The Edge of a World, page 1
JD RIVERS
Copyright © 2024 by J. D. Rivers / JD Rivers
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by German copyright law. For permission requests, contact jd-rivers@suitamoi.de.
The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.
ISBN: 978-3-9826359-0-3 (ebook), 978-3-9826359-1-0 (paperback)
Book Cover by planetsandmagic
Type setting (cover & book) by Hermit
1st edition 2024
For David.
Without you this book would have taken so much longer.
Chapter 1
Perad, the 2nd
Aaoran-peras,
How many turns has it now been since we last saw each other? I stopped counting them. I rise when the sun rises and sleep when it gets too dark to see. The turns are just drifting past. Since my last letters, many turns have walked the Seven Lands. I’m alive and as well as one can expect.
I have set out to map the ruins of the Ancients in the southern jungles, that grow along the mountain ridges. It’s a tedious task, and yet one I enjoy, hopefully it gives us a clearer picture of these long-lost ancestors.
Since I left this morning, I have been followed by a flock of birds, which the locals named Lopi, because of their distinctive “lopi-lopi” call. I wonder if you have ever seen them on your travels.
The little birds, smaller than the palm of my hands, glint like jewels when they flutter around in the sun rays that find their way through the thick canopy. They are flighty birds, one could say, but very curious. I left them a few crumbs from my dinner last night, and now they probably hope for more.
Don’t laugh at what I say next, but I find them comforting company. At least they are happier companions than my yardar. The bird beast is as full-tempered as always. The southern jungle is relentless and understandably hard on a creature used to the drier steppe climates.
There is not much I can report back to you; the last turns have been less exciting than I hoped they could be.
The same locals that told me about the bird also pointed me in the approximate direction of a hill structure that was too regular to be entirely natural. Together with the tidbits of a local legend, their claim that there was more hidden under the dirt rang true. And yet, upon further exploration, it was nothing more than a gigantic heap of dirt and stone. There are traces that could make it promising to dig deeper but would need an entire excavation troop, and I’m only one man. The jungle, thick and lush, has overgrown the hill, guarding what is hidden underneath—I won’t be the person to pry its secrets away.
After that disappointment, I found myself at a crossroad. I could press on and find the forgotten tidbits that the jungle is keen on obscuring, but I’m tired of sweating through my clothing with no payoff. Also, I fear any longer and the yardar will just walk away. There is that glint in its eyes again.
The same locals who told me about the dirt hill and the birds told me about another legend. It’s not a local one, but it’s a ghost story that centers on the mountain range to the east. Similarities in their retelling with other legends lead me to believe that there is a yet undiscovered ruin hidden in those mountains.
I have set out to inspect it. There is also hope that I will come across a settlement with some traveling merchant who will transport my letters and notebooks to Rasanell and leave them at the university until you’re able to retrieve them, just like we said when I set out for the first time.
I wish I had more answers to all our questions, but as always, the Ancients have left nothing behind besides stones and more stones and more questions.
I’m close to the southern island territory where you told me your community resides. Traveling alone differs from traveling with someone at your side, I have learned. It’s different and seldom better, but you would know even better than me. You have traversed the Seven Lands more often and longer than I have been born. So I’ll quit my maudlin thoughts here and close the letter with a few sketches of the hill in the jungle and what I found buried in the sand, because—
Otar squinted into the fading light. Unnoticed to him, the night had crept in, and he now had trouble making out the lines he was writing. He put the pen down and closed the inkwell. A slight breeze drifting in from the open window brought the leafy and damp smell of the early night.
He had arrived at this place, Piskus, five turns ago. Where he had hoped to find a small settlement, he had instead found a bustling village sitting on a salt-trade route from a mine that was just a few miles away. Merchants came through here often enough that it even warranted an inn, which unfortunately for him was fully booked. Yet the locals had been gracious to give him a modest hut that currently stood empty. They told him the previous tenant had died of old age in his sleep, and no one had claimed it yet. Despite the size, it was comfortable: it had a small fireplace, blackened from the many winters of use it must have seen; it had a rather lumpy bed, which was still better than the bare ground he had been sleeping on for most of his current travels; and it had a table, a chair, and a tiny trunk where he stored his things.
When Otar revealed he was a traveling scholar, the folks were very excited. Question after question they asked: about Rasanell, the Crown Jewel of the Wooden Lands; about the Southern Islands and their swimming cities; about the endless steppe and the Black Mountains; about the deep jungles and the monsters that lived in them; about how blue the Blue Mountains really were; and about many more peculiar places. Otar had tried to answer them as best as he could, and they listened to each of his words with such a rapt attention that it made him uncomfortable.
Being in the middle of things wasn’t his preferred way to be. His mentor, Aaoran, was the opposite. They loved being the center of every gathering, but Otar escaped as fast as he could without appearing rude.
