Steep snow-covered peaks are silhouetted against the moon-bright sky, and I can just make out the trees in their winter coats of
fallen cloud. And there is a mist – a Highland mist – stretching into the distance, covering the ice-filled gulleys and the silent glens.
Oh, the Highlands. The people have forgotten now that I ever was Angostin. After sixty-eight years they treat me as if I was born into the old nobility. And I, for my part, have learned all their customs: the Dance of the Swords, the Blessing of the Oak, the slashed palm of Brotherhood. At the celebrations I always wear the war-cloak of the Raubert clan, given me by Raul himself ten years ago.
I wonder sometimes what my family would think of me, were any left alive to see me now. There are no sword dances among the Angostins. So serious are my southern kin, excelling only in battle and in the building of monstrous fortresses of grey stone. A dour people are the Angostins, with an uneasy dislike of song and laughter.
Somewhere a wolf howls. I cannot see him from here.
The truth. How could I begin to tell it? Yet there is a need in me to speak of it, to release it into the air. There is a deep armchair by the fire, covered in soft leather, filled with horsehair. It is a comfortable chair, and I have spent many a long hour in its depths,my head resting on its curved cushions. It is empty now. But I will use the remnants of my power to fashion a listener. I will create a ghost of the future. He shall hear the true tale of the Morningstar.
I do not wave my hands, nor speak the words of power. That is for fire lit evenings in taverns, entertaining the gullible. They like to see a magicker perform. But this is no performance, so I will merely concentrate. There he sits, sculpted in light, crafted from magick, silent and waiting. I have given him an intelligent face, with keen grey eyes, like the nobleman in the guest-room upstairs. And he is young, for it is the young who shape all tomorrows, and only the old and the weary who twist our today’s – stunting them, holding them back,making them safe. There he sits, waiting, ghostly and transparent. Once I could have dressed him in purple, and any who saw him would marvel at his appearance. Now he shifts and fades. But that, I suppose, is how a ghost should look.
Where shall I begin, spirit? What would you like to hear?
Naturally he does not answer, but I know what he would be thinking, were he able to think.
Begin at the beginning, storyteller. Where else but Ziraccu?
Chapter One
It is all ruins now but back then, under a younger sun, the city walls were strong and high. There were three sets of walls on different levels, for Ziraccu was an ancient settlement, the first of its buildings raised during the Age of Stone, when Neolithic tribesmen built their temples and forts on the highest hills of this Highland valley. Hundreds of years later- perhaps thousands, for I am no expert on matters historical – a new tribe invaded the north, bearing sharp weapons of bronze. They also built in the valley, throwing up walls around the four hills of Ziraccu. Then came the Age of Iron, and the migration of the tribes who now populate the mountains of the north. The painted warriors of Bronze were either killed or absorbed by these fierce new invaders. And they too built their homes in the high valley. And Ziraccu grew. On the highest levels dwelt the rich in marble palaces surrounded by fine gardens and parks. On the next level down dwelt the merchants and the skilled craftsmen, their houses more homely yet comfortable, built of stone and timber. While at the foot of the hills, within the circle of the lower walls, were the slums and tenements of the poor. Narrow streets, stinking with sewage and waste, high houses, old and dilapidated, alleys and tunnels, steps and stairways, dark with danger and bright with the gleam of the robber’s blade. Here there were taverns and inns where men sat silently listening for the Watchmen.