In the end, Brandyé did not speak of his inexplicable nighttime journey. Much time passed, and his nights were once again empty and blank; fitful sleep until the light of morning awoke him again. As time went by, his memory of what had happened gradually faded, and he sometimes wondered if, somehow, he had merely imagined it all. He would often picture the lands and events of his grandfather’s tales, both sitting at home on dark days, and acting out their adventures outdoors on pleasant days. But he had never heard of anyone imagining things when they were supposed to be sleeping, and this continued to bother him for some time.

Several years came and went, and since he never went anywhere else, he eventually resolved to forget about what had happened, and stop worrying. Still, he couldn’t shake from his mind the image of the woman in black, and the crimson jewel that had hung at her breast.

As Brandyé was now older, he would often accompany his grandfather to the Burrow Wayde when he went there each Friday. He enjoyed these visits to the inn immensely, partly because he liked going places with his grandfather, but mostly because the atmosphere of the inn was greatly exciting.

Brandyé never saw so many people in once place at any other time; it seemed sometimes that half the village was crammed into the little inn, and there were never enough seats and tables for everyone, and this didn’t seem to bother them in the slightest. Even so, there was always a small table, out of the way in the corner, that was never occupied, and it was here that Reuel and Brandyé would sit, Reuel with a large mug of ale, and Brandyé with a smaller mug of something less potent – usually keffil, a sort of drink brewed from dandelions. When Brandyé asked his grandfather why this table was always empty when they visited, even though other people had nowhere to sit, he replied, “They leave it empty for us.” This made Brandyé feel terribly important, and it wasn’t for many years that he realized they left the table alone out of fear, and not respect.

Most weeks, Brandyé and Reuel would spend a few hours quietly sipping at their drinks, and leave with the others as the hour grew late. Sometimes they would talk; Brandyé would ask questions, and Reuel would answer. Other times, they simply watched everyone else. Brandyé thought it was wonderful how everyone seemed to be having such a grand time, and how, as the evening wore on, emotions rose ever higher. Their voices grew louder; their laughter more raucous; and of course, their tempers flared also, and often arguments turned to fights. Even these were a novelty to Brandyé, who had never seen two (or more) grown men throw themselves at each other. There did not seem to be any particular bitterness in this brawls, and would often end with both men, bruised and bloodied, regaining a table and sharing a drink, and laughing together once more. Brandyé was never frightened by these frays, and was intrigued how two people could beat each other nearly senseless, and then laugh about it moments later. Naturally, he asked his grandfather about it.

“Do you recall how we sometimes argue?” Reuel asked him.

“Yes,” replied Brandyé cautiously. He and his grandfather did not usually disagree, but on occasion, when he felt particularly strongly about something (such as being allowed to stay up later on his birthday), they would enter into a heated debate, which usually ended with Brandyé shouting, and Reuel calmly telling him that he would no longer speak to him. Eventually, Brandyé would calm down, and he and his grandfather would be able to more rationally discuss the issue.

“We are usually able to resolve our differences because we talk to each other,” Reuel explained, as though he knew what Brandyé was thinking about. “These men lack the language to do so, and so they must resort to their strength and might to finish their argument. They do not dislike each other, any more than you and I dislike each other when we quarrel.”

Sometimes, usually late in the evening, if the crowd grew quiet, they would turn to Reuel, and call upon him rowdily for one of his tales. Brandyé thought this was perhaps because they were bored, and had not found anything particular to fight about. Though they often laughed at his tales and called them ridiculous, they were never unpleasant towards Reuel, and did not even tease Brandyé, who was by far the youngest person in the inn. It seemed they found entertainment in far-fetched tales from a dangerous man; a thrill that matched the rush of fists and blows.

Late one Friday evening, two particularly large men, sitting in the middle of the inn, began talking louder than usual, and the rest of the people quietened, waiting for the inevitable blows to come. Instead, one of the men, a blacksmith by the name of Joe Rawley, slammed his mug down on the table, and growled, “Enough! Old man! Tolkaï!” This was the sign that Reuel was called for.

“Yes?” said Reuel calmly.

“Me an’ Thara here, we been talkin’ ‘bout what the bloodiest battle were, an’ he says it were the farmer revolt of 3340. I says he’s a fool, ‘cause everyone knows it were the battle of Reisenwell, when they burned a whole village to the ground.”

“Bah,” grumped Thara. “Burnin’ ain’t bloody, all’s left is just ash.”

“Shut up,” retorted Joe. “Anyhow, we thought you might have a thought or two on the matter, and figured you might help settle our differences.”

Reuel drained his ale, and stood, and smiled. “A tale of blood and battle, you say?” He moved towards the two men, pulled over a spare stool and seated himself at their table. His presence commanded a certain stillness around him; though they rarely spoke to him, the people at the Burrow Wayde quietened, and turned towards the table he now sat at. It was as though this were their evening’s entertainment; it was also as though they dared not speak while he spoke.

“Have you ever heard the tale of the battle of the northern fields,” he said in a low voice, “where the armies of light and dark clashed, and many men met their doom, and the evil of battle was washed away in a river of blood?”

Joe grinned, and punched Thara fiercely in the arm. “Told ya’,” he said. Thara made to strike him back, but was refrained by Reuel’s voice, stern and commanding.

“Do you wish this matter settled?” he said. Thara growled lowly, and Joe grinned again at him. “Good. Listen well, and you will hear of the most terrible battle that has ever shaken Erâth. You must start by understanding that men were once not the only great creatures in our lands.”

“Ah, we’ve heard o’ them creatures afore,” called out a voice from near where Brandyé still sat. He was enthralled; his grandfather seemed to put on more of a spectacle here than he ever did with his stories at home. These tales were also, of course, more exciting – filled with battle and death, they were.

“Not like these,” he replied, not looking away from the two men at his table. There is a great and terrible darkness in the West of the world, and the creatures that roam there are twisted indeed. That darkness exists still to this day; you can see it by the might of the storms that rise from beyond the Perneck.”

There were some general laughter at this; everyone knew that the worst storms came from the North. Reuel waited for their mirth to be subdued, and continued. “This darkness exists still today. But understand, in those days this was a darkness that was overwhelming; it was inescapable, and the lands of Consolation were yet unknown.

