Berec was kneeling, pushed into the mud by the Eden soldiers, but his back was straight and he stared boldly into the faces of those around him. He felt no regret, no remorse. He hadn’t failed. He reached further than he had ever hoped; he might as well die now.
When the counter attack had begun, he led Aloue in the opposite direction to the fleeing crowd: onwards, towards the enemy, towards the dragon and the terrifying fire-throwing weapons. His plan was a simple one: to mingle into the enemy ranks in the chaos and reach the mountain pass unseen. To catch even a glimpse of the Eden would have been enough… One thing he hadn’t accounted for was how centuries of isolation had changed the appearance of the people beyond the mountain wall. Their skin was monotone grey, smooth, with no spots or scales. It was a better way to tell their own than any uniform.
They had been noticed as soon as the fighting ended, as they climbed carefully towards the fortress. A single shot was enough for Aloue; the Squirrel never knew what hit him. Berec immediately stood up, throwing his dagger aside and raising his arms in a gesture of surrender.
He was wondering why they hadn’t killed him, when he heard a female cry. He turned his head and saw a woman… no, a female creature, with skin naked and pale pink like that of a newly-born doe. The sight disgusted him, despite the female’s smooth and attractive face. A man was standing beside her, similarly pink and hairless, stern-faced and old. They were both clad in thick furs. The man was clutching his side. His pink fingers seemed to Berec like worms wriggling in the wound. He retched.
He knew what they were; he remembered enough of the legends to recognise the Ancestors.
The female knelt down beside him. He looked into her eyes and saw the dragon flame; he realised she was the golden dragon who had vanquished the forest armies.
“Are you a Great Dragon? Have you come to destroy us?”
The female turned to the others.
“Spare him. I sense… I sense something. I will keep an eye on him.”
The others hesitated. They did not wish to argue with the dragon, but were reluctant to let him get away. Berec felt his luck was still with him; he looked to where Aloue lay dead. Beside him a piece of red fur was tramped into the mud. So the Cob had also failed to reach the Eden…
“Why did you spare him?” Ayaris asked.
They were lying on the bed beside each other, resting after the eventful night. When they had eventually returned from the battlefield, excitement still rushing in their veins, she took him into her bed without a word. It seemed natural now. Two strangers in a strange land, alone, healthy… why had it taken them so long?
“Why do you think?” she replied.
“I have a couple of theories.”
“Give me one.”
“You still don’t fully trust our hosts. You want to have somebody who’s on your side, just in case.”
“You’ve guessed right.”
“Good. I was hoping my other theory was the wrong one.”
“And what was it?”
“That you fell for him,” he said, smiling.
“You? Jealous of this savage?”
They laughed and he leaned over to kiss her.
“So let me get this straight,” Ayaris said, “the only reason you… your people undertake their journey across the Taiga is to get to Eden?”
They were back in the great dining hall. Berec of the Owl Marsh, as the forest man was called, was sitting to the left of Sonnai, with the Duke to her right. He had just told his story and was now answering questions.
Ayaris found the description of life in the deep forest strangely appealing. It seemed like a much simpler, much more exciting place than the lands of humans, a place where death was a daily occurrence, where love was rare and friendship rarer. He imagined himself fitting easily into this world.
“No, not everyone,” replied Berec. “There are many groups that wander around the forest, seeking nothing but food and spoils. But the Red Foxes — of which I was one — are always heading south-east, where we want to find the land of eternal happiness: the Eden. A land open to anyone who is strong enough to reach it.”
The Duke nodded and looked at the First Speaker.
“Open to anyone?”
“Yes, well,” the Speaker started, “we have to protect ourselves from the savages. You’ve seen their numbers — we would be easily overwhelmed. Of course, we respect the ancient laws and if anyone actually manages to reach the gates of our mountain fortresses, they are allowed to pass through.”
“And how often does that happen?”
“I… the chronicles mention one or two examples, I believe.”
The Duke grasped a glass of wine and stood as if to raise a toast. The hall fell silent in anticipation.
“I have fought in your name. I was wounded. I was victorious,” he said. The diners murmured approvingly. “And yet, I still don’t know — what for? What is this city and who built it? Who are the forest people who attacked you? Why aren’t they welcome here anymore? What other information have you been hiding from us?”
The First Speaker smiled and stood up as well.
“Thou art right — I wasn’t being fully honest with thee. But now that the war is over, there will be no more secrets. Please, sit down, drink some of our wine; and thou too, dragon,” he said to Sonnai. “The tale I have to tell is a long one — even by the reckoning of thy kind.”
THE CHEST OF THE FIRST SPEAKER
Imagine, if you can, a span of several thousand years. Even the dragons don’t live that long, as far as I can tell. This is how far back in time we must start the story of the Eden and the Taiga.
Some thousands of years ago — nobody really knows exactly how many — the Evarites had their kingdoms flourishing all over the Continent and the Archipelago, and your race, Duke, had lived as slaves to the Dragons: savages without even a glimmer of civilization. In the middle of what you now call Ocean-Without-Magic, there was another continent. It was inhabited by the were-drakes, descended from both humans and dragons, who had created a vast, advanced empire.
