A Chronicle of Lies-Book 1- The Dark Sculptor (High Fantasy/Isekai)

It was quiet and late in the upper levels of the Deep Archives. Every now and then, the halls would echo with the sounds of the city outside, but at this hour there was mostly silence. Only the occasional brush of ohnite paper and the shuffling of feet seemed to interrupt the hush. In a way, this should have been normal. Only a few of the tuhli were permitted access to the Deep Archives, so stillness was the norm.

When Salish was first granted access by High Channeler Thal’rin, he thought it was the fulfillment of a dream. And, in some ways, it was. He was surrounded by history, bound and preserved in leather, in original ink. Every tome that lined the canyons of shelves was sacred. At first, he was hesitant to lay his hands on a single book, for fear that his touch would desecrate their aged pages. But the masters took good care of the archives.

Pots of elen salts were set at regular intervals between stacks, so the air would not get moist enough for mold growth. Every few days, somebody would come along with a small wheelbarrow and refill the pots. The rush of the granular salt was one of the only noises in the archives. Hidden bait boxes lured parasites who loved to eat away at ohnite and leather. The precautions made the archives seem as fragile as glass. The efforts of the masters humbled the young tuhli and he initially treated every book he handled as if it were a newborn.

This was his dream. Or at least it would have been if it hadn't been for Ayrlon. Salish sat at a desk with a scattering of scrolls, tomes, and books sprawled out in front of him. His eyes burned with fatigue as he translated archaic texts, scribbled down brief notes, and sketched crude imitations of the images he found. Occasionally, his eyes would dart to the flickering oil lantern to make sure the flame was still smokeless, and then he would resume his research.

Normally the masters would frown at the use of a burning flame in order to provide illumination, but it was too late in the night to use nytic crystals. And Salish was too deep into his research to make the trips to a resonator in order to recharge their ambiance. So instead, he burned fish oil inside of an enclosed lantern. The yellow flame was also gentler than the harshness of the nytic lanterns, easier on the eyes.

He had just finished transferring a sketch from one of the books he was reading when his ear twitched. Footsteps interrupted the quietude of the Deep Archives. He looked up and saw Master Arlock looking tired and grim as he walked into the circular opening. He set a bundle of scrolls that he had been holding in his arms and wings on a nearby table. Then he shot a glance at the oil lantern flickering on Salish’s desk, a slight frown creasing his ancient features. Salish braced himself for reproach.

“Master Arlock,” he nodded.

“Naikira’s wing, Salish,” Arlock muttered, “what are you doing up so late?”

Relieved, Salish shook his head and looked down at his papers. “Indulging in childish fantasies,” he said.

“Childhood fantasies?” Arlock repeated in his tired voice.

He walked over to Salish’s desk. Salish became suddenly aware of how it would have looked, having ancient texts scattered. But he had arranged them carefully so that none of them were wrinkled or marred. Perhaps Arlock saw this, because he didn’t say anything. Instead, he picked up the biggest book on the table. The master’s claws had been filed round and polished until their edges were mere nubs, unthreatening to the ancient texts they often handled.

Sewn into the book’s cover was the artistic depiction of a Falian reaching up into a starlit sky. Its wings were as dark as the night it sought to embrace, and its body was covered with the cosmos. Inside the book was a collection of short stories and ancient transcriptions. The pages were flickered with shades of yellow and age.

“The Lore of Contradictions,” Arlock mused. Then he looked around at the mess on Salish’s desk. “You are researching the Saedharu?” Though he did not say it, Salish could hear the unspoken “why?” on the master’s voice and felt a hint of embarrassment.

“Because of Ayrlon’s tear,” he said, “the other masters think it signifies the black storms they keep reporting. They are probably right, so I know my research is probably foolish. But I can’t help but think about the nature of the light.” As he thought of the confusing ambiance, he shivered. Several floors below them, Ayrlon’s tear still beamed flickering shadows against the walls of the Runite Vault.

“It’s a contradiction, isn’t it?” he asked, “when you look at the tear directly, it is beautiful, it’s bright. But instead of illuminating, it darkens whatever it touches. It’s a paradox.”

He expected Master Arlock to chastise him, to rebuke him for indulging in fables. But instead, the master nodded and took a seat, his tired wings trembling with age. He thumbed through the pages of the weathered book and glanced at Salish’s notes.

“Interesting,” he said, “Salish, this is why we need young brains in the archive.”

“I know stories concerning the Saedharu are thought by many to be nothing more than fables.” Salish spoke as if confessing to a crime.

“There is truth behind every fable. Every myth has its origin,” Arlock said without looking up, “otherwise we would have no stories. But...I have rarely seen this level of thoroughness...” He glanced at some of Salish’s notes. “Did you write all of these tonight?”

Salish blanched. “No,” he admitted, picking up a journal and flipping through it. “I have been fascinated with the Lore of Contradictions since I was a youth. Those are notes I have been collecting about it for years. No matter what culture you meet, each one seems to have its own version of the Saedharu.”