“Who knows why there were such terrible creatures in those lost days? Perhaps they simply evil; perhaps they were tainted by the powers of Darkness and changed from nature. I speak of wolves whose heads stood six feet from the earth; spiders who skulked in the shadows and fed on sheep and cattle. There were monsters, also. You know these creatures from myth; they stood twenty feet high if they stood an inch, and could knock a house down with one blow of their club.

“Most terrifying of all, though, were the skull creatures, swift and silent, who fed on the blood of men. These creatures, though smaller than a man, would strike terror into the hearts of the bravest warriors. You, Joe; you are strong?”

Joe, the blacksmith, grinned broadly at the crowd, and flexed his large shoulders. Reuel smiled grimly. “You should count yourself lucky that there are today no skull creatures left; a single one would make a snack from you like that.” He snapped his fingers abruptly, loud in the hushed inn. Joe’s grin was suddenly less broad.

“These creatures dwelt far to the West of our lands, where the waters were black and poisoned, and the trees grew crooked and the thorns long,” he continued. “There was no sun in those awful lands; the sky was forever black, and fog obscured the land so that you would not see the creature who designed to make you his supper until it was upon you.

“Mind you – there were also men in those lands. Poor, wretched men they were; they lorded not over the creatures of darkness, but rather were commanded by them, and served as their food as much as their slaves. These men hated the creatures of darkness bitterly, but had no power to overcome them. They were stupid also, and did not see that their own hatred cast them as much under the spell of darkness as the beasts they despised.

“But then one day, there was a man who stood above all the others in those terrifying lands, and he called the beasts his own, and they obeyed his will. He had a great tower built for him, and became lord of the dark lands. But this was not enough for him, for he was evil, and saw that there were yet lands of light to the East and would not suffer them. So he called upon the powers of Darkness, and they put all their might into him so that he became more, and less, than a man: he was a Demon.

“They said that he could not be killed, and his blade was broad and struck men down without scratching their skin. And so the men of the East saw that the creatures of Darkness intended to destroy them, and knew they must gather an army such as the world had never before seen. As the kings of those days travelled the length and breadth of their kingdoms and called ever man and boy to fight, the men and creatures of the West gathered themselves into an army of their own, and marched upon the kingdoms of the East.

The northern border of the lands of the kings of the East was marked by a river that ran from mountains higher than any you have ever seen, and it was here that the armies of the East and West – light and dark – first met and gazed at each other. Some ten thousand men the realms of light had mustered, yet threefold that number stood on the north bank and stared them down with hatred. The men of the East were afraid, yet the river still separated them from their enemies, and there was not a bridge for many miles. They thought perhaps that battle might yet be averted, if the creatures of darkness could not cross the flowing waters.”

“That don’t sound so bloody to me, Joe,” said Thara. Joe grunted, but said nothing.

Reuel carried on as if they had not spoken “It was of course not to be. From the midst of the men of evil and darkness came their Demon Lord, and he touched the river and turned it black, and so he and his army were able to pass unharmed beneath the waves and fall upon the men of the East, who fought valiantly.

“This was to be the greatest battle that had ever been seen in Erâth. For seven days it raged, and the blood of men and beasts ran so thick that it stained the ground and turned the river red. Over miles of field and plain men did battle with beasts, but it was clear that the men of the East, the men of light, were not winning the struggle. Their soldiers knew the art of battle with blade and spear and bow, but were now faced with not just these instruments of death but claws and teeth and fangs also, and could not defend themselves. They were also greatly outnumbered, and for every creature or man of darkness they slew, two more took their place.

“It was certain they would be defeated, and their lands of light overrun by the creatures of darkness, and all the world would be ended. The Demon Lord marched through the field of battle, stepping heedlessly on the corpses of his enemies, and the kings of the East saw him and knew they had lost.”

Reuel paused; he had been speaking for some time now, and the entire inn was silent, listening intently (for the most part; an old man near the door had his head laid on the table and was snoring softly). Even Mrs. Heath was following the tale with interest; since Reuel had begun speaking, there had been no further fights, no broken stools, and hardly anyone had called for another ale. For her, Reuel’s tales meant a quiet evening.

Joe was staring at him with small, squinty eyes. “Well?” he said. “What happened?”

Reuel smiled at him, a twinkle in his eye. “I would love to say,” he said, “but my throat is a bit parched.”

Joe frowned; he had had at least eight pints of ale tonight, and he felt Reuel was trying to trick him, but he couldn’t quite figure it out. Reuel leaned closer to him. “I could do with a drink,” he added.

Joe’s eyes widened. “Mrs. Heath!” he bellowed. “Two ales, over ‘ere!”

“You’ll pay, of course,” Reuel went on. “As it’s you who’s so keen to hear the ending of this tale.”

Joe glared at him. “‘course I’ll pay,” he growled. He slammed two large silver coins on the table as Mrs. Heath brought their ales. Joe grabbed his and took a deep draught without looking at her. Reuel, though, looked up at her and said, “Thank you, dear.”

Mrs. Heath smiled at Reuel, and swiped the coins off the table. Both she and Reuel knew Joe had paid far too much, but neither made any comment. Reuel took a slow, leisurely sip at his mug, before putting it carefully back down. A moment later, Joe slammed his own down. “Well,” he rumbled, “I’m waitin’.”

“I thank you for your patience,” Reuel said. “Where was I?”

“That Demon whatsit were about to cut down all them kings,” said Joe.

“Thank you also for reminding me,” smiled Reuel. “So the Demon Lord towered over the kings of old, and drew forth his terrible black blade, and held it high above them. All around them, the beasts and warriors of the East were slaying their soldiers, many of whom had abandoned the battle and fled to the hills. Many were cut down as they ran, for the races of Darkness saw no shame in sending arrows into the backs of their enemies.

