noted with a satisfied smile, as though anticipating a fine meal rather than stories. “If only we could read everything!”

  “Are you in such a hurry?” Sorrah chuckled—but his smile quickly faded. He recalled the rumors of a possible Eridian advance, troubling everyone in the city since the fall of the western borders.

  No. There was no reason to worry about such foolishness. The might of Sardas was unshakable. It was an impregnable fortress, standing on these shores for thousands of years. Any hardship was temporary—this was their Trial, and they would overcome it. Even Erida could not take Sardas.

  “Nadi keeps going on about the war between Freedom and Abundance. I know the book won’t talk about that, but I want to understand why they fell out.”

  Sorrah was genuinely surprised. How perceptive his son was! What eight-year-old would think to seek causes and first principles in old books—or ask such questions at all? It warmed his heart.

  “We’ll leave that for next week.”

  “When exactly?”

  Sorrah sighed, set the book aside, and stood. He wished he knew. He went to glance once more at his still-spread papers.

  “Let’s agree on the seventeenth,” he said with a smile. “There’ll be a full moon, too—beautiful.”

  “Okay, I’ll remember!” Otis tapped his finger to his forehead. “Memory.” And burst into bright, carefree laughter.

  “Excellent—then it’s settled. And now, off to wash and sleep! Or Mother will soon realize we stayed up late and come scolding. Even Zani must already be in bed.”

  “I’m going,” Otis sighed—probably wishing they could read a bit more—and closed the book.

  “Leave it,” Sorrah said. “I’ll put it away myself.” He smiled wearily. “Hurry, little hare, or Mother Hare will catch you.”

  Otis laughed again and slipped out the door, this time much more quietly, running down the stairs.

  Sorrah picked up the book, and at that moment a glowing orb crashed from the ceiling—splintered and went dark.

  “Well then,” Sorrah sighed, setting the book on the table and picking up the lamp. “Has the magic truly run dry?” He shook the orb for some reason, but of course it did not light.

  Sorrah’s memory was far worse than his son’s. He wrote on a scrap of paper:

  Don’t forget to buy ink. Visit the artificers for a new orb.

  He glanced out the window and quietly snorted. The moon burning above Sardas looked like a lamp with a chipped edge.