Months passed. The trees shed the last of their autumnal leaves and the wind grew chill. Winter in Odena was nothing compared to the arctic north where spit would freeze before hitting the ground. Still, the little stone barracks reserved for us disciples offered little protection from the cold.

In the beginning I wore a fur cloak from my travel bag, a luxurious thing entirely at odds with the natural simplicity cultivated by the philosophers. Mara mocked me relentlessly for it and the next day I suffered the cold in my thin uniform.

Avarus, that old whipmaster, taught me new exercises to fill out my frame. Acrobatics on the branches of the iridescent trees, starting with simply pulling myself up from a deadhang, each week going for one or two more. I ran through the Gardens in the early morning to clear my head, exploring off-trail paths to marvel at the slice of nature Archon Vasely had grown in the stone jungle of the city. Those initial months of physical training were lovely, the kind of rapid progress that makes one think in a few years they’ll be punching trees in half.

After two months I was able to follow a half-minute of the first legato---with generous use of my power, of course---which occasioned a thoughtful nod and smile from Avarus. While I had managed fifteen seconds on my first lesson the legato became increasingly complex the longer it went. Being able to shuffle my feet around in the appropriate rhythm paled in comparison to actually swinging the sword, especially considering the evolution of footwork involved.

I met many of the elder philosophers, a menagerie of twenty odd folk. Most preferred solitude whenever they came to the Gardens. My imagination was filled with thoughts of the secrets they would be able to teach me. I introduced myself to a few but quickly learned that Brother Augur's openness was not the norm among them.

Discouraged, I asked the other disciples how I could earn the elders’ respect. They laughed and told me to let them know when I figured it out.

Not to say that I learned nothing. Far from it. While no one seemed impressed enough with me for individual lessons they would hold impromptu lessons and debates on a variety of topics. I listened to a thorough analysis of the aqueducts and sewage system of Odena; an impassioned deconstruction of Yanesai’s Analects that lasted for hours; an epic poem about the Tragedy of Aleras, a man who was perfect and was slaughtered by his neighbors because of it; and a dozen other eclectic tales and entreaties. The worst of them was an explanation about the meaning of metaphysics that concluded the meaning could not be explained.

There was no obvious pattern or structure to our education. The philosophers just rambled about whatever they felt like sharing. Somehow I began to make sense of the chaos, their stilted language slowly becoming comprehensible. To my surprise I even found myself gaining some insights.

Lakken was my favorite philosopher, an ancient man who spent his days on a cushion in front of a roaring fire and the only one besides Augur who seemed to enjoy speaking with me. Crescents of yellowed sclera peeked out from beneath his perpetually drooping eyelids. The palsy had claimed his hands, contorting them into twitching claws he kept folded on his lap. His granddaughter Elys stayed at his side, always rubbing ointments into his misshapen fingers or singing or cooking.

Despite his poor health he spoke with vigor. He must have commanded quite an audience in his youth. He claimed he was a great warrior up until a decade ago, though rumor had him to be over a century old. He taught the secrets to long living are daily walks and red wine with meals, encouraging me to spend more time around the city to absorb its odd culture.

I liked him most of all because of the stories he told. My tutors had taught me some of them but his versions differed from the official histories in subtle ways, revealing flaws in their narratives I had never before considered.

“We believe we are the crown of creation,” Lakken told me one day. He let out a parched cough and Elys brought a flagon of wine to his lips. He drank deeply, his wizened face radiating pleasure. He nodded and his granddaughter returned to tending the fire.

“Ha. The Goetia precede us by a thousand thousand years. First the Increate shaped their realm from air and fire, the esoteric elements. Long after that He created our world from water and earth, populating it with countless races, many of them superior to mankind. The Goetia were intrigued by our diametric universe and some of them decided they preferred it to Desolada. They enslaved our ancestors because we are a feeble race, our minds easily shaped. The perfect servants, emotional enough to be manipulated and logical enough to accept our fate.”

“Until the Archons came and freed us,” I said.