“You must understand the scene of horror the kings of the East faced as they drew their final breaths under the shadow of the Demon Lord. Their very feet were bathed in the blood of their soldiers; piled thick so the grass of the fields was hidden were the bodies of both man and beast, all hacked and rent terribly so the insides of some spilled out onto the battle field. All this alone would suffice to bring a strong man to insanity, but all their eyes could see was the pitch-black metal armor of the one who would slay them all. They threw up their shields in one last show of futile resistance, and the Demon Lord brought his evil sword crashing down towards them. And then…”

Reuel stopped. It was as though not a man in the Burrow Wayde drew breath, so complete was the silence. All were waiting for the final moments of the tale, but Reuel did not speak further. He stared intently at Joe, peering unblinking into his small back eyes, who gazed blearily back at him. The silence drew on, and on, until Thara, who had also been staring at Reuel, finally said, “And then? What happened?”

Reuel turned his gaze on Thara, who turned away his own eyes. “Can you imagine?” he said. “A beast, unseen in these lands for three thousand years, appeared on the field of battle. Twenty feet long, great talons as sharp as Joe’s very own knives, crushing jaws and wings that would span the river Burrow, it descended from the grey and clouded skies above – a Dragon.” Reuel paused once more. This was a new beast – few in the Burrow Wayde that evening had ever heard of such a creature. Even to Brandyé, who knew most of his grandfather’s tales by heart, had not heard of this.

“What did this Drago do?” asked Mrs. Heath breathlessly.

“Dragon, dear,” said Reuel. “It came down from on high, and covered what was left of the sun, and all were smothered in its shadow…and then…”

The people in the Burrow Wayde were now becoming anxious. Reuel was dragging this story out too long, and they were feeling uncomfortable. Where was this tale going? Finally, farmer Tar broke the silence from the bar: “Get on wi’ it!” he called.

Reuel cast his gaze over at him. “That’s it,” he said.

“What d’you mean, that’s it?” cried Tar.

“That’s it. That is all there is.”

“It can’t be!” bellowed Joe. “It’s a foul endin’ if ever I heard one! Somethin’ happened after that!”

Reuel shrugged. “Indeed,” he replied. “But it has been lost to time.” He smiled slyly. “But, there is one thing we know. The Demon Lord was not allowed to finish his blow upon the kings of the East, or we would not be here today. For we are the descendants of those kings – all of us.”

Joe stared at Reuel for a long, long moment – and then let out a great, roaring laugh. “Arh!” he slurred. “You’ve pulled our leg! We ain’t descended from no king!” And he collapsed, face-first, onto the table and heaved a loud snore.

For a moment, no one spoke; and then, slowly, the people began to move about, talking quietly among themselves. They were unsettled; this was far from Reuel’s usual tales. They did not like to hear of such evil and demented beasts, as though speaking of such might bring them upon them from the mountains. Finally, Mrs. Heath called out, “Alright, boys! Leavin’ time! Out you go!”

There was a great round of hurried drinking as people drained the last drops of their ale, and gradually shuffled towards the door, and into the cold winter air. Mrs. Heath began gathering up the empty and knocked over mugs, shooing the last few stragglers towards the door. Several of Joe’s friends were attempting to lift him off his stool, but he stubbornly refused to raise even his head, or indeed show any signs of life at all, apart from the occasional blubbering snore, and the pool of spit that slobbered from the corner of his mouth.

“Leave ‘im, lads!” Mrs. Heath called to them. “He can sleep it off here; he’ll regret it sure enough in the mornin’.” Grumbing, they moved off towards the door, and finally, only Mrs. Heath, Reuel, and Brandyé remained in the Burrow Wayde.

The fire was growing low, but Brandyé was not tired. This had been, by far, the best story he had ever heard his grandfather tell. He knew he would be acting out this terrible battle for days on the moorlands, unless of course it snowed, which it might well do soon, in which case he would be staring out at the falling flakes, and playing through the whole battle in his head.

“That were some tale,” Mrs. Heath commented to Reuel as she cleared the table he still sat at. “Really got ’em all worked up. Weren’t really true, though were it?”

Reuel raised his eyebrows at her. “Stranger things have been known to happen,” he replied.

“Well, not ’round here, anyways,” she said. “Burrowdown’s as quiet as ever it were.” She stood and sighed. “Gar knows, I wouldn’ mind a bit of excitement now an’ then.” She moved back towards the bar, carrying an armload of empty, sticky mugs. “You’ll be leavin’ now too, won’t you. It’s late.”

Reuel finally pushed back his stool and stood. He nodded toward her and said, “Of course, dear. I wish you a pleasant evening.” He turned to Brandyé. “Come, son.”

Brandyé stepped outside into the cold night air with Reuel, and together they set off up the hill towards their home, their breath frosting as they walked. Brandyé shivered; he had not brought his cloak, and his undercoat was poor defense against the cold. He rubbed his arms, and looked up. There were no stars in the sky, and he thought it might snow.

To take his mind from the cold, he spoke to his grandfather. “You know what Mrs. Heath said?” he asked.

“What did she say?” replied Reuel.

“About your story not being real. I’ve been thinking since then; you are so sure when you speak, and I have never questioned before that they are true. I think they are true. But that doesn’t mean they are – it’s just what I think.”

Reuel smiled in the dark. “You are perceptive, son,” he said. “If you must know, I embellished that tale to some extent; it is important to make a story interesting, especially to a drunken crowd who cannot sit still for more than five minutes.”

Brandyé thought this an odd remark; the people in the Burrow Wayde had sat still for over an hour as Reuel told his tale. “What is embellish?” he asked.

“I made some of it up,” Reuel said simply.

“Which bits?” Brandyé asked.

Reuel shrugged. “The details, mainly. I do not truthfully know how many men there were from the East, nor what beasts made the armies of the West. I do not know that the lord of the East was a Demon, or even that he was clad in black armor.”

Brandyé was shocked. This was the first time his grandfather had ever admitted to inventing parts of his stories. He had for so long taken them as truth. As they began to climb the hill path, and their home came into view above them, he thought about this, and finally asked Reuel, “What about all the other stories, grandfather? How much of those were made up?”