He rose from the chair, his stiffened muscles protesting, and went over to the tiny nightstand, nothing more than a wooden stool, and fetched the oil lamp. Once lit, he carried it over to the table before sitting down again and taking back up the pen.
He scribbled down a few more lines to complete the tales of his travels to Piskus, before throwing sand over the fresh ink and tapping it off after a few small-turns. It would have to do, he decided, and judging by the encroaching night, he had to hurry. The merchant willing to take on his letters and notebooks would leave early in the morning and, therefore, retire soon.
Otar folded and sealed the letter and added it to the others in the small package that also held his already filled notebooks and other reports he had made. It wasn’t easy parting with them, but carrying them around and losing them in an accident would be even more devastating.
Carefully folding the wax cloth closed, he tightly bound it and checked to ensure it was secured as needed. The merchant he had bought the cloth from many turns ago had raised his eyebrow at the amount Otar had requested, but he was determined that every book was bound in its own sheet before wrapping it all together with a last layer. Better to be safe than lose any of it, as scholars have gone mad after finding their life’s work destroyed. Otar checked the parcel one last time, and finding it sufficiently prepared, took it and slipped it into his thin overcoat and hurried out.
He walked down the small path that led to the local inn, which also functioned as the tavern. It was simply a glorified drinking hole, because, despite the trading route, there wasn’t enough traffic in these regions to warrant a proper guest house. The three rooms were plenty for the traveling merchants and salt miners on the lookout for labor.
Laughter grew louder the closer he got. As the harvest was going well, the villagers were in good spirits as the summer had been generous this year. Otar slipped in through the door and waved at a few people, who raised their mugs in greeting. He ignored their requests to join them and made a beeline for a corner table at which the merchant Bedaran was currently eating.
Bedaran’s hair was in one full braid down their back, and they wore the typical flowy garb of a shimmery midnight-colored fabric that the southern islands favored and the style his mentor Aaoran wore. For a southerner, their occupation was atypical. They’d explained it to Otar two nights ago as they lay together that they came from a family of weavers, but that they had no sense for the artistry needed. So, making themselves useful, they traded their family’s tapestries and from there, their business grew. They had come here to check if investing in the salt trade was feasible.
Bedaran and Otar bonded over their shared stories from traveling through the Seven Lands, and how they both had differed from their families, seeking their fortunes elsewhere. The nights spent in mutual comfort had been a change of pace for Otar, and he was sad to see them go now that they had finished their business with the villagers.
Otar waited at the side of the table; even if they had found companionship in each other, he would never presume—being invited to eat was a privilege, not a right.
Bedaran paused eating and looked up, then smiled and inclined their head. Smiling back, Otar settled into the empty chair opposite them. He took out the small parcel and placed it on the table. Bedaran grabbed it without commenting and hid it in the many folds of their garm
The daughter of the tavern owner brought Otar’s own meal and a mug of the local ale, a slightly too bitter brew. It was this or water, and Otar never much cared for the latter.
They ate in silence. The carousing of the locals ebbed and flowed around them like the waves of a sea. One merchant was playing a fiddle, and the rest were singing rowdy songs about their wild and amorous nights. The atmosphere reminded Otar of the steppe riders, who always laughed and sang when eating in front of the communal fire. Their songs had probably been as unruly as the locals’ but Otar couldn’t be sure because no one had ever explained them to him and had only laughed when he asked after them—maybe he had been too young. They had also traded stories and anything that had happened over the turn, calling to each other across the fire sparks dancing into the sky. There was a twinge in his chest at the memories, a mix of fondness and melancholy. Otar tried his best to ignore it.
After they finished, Bedaran walked them out and then around the building to a small pathway hidden in the darkness. They hadn’t been overly open about their liaison, because Bedaran felt uncomfortable about it, so they kept to the shadows.
“I’ll retire soon, so this will be our parting.” Bedaran’s eyes were dark fathomless pools, but they were smiling.
Once more Otar would miss the simple joy and the comfort they found in each other, although it had never been a grand love story. The monster inside him reared its head, unwilling to let the other go, but for once Otar had a tight grip on it.
“Safe travels.” Otar raised his hands, drew Bedaran’s face to him, and kissed them first on their eyelids and then on the lips—the traditional gesture of parting when leaving a loved one on the southern islands. Bedaran mirrored the gesture.
“Until we meet again. May you find whom you are searching for,” Bedaran said with a teasing smile.
Otar rolled his eyes fondly. Then Bedaran was gone, the laughter spilling out into the air as they returned to the tavern and then became muffled as the door swung shut behind them.
Loneliness gripped him. For a moment he even considered going back inside as well, absorbing the energy of the surrounding people, letting himself drift in the crowd, but the more he thought about it, the more he found he didn’t have the patience.
