Prologue: The Lost Land

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Prologue: The Lost LandThe man who rowed up to the shore was not young. His boat was so small that he could haul it up past the high water mark single-handedly, albeit with visible exertion. He overturned it on the rough grass and looked around. Was this the place? If his reckoning was correct, it could be the southern province of the forgotten land. It appeared to be deserted. On the promontory near where he’d landed, the peak of an old stone building showed above the waves – some kind of fortification. He’d almost run aground on another bit of stonework farther out. The fields nearby looked like they might have been tended once, and a long, even depression with slightly different vegetation could have been a road, a hundred years before. The slanting afternoon light showed differences between parts of the forest, too, newer growth against older woods. Only bird calls sounded. He set about making camp – it was late, and it had been a long three days’ row from Calandria’s furthest outpost, through waters only fools would brave.  The blade at his throat woke him out of a deep, dreamless sleep. His limbs were heavy, but his throat tightened with fear. He swallowed to calm himself before he opened his eyes, but he could not see who wielded the blade, only smell them; pinewood smoke, sweat, and grease. “So there are men here,” he said, hoping that the language he chose would be understood. “Women, anyway.” She didn’t let him up. She’d taken one hand and pinned it behind him such that if he moved anywhere, it would send jolts of pain down his spine. He knew that trick and how to counter it. He let her keep that arm and ignored the momentary agony to let his other arm drop to his side, then rolled over. By the time he was on his feet the blade was in his own hands. The woman sat back. “Where did you learn that?” she asked. “From my grandmother, when I was a boy.” “Long time ago, wasn’t that?” she said. She was at least as old as he was and her clothes were little more than skins. “Are you one of the bandits?” he asked. “Did they survive the fall?” “No one survived the fall, just as no one survives landing on these shores. The ghosts of the dragons steal their souls.” “Do they?” he asked. Despite the deplorable condition of the woman’s clothing, he could see that she was well-fed. She certainly wasn’t dead. He didn’t feel very dead, himself. His muscles were tired from the long row, yes, but he felt very much alive. “You don’t look like your soul has been stolen.” “Ah, but I was born here. You weren’t. Don’t tell me you haven’t heard the stories. That amulet you wear looks Cerean.” He clutched the bronze amulet that hung from a string around his neck. “This? It was a gift, and yes, I have been to Cerea. It is a remarkable place. Not exactly comfortable, but remarkable even so, the greatest civilization on the seas. Calandria is more beautiful, but Cerea’s empire is vaster.” “They don’t want the world to remember what they destroyed,” the woman said. “Of course not, and those who remember it are all gone. Nothing remains.” The woman gave a little smile. “Not much.” Her gaze took in the whole sweep of the land around them. Her eyes narrowed as she turned back to him. “What do you know of it?” “My grandparents said that they sailed from there, when they were young. They could only tell me some of the story, not what happened after the end, though they say that Darnasa of Tiadun would know, if she lived.” Something in the woman’s expression changed. ““Your grandparents? Do you know what their names were?” “They took new names in Enomae, but they told me that when they lived in Anamat – not for very long, I’m afraid – they were called Eppie and Kinner. They were very old when they told me that, and I wasn’t much more than a boy.” “Ah, the last apprentice and the scribe boy.” “You know of them?” “I heard the stories,” “It seems that I’ve come to the right place, then.” “The right place to throw your life away, especially if you’re wearing a Cerean amulet.” He frowned down at the amulet. A good friend had given it to him for protection on his journey. If it would put him in danger here, there was no need to keep it. He took out his knife, cut the string, and threw the amulet away from him. The woman nodded. “I’m old,” he said. “Soon, I won’t be able to row so far. I wanted to know what remained here more than I wanted to live to see Cerea again.” “Good,” she said. “Then I’ll tell you, but I don’t know that we’ll let you leave these shores with our story.” “I don’t mind,” he said. “Come back to my camp then,” she said. “We won’t kill you yet, and the dragons-to-be are still sleeping in their shells.” He nodded. He knew that much. The last of the priestesses had told him that they would sleep for a long time. He missed those old women for their stories and the tales of beauty that they wove. When he became old enough to understand, the thought that they’d prostituted themselves horrified him. He said as much to the last of them, the one who’d come to tend the shrine. She’d laughed at him. “You don’t understand anything, young man,” she’d said. “The women of Cerea never had such power.” She’d died soon after that, before he could ask her more. She’d been beautiful until the end, always wreathed in flowing scarves. He blinked and begged pardon as he realized that the rough, fur-clad woman before him had said something. “I am at your service,” he said to her. “Are you the chieftain here?” She shrugged. “Gather your things and follow me, if you want to know.” 
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