I.
No one should have to bury
their best friend. Much less twice in one lifetime. But this is
that kind of story. The story of the true savior of Istara. Not me,
Tameri, daughter of Breuxias, but my friend, my savior, Serra
Viligotti. This is her story as much as it is my own. I only hope I
can do her memory better justice than I did her tortured body…and
soul.
If I could start at the
beginning, I would, but it’s still too fresh, too painful. Better
to start as close to the root of the matter, the kernel of truth I
hope to reveal, as possible. Then tell it straight on to the bitter
end before I am forced, by my own sentimentality, my own guilt, to
stop my melancholy tale.
Should some of my readers
feel cheated out of a proper beginning, the origin of all this mess
I’m about to confess, I urge said readers to pay a visit to their
local stationer or colporteur today. We can always use the
business.
If unable to afford a proper
folio on the Siege of Istara or simply too cheap to procure your
own copy, please check with your local library. I caution you
though, read its contents as you would any history, with a grain,
nay, a shaker of salt.
As for this tale, it will be
the truth, as best I can relate it. That is my sole motivation for
telling it. Too long have I enjoyed a certain celebrity brought
about by expediting the war’s end—when my role involved
manipulating not only the truth, but the very forces of the
universe to save my home, to save my people. Would I do it again?
You’re godsdamn right I would. For Istara. And for each and every
one of its residents.
Make no mistake. This is not
an apology. It is simply the whole truth and nothing but. Judge me
if you must. But know that I do not care. My place in the Nine
Hells was assured long ago, the night I slept with Serra deep in
the hollows of the city cemetery, my first time sleeping with a
dead girl but certainly not my last in those bitter days after
Istara’s fall.
The initial campaign to take
Istara stalled in the face of stiff resistance but lingered on for
almost a cycle, like a festering wound that would not heal. For the
brave citizens of Istara, the issue could be resolved in only one
of two ways. We decided to hold out until the enemy retreated or
die in the streets fighting for our homes. And fought them we
did.
Denied the city itself, the
forces of nearby Golthus camped on our rocky shores, its vast army
stretching as far as the eye could see in both directions. Escape
was not an option, if any of us had seriously considered it. The
unforgiving deserts of Panglov lay at our backs, and the roaming
bands of raiders lurking deep within that vast expanse offered no
better chances for survival than facing down the spears of the men
of Golthus.
But the desire to fight and
the willingness to endure are two very different things as we found
out in Istara. After lunare after lunare of siege, with no help
coming from the loose band of nomadic tribes governing Panglov or
from any of the city-states dotting the islands of the Pelican
Gulf, we faced the horrible reality that we were on our
own.
Apparently, the people of
Istara neither merited nor warranted saving; for even the monks,
priests, and knights within the Temple of Shamash——or Damarra as
She is known in the North——turned a blind eye to the invading army
at its very doorstep. Typically, the clergy of Mother Sun endorsed
ruling parties; but they did not routinely interfere in contests of
power, unless one of those parties violated any of the sacred
tenets of the Holy Trinitas. And the rulers of Golthus knew better
than to pick a fight with the most affluent church in the
region.
In the end, you will find
that I was not so wise. But you will discover that I proved
cleverer than the generals of Golthus and the priests of Shamash.
In my defense, they made it easy for me, dismissing my stature, my
age, and my gender for weakness. In their arrogance, they did not
see a single teenage
No one should have to bury
their best friend. Much less twice in one lifetime. But this is
that kind of story. The story of the true savior of Istara. Not me,
Tameri, daughter of Breuxias, but my friend, my savior, Serra
Viligotti. This is her story as much as it is my own. I only hope I
can do her memory better justice than I did her tortured body…and
soul.
If I could start at the
beginning, I would, but it’s still too fresh, too painful. Better
to start as close to the root of the matter, the kernel of truth I
hope to reveal, as possible. Then tell it straight on to the bitter
end before I am forced, by my own sentimentality, my own guilt, to
stop my melancholy tale.
Should some of my readers
feel cheated out of a proper beginning, the origin of all this mess
I’m about to confess, I urge said readers to pay a visit to their
local stationer or colporteur today. We can always use the
business.
If unable to afford a proper
folio on the Siege of Istara or simply too cheap to procure your
own copy, please check with your local library. I caution you
though, read its contents as you would any history, with a grain,
nay, a shaker of salt.
As for this tale, it will be
the truth, as best I can relate it. That is my sole motivation for
telling it. Too long have I enjoyed a certain celebrity brought
about by expediting the war’s end—when my role involved
manipulating not only the truth, but the very forces of the
universe to save my home, to save my people. Would I do it again?
You’re godsdamn right I would. For Istara. And for each and every
one of its residents.
Make no mistake. This is not
an apology. It is simply the whole truth and nothing but. Judge me
if you must. But know that I do not care. My place in the Nine
Hells was assured long ago, the night I slept with Serra deep in
the hollows of the city cemetery, my first time sleeping with a
dead girl but certainly not my last in those bitter days after
Istara’s fall.
The initial campaign to take
Istara stalled in the face of stiff resistance but lingered on for
almost a cycle, like a festering wound that would not heal. For the
brave citizens of Istara, the issue could be resolved in only one
of two ways. We decided to hold out until the enemy retreated or
die in the streets fighting for our homes. And fought them we
did.
Denied the city itself, the
forces of nearby Golthus camped on our rocky shores, its vast army
stretching as far as the eye could see in both directions. Escape
was not an option, if any of us had seriously considered it. The
unforgiving deserts of Panglov lay at our backs, and the roaming
bands of raiders lurking deep within that vast expanse offered no
better chances for survival than facing down the spears of the men
of Golthus.
But the desire to fight and
the willingness to endure are two very different things as we found
out in Istara. After lunare after lunare of siege, with no help
coming from the loose band of nomadic tribes governing Panglov or
from any of the city-states dotting the islands of the Pelican
Gulf, we faced the horrible reality that we were on our
own.
Apparently, the people of
Istara neither merited nor warranted saving; for even the monks,
priests, and knights within the Temple of Shamash——or Damarra as
She is known in the North——turned a blind eye to the invading army
at its very doorstep. Typically, the clergy of Mother Sun endorsed
ruling parties; but they did not routinely interfere in contests of
power, unless one of those parties violated any of the sacred
tenets of the Holy Trinitas. And the rulers of Golthus knew better
than to pick a fight with the most affluent church in the
region.
In the end, you will find
that I was not so wise. But you will discover that I proved
cleverer than the generals of Golthus and the priests of Shamash.
In my defense, they made it easy for me, dismissing my stature, my
age, and my gender for weakness. In their arrogance, they did not
see a single teenage
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