Arlock nodded and chuckled. “It is one of those oddities,” he admitted, “the Skreet spoke of the Saedharu in the past tense, saying it has demolished entire empires and vanished without a trace. Others like it hint at unspecified acts of heroism or villainy. Some peoples such as the Ioka, treat it as prophecy. When the Saedharu arrives, it will either 'save us from a great evil or it will bring it about'.”

“But what is it?” Salish pondered out loud, “that’s what I find so fascinating. The prevalence of this tale, I mean. That’s what amazes me. Despite its ambiguity, every culture has its own version of The Paradox Incarnate. Back home, my mother used to tell me stories about The Walker of the Sky, where it soars across the heavens, defending villages from their enemies. And my father told me in his country, it was a monster who blasphemed the Weaver and who was sentenced to the dirt as penance.”

“But then you get into the actual lore,” he continued, excitement crawling into his voice despite his fatigue. “You look at the runes left behind by past civilizations, some of which we think predate the first calamity. We know very little about the language, the culture, the politics of the people who lived back then. But we know they also spoke of a Paradox Incarnate.”

He gestured toward the image on The Lore of Contradictions. It was a replica of a mosaic found in an ancient ruin. “What I find fascinating is like you said, every fable has its origin. The Singer of Elyon found its origins in Ela the Humble. The Walking Shadow drew its inspiration from Emperor Syas, who was known to kill his wives when he got tired of them. But nobody knows where the Saedharu came from. It predates even Naikira Laneus. It doesn’t appear to have an origin. At least not one we can see.”

“And you think Ayrlon is warning us that the Lore of Contradictions is coming to fruition?” Master Arlock mused, “that this vague creature, not the ill storms which spread across Mid-Admoran, could be the threat which we are called to avert?”

Again, Salish cringed. “I know it sounds childish,” he said, “it’s very possible my fascination with the lore is biasing my research. But wouldn’t you agree that the prevalence of the Saedharu among all cultures warrants consideration? Even the very pronunciation: ‘sed-har-oo’, remains the same across all dialects.”

“Of course,” Arlock said bluntly, “you know very well that The Paradox Incarnate fascinates all tuhli. I am afraid we are drawn to mysteries. And that–” he tapped the book with a wing, “–is one of the biggest. But we know very little about the Saedharu. It is not tangible as these storms are.”

“A white light that is black,” Salish said, “a blinding ambiance that casts the world in shadow. It is an incandescence that illuminates with darkness. Ayrlon’s light is a paradox, just like the Saedharu is supposed to be. If it were representing the storms, why wouldn’t her tear shed only blackness? Clearly it must be capable of doing so.”

Master Arlock folded his hands across his chest and fixed Salish in his ancient eyes. “When is the last time you slept, Salish?” he asked, “I am not discounting your inquiries. I would have never thought of the Saedharu upon seeing that light. It warrants consideration. But you look exhausted.”

“I am,” Salish admitted.

“Then you should get some sleep.” Arlock stretched his wings, his back cracking with relief.

“I won’t be able to,” Salish said, “I am exhausted, but my mind is not. Even if I tried to put my head down, my own thoughts would keep me awake.”

“Hmm...” Arlock grumbled, “chew on some calo root. But you need rest. Use the dorms if you wish”

“Calo root?”

Arlock reached into a pocket and produced a torn piece of root. “Chew on this,” the old master said, “the juices will help you sleep. I’ve been using it for quite some time now.” At Salish’s disgusted look, he added, “I did not bite off this piece if that’s what you are worried about.”

“Thank you, Master Arlock,” he said, taking the root into his hand.

After the master left, Salish didn’t immediately stop his research. Although his eyes burned and body yearned for the comforts of sleep, his mind continued to race. He was glued to the table in front of him, the scratch of his writings was his music. He closed one book only to open up another. He translated languages, cross-referenced words, images, and phrases. He read the traditional rhymes children used to sing in their games, connected them to the stories which inspired their words. All fables have their origins.

Finally, he eventually sat back and closed his eyes. Master Arlock was right, he needed sleep. His mind was the only thing that kept him conscious. After he was done massaging his brow, he opened his eyes and looked at the cover of the Lore of Contradictions. He considered the figure sewn into its leather as it sought to embrace the sky. His claws gently traced the spread contours of its illuminated wings. It was a dark figure, its features hidden. Its skin, save for the cosmos that adorned it, was dark like the sky it emulated.

He recalled the chants from his youth: Walker, walker, of the sky, who wears the heavens on its form. The air sings with its battle cry, the ground trembles beneath its might. It sweeps its wing and saves, it damns. But when you see its stars glimmer and its sky glow, that is how you know it is the Saedharu.

Salish groaned as he stood to his feet. With ginger handling, he rolled up the scrolls, bundled them together with their cords. Then he took the books he had retrieved from the shelves, checked their bindings to make sure they were intact, and then placed them on the cart he had borrowed, taking care to make sure the books lay across the bottom and the scrolls on top.

