“Tell me why should I, Salinor, goddess of all, grant you this request? Who are you to deem yourself worthy of the favour of the gods?”
Atora, a boy of eighteen, looked up at Salinor and couldn’t believe his twist of fate. Had he travelled leagues across land and sea, had he braved the turning of winter for nothing? And now after trekking up the mountain of the gods—the pass of Gai’n—a feat that had killed many a man, he was faced with this. He was even stopped from using his last bit of strength to vault himself from the top of the mountain in an act of self-sacrifice. All this he had done to save his mother, and now he was being denied.
He was stopped from killing himself only so that she could taunt him. Laugh at him as he took his dying breaths. Could the gods really be that cruel? Even still, he came at his mother’s orders, and he’d come too far even for the mother of all to deny him. As long as he breathed, he would fight for his own mother’s life.
“In strength, when I was broken, in faith though doubt was certain, in hope against hope, I believed against all odds that I could save her. Even if it meant the taking of my own life.”
Salinor seemed appeased by this, yet chose not to help regardless.
“If I told you that even life sacrifice wouldn’t ensure your mother’s life, what would you do?”
“My mother, Ronilas, is a great seamstress. Let her make you a dress worthy of the gods. If it is not, then my whole family’s fate is at your hands.” Salinor nodded as if to say that was reasonable before replying, “She shall use the fabric of the gods and make the dress for my daughter.”
It has been said that the material of the gods can only be sewn by the gods. By setting this task, Salinor was sealing Atora’s family to a fate of death. Atora, for his part, showed no hint that it could not be done. So on top of the Jargadine Mountains, home of the gods, the deal was struck. Then Atora went home to his dying mother.
The goddess temporarily healed Atora’s mother to allow her to do the best work she could. And she got to work immediately. On the fourth day, she produced the impossible: a gown so beautiful that Salinor decreed that anything too beautiful for words was equally comparable to Ronilas’ gift. Ronilas not only gave her the dress, but also supplied two more gifts, which showcased the skills of hunting, craftsmanship, and weaponry that she had taught her children.
And so it began. The province from which the family came was named Atorath after Atora. From there, Ronilas and her three children formed an underground alliance to overthrow the magician rule. But first, she had to kill the magician who accidentally poisoned her and refused to rectify the mistake by healing her. Blessed with a new resistance to magic, it was a fair battle.
After travelling to all the neighbouring provinces, training, sharing, and collecting information, it was time for the Alliance to surface. After almost twenty full cycles of the moon, along with the Atorathian peoples’ resistance to magic, she was sure the magicians could be overthrown. But it was not enough. Neither the Alliance or the magician rulers could overpower each other until suddenly the magician in rule was found dead, after thirteen moon cycles of war. It was rumoured that the king’s own brother was the one who took him down. No evidence to support this claim was ever found.
He and Ronilas met and signed a treaty that would provide equal rights for magicians and non-magicians. One that allowed each province to excel in its own unique talents and provide the world of Salinor with an eclecticism that had not been seen before. Magicians would still rule and be the kings or queens, but the new laws were designed to keep a balance. This war was known as “The War of the Beginning,” the dawn of a new age of Salinor. With free learning and equal rights, Salinor developed into a place full of life none could have dreamed of.
But things change.
As time moved on, old jealousies and superiorities arose in new places. Things that were truth became legend. And this new equality was lost to internal politics much deeper than the mere magician versus human dilemma that started the war. In this new world there rose a tyrant. He came to power and ruled Salinor with an iron fist that spawned the rebirth of the Alliance, which was now even more covert since anyone could be the enemy—and this time there was no guarantee they’d win. The new Alliance ruler kept the destruction at bay with the help of key friends, magicians and humans. Together they discovered a lost prophecy, one that could take down the Tyrant. Soon, a plan so dangerous, so covert, that something as small as a blink could bring it crashing down, was formed.
It was 1,008 years later that the first sign came, and the plan was officially set in motion. No one knew when the second sign would appear, and it was ten more years before it came. From then on, it became a chess game with time and lives. 1,018 years of the Tyrant, and 3,008 years after The War of the Beginning, the Alliance was once again on a path to save Salinor. Except this time—they might lose.
No comments:
Post a Comment