The Great Dragons teach us that on most worlds a variant of the same tale is told; it seems the self-destructing civilizations are a constant in the history of the Mirror Worlds. Our holy books use a symbol of a snake eating its own tail to represent this idea: progress leads inevitably to a downfall; but a new life always springs from the ashes. Sometimes the disaster comes from without, but we know that our forefathers were also responsible for their own demise.
Their civilization had risen to great heights, not only technological, but also moral. All life was precious. Their medicine kept people alive for years beyond their natural lifespan. Their machines were used only for good. Their magic helped shape the continent, move the mountains, water the deserts. There was no hunger, cold or pain. Everyone lived happily until old age. They had cast away their Gods, the Great Dragons, claiming they were no longer needed in a world of permanent bliss.
When the threat came, our forefathers did not know how to deal with it. They had grown lazy, complacent. We do not know what the nature of the danger had been. It had come from outside of this world, a threat more powerful than anything we can now imagine. The were-drakes of old forgot how to fight. They thought they could reason with the enemy, or buy them out. But it was not to be; in the end, all of their happy children, all healthy elders, all the weak and indolent men and women had been devoured and destroyed, and their continent perished, leaving nothing but a hole in the Swirling Sea.
Only a handful of rebels survived. There are always rebels, even in Utopia. They are the ones who push progress, and when there is no more space to progress — they are the ones willing to make that one last step to complete the loop; no-one ever willingly wants to return to the old, savage times.
There were very few of them left at the time, in a land where all dreams came true; there was nothing to rebel against. Those few had noticed the trap our forefathers had drawn themselves into: instead of changing a
nd perfecting, they were only changing the world around them. They were snug and warm in the cocoon of their technology and magic, never considering how easy it was to lose it all. They had known our world was not alone by then, and yet did nothing to protect themselves from the outside threats.
Those who survived the disaster decided that the fate of their homeland must not be repeated. As the continent sank into the swirling waters, they begged the Great Dragons for help; the Gods flew from their frozen abodes and saved the castaways by transporting them here, to the northern continent. In this inhospitable land the survivors established a new nation, with new rules, aimed at always keeping its people fit and ready for any eventuality.
This valley we now call Eden used to be a small coastal outpost of the Great Dragons” civilization. Under their protection we had built our main camp — not yet a city, but just a starting point for the expeditions into the Taiga. Every time a child was born, its family ventured off into the forest. The settlers spread all over the Taiga, ever further north and west from the Eden, each carrying with them a small piece of the ancient knowledge, but more importantly — each carrying the new laws, the Laws of the Taiga.
There were only a few of them, and they could all be summarised simply: “do what thou wilt and let others do likewise’. Those who had come up with this system believed in natural selection, survival of the fittest — the idea they took from the dragon philosophy. The far reaches of the forest became inhabited by men who, to survive, had to be stronger, faster, smarter than the others. But they all remembered the legend of the Eden — the place where there was no more struggling, where a reward of a long, peaceful life waited for those who deserved it.
In time, a certain balance of power emerged. The tribes divided the Taiga between them in order of strength; the closer you got to the Eden, the more powerful and clever forest people you’d meet. The system was working: instead of changing the Taiga to suit their needs, the men changed themselves, and at a much faster pace than anyone had expected.
One day the descendants of those who had left for the farthest reaches of Taiga returned to Eden and saw that the valley was empty. Everyone had gone into the forest. Even the dragons had flown away. The newcomers understood that they were now the new hosts of Eden. On the ruins of the dragon city they built their own, a great capital of crystal and glass. They developed a new culture and civilisation, compared to which, those who remained beyond the mountains seemed savage barbarians.
The mountains were never an impassable wall. Once in a while some brave traveller managed to climb through the passes, joining our community with his skills and talents. Eventually, we built the fortresses — ostensibly to provide aid to those who came to us, but it was the first sign of the fear which was beginning to grow within ourselves.
The circle of rise and fall turned again. We began to repeat the errors of our forefathers. Although born out of conflict and constant struggle for survival, in the safety of the valley we forgot all about the laws of the Taiga. “This is not Taiga,” we said, “this is Eden.” We established new rules. We stopped training our youth in the art of warfare; our weapons were stronger than anything the forest people could throw against us, anyway. The fortresses were impregnable.
Some didn’t like the new, old world. “Degenerates,’ they called us, and we could not understand what they meant. Degenerates? Look at our crystal houses, our flying machines. And then look at the barely sentient savages in the forest, dying of cold and hunger.
The mountains gave us an illusion of a difference between the valley and the forest. We convinced ourselves that we belonged to another race, having nothing in common with those left in the Taiga. We forgot they were as smart as us, especially those living in the foothills of the Gates of Eden, only a little less lucky, a little less agile. We failed to notice when they, too, started building their own civilisation, society, nations.
I say all this with regret, but I feel no guilt. I was one of the few who tried to warn others. I had opposed selling arms to the people of the foothills, providing them with our secret knowledge. I was the Speaker for War, responsible for supplying the fortresses with men and ammunition. I saw what was brewing on the other side.