Reuel sighed, and for a moment seemed old. “The honest truth, Brandyé, is that I do not know any of these tales for certain. No one does. You cannot speak of things that took place so many thousands of years ago with any true certainty. They are passed down from generation to generation, and with each new telling they become changed, added to…embellished. You may not realize it, but that was not the first time I have told that tale at the Burrow Wayde. The people there, most have a short recollection, and the ale does not improve their memory. But were I to tell the same story the same way twice, they would become angry. I am cheating them, they would say. So I must add new details – fresh blood.” He glanced behind him at the village below. “They love the blood.”

“So then…how do you know any of it is true?” pressed Brandyé.

Reuel smiled at his grandson. “I like to believe there is some truth in every tale, son. Even the most fanciful fable is drawn from the teller’s own life, and thus has truth in it.”

They walked the rest of the way home, and when they arrived Reuel lit the stove and Brandyé went upstairs to bed. Though he still enjoyed his grandfather’s stories, he from that day on did not see in them quite the same magic that he did when he was but a small child.

Of all the things that brought Brandyé joy, the one thing he loved more than anything was listening to his grandfather’s many tales. These were not the ones he told at the Burrow Wayde sometimes, though those were enjoyable as well, but rather the ones he would tell in the dark of a winter night, before the fire when it seemed that nothing existed in all the world but their house, alone in the moors. The wind would whistle through the cracks and under the doors, and small snowflakes would swirl in the corners of the room, but before the fire all was warm.

Reuel would sit in his armchair to one side, and Brandyé would sit sometimes in his own chair on the other side, and sometimes on the rug before the fire itself, staring into the flames and embers. As his grandfather spoke, it sometimes seemed that he could see the lands and people of which he spoke within the dancing flames, and they would sometimes speak to him, even as his grandfather described them.

“Have I ever told you of how the world came to be?” Reuel would ask.

“No, grandfather,” Brandyé would answer. In fact, he had heard many of these tales before, but enjoyed them and didn’t want to disappoint his grandfather, who sometimes had difficulty remembering things. As it happened, this particular tale was a new one to Brandyé.

“We live in a world called Erâth,” Reuel began. “Our land – Consolation – is but a tiny part of the world, even though it seems big and takes many weeks to cross from end to end. Long ago, though, there was nothing – nothing at all. The world was perhaps empty – perhaps it did not even exist. No one is sure.”

“Then how do you know about it?” Brandyé asked.

“Don’t interrupt,” his grandfather chided him, and Brandyé grew silent again.

“So, there was nothing at all. And then, there was something. In the forgotten origins of time, seven races came into being. They inhabited all parts of the world–”

“Erâth?” said Brandyé.

“Don’t interrupt,” his grandfather said again. “Yes, Erâth. In this early world, there were seven great races of power. And from these, there came the Ageless. There are seven Ageless – one for each of the great races of power. The Ageless have always been, and may even be the ones who brought Erâth into existence in the first place. Maybe the races of Erâth even came from the Ageless. I suppose anything is possible…” Reuel trailed off, and was silent for a moment.

“Which race are we?” Brandyé asked. “And what happened to the other races? And where are the Ageless now?”

Reuel looked at him reproachfully. “Who is telling this tale?” he said. “Perhaps we should stop; we can finish this another night if you like.”

“I’m sorry grandfather – I do want to hear more about the world. I shouldn’t ask so many questions.”

“No,” he replied. “You must never stop asking questions.”

“Do continue, grandfather – please.”

“Yes. We are the race of Men. We do not live where we once did, and we do not live as we once did. The first men – the Ancients – were magical beings. They lived many hundreds of years, could travel an entire land in a day. They could heal the most grievous of wounds, and could even bring back the dead. In those days, Men filled Erâth, and commanded the lesser creatures, much as we still do with the cattle and sheep.

“The other races represented the powers of Erâth. There were the Mirèn, race of life, and the Namirèn, race of death; the Illuèn, of light, and Duithèn, of darkness. There were also the Portèn, of power, and the Sarâthen, of wisdom. They do not exist any longer, but left Erâth many ages ago when the race of Men fell.”

“We fell?” Brandyé asked.

“Yes, we did. We fell far. Look around you – we live in huts, tending the land, and travel on foot. We do not live hundreds of years, nor can we revive the dead.”

“Well, what if this is the way we’re supposed to be?”

“That is quite possible. All the magic of the Ancients did not prevent their downfall, or we would still live today as they did. In many ways I would be wary of magic – I have never heard of magic that did not bring harm.

“In any case, the race of Men faded, and nearly disappeared. We lost the power we had, and the magic is gone from the world. But they say there are remnants of the ancient world, if you look hard enough and travel far enough. There is a broken bridge that once crossed an entire sea, and in the farthest corner of the world is an island, whose ruined cities were once the greatest in all of Erâth.”

“How did the bridge break?”

“That is a tale for another time, son. Would you put another log on the fire?”

Brandyé picked up a small long from the pile beside the fire, and placed over the embers that were slowly dying. For several minutes there was silence, as together they watched the new wood darken, rise flames, and finally begin to spit and pop as it started to burn.

“It was at this time that darkness first truly fell over the world. There had always been darkness, of course – much of it brought about by the Duithèn, whose power it was. But the magic of Men and the other races of power kept this darkness at bay, and it did not begin to take over the world until there were no longer enough men to withstand it, and the other races of power faded and left.

“Eventually – and it took many thousands of years – all that was left of the race of Men found the world risen against them, and were no longer able to survive. It look as though all was lost – and then Consolation was found. It was the last remaining refuge of light in all of Erâth, and it is from these men that we are descended. They found the land welcoming, and they could once more grow crops, and raise livestock, and live in peace.

“All the while, they feared that the darkness would discover this land, and then there would be nowhere left in Erâth to go, and they would become extinct. For many thousands of years, we have lived with this possibility, but we have had fortune so far, and darkness has not yet crept into Consolation. I do wonder, though, if it might be inevitable. We are blessed here, but you need not travel far to discover that the rest of the world is not so. Have you ever noticed that the mountains to the North – the Trestaé – are most always shawled with grey, and dark clouds? You would not need to go far into their valleys to discover the trees grow crooked, and the beasts are wild, and far stranger than any that roam our lands. You know the wolves that have sometimes attacked Farmer Tar’s sheep? The creatures that roam those mountains would send them running with their tails between their legs.