Instead, he turned away from the tavern, hoping to return to the small cabin and plan his next foray into the mountains. He wanted to find that ruin. Just as he was stepping onto his path, he bumped into someone and lost his balance. Strong hands grabbed him, saving Otar from an ungraceful tumble to the ground. Moonlight hit light hair and blue eyes—the village elder’s youngest son, Marit.
“Master Otar,” the youth stuttered, his hands still on Otar’s waist. “I’m sorry,” he said with a blush.
Otar sighed and took a step back so that Marit’s hand dropped away. The boy, not yet a man, was infatuated with him, which was partly sweet and partly annoying. This was one of the reasons he hadn’t thought long about Bedaran’s subtle offer and all but jumped into the merchant’s arms—to not give Marit the slightest hope.
“It’s alright, but you’re too close.”
Marit stepped hastily back, his blush deepening.
Distantly, Otar wondered if he had behaved the same with his first infatuation. Perhaps he should ask the next time he saw him … or better not.
Marit shuffled his feet.
Otar resisted the urge to pinch his nose and show his annoyance and instead crossed his arms. “What can I do for you?” he asked. One thing was sure, Marit wasn’t here by accident.
“I thought that … I mean,” Marit scratched his neck, “now that your … lov—friend is gone, I could …”
Points for guts, deduction for not speaking plainly—Otar suppressed a sigh while Marit babbled on, and decided to put him out of his misery.
“Marit, it’s poor form to want to go with someone moments after their lover left.”
Dropping his shoulders, Marit’s gaze shifted towards the ground.
Otar pressed on. “I’ve told you—I’m not interested in you at all.”
Marit probably had latched onto him because he saw something grand in Otar that was different from everyone else in town—but that was just not there. Otar was a scholar, devoted to the Ancients and their ruins. No one could compete against that, and of the few lovers he had even considered being more, most had taken offense at being second to his studies.
With a clenched jaw, Marit hovered for a moment as if he had more to say, but he turned and ran away. Otar shook his head and strongly hoped this would be it.
His hopes were dashed the next morning when Marit arrived at his doorstep carrying the basket with Otar’s breakfast and a letter addressed to him. Normally Marit’s mother, who had taken a shine to Otar and wanted to fatten him up as if he were a plump chicken, would bring him his morning meal.
He scrutinized Marit for a moment and then sighed, hunger and his need for brew to wake him up won out. With reluctance, he moved to the side to let the intruder in.
As soon as Marit stepped over the threshold, he started talking. When he found the table occupied by papers, he put the basket on the trunk and pulled out the small portions of food they preferred for their morning meals in this region, each in a tiny bowl: three different cheese types, freshly grilled summer vegetables, a piece of a honeycomb, and warm fluffy bread. Sitting cross-legged on his bed, Otar ate in silence while Marit kept up his chatter. After finishing, Otar sipped the brew and closed his eyes in bliss for a few small-turns. Brew in these regions was a strong herby mixture, which was close to the ones the steppe riders made.
He sighed to himself.
“Shouldn’t you be out helping with the harvest?” he asked when Marit paused for some air.
“I want to help you,” Marit said instead, and he handed the letter over.
Otar raised an eyebrow at that, turning the letter over. It was from his mentor, Aaoran-peras; he put it to the side for the moment.
Marit’s cheeks turned as red as they had yesterturn evening, but this time, he didn’t run away.
“You have been searching for a way up the mountains these past turns. There are hidden passages, but finding and navigating them is difficult and often very dangerous.” Marit fiddled with the basket handle. “I know them, and I can show you the different ways. I have talked to Father,” he plunged on as Otar opened his mouth with the intention of rejecting him. “He said it’ll be fine. The harvest is nearly done anyway, and they’re okay without me for the time being.”
Considering the offer, Otar pressed his lips together and tapped his fingers on his thighs. Marit was right in one thing: the mountains were inaccessible to him. He had searched at the mountains’ foundation for any sign of the ruin to no avail, and then he had tried to work his way up. They were steep, and he got blocked too often. But he knew they must be there. He felt it. He ignored the shifting feeling inside him, the monster was being restless.
And there was also the case of the ghost.
A guide would be helpful; finding nothing was tiring, and while he had the time, he didn’t have the patience.
He exhaled, and after another small-turn of consideration, slowly nodded.
“As you wish.”
Chapter 2
“They named the village after a fish called Piskus that grows plentiful in the close-by river. They eat the small fish to every meal, cooked in all forms imaginable. It was complicated explaining to them that I don’t eat any type of meat, and I don’t think they fully believe me yet, but as I have eaten all the other plant food they provided they seem somewhat mollified.”
(Chapter: “Piskus”, in: Scholar Otar’s Notebooks, No. 26)
Otar and Marit met up again in the late afternoon. Marit brought the provisions they would need, and they discussed the best route to take where Marit informed him about a small passage to the east they could use as a starting point. Otar had stayed up long into the night, studying the maps to find the best place where an ancient civilization may have once settled.