My predecessor was a wise man. He was trying to make the tribes of the Taiga fight against each other, instigating wars and disputes that drew their attention from us. He, too, sensed the danger. But in the end, even he failed.
I know little of what had happened in the Taiga just before the war started. The chieftains of the greatest tribes had at last realised they were being manipulated. Furious, they formed an alliance. Together they thought themselves strong enough to take us on.
First came the climbers; we were surprised and delighted to see so many young, fit people coming towards us. Many perished during the climb, but some got through to the passes. We were preparing to welcome them according to the ancient custom — but they turned away, leaving only hooks and lines in the rock.
I alone guessed what it was. A scouting mission. The forest was preparing for siege. Somehow I managed to convince the others just in time; they elected me as their new First Speaker and, for the first time, added to it another title: Commander in Chief.
The siege lasted for many days. Wave after wave shattered against our defences. I knew we would not hold out for long. As you have seen, we were running low on ammunition, food, medications. All that stood against us and utter destruction were the mountain fortresses. There was only one thing left to do.
For centuries we had little respect for our priests. Like our forefathers before us, we no longer worshipped the Great Dragons as fervently as we perhaps should have. But the priests still claimed to be in touch with the Gods. In desperation, I turned to them, asking them to pray to the Great Dragons and providing them with whatever they needed for their rituals and sacrifices. Even my close friends thought I had gone mad from the strain of battle. But I was proven right… The Gods have sent you to help us destroy the enemy. We have survived. I don’t know for how long, but we were given another chance, and we have to make the best of it.
THE GARDEN
So… what now?
Berec was lying in the most comfortable bed he had ever seen, in a prison cell which was larger and more luxurious than the great hall in his father’s house. Remains of what seemed to him a sumptuous feast lingered on the table. For the first time in his life he hadn’t managed to eat a whole meal.
Despite all this, he was disappointed. So this was the famed Eden? That bunch of fearful, effete creatures, lost among their machines? Maybe Aloue was the lucky one. At least he died still having a dream. Berec’s dream was gone, replaced by a lie.
He looked out onto the broad streets and crystal facades. “At least it’s clean,” he thought, “and warm. And the food is good.”
He had no real expectations of Eden, no visions. There was no time for dreams in the Taiga. The legends were vague: “Untold riches! Happiness! Safety!” Yes, he was safe here — at least until the warring tribes gathered together again. But there was something missing.
The dream was too fragile. The Eden was so close to be flooded by the barbarians. He stopped at that thought. Barbarians. Only a few days ago he had been one of them… but not anymore. It was so easy to switch sides!
And why not? he thought. I’m not one of the forest people anymore. I got through the mountains. I am in Eden. Thanks to my skills, my abilities, my luck.
He was better than everyone else. He was alive, they were all dead. He had passed the test — they had all failed. Barbarians. Savages. He looked at the strange clothes the locals gave him; a thin robe of linen, marked with the ubiquitous crest of a golden snake. They made running difficult. A sign of a civilised man who had nowhere else to run.
At last he realised that this place was the end of his long journey.
“So… what now?” asked Ayaris, propping himself up on his elbow. His hand lay on Sonnai’s breast.
Days passed. The shi
p’s Captain kept asking them to return home. There was nothing left to do in this strange land inhabited by strange creatures. Somewhere in the city hall, the Speakers debated the new rules, new laws, new ways of interacting with the Taiga, trying to come up with ways to stop the degeneration, reverse the downfall. Things had to change in the Eden. But neither the Duke nor Sonnai were interested.
“We have learned nothing,” said the dragon girl. “We have come seeking answers, but found none. You had your little war, but you’re no closer to fulfilling your destiny than you were when we set sail from Astvar. We didn’t even discover what happened to my brethren.”
The Duke clapped his hands. “That’s it! Come, let’s go talk to the First Speaker. He hid things from us before, maybe he also lied about the dragons.”
The Speaker agreed to see them at once in his room. Ayaris and Sonnai were joined by Berec, whom the girl insisted on taking to her every meeting with the were-drakes, to the Duke’s growing irritation.
The Speaker rolled out a large map of Eden and its neighbourhood. “I was telling the truth, Duke. I don’t know what happened to the dragons. But I do know one secret that might be useful to you. There is another way to reach that place — from our valley. Through the Impassable Pass.”
“Impassable…?” spoke Berec unexpectedly, his eyes glinting.
The Speaker sighed.
“That’s the secret part. A narrow path leads from the frontier town of Edenfort deep into the south-western mountains. Many of our youths used to take this path, for reasons we could not comprehend — boredom, curiosity, need for adventure…”
“The Running Disease,” said Berec. The Speaker ignored him.
“None of them ever came back. One of my predecessors ordered the path to be closed and forbade any mention of its existence. Officially, it’s not there anymore — but, just in case, the passage is still secretly maintained by the Edenfort guards.”
“Maybe all those youths found something at the other end of the path,” said Berec. “Something that made them stay. A place even greater than the Eden.”
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