“I do not have an explanation for why these creatures have not, in all this time, ventured to descend from those mountains and strike at us. Perhaps they do not need to, knowing that we are so isolated, and cannot conquer them. Perhaps there is still some good magic in the world, that keeps them at bay. I do not know.”

“Maybe there are other men out there, who kill them,” Brandyé said.

Reuel looked at him curiously. “What makes you think there would be other people, not living in Consolation?”

“People say that you left Consolation, and you weren’t killed by the beasts. They even say that’s where you found grandmother – in the lands outside of ours.”

Reuel closed his eyes. “Yes; that is true. Your grandmother was a magical creature.”

“I thought you said there was no more magic,” said Brandyé.

“I do not mean magic as you might think of it. She had no powers, but that does not mean she was not magical. There was something special about her; something I have not seen in almost any other person.”

“Who have you seen it in?”

Reuel smiled a little. “Your mother,” he replied. “And you.”

“What was it she had?” Brandyé was intrigued; he had never thought he had anything special about him, other than the fact that most people didn’t like him.

“Curiosity,” said Reuel. “Not being satisfied with a simple answer. Questioning. Your grandmother knew more than any other person I have ever met. But despite that, she never stopped asking questions, to the day she died. Do you know what she said to me before she passed away?”

“No,” said Brandyé, who felt a little uncomfortable. His grandfather did not usually speak of his wife, who Brandyé had never met. She had died long before he had been born.

“She held my hand – she was very weak by then – and she said to me, ‘All my life I have wondered. I have seen the world and wanted to understand why it is the way it is. There are but two things I have never questioned: that you and I should always have met, and that I will see you again.’ The last thing she ever said was, ‘I wonder what death will be like.’”

Brandyé was quiet, and looked at his grandfather. He wasn’t sure in the dim light, but it was possible a tear was glistening under his eye. Unsettled, he turned back to the fire, and watched the log slowly burn, the flames growing lower and lower. Soon, there was nothing left but embers, glowing quietly. The wind rushed outside, and it was dark.

Brandyé felt sad, though he wasn’t sure why. He had never known his grandmother, any more than he had known his parents. He felt no particular connection to her, but yet he felt badly that she had died. Perhaps it was seeing his grandfather, usually so strong, seem so saddened by the thought of his wife. He wondered what it was like to feel that kind of connection to someone else, and whether there was a word for it. He wondered where she had come from, and what it meant that she was not from Consolation. The people he had heard these rumors from seemed to think his grandfather was somehow dangerous, as though he had some hidden power they were afraid of. He realized this was exactly how people reacted to him also, and wondered about his grandfather’s own childhood.

He wanted to ask his grandfather all about these things, but it was getting late, and so far Reuel had not spoken or moved. Uncertain, Brandyé eventually stood up. He looked at his grandfather, who was himself staring into the fire, and said softly, “I’m going to go to bed, grandfather. Goodnight.”

Reuel nodded, ever so slightly, and Brandyé knew he would be okay, and went to bed.

 

Something very odd happened when Brandyé fell asleep that night. Without really realizing it, he was suddenly somewhere else, somewhere he had never seen before in his life.

It was a place entirely unlike anywhere he had ever been in Consolation. For a start, almost everything seemed to made of stone, yet not a kind of stone he knew; it seemed far too flat, far too smooth to be natural. The ground was made of this stuff; the walls of the buildings around him were also, where they were not made of glass.

The buildings were also extremely odd. These stone dwellings were vast – some stretched hundreds of feet into the sky, and continued off into the distance beyond sight. They were made of the same strange stone as everything else, but this stone seemed to serve only as a frame to the buildings; between these huge pillars, vast panes of glass stretched. Brandyé had never seen anything like it; it made the windows of his grandfather’s parlor seem like small peepholes by comparison.

The second thing Brandyé noticed was that these buildings seemed almost all ruined. As the buildings climbed into the sky, he saw that they were topped by jagged, uneven and crumbled edges. There was rubble on the ground, and many cracks in the walls of glass all around him.

The third thing he noticed was that he was entirely alone. He peered about, and saw nothing. There was no sound, no smell, no sign that anything lived in this place at all. He shivered; he had never been in a place of such desolation. Even in the great expanse of the moorlands near his home, where no one ever went, there were sounds, there were smells. The bitter scent of heather, the mustiness of earth; the call of wagtails and scratching chirp of crickets, and the harsh whistle of the wind. There was none of that here.

He began to feel a little uneasy; he did not understand how he came to be here, and was worried about how he would return. He felt very far from home. He took a few steps forward; his feet made a soft pat on the ground and echoed. He stopped again, and looked around. Perhaps someone was watching him. He waited many minutes, and yet no one appeared. He was still alone, it seemed.

He moved on, continued in a line between the high walls of buildings. Ahead, there seemed to be a change of horizon; no building loomed before him, but something else, something empty. As he drew nearer, he began to see light glistening and shimmering. Slowly, the buildings diminished behind him, and he came upon a sight that made his breath cease.

Beneath his feet was sand; before him was water. It was of a size beyond his reckoning; he had visited a lake once before with his grandfather and this was a thousandfold greater than that, and more. To the North and South it stretched infinitely, disappearing beyond the horizon unimaginable leagues distant. The sun hung low in the East, and turned the place to gold and ember. It glinted off the low waves of the water and dazzled Brandyé’s sight. It seemed unmoving; as he stood, still and awed, it neither rose nor set, but stayed put as though it was always just before dusk.

It was the horizon over which the sun hung, the eastern horizon, that Brandyé was unable to comprehend. While the sea stretched infinitely to the North and South, it ended to the East. Brandyé knew of no other word to describe what his eyes saw. Perhaps two miles distant, the sea simply stopped. There was no other land, nor was there more water. A white mist danced beyond this ending, rising gently from beyond the sea and dissolving as it rose towards the frozen sun. It appeared as though the entire sea was plummeting wholly off the edge of an unfathomable precipice. Brandyé had the strongest impression that he stood facing the very edge of the world itself.

It was as he stood, mind reeling at this sight, that a voice, clear and simple, spoke behind him.

