Igguldan’s features were famously Aushenian: his hair like straw dipped in auburn dye, his eyes intensely blue, as if they were flecked glass beads lit from behind. Corinn had once thought pale, freckled skin to be lacking compared to the creamy brown of Acacians or the near black of Talayans, but looking at Igguldan she felt drawn to just this feature. She wanted to reach out and touch him just under the eye and to move her finger from one dot to the next.
She led the group on a tour of the main buildings of the upper tier of the city, past the various wings of the palace, down as far as the training grounds, and around governmental buildings. The Aushenians grew excited at the sight of the golden monkeys that roamed the grounds and even inside the palace. They had nothing like them in their country, they explained. Corinn nodded, unimpressed. She had seen the creatures every day of her life. They were small, the size of cats, really, with puffy coats of hair that ranged from yellow to almost crimson. They had some sacred significance, but Corinn did not remember what and did not mention it.
Eventually, they came to the old ruin that housed the foundation stones from one of Edifus’s first defensive towers. The crumbled remains of this structure were enclosed in a modern building, a sort of pavilion that perched on arching legs and afforded views out in three of the compass’s directions. At its center stood a statue of Elenet in his youth. One of the chancellor’s aides stepped up to recite the first sorcerer’s tale, which in many ways was the Giver’s tale as well.
In the beginning, the aide intoned, a god figure known as the Giver created the world as a physical manifestation of joy. He gave form to all the creatures of the earth, including humans, though he did not set humans apart from other creatures. He walked the earth singing, creating with the power of words. His language was the thread, the needle, the pattern from which the world was woven. Into this bliss, however, came mischief. A human orphan of seven years, Elenet, once saw the god passing through his village. He approached the Giver and offered himself as a servant, so that he might stay near the god’s grace. The Giver, taken with him, obliged. But Elenet was not like the other animals that trailed behind the Giver. Elenet could not help but listen to the god’s song. He learned the words. He came to understand them and recognize their power. He reveled in the possibility of wielding them himself. Once he had learned enough, he ran away.
“He became the first God Talker,” the aide said. “He taught his knowledge to a few chosen others. When the Giver learned of Elenet’s deception, he was disappointed. He turned his back to the world and went silent. He was never seen to walk the earth again. He did not sing anymore. Because of this we have the world as it is now.”
Judging by the way Igguldan fell to one knee and ran his hands over the fissures in the ancient stone, muttering to himself, the tale was well known to him already and quite affecting. Corinn was inclined to frown at his earnestness, but throughout the next hour or so he proved a pleasant enough companion. He spoke near-perfect Acacian, as did most of the party. Before long the interpreter and the chancellor’s aides fell back into the rear of the group, which broke up into smaller pods like children out on some educational outing.
“I wonder,” Igguldan said, “if it is true that Edifus was one of Elenet’s disciples. He was a sorcerer, I have heard said. That was why he-and Tinhadin after him-triumphed so completely. What do you think, Princess?”
“I have not thought much about it, but I do not see any reason to believe in magic. If my people had such a gift, then why do we not have it still?”
“So you don’t?” Igguldan asked, smiling. “You cannot, for example, cast a spell on me and force me to do your bidding?”
“I hardly need magic to achieve that,” Corinn quipped, the words out of her so casually that she had uttered them before she even knew she thought them. Heat rose across her chest and up her neck. “Maybe we created tales of magic afterward, as a way to explain the things Edifus accomplished. Greatness is hard for lesser persons to believe in.”
“Maybe so…” The prince thrummed the weathered stone with his fingers, stood on his toes a moment, and took in the scene below them to the east. “I guess I am a lesser man, then, because I love the Old Stories as they are. Your lore, in fact, plays a large part in our own legends. In Aushenia we have no doubt that men and women once practiced magic and that your people used it to master the world. There is a wonderful poem about how humans gained this knowledge. I will not recite it now for fear of embarrassing myself, but perhaps later I will get a chance to sing for you.”
“And what of magic now?” Corinn asked. “I see no wizards around here.”
The Aushenian prince smiled but said no more. As they left Edifus’s ruins and followed the back path on its slow ascent toward the King’s Rest, Corinn admitted, “I do not know that much about your people. What are you Aushenians like?”
“You would find Aushenia cold. Not as cold as the Mein-up there they scarcely see the sun in winter and it can snow any day of the year, even in the height of summer. Not so in Aushenia. True, we have a short summer, but it is vibrant. All the creatures and plants make use of the few months they have. In the spring the buds of flowers and new growth push right up from under the snow, as if one day the Giver grants them leave and then nothing can stand in their way. In the summer the weather is quite warm. We swim in the lakes in the north. Some even swim in the sea. At Killintich we have a swimming and foot race on the solstice day each summer. The racers swim from the castle pier to a point across the harbor. Then they run back again. It takes an entire day.”
The two paused for a moment at the foot of the last staircase. The others had fallen some distance behind. Corinn said, “Funny that one minute you say it’s cold and the next you talk of budding flowers and swimming. Which is the truth, Prince?”
“In a place as far north as Aushenia, it is not the cold that has the most effect on you. It is the moments when the cold recedes.” Corinn answered this with a nod, and the two stood for a moment in silence. “But we are like your nation in many ways. My people admire learning, just like yours. Some of our best pupils even train in Alecia. You know this, I am sure. Aushenia was the first northern country to ally with Edifus against the Mein. Unfortunately the alliance did not live on after that conflict was resolved. That is why my father so wishes that your father would honor us with his presence. My father is not well, you see. He cannot travel, but he has spent his entire life working toward coming to an alliance with your people. He believes that we would be stronger together.”
The others had not yet reached them, but Igguldan took a step up and Corinn matched him. They ascended together, preserving their solitude a bit longer. “And we are poets,” the prince said.
“Poets?”
“That is how we keep our history, in epic poems sung by our bards. In our courts, cases must be argued in verse. It is an odd formality, but it draws crowds to the more complicated cases.”
“How strange,” Corinn said, although it did not actually seem that strange. She had no patience for official procedures at all. Maybe if all the government bureaucrats were made to speak in rhyme, she would be able to sit through them.
“You are the eldest son of your family?” Corinn asked.
Igguldan nodded. “I am. There are three after me, and two from my father’s second wife.”
Corinn attempted to raise an eyebrow, although all that really happened was that both of them ridged into erratic lines. “Second wife?”
“Well…Yes, my father reenacted the old codes, taking two wives to ensure the production of an heir. He need not have bothered, but…he was just being thorough.”