Prologue

Excerpt from the bookscroll, Twilight of the Sirionean Empire vol. 2

by

☼ Sienna Veris, the Scholar of Dawn.'

"Executus Vidhar eth. Ma'skri toll Ma'tuum Blacktongue sondr Arahan'kar Jaka."

These were the words I saw that day on the message board near my home in the demin quarter where I still lived despite having moved up in the world.

It merely reads, execution by royal decree. Challenge duel, Ma'tuum Blacktongue versus the Arahani Heir Jaka. As you may know by now, this Jaka is the very same one we met in the opening pages of vol.1, but he had grown considerably since then. He was my dear friend, and dared I hope... something more?

Such aspirations were rather lofty for a demin streetrat such as myself, all things considered. Yet nevertheless those were my feelings at the time.

When I saw my Jak pitted against his own master, the Legendary Blacktongue, the high general of the Sirionean Army, my heart quivered in my chest. My rather small chest. I considered, not for the first time, why Jak went out of his way to ignore the fulsom serving maids that threw themselves at him every time I visited him.

Perhaps they did that exactly because I was visiting him? Either way, I had no way of knowing whether or not he indulged when I was not around. A fact which, at the time, was particularly irksome to me.

I later wrote a poem about this. It seems to have gotten rather popular lately within the Dorwinian courts, you may have heard of it. Sometimes I wish I didn't write that thing.

In any case, I knew at once where to go when I saw that message. I'd awakened at midday as was usual for me at the time, so I made sure to wrap myself in a Hrakash to avoid getting blasted too severely by the sun, then hurried on my way to the neutral square, the intersection of the four main quarters. I managed to make use of demin streetwiz' to sneak my way past most of the crowd, ending up near the front of the noisy press of people.

At the center of the square knelt a man, naked except for a loincloth, his skin nearly bubbling in the heat. That skin was light brown, suggesting a mix with a foreigner. He was like so many others in the outer quarters, and nearly all demins were like him too. Most puredarks shunned us lightskins, as they called us, but Jak did not seem to care either way. It would've been strange for him to harbor such prejudices in any case. Even if he was still mostly human, he was already paler than anyone else in Sirion sans the odd visiting Dorwinian noble.

That's why when I spotted him walking steadily towards the kneeling man, a lump formed in my throat. I knew that this day had to come for my Jaka, for he was the heir, not just of the Arahani line but the heir to the seat of Sirion. He was the next son of the Golden palace.

If one were to be executed by royal decree, it was only fair that the sentencer be the executioner. It was one of the many things that made the Sirionean Empire different. The rulers and powers that be took a rather direct approach to running their empire. Ruling by the strength of individuals much more so than nowadays, something which was to eventually spell the downfall of the greatest Empire that ever existed. We sometimes referred to ourselves as the Sun'klah Mel'inah, The Millenial Empire of the Sun. It was a nomenclature more commonly used at the time, though people now use the Hourglass empire, or merely the Sirionean Empire, to refer to us.

Jak approached the kneeling prisoner, and a hush fell over the crowd as they laid eyes on the elusive heir. His unnaturally pale face, courtesy of his oft cursed mother, his eyepatch, his long black hair falling like a cape down his back, he was one to stand out even amongst the most beautiful, the most powerful. So you can imagine what ordinary street rabble would think upon seeing the tall and striking figure of my Jaka walking towards them so calmly.

Nearly as eye-catching as his odd appearance was his royal Hri'gah and Ar'gah. Black, runeinscribed clothes that hugged the body tightly around the midsection, but flared out dramatically at the extremities, flowing eleganty with every move.

The main embroidery on the chest depicted a white sun rising over a golden palace, the millenia old symbol of the mighty Sirionean Empire. A symbol only royalty were allowed to wear, display and use.

That is why we still fear publicly displaying the symbol of a sunrise over a golden palace today and even the most daring of painters have qualms about sunrises. I have yet to see a painting featuring a sunrise in the Dorwinian courts, but perhaps this too will change with time. The dread connected with that symbol, the fear, still rings true for many people though.

As long as the legend of the mighty Empire and it's overpowering Master mages of the seven towers are told as tales to frighten children, this will remain so.

Having met the man personally, I can see why people would invoke Blacktongue's name to frighten children to bed at night. Standing well over 2 meters tall, black as charcoal, bald, huge black beard with streaks of white cutting through it like the lightning for which he was renowned, he is an image that Dorwinians have readily adopted to replace their rather paltry idea of a boogeyman.

When they hear thunder in the skies at night, they tell tales of Blacktongue's battles, conquests and Ma'skri challenge duels.

I looked up briefly, at the real structure towering in the background as it always did. No matter were you were in Heabury, you'd always be able to see the Golden Palace and the sun reflecting off of its huge golden domes. My Desert Prince lived up there.

Several people swallowed and took a couple of steps back when they saw the Arahani Heir walking steadily towards the prisoner, but I drew closer. Jaks eye widened as he spotted me, but he quickly refocused his gaze on the prisoner. I thought I detected a bit of annoyance in his gaze. Perhaps he did not want me to be here?

Regardless, events proceeded as they were fated to, and the man was executed. Sure, it was brutal, but I had seen worse even back then. Jaka traced a pale white digit across the kneeling mans forehead, the air sizzled and became momentarily hazy as if distorted by the heat.