The old man smiled, displaying his set of wooden teeth. “According to the clergy. They would have us believe mankind has conquered a great empire. The Civilized Lands, we call it. The sun shines brighter here, we are closer to the heavens. In truth the world is far more vast than you could ever imagine. I will make you prove this to yourself. Have you heard of the Corruption of Arostara?”

I shook my head. I had heard the name before, one of the Great Cities lost centuries ago. An arctic deadzone. Everett had mentioned it to me before as one of the great mysteries of the modern world. It existed, in a sense, far to the northeast, silhouettes of buildings encased within a colossal glacier. Supposedly Winter, most powerful of the Archons, had frozen the city for all eternity. No one knew why.

With an effort Lakken lifted a trembling hand. Elys clasped it and helped him to his feet, wrapping her other arm around his waist for support.

“Come inside, come inside. My knees hate this snow.”

Slowly he hobbled towards his home. It was the largest building in the Gardens, a show of respect to the eldest philosopher. It would have barely passed as a servant’s house in the city but here it was the closest thing to a palace.

The interior was just as sparse as any other philosopher’s home. The greatest luxury was the featherbed tucked into the corner. Beside it was a plush cushion where I assumed Elys slept, close by in case he needed anything in the night. Along one wall was a bookcase, carved from the bone-white wood of one of the iridescent trees, containing hundreds of thin tomes in identical leather binding. The main area branched off into a small room, containing a chair and a wooden desk topped with writing utensils.

Lakken led us toward the bookcase and ran his fingers along the collection, peering at the titles written in small golden script. I wasn’t familiar with the language; even the letters appeared slightly warped, as if the alphabet was some foreign corruption of my native language.

“Here we are.” The old man tapped one of the tomes and Elys grabbed it. She handed to me and flipped to a page in one smooth motion, seemingly at random. For the first time I noticed there was a disconcerting fluidity to the way she moved, an almost unnatural grace. I had never focused on her much because she remained silent, her eyes averted, but she must have been a full-fledged philosopher in her own right.

She passed me the book. Unlike the lettering on the spine, the contents were written in Avanchean, the primary language shared in the delta of land between Velassa, Odena, and Mosatte.

The Corruption of Arostara

In the city of Arostara they observed no festivals, no shabbath or religious rites. For three centuries Archon Tenlas ruled, and not once did a priest bless a newborn or sing the final hymn to those near the gates of Death. The clergy were not to step foot within the city at all.

None of these ceremonies had been devised by the Increate, he decreed. Each ritual was dedicated to the Goetia and only served to strengthen the lunar gods.

At winter solstice the rest of mankind would paint runes of health and fortune on their walls. All would gather in the streets to dance for the souls of the departed. The rich would leave carafes of wine at their doorstep; the poor would leave bowls of water; and those with nothing would leave a thimble of blood. They would feast late into the night, on suckling pig, or boiled pheasant, or on warm memories.

In Arostara they would go to sleep early.

The city was near the Frontier, ever besieged by the minions of the Goetia and the countless other enemies of man. To light a candle for the dead would draw their attention. To wish for joy and peace would open your heart to their influence. There was no worship in Arostara, no one to be more revered than Tenlas the Iconoclast.

Then, on the winter solstice of the three hundredth year of his reign, when the moon reached its zenith and cast its foul light all throughout the world, every citizen woke in unison. All of Arostara gathered in the streets and started dancing, wild and panicked. Their mouths gibbered dark words in forbidden languages. They were puppets, one and all possessed by the pallid splendor of the moon, trapped within their corrupted flesh.

They did not pray for salvation. They did not know how.

Tenlas watched from his castle, high above those lost and frantic souls. He entered his Aspect and water flooded through the streets, sweeping some off their feet, on occasion swelling to great waves that crushed his citizens to death. Still they whirled and flailed and sang, unseen tears melding with the snow.

Angered, the Iconoclast descended among his people. They ignored his commands, praising the children of Desolada in the high tongue of Hell. He walked amongst them, demanding answers, and when none came he agitated the water in their bodies until they bled from their eyes and their ears and their mouths.

