Prologue
At the very top of a mountain shrouded in dark clouds was a
city, the capital of a kingdom called Eldore. It had rained for a thousand
years, with no indication it would ever stop. Centuries ago the city was cursed
by Cai, a god torn from the mortal woman he loved by Death and the borders that
limited his influence outside the kingdom he called home. The other gods
refused to allow the lovers to reunite after her death, and in his grief and
anger, the once loving god turned his sorrow into a curse.
Clouds formed over the mountain and the plains on the first
day, dark clouds filled to bursting with Cai’s tears. Those raindrops fell onto
the city and continued to fall as the god cried for his beloved wife, withheld
from him by the jealousy of his brethren. Over time the clouds shrank as Cai’s
power diminished, until only the mountain was subjected to his curse.
The mountain’s name had been lost to time, and the records on
which that name was inscribed had long since succumbed to must and mold and damp.
The city perched on its crest was called Var Eldore. Like all cities on
mountains, the wealthy lived at the peak while those with less struggled closer
to the bottom. Unlike all other cities on mountains, there was a slightly more
practical reason for this than simple ego or even defense. It was the rain. The
rain flooded the lowlands beneath the mountain. The poor built their homes upon
stilts of stone, while the rich built elaborate systems to divert the water
from one place to another.
The rainwater eventually made its way to the plains below the
mountain. The plains muddied and sank and became a marsh, a cold, harsh place
where little life grew. What life there was came in dangerous forms. Large
beasts of claw and tooth and pebbled leather hide. For the most part,
carnivores roamed the thick swamp. Stretching farther from the marsh, the
plains took hold again. The great beasts were present there as well, but tamed
by the efforts of those who dwelt on the plains. A people apart from their pale
neighbors on the mountain, the Ruvi were gypsies and nomads with dark skin and
hair the color of blood. Legend told of the time when the mountains to the far
east split open to allow passage, and these strangers came to the plains.
The winds swept the grasses and drew music from the reeds at
the edge of the swamp. Sunlight warmed the plains, and the Ruvi kept their
herds in peace. They traded east and west, and even with the city, though Var
Eldore was a dangerous place for a Ruvi to go. Slave markets abounded in the
lower city, called the Mire by those who lived there, and the traders weren’t
particularly choosy about where their wares came from. They raided the plains
and stole children from their beds. The small settlements on the edge of the
swamp were all fair game to those vile men with their vile trade. Farther up
the mountain, slums and slave markets gave way to taverns and tradesmen, and
farther still were the fine shops where petty nobles and wealthy merchants
spent their coin.
It was also there, in the highest reaches of the city, where
the guild of magic resided. Many such guilds dotted the city landscape. There
were those traditional edifices for carpenters and wheelwrights, bakers and smiths
in Blathe’s Row, but in the Palace Green, in the shadow of the Royal Castle,
the Mage Guild stood as testament to the power and influence of magic.
For every guild there were guild lords. The Mage Guild had
nine, though the trade guilds were limited to three. These lords were powerful,
wealthy and influential. Through the guilds the people of the city felt
security, and over all of this was the king. Every profession had its guild,
and every member had protection.
Except not every member was equal. Certainly in trade there
were those merchants with more power than others. There would always be a
better blacksmith and a smarter alchemist. In magic, however, it was different.
There was magic that killed, magic that healed. Magic to build and protect. For
each of those schools there were those guild members that stood out. Sentinels
who watched and worked closely with the King’s Watch, the city’s erstwhile
police force; Enforcers who dealt out justice with the Crown’s grace and no
trial; Healers who could knit bone and blood with a touch;
Artificers who made armor and weapons of magic.
Yet these masters of the arcane were only a handful in
comparison to the numbers boasted by the guilds of trade and craft. These more
mundane men and women kept their heads out of palace politics and avoided
places like the Mage Guild and the dangerous wizards it bred. They worked in
their forges and shops and simply tried to make a living in a cursed city.
It was at such a shop, on a particularly foul-weathered day,
winter beginning to settle in on the mountain, that a man stood by a window
staring out at the sky and the dark clouds that still hovered over the
mountain.
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