Then the man started screaming and the symbol carved on his forehead glowed a bright red, gradually turning white. His skin bubbled and sizzled, finally cracking apart like the skin on an overcooked sausage to reveal burned, smoking flesh beneath.

It was one of the ancient execution rituals of the Arahani house. Death by Inner fire. Under normal circumstances, this was a ritual used upon advancement into the upper ranks of the Arahani. A test of sorts to prove that you have mastery over the flames of destruction. To anyone but a well trained mage, it was a death sentence. Smoke rose from the mans contorting, writhing, screaming form. His flesh blackened, his eyes went a pure white, bulging grotesquely until finally he went still, a smoldering, charred corpse lying in the silence, amidst a crowd of half horrified, half fascinated demins.

In the silence that followed the gruesome execution, white flames quietly flowed forth from Jaka's outstretched hand, consuming the mans charred remains and leaving nothing behind. My heart beat frantically in my chest and I realized I had been holding my breath when I felt slightly lightheaded.

I gulped down a lungful of scorching Sirionean desert air before turning my gaze to Jaka. How can I describe his expression then? It was bordering on disgust with his crinkled nose and narrowed eye. Many would interpret that expression as contempt for the man he had just executed in cold blood, but I knew Jak. That expression was contempt for himself, just as much as it was contempt for the criminal he had executed.

Yes, it may surprise you to hear of this oft villified character as someone who was a contrarian in a way. At the very least, he often privately expressed to me the doubts he felt about certain directions his father was giving, of his dissatisfaction with the nobles at court. He only did this because he trusted me completely, and I him aswell.

The only reason why I now write of these events is because a dead person cannot die again and the Empire no longer stands... I miss you, Jaka. Twilight to my Dawn.

Introduction to the bookscroll, The Heir of nothing.

by

☼ Sienna Veris, Scholar of Dawn.'

Like the desert twisters scorching air, he was the Prince. He was the heir. They dueled atop the marble square, on pillars neither here nor there. Arcane magic tore through the air, sizzling my long brown hair.

I was but a girl back then, young and wry and often hungry, dirty always but never more, than the next door city whore. I met him on an uneventful, boring day. A day where I'd received no pay. My feet in the sandals stung, but he came, he saw, he said "Come on."

"What get?'" Said I, in my dirty pauperonian. It mattered not to the young Sirionean, for he slid down beside me, arm round my back.

"Hide me quick! pretend I'm your brother, just like a common demin streetrat." Whoosh, wrap. The cloak fell snap, joining together a prince and a pauper. A dirty little streetrat, and a softsoled royal marblewalker.

My stomach grumbled, he heard it so. Danger passed, and he let go. That was it, I thought. But nay, mischief he wrought! The little prince I knew not then, dragged me along to "Wherehen?"

"To get you a bath, of course." He replied, little remorse, true and tried. He took me to a drapecloth then, fed me meat, figs and naked men.

At first I thought oh no he's gay, but then the girls sprang forth whay hay! Smiling, laughing and giggling ensued, as our eyes the dancers pursued.

Truth be truth, I saw that day, with eyes of a noble, not one born of clay. He became my friend, my childhood friend, and thus we met again and again. He snuck out, we snuck away. The guards they searched for us night and day.

That prince I knew so well, so well, now stood atop a ma'skri pillar, facing off against a brutal killer. The Thunder king Ma'tuum blacktongue, the centennial general. Mightiest of mortals, and conqueror of the 7 towers.

Once I came upon the scene I nearly let fly a frightful, soundless scream. My little prince, my softsoled Jak, there he was for all to see, atop the pillar ma'skri. The famous Dorwinian court plays say, the sky turned black that fateful day. Alas truth was not as the tales say, for I was there... that awful day...

The sky was red.

It was yellow.

It was blue. It was white and green and purple too.

Rainbow bursts of flame soared high, burning and burning, churning and churning, a giant tornado surrounding us all, surrounding the city, the wall, all. We heard it then, the piercing cry, of phoenix flames, of burning sky, and it made every mouth dry.

"That's it!" Said I, my tongue twice curled. "That's Arahan's record of the Burning World!" My Jak directed the chorus of flames and his blazing hands made the phoenix dance.

The flames they clashed with white flashes, lightning lashes. Thunder rumbles and Blacktongue yells, the world turns white and eardrums pop, what a fright.

I feel the blood seeping, see children weeping, and on the pillar I spot my Jak. A hole through his chest, blood down his back. Like master, like pupil it seemed to me. A draw thus ended, their first Ma'skri.

--

The second never came.

Nor did Jak again. T'was the last day I saw my prince, my softsoled marblewalking little prince. The heir is recuperating, the guards would say. Liar! I yell. They take me away.

Warning of the coming storm, I leave for port the coming morn.

Traditions lost, books burned, ancient knowledge forever spurned. It began with fire, the great Sirionean, all dominating desert creating pyre. And it ended thusly just aswell, t'was the great Empire's deathknell.

The crackling of the burning books, dangling corpses on rusty hooks. The yellow streets of Heabury proper, colored red with human copper.

S.V, Author note:

How this came to be is the subject of my series on the Twilight of the Sirionean Empire, but it is a fitting introduction to Jaka nonetheless, since he is intimately connected to the fall of the Sirionean Empire. This book is about Jaka though, the heir, the person. My memories of him. We start at the beginning, our first meeting...