From each corpse would sprout a single white rose, and so it was that Tenlas knew who had come to Arostara.

In the middle of the city was a Fountain, and within it a massive statue depicting the Iconoclast, sword held aloft, pointing toward the heavens. Only, now the statue was different. It wore no clothes and had no face; the upraised hand grasped only emptiness. The water of the Fountain had now become blood, gathered from the covenant of those who had nothing else to offer.

In front of the Fountain stood an abomination in a child’s skin, clad all in white. His eyes were completely devoid of color, staring into the infinite. Venom dripped from his fingers, this too a brilliant white, speckling the snow at his feet and birthing plumes of sulphurous smoke. An intricate seal blazed upon his brow, and along its borders was the name S I T R I.

Leave now, in the name of our Father, said Tenlas. From his scabbard he withdrew Demiurge, forged from the void between the stars. His people cavorted around them, divine in their suffering.

The Child whispered to him clever words. Words that cannot be committed to paper lest they tempt even the most pure. For a day and a night he talked, Tenlas absorbing each and every word without comment. The people of Arostara danced and danced, feet bleeding and black from the cold, until their hearts stopped and they found the sweetest mercy of all.

When the child’s mouth finally stopped moving the Iconoclast fell to his knees, head bowed. Sitri touched him on the brow and there appeared a sigil. Hand in hand they walked into the Fountain and disappeared.

Winter, most blessed of the heavens, came to Arostara too late to help, since Tenlas had been too proud to contact the others. He wept when he saw the bodies, fifty thousand men and women and children, preserved in the blood-black snow. From each of them sprouted a single white rose.

I looked up from the page, unsure what to think of the story. The Church acknowledged the existence of the Goetia, the dark children born when the Increate cast the evil out of His heart. There had been stories about their appearance in this world, summoned with rings of salt and occult runes. The ones I heard were allegories meant for children. People blamed them for distant plagues and outbursts of violence in small communities.

They were the answer the clergyman gave when nonbelievers asked why there was evil in the world if the Increate formed us from his love.

“What is wrong with this story?” said Lakken.

“It’s impossible for anyone besides Winter to know what happened there. He completely sealed the city in ice.”

“You know so little yet you use words like ‘impossible’. The human understanding of reality is so limited, so narrow.” The passion on the old man’s face surprised me. “We cannot even begin to conceive of the truth, the same way a grain of sand cannot imagine what it is like to be a human. The first step to developing the soul of a philosopher is to realize you know nothing. Question every thought you have.”

I tapped the book with my fingers as if trying to summon the meaning of the story from the page. The entire tale had a sort of eerie mysticism to it. What sort of power did the Goetia wield, to make men into slaves and alter reality at will? I still knew little about magic powers but at least they seemed to be associated with some sort of element or concept, something recognizably native to the world. Time, sound, flames---all existed in accordance with the will of the Increate. The power of the Goetia was a sort of perversion, warping the natural order to suit their desires.

But that couldn’t be the answer Lakken was looking for. His tirade was focused on making me think differently, to search for cracks in the foundation of my worldview. The philosophers loved to point out our inherent biases, to question every presupposition. I mentally divided the story into characters, actions, motivations, then pieced them back together into chimeras.

The problem was Sitri. I knew he was one of the Goetia but could not remember anything about him in particular. He was a Prince of Desolada and historically known for making trouble along the Frontier. The story could very well be true, at least partially. His sixty legions of demons had not marched against mankind since around the time of the Freezing of Arostara. He was little more than a paragraph in the history books, another foe vanquished by the Archons.

As soon as that thought crossed my mind it seemed obvious. “Sitri is only a Prince. One of the most powerful of them, but all of the Dukes and Kings are a tier above. He was still able to corrupt Archon Tenlas.”

“And why does that matter?” Lakken gestured and Elys took the book from my hands, replacing it on the bookshelf.

“If one of the Princes can defeat one of the Archons then how did mankind ever gain their independence? There are seventy-seven of the Goetia and only eleven Archons. For the past thousand years the Civilized Lands have only been growing. How?”

Lakken chuckled. “How, indeed?”