Forgotten Wings

Forgotten Wings

There weren’t always dragons in the valley. Nor was there this new dry ecology on the floor between the great peaks that ring the Sage Mountain Caldera. Or the hard reset economy of a once floundering fishing village and the tenuous peace between the old industry and the new steel-glass houses. It’s hard to say which brought more change on its heels, the arrival of the dragons or the aftermath of their battles.

Such questions rarely find satisfaction in the minds of the struggling. Whether by the stubborn grind of pan handle spattered fishing holes or the sharp lessons of learning to work the steel-glass forges, the question, “How did we get here?” tends towards exasperation rather than robust intellectual curiosity. Something to argue about at the tavern after long shifts. Not something to spend productive daylight hours pouring over the Sun Fire Histories in search of the deeper mysteries.

Unless of course, one has the privilege to be taken up eastern slopes of the caldera to Wyrvernbone Tower. The last worshipers of the foul beasts that first scorched the Green Vale fields and lakes, still praying for their return. Still studying the few remaining scrolls and accounts of the days when lizards goliaths uttered their wisdom to mankind between taking turns spitting fire at each other from across the Rim.

Rayen was one such chosen apostate. Once the gift bestowed upon the affluent youth whose parents “honorable charities” were sufficient enough to help maintain the Tower, Rayen belonged to the influx of orphans that came in the generations that followed the displacement of most of the fishing families of the surrounding communities below. While the steel-glass merchant boys were given the education and training necessary to become leaders of men in the Green Vale, Rayen, Lyrek and his brood of outcasts found themselves on the steps of the temple as infants.

Raised as water carriers and woodchoppers mostly, the opportunity to do the assignments at the bullied insistence of the others provided an unintentional, if not incomplete education along the way. And it was in such favors for the initiates that Rayen learned to ask the questions. To seek truth in the collected works of the Sun-Fire monastery. To dream of what might be in the Marrows of the Mountain. The real knowledge pulled from the very Dragon bones that strutted the inner architecture of the Tower

The real questions may only be fully approached in leisure, away from trappings and duties. However, to the keen minded students, only moments of such peace are required. Much like the impossible flying scales that spread ruin upon the land in their passing conflicts, the speed of thought is not bound by physical laws. Connections and understanding transcend time, just as the trajectory of the old serpents transcends space.

And Rayen, had he been adorned with a donation and not abandoned in a pond-trout scale spattered blanket at the foot of the tower might have found himself groomed for entry into the Marrow Sages of Wyvernbone and not hauling supplies up the slope from Rivercrest each week. Perhaps he wouldn’t have been taught to hide his intellect from the ears of the privileged. Perhaps he wouldn’t have learned how treacherous the steel-glass stairs to the tower could be when hucking fish and firewood up them in the rain. Instead, he might have been shown how to use the residual magic in the dragon glass. How to float atop its surface or use its innate telekinesis to truck the supplies up the slope for him.

Instead, he was given only access to the histories and commentaries. Had it come to light that a non-initiated had read the from the Marrows both the reader and the provider would be thrown from the cliffside overlooking the circle of communities below. Not even the most desperate of initiates would risk that, regardless of how lax in their studies they might have become. Marin in particular found himself on this very precipice quite often. So preoccupied with learning to levitate to be bothered with knowing how it was discovered or by whom.

No shortcutting the true secrets of the tower, but the boring stuff was perfectly acceptable to order Rayen and Lyrek and the other lesser to do in Marin’s stead. The names and dates and interminable swell of ponderance on whether the Old Serpents were good or evil. Where they real or some forgotten technology? Friend or Foe? Vanished or Vanquished. All the dry theoretical nonsense that had no place in the ruling of destitute fishermen or forge smudged steel-glass workers. Learning is for knowers, Leading is for Doers, so Marin’s father had always said when he came to visit.

“In less than a generation of what is currently believed to be a territorial dispute between two rival flights of the Old Serpents reduced the lush biome of the Green Vale to ash. The ash in turn, choked the Crystal River and the surrounding tributary fed pools endangering the vast population of pond trout and other aquatic life.

By the next generation, the over-farming of the surrounding land to offset the severe drop in the food supply stripped even more land. Within 30 years over half of the Green Vale had turned to desert….”

Kendar stopped Marin mid-reading with a quickly raised hand. Enough to shift the large purple streaked glass-steel amulet across a silk robe that barely contained his ponch. And with a mouthful of Temple wine, he spat across the table at his son, “That’s quite enough boy. I can already tell it’s not your work.”

“But father, I worked hard on this, my presentation to the Apostates is tonight. I haven’t even gotten to the part about how the Dragon battles got worse and their fire began to turn sections of the desert to steel-glass.” He shuffled his parchments with the kind of nervousness and flutter, “….ahem, during these wars of vitrification most of the existing supply of dragon glass was created….”

Again, a raised hand only this time, backlit by a sneer. “I said, enough. Vitricafation? Ha, now I know you didn’t write it. I don’t know what’s more embarrassing? That you thought the Apostates wouldn’t know that you didn’t do your own work or that one of your slavish orphan-boys is smarter than you are.”

“But father, I—”

“I said ENOUGH!” slamming his cup down on the table catching droplets on his robe and dribbling some of the wine over well-manicured fingers and in-between the family crest ring. The wine was as rare as the purple streak in the steel-glass of the ring and Kendar’s amulet and almost as deep in color. He would consider the cost of the few ounces he just lost later on that night as he itched at his hand where he allowed the wine to dry. For now, his son’s deceit commanded the bulk of his attention (the rest of it by locating the bottle on the table and refilling his chalice.)

“I don’t care that it isn’t your work. I care that you don’t have enough control of whichever peasant you made do it to have them dumb it down enough, so it sounds like you wrote it. If you surround yourself with servants that are smarter than you, you will always have to watch your back. Or worse, you will always have to try hard to sound as smart.”

“Yes, Father, I will redo the presentation.”

“Nonsense, you couldn’t possibly make up a presentation by tonight. Maybe if you had a week and had read your assignments. Who did you have do it for you?”

“Rayen.” Marin silently admitted there was little point in trying to pretend the work was his anymore.

“Hmmm, the young orphan with the limp. Scraggly welp, that one. Good choice. No one would take that boy seriously. Have him make the changes. Tell him to make it sound like you do. I think he won’t have a problem with that.”

“Yes, Father. I will see you at the ceremony.”

With that, Marin wheeled about and hurried out of the room in search of that brat who had embarrassed him in front of his father.

“Yes,” Kendar grumbled after a generous slug of wine and reaching for the bottle once more, “Undeniable are the Old Serpents.”