Prologue
THE WIND BLEW NORTH. A harsh wind, steady and strong, it blew with a ferocity born of desperation. It swept forward, over ground long forgotten. It ignored the vast ruins, the sandy dunes and scattered wooden beams. It pressed, with a slow, heavy strength.
There was no movement. As the wind reached a series of hills, carving valleys deep into the landscape, it made a quiet whistle. A sad, tuneless sound, it was carried on the wind for miles all around. There was no response, had been no response for a long time.
The Mourning Mountains, they were called. Deep, in their bones, the rocks knew that. The wind knew them by a different name; Remembrance. It tangled itself in the twists and turns and it listened. It listened for a hint of direction, of what it had been, before.
The sun beat hot here, at the end of its shackle. Summer, in full force, dried the air and cracked the ground. Any moisture left had been carried over the mountains long ago, creating an odd duality; desolate on one side of the range, green and fertile the other.
The wind blew east. It moved in powerful gusts, carrying the land with it. This wind had fire, a storm of passion, of fury that would not be contained. It scorned the world around it, shoved at the confines of its cage.
Eventually, it came to a shore. Distantly it heard the caw of seagulls, fishing for food in the ocean. It heard, and it responded, chasing the waves out to sea, chasing itself, blinded by its sudden hope. It found nothing, would never find anything.
The Great Sea, though some had argued that title belonged west. But the sea knew. It knew it by the depth of its floor and the weight of its waters. A great mass, a body larger, more ponderous, than any other; the wind could not move it. It pleaded, begged, dancing in the waves, to no avail.
The moon’s shackle was different. It carried no extremes, yet the crisp chill of autumn did little to avail the land it covered. There was nothing for it to help, no remnant of spring to be carried along the wind’s wake.
The wind blew west. Tentatively, mistrusting fate, it peered into the distance, reaching outwards. It claimed nothing, brought nothing with it. It longed for something just out of reach. It glided, disturbing nothing, lest it change what little remained.
It blew for an age, never rushing, never changing its speed. It savoured uncertainty, a euphoria born from the certainty of failure. It came to a quiet sea, spilling out across it like a warm blanket over a bed.
The Calm Sea, named for its gentleness, for a passive fulfilment of nature. Yet the Sea was restless, easily stirred. It rocked under the gentle touch of the wind. Here, though, the wind rested; the secret fear it had held dearest for so long finally come to fruition. It waited, with no expectations.
Spring, here, at the other pole of the moon. Gentle, rejuvenating; the land was not quite as desolate here, wasn’t as desperate. The wind knew spring, could taste its sweetness in the air. But there was no respite for the land it nurtured, no strong warmth or wintry rest to balance. Nothing grew here anymore.
The wind blew south. It blew with the despair of a cornered animal, a fierce, berserk, strength that yielded for nothing. It had nowhere else to turn, and even in the knowledge that finally, finally, it would define its prison, it this gave all its strength. It forced; the power of an angry god behind it.
It traversed the plains quickly, sweeping rubble and sand in its wake. It collected masonry, struts and beams; the remnants of a past better forgotten. It threw them at the walls, the high hills that rose against it, dashed them to pieces in twisting valleys and deep ravines
These mountains, though, were not in mourning. These had a different purpose, and to them the wind gave a different name. Salvation, for those they protected, and for the promise, one day, of freedom. The wind spent itself battering against the rocky peaks. It hammered, bashed, relentlessly and mercilessly attacked the land itself, past anger, past time, till it itself was a part of its prison.
Winter, along the sun’s beam; a cold sun, was recluse and uncaring. There was sharpness, here, a taste of metal. There was no snow, or ice, there was no water. There hadn’t been water in the Whispering Wastes for a thousand years.
Then, from the North, the wind felt something new. Something it had been waiting for, without knowing it. A dark-blue ear heard the whispers, conjured and carried by the wind. An argent-clad hoof stepped in the misty valleys of the Mourning Mountains. The wind listened, and heard magic.