“Ye terviae, Brandyé Dui-Erâth, Viura Râ-i, fae erarâth.”

“I greet you, Brandyé Dui-Erâth, in Viura Râ, at world-end.”

He was not startled; though only a moment ago he knew he was alone, he now felt this strange greeting was exactly as it should have been. He turned.

Before him was a woman in black, face pale and fair shrouded under a cloak. Her robes were of a black that the light of the sun did not touch, and a single crimson jewel that hung from her neck was the only color that she bore. She stood on the sand, gazing calmly at Brandyé, and he saw her feet were bare. He gazed into her eyes, and saw they were black also, and looked away, for he felt he might be drawn into them directly and drown.

“Fryae na, Brandyé.” She smiled, though her mouth did not move.

“Fear not, Brandyé.”

Brandyé did not understand her words, but he recognized his name, and knew she spoke the language from which his name had been drawn.

“Who are you?” Even as he asked, he somehow knew the answer.

“Ye-vèr Namira,” she spoke.

“I am Death,”

“I do not understand you,” he said.

“Ye va,” she replied. “Tuthae.” “I know. You will.” She leaned down so that her face was before his, and cupped his face in her hands. They were smooth, and pale, and very cold. She wore a ring, as black as her robes, on the third finger of her right hand, and he felt it against his cheek. “Unéyae. Ye therù.” “You are the dreamer. I will return.”

She kissed him lightly on the forehead, rose, and turned.

“Wait,” he called. But she moved away, and was soon lost to distance. He turned back to the sea. The sun had still not moved. The waters plunged still into their abyss. He felt her kiss linger on his skin, and the coldness of her seemed to slowly spread over his face and down his neck. He thought his vision darkened, and he sat on the sand, watching all the while to the East.

Slowly, he felt his whole body become cold, and the warmth of the sand beneath him seemed to fade. He lay down, and saw the sky above, saw scattered clouds, and saw they too did not move. He lay there for what seemed like many hours, and slowly sank into the sand. All the while his sight grew darker, and eventually he saw nothing at all.

 

Brandyé woke next morning to the sun coming gently through his window, and the scent of breakfast from below. He heard his grandfather humming a tune, and knew where he was, and was relieved. What an odd thing to happen, he thought to himself. I wonder where that place is? He thought he might ask his grandfather, but hesitated – traveling to another place in the middle of the night, when you were meant to be sleeping? It sounded an awful lot like magic, and his grandfather had said he knew of no magic that did not bring harm.

He rose from his bed, and went downstairs to breakfast. He would think about it.

Brandyé Dui-Erâth was born under a low red moon to awful circumstances. Within moments of his birth, the house in which he was born burned to the ground. It was a rare and terrible occurrence, and the men and women of the village flocked to the scene in the dead of night to see the flames reaching high into the black sky, and knew with sadness that the family who lived there had perished.

They were not wholly wrong, but neither were they wholly right. For amidst the ashes and embers in the grey morning, a shocking sight greeted them. Imagine, for a moment, their astonishment to discover, in the center of the ruined home, a tiny child, seemingly untouched by the flames, alone, quiet, and peering curiously at the sky and the men who now towered above him. Whether he understood yet what he saw around him, and that his parents were gone, they did not know, but they were unsettled by the fact that the child had been unaffected by the terrible flames.

It was also curious that only the house they dwelt in burned; it was a dry season, and by all accounts the barn, only a few paces away, should certainly have caught the flame and burned down around the livestock it sheltered. But the barn was unharmed, and indeed the animals were entirely undisturbed; when a nearby horsemaster came to take ownership of the cattle, he found them merely anxious to be milked, and happily followed him down the road to his own pastures, some three miles away.

Word spread quickly from town to town that a child had been born to flame, and when people recalled that the sky had been black and the moon red, they were afraid of the child, and saw him as an omen of disaster. Admittedly, they were not certain exactly what this disaster would be or when it would happen, and as nothing much seemed to occur soon after or in the years to come – and since the child showed no sign of dark powers (or powers of any other kind, for that matter) – the people’s fear diminished gradually into unease and mistrust. They nonetheless avoided him if they could, and he grew up very much alone, with no friends, save a few.

At first, no one knew exactly what to do with the child; his mother and father had not been particularly well known in the village and surrounding lands, being little more than cattle farmers, and tended to keep to themselves. They had been known only as the Dearsays not even the Dearsay family, as no one even knew the wife had borne a child), and had lived quietly in the small house – now gone – with the large barn behind. Most people had only met them on Saturdays, at the market, where they ran a small stall selling milk and eggs.

Of course, few people in those parts concerned themselves overly with the business of others, and were perfectly content to let their neighbors stay behind their doors if they wished. Most had little acquaintance with anyone outside of their village, and indeed the Dearsays had come from elsewhere some years before. The old folk at the time wondered at this, for surely they didn’t need more farmers – nearly everyone was a farmer, it seemed – and would far preferred a skilled healer, for their old bones ached, or failing that, for them simply not to have arrived in their town at all.

Because of this lack of connection with neighboring towns, it was some time before anyone was found to care for the child. In the meantime he was taken in by a seamstress and her husband, neither of whom had children, and frankly did not want one. As suddenly none of the other families had the room to take care of one more mouth (even the Baggars, who only the week before had boasted how they would six daughters to go with the six sons they already had), they were left with little choice, and did the least they could to keep the child quiet until someone else could be found.

Eventually, it was discovered that the boy did have a single living relative – a grandfather, who lived in a different town some twenty or thirty miles away. This grandfather was the child’s mother’s father, and was greatly saddened that his daughter had died, but he loved the child the moment he saw her eyes peering wonderingly at him from the tiny face, and took him to raise as his own. This was perhaps the best thing that could have happened to the tiny infant, for without the influence of his grandfather, it is likely he would not have been banished from Consolation, and would not have taken the long journey that eventually led to the saving of his world.

His grandfather was also perceived by the people as something of a rogue, having greatly disturbed the population in his youth by actually leaving Consolation (something that had not happened in memorable time), and returning with a wife. This was particularly upsetting, as it was widely known that there were no people living outside the hills and mountains that surrounded the lands of Consolation, and they were at a loss to explain her at all. His tales of kingdoms and lands beyond their borders were unfathomable, and ultimately dismissed as the ravings of a madman.