What scrolls he could not fit on the cart, he tucked across his back so that they spanned the kalcs of his wings. He took a piece of chalk and updated the list attached alongside the handle of the cart. The list was nothing more than a piece of dark slate whose surface allowed for easy erasing. If somebody had found his cart, it would let them know whose cart it was and which books he had taken out.

He placed both hands on the front handle and began to push. At first, the cart didn’t seem like it wanted to budge. The weight of all the books he had compiled was a testament to the abundance of knowledge the archives of Meldohv Syredel had to offer. Years ago, he never dreamt he would have access to even a fraction of this number of written works, much less be able to borrow enough to fill an entire cart. It felt almost criminal.

With enough push, the wheels began to roll, and it became a simple matter of guiding it. He extended both his wings to the handles at the opposite end of the cart and steered. The resin wheels grumbled across the polished stone floors as he made his way down the hall. He was flanked on both sides by murals and bookshelves. The lantern hanging from the peak of his wing cast the ancient texts into a flickering relief.

When he reached the end of the hallway, he slowed the cart and tugged on his wing to steer it right. Then he proceeded along the wall until he came to the lift. A gentle breeze tickled through the scissored gate that covered the door and Salish thought he could hear the distant running water that powered the lift’s machinery.

Far below, the light of nytic crystals painted the walls with red and green patterns. He brought the cart to a stop, stretched a wing to the alcove from which an iron chain with a ring at its end hung, and pulled on it. It resisted a little before giving way, triggering a mechanism inside the wall. Chains clattered against each other, and wood creaked as machinery grumbled to life.

The red and green light near the bottom of the shaft began to move, chasing shadows along the ironwork as the lift began its slow ascent. Like a child, Salish walked over to the gate and watched the platform approach, mesmerized by the mechanics of the machine and by the sounds it made. It was a beautiful clatter, ancient in its inflection like the beat of a lost composition or the cadence of a forgotten poem.

The stained glass lanterns attached to the four corners of the rising platform painted the wall behind him with their red and green lights as it rose into view. Moments before the platform reached his floor, the ring which Salish had used to summon it reset itself by sliding back into its alcove.

He used the lift regularly these days, but he still felt a tinge of anxiety when he slid the gate aside and rolled the cart onto it. He shut the gate behind him and pulled another ring to go down. It dangled loosely from its chain, swaying gracefully as the lift began its descent toward the dorms. A floor stood between him and his destination, so he grabbed the ring and held it. It was designed to lock back into place and trigger the breaks when the lift approached a floor. But Salish held onto it until the floor passed them by, then he let it dangle.

The platform continued its slow rumbling descent and moments before it reached Salish’s destination, the chain began to pull the ring back into position until there came a sudden mechanical “clunk!” and the rumbling came to a stop. The lift moved a few more paces before halting altogether so that it stopped in line with the floor.

Salish suppressed a childish impulse to tug on the other chain and send the lift back up. Instead, he opened the gate and rolled the cart onto the passage. He passed several reading rooms, briefly glancing in to see other tuhli either studying old writs or snoring on the tables. Their ears twitched slightly at the sound of his passing cart, but they did not look up. It was a sound they had all grown accustomed to these days.

“–mother Naikira’s return. Perhaps these are the signs...”

Salish almost stopped at the snippet he had overheard Master Ehelu grumbling. The old tuhli was deep in his lore, dark circles hung around his tired eyes. The man was half-deaf, so perhaps he didn’t realize how loud his words carried. Nevertheless, he was mumbling to himself. When he caught Salish’s eye, he gave a brief nod before diving back into his lore. “–missing villages. No, that is not right you old fool,” Ehelu continued to groan, his jowls jiggling.

Salish wanted to listen in on Ehelu and see what the old man had on his mind. Mother Naikira’s return? It was a fanciful notion at best, but perhaps not to those who adhered to the Naikiran way. Already Salish’s tired mind was poring over everything he knew about Naikira Laneus, the mother of modern channeling. Naikira, Champion of the Weaver many called her, the Queen of the Castaways, Warrioress of the Light. Herald-slayer. The stories of her triumphs are far and many, spread to all corners of Admoran. Even the reclusive Jalharens across The Skein hold her in high regard. But why did Ehulu think she might return?

It was getting late and everybody has been afraid, floundering for answers no matter how preposterous those answers may be. Salish’s mind raced with questions, yet it was tired and grasping at a handful of nothings. But the truth was he was just as afraid as they were. Ayrlon’s tear was illuminated. Any self-respecting tuhli would be a fraud if they did not scream silently at such an omen. Every tuhli was rushing to interpret what it meant.

Another war with Jalhara? The storms? Fables coming to life? Sleep felt like wasted time. Yet as soon as Salish pulled into an empty dorm, he craved it. He found a round puff laying against the wall, chewed on the bitter root Arlock gave to him, curled up and nodded off.