He was also far more knowledgeable than most of his neighbors, and knew more tales of lore and ancient history than almost anyone else, and despite their misgivings, people did find great entertainment at hearing his tales, told often over too many pints of ale in the local tavern, the Burrow Wayde. It was from this rich history that he drew his grandson’s unusual name; while most of the children of Consolation had entirely ordinary names like Arthur or Théar, he believed his grandson could one day become a great man, and would need a name with meaning. In the ancient days, it was not unusual for a child to be named for the circumstances in which it was born, and so it was that the child became known as Brandyé Dui-Erâth. Since few people knew the language this name came from, few knew its true meaning: Born from Fire into the Darkness of the World.

As Brandyé Dui-Erâth grew older and met the other children who lived in his village, they were confused by his odd name. He spent many hours trying to explain to them the correct pronunciation (Bran-Diyay Do-ee Erah-th), but ultimately, the other children couldn’t wrap their tongues around this difficult name, and he came to be known as Brandy, or simply Bray. They would tease him about it, saying that he didn’t have a proper name, and therefore wasn’t a proper boy. They would shout and call him Brandy Broth (the closest they could come to -râth), or Bad Breath Bray, or sometimes just Onion, but Brandyé didn’t mind; he, of course, knew his own name, and felt that if no one could speak it, this made it a secret, and a secret name was something powerful indeed.

So it was that the child’s grandfather, whose name was Reuel Tolkaï (his daughter had been Aimi Tolkaï), brought him home to a small dwelling on the outskirts of Burrowdown. The house stood alone at the top of a low hill, overlooking the village below to the South, and wide stretches of rolling hill and moorland to the North. Beyond this, lines of trees grew tall, and sheltered the foothills of the Tresté Mountains. Brandyé would often play for hours among the stone and heather, imagining vividly the wonderful worlds of his grandfather’s tales.

The house itself was small, with two floors – the lower wider than the upper – and a slate roof. The walls were an odd combination of rough stone blocks and aging timber, and often looked as though it oughtn’t hold its own weight, despite weathering blustering storms and the piercing winter winds. The squat chimney stood out from the roof at the back of the house, and was of course crooked. A thick cord stretched tight from the peak of the roof around the chimney, and it appeared as thought it were actually holding it back from falling entirely off the roof. A thin weather vane stood near the chimney, and was also peculiar in that a metal rod led from this vane down the wall of the house and disappeared through the wall near the ground.

Of the house’s many peculiarities, one stood out above all others, and this was its odd, round windows. Every window in the house was a perfect circle, with equally circular grey shutters that could be drawn tight in poor weather. No one really understood this, for it was undoubtedly more difficult to build such windows into a house, rather than regular square ones. Wood bars made a cross in the center of each window, and were made of a grey wood that was unknown in those parts. The windows were by far the best-crafted parts of the house – everything else, from the walls to the ceilings and the lantern brackets, no two of which were at the same height – felt as though they had been made by one who had made it up as he went along. This, of course, is exactly how Reuel had made it when he had built it by hand over sixty years ago for his wife and himself.

Brandyé, of course, did not see the house as the poor shack that the villagers shook their heads at, because it was his home, and because his grandfather had built it. He particularly loved the windows, and when he was very small he would hide beneath the curved frames and peer out at the world on rainy days. He loved the feeling of being secret, his eyes just peeping above the sill; he could spy on the finches and marmots, and the rare passerby on their way to the village below. At night, the village lanterns made fascinating patterns in the blackness, and when the sun set in the West and cast sideways shadows over the brilliant heather, Brandyé understood why his grandfather had chosen to build his house in this spot. The two largest windows, over eight feet high, faced out of the parlor to the North, and gave the house the appearance of having great eyes, watching always to the mountains and the North.

Inside, the house was small and comfortable, and filled with furniture that was as oddly shaped as the outside. Downstairs was a kitchen with a large iron stove that kept the whole downstairs warm, even if the fire in the adjoining parlor was not lit (which it usually was). A crazy tangle of pipes led away from the stove along the walls and disappeared into the ceiling and floor, and it was many years before Brandyé realized that it was these pipes were an invention of his grandfather’s that kept his room warm, for there were no fireplaces upstairs. The parlor was comparatively large, and housed several large, overstuffed and soothing chairs around a large stone hearth, as well as a heavy oak table that Brandyé and his grandfather dined at each night, and would cover with a tablecloth on the few occasions when they had visitors. Both of the large, round windows faced out from this room, and it was a joy to stand in front of them and watch the mists roll over the moors as rain pattered on the glass, with the warmth of a roaring fire filling the room.

Reuel slept in a small room off the side of the parlor that was almost filled with a very wide bed. It was the only room in the house that was not heated in any way, and Brandyé often wondered how his grandfather could sleep through the deep cold of winter, but he said that it kept his health, and since Reuel never seemed particularly aged, Brandyé assumed this must be true. Brandyé slept upstairs in his very own room. It was tiny, but still managed somehow to hold a bed that seemed always just a little too short, and a small desk by the window. Reuel felt strongly about his grandson having somewhere to learn to write, and although Brandyé never saw his grandfather with either pen or paper, he nonetheless spent long hours slowly and carefully tracing flowing curves and lines, often long into the night when the moon was high and the candles burned low, and learned an ancient script that gave him a secret language to go along with his secret name.

There was also upstairs another room, whose door was shut and closed to Brandyé. As early as he could remember, his grandfather had said to him, “Son,” – for he called him son – “I have raised you as my own child, and this house is yours, now and when I am gone. But you must promise me one thing – you may not enter the room upstairs while I live here still.”

“Why, grandfather?” Brandyé had asked.

But his grandfather would say no more on this, and as Reuel was never so closed on any other subject, Brandyé did not ask him again.

As Brandyé grew older, he became familiar with the surrounding country. To the North was only empty moor; its hills rolled on for many miles in all directions, and few people ever ventured there, save the farmers whose sheep roamed the countryside freely. To the South, half a mile or so down a steep dirt track, was the village of Burrowdown. It was so called because it was built by the waters of the river Burrow, which flowed from the East, and was one of the farthest downstream before the river bent south and entered the gorges and cliffs of Perneck, and presumably from there on to the sea. The river was itself named Burrow for it sprang, on the very borders of the Consolation, from a deep hole in the hillside, which was called a burrow in those parts. Some forty miles or so upstream from Burrowdown was Burrowai, which of course meant Burrow Up.

Burrowdown was a large village, though by no means the largest in the lands. Perhaps some forty or fifty families lived in the village proper, with some dozen or so more in the outlands to the South and East. The largest and most influential of these families were the Hirvets, a name which always made Brandyé laugh, for in the language of the Ancients this meant large head (or as he preferred, fat head). They were one of the oldest families in the area, and in some distant time had once farmed the land and built a small community for their workers. At least a few of their ancestors must have been clever, and had discovered that if they built homes for farmers (or rather, had workers build them), the farmers would repay them with a part of their harvest each year. This allowed them to do less and less work themselves, while their riches grew more and more. It was in this way, in fact, that the village of Burrowdown came to be, and to that day, the Hirvets owned almost half of the homes in the village, and did no work themselves at all.

The village itself was lower than the moors and hills on which Reuel Tolkaï’s house was built, but it nonetheless stood on gently rolling ground, and so was not built to any particular order but instead had houses and buildings that were mostly scattered around, with footworn paths leading here and there between them. Only two proper roads, as such, passed through the town; one led East along the river towards Burrowai and beyond, and also followed the river for some miles west, until it eventually gave way to the wilds and grass. The other road led only south, towards the central lands of Consolation, where there were other towns, many forests, and of course, the capitol of Daevàr’s Hut. These two thoroughfares met in the center of the village, at a great stone bridge that crossed the river Burrow.

It was by this bridge that the Burrow Wayde Inn stood, and whilst it offered rest for travelers on those seldom occasions when the town had visitors, it more often offered warm food and strong amber ale to the villagers themselves. Reuel could be found at the Burrow Wayde every Friday evening, and when Brandyé was older would bring him as well, but Brandyé found it curious that his grandfather rarely interacted with the other patrons. Occasionally he would be drunkenly called upon for “another fantasy tale,” and he would readily oblige, but otherwise he remained quiet in a corner, drank exactly three pints of ale over three hours, and watched the others in the inn thoughtfully as they drank and talked, drank and laughed, drank and argued, and drank and fought. Eventually, Mrs. Heath, the owner, would boot them all out, cursing them for being such ruffians, and welcomed them back happily the next evening. Brandyé would ask his grandfather why he visited the inn each week, even in the heart of winter, if he didn’t really want to talk to anyone there.

“I like to watch,” he replied.

“Why do you not talk to anyone?” Brandyé had asked.

“Because they are mostly fools,” Reuel said, not unkindly.

Brandyé pondered this for a moment. “Then why watch them at all?”

His grandfather smiled, and said, “Because you can learn more from a drunken fool than you can from a sober wise man.”

Brandyé thought this was funny when he was young, and saw the truth in this statement when he was old.

There were many other things to entertain a young boy in Burrowdown, and Brandyé would often go down to the village and wander the paths and streets, passing from Mr. Carle’s glassery, which didn’t make glass at all (that was Han Foeral, down the street), but rather small, round sweets that looked just like glass marbles and tasted like daisies, to Gloria Dael’s dairy, where you could always get a cup of fresh, warm milk. The riverbank offered stone skipping, duck feeding, swimming, and sledding in the winter when the surface froze over, and there was a secret spot under the bridge where you could hide completely from sight, yet somehow still hear the voices of those who passed over the bridge. Just upstream from the village was an enormous, ancient oak whose branches hung out over the river, and someone long ago and thrown a rope over the highest of these. Children would take turns in the summer launching themselves from the riverbank, and if you pushed off hard enough you could reach the other bank; but if you didn’t, you would swing back and forth, and eventually, when your grip failed, fall into the cold water, to the laughter of the other children.

There were two wells – one from which the town drew its water, and one which had an iron gate fastened tight over its top. This well was a thrill for Brandyé, for the rumor was that it had been closed after a young boy, many years ago, had fallen in, and drowned before he could be rescued. The villagers had sealed it, for they would not draw water from a well of death. Brandyé did not fully believe this, as the new well was less than a hundred yards from the old one, and had no particular protection to stop more foolish boys from falling in also. He thought that if the townspeople were going to take the trouble to sink a second well because someone had fallen into the first one, they would have tried to make sure that no one could fall into this one.

Despite there being much to engage a young imagination, and plenty of chances to hide and seek and find trouble, all was not always well for him. He found that, although he had no memory of it himself, he could not escape his mysterious and terrible birth, and many of the villagers were afraid of him and would not approach him as he walked through the town. He was often eager to play with the other children, but their parents would shoo them indoors, and he would wander away, hurt and angry. He knew it was not his fault that he had been born in a blazing house, and he was as puzzled at his survival as anyone else. Still, he didn’t like the way people looked at him, as though they were afraid he might set their own house on fire just by looking at it.

Not everyone was like this, of course; Gloria at the dairy thought they were all fools, and enjoyed his visits immensely. He would often spend hours with her tending the cows, and learned to milk them, which he found delightful, though he was never very good at it. There was one other family in the village that didn’t mind Brandyé, and that was the Dotterys. They had a son also, Elven, who was close to Brandyé’s age and very reckless. He would often convince Brandyé to undertake spectacularly dangerous missions with him, from jumping off the Burrow bridge in the middle of the night, to spooking the bulls in Farmer Tar’s paddock and causing them to break through the fence and stampede through town and into the woods many miles from the town. Despite the reprimands of his grandfather, Brandyé secretly delighted in these adventures, and he and Elven quickly became the best of friends.

So it was that Brandyé lived as a young boy in the village of Burrowdown, in the North of the land of Consolation, with his grandfather in a house on the top of a hill, always with the influence of the wild to the North, and eventually became the young man who would be exiled, forgotten, and finally come to change the fate of Erâth.