The Mount of Many

Like an amphitheater overgrown with grass and moss, a glade of multiple echelons harbored the processions of a blustering people. Steps and planks, where the carriages were let down, coalesced in a swale, forming a mold that looked almost as if nature had indented it. Varion recognized the same signs that he had seen in the rural area of the metropolis and in the city itself. This mountain had been shaped by magic and architecture of a different period, when civilization had been pristine and untested.

Priests adorned the huge, white stone protruding from its center. At the edges of the half circle, they offered up goods as though this was a village fair, manageable and endearing. Where the first among the arrivals had built up tents and stands for the distribution of neat wine and ale, the people, who were not discussing, funneled into queues of arbitrary colors. The smells of roasted meat and dulcet fat pervaded the smoky air as the people had their fill with the hecatomb.

During the approaching afternoon the tall darkwood trees, that grew on the verges of the amphitheater, overshadowed the meadow up to the platform rock. Fire bowls allocated the field above the theater, cascading its yellow light with the evening’s orange on the greens.

Varion turned his head. Another cavalcade of lecherous voices arrived.

Leading away from the center of the forest’s summit, pavements stretched into various pass-throughs adorned with alders, ash, and statues, a coherence of civilization and nature. The pacified passes meandered to marble structures, some of which had been erected at the eastern crevice to afford the inhabitants an excellent view of their vibrant capital while they took to their baths and prayers.

Sibling structures blended across the tamed plateau. These were bathing houses, temples of veneration as well as fountains and small aqueducts. Where stone did not provide for a safe foothold, moss, and soft grass offered a generous cushion, sprouting between the stones that arched into bridges spanning across the small trenches that clean washed the air with fresh moisture. To his left, a god spewed water into his marble hands that gushed into a pond filled with coins.

Towards the southern end of the summit, Varion saw the entry temples with bronze shod gates that protected the columned and afforested venues of the festival from unallowed visitors. It was a tall archway, built from holy marble–a most prestigious material–that bordered the flattened summit.

Presently, the evening procession was marching through its open gates, and by the sounds they emanated and the chaotic disorder they animated, he could tell they were pretty lit.

The revelers carried ithyphallics and vulvas on nettings in coalescence with the god of multiple sexes. They claimed the roads, casting wine and spring nectar afore. A chanting staff carrier led the feast and blessed the ground with prayers of the ambiguous one.

Women–men dressed as women flounced in dresses instead of tunics with a meticulously arrayed coiffure, mascara ornamenting their skin. The old man from the day before had not jested. There were also the nude ones among the revelers.

The chanting staff carrier repeated, as the manic psychopomp of Vyrayos, the same song Varion had heard during his ascension all day. It was about the mad god’s march through the Divine Valley when he had gathered the gods on his Crossroad to bear rule over mankind.

Who blots and brings disgrace? Careens as ships in winter’s gale. ‘Tis the sad god with a signet to free. ‘Tis the glad god with a word of glee. ‘Tis the mad one, for he butchers thee.

He left the silken voice of the psychopomp behind and went closer to the entrance gates, remaining at a safe distance so as not to be heard by the guards. Then he called on her.

Looping through the air and catching insects up high, his bird descended on the warm earth. The speed at which it had grown a coat was vertiginous. First, Varion had been worried, but Ashfire had awoken from her deep slumber after they’d taken shelter in a luxurious tavern. The innkeeper who had taken care of her had told Varion that he had never known birds were capable of gluttony, for the white-feathered chicken had devoured everything from grain to liver paste.

He took a bag of about a dozen ounces of grain and watched her picking at it, engulfing her meal as though she was a war horse, and ruminated. Carefully, he looked around him once again, but the gates had been closed already, and he did not think that it would take a long time for Estas to find him. Not the way he looked at him, as though he was not a human but one of the magical treasures that disappeared if left alone for too long.

So Varion decided to wait for a better opportunity. He placed another bag at her feet growing small claws and left, a strange tug dragging on him.

Returning to the grassy amphitheater, a huge fire lit and threw its gleam into the molded inclination of the center. From a grotto above the glade, the light was reflected by mirrors, descending on the meadow as a second, flamboyant moon, where people engaged in oratory. There was no show any longer, as even the last procession had let its costumes fall in exchange for the cloths of civil life. The same was the case in the temple structures and bathhouses allocated on the hill. The people left these buildings and found themselves hurdling and squeezing into the echelons of the amphitheater, wearing the garments of statesmanship.

There must’ve been a thousand in total. Maybe more. He found that many who had worn dresses and silk robes of priesthood were now looking like archons. Thus, with an air that was nothing short of regal, the humans allowed themselves to attain a mixed belief, which afforded them then the role of a debaucher, now the mission of a priest. Not that the difference between these two roles was of a pregnant size.

Some displayed broches with scrolls and pen, others wore hammers, dividers or waves on their finery. But all wore clean sheets, soft tunics with embroidery of their occupations, and spoke in exchange, letting each take their turn.

Artisans, guildsmen and women, landowners, shop owners, captains, merchants, and retailers–crafty entrepreneurs during the day and politicians at night left behind their masquerade. Despite their different attires it was obvious they had one thing in common. Wealth.

Two major groups formed, a severe conversation taking overhand. One was led by the philosopher Kosartes, the other by someone who wore the green cloak and owl sigil of a scholarch. The same phrases and words kept reaching Varion’s ears, leaving a fuller picture of the actual functionality of this place.

His faked interest from the day before turned into genuine curiosity.

These people, at least most of them, had not come to indulge and forget themselves. Listening to the bank rows at the center, they discussed matters of the poleis. Varion heard them speak of the state as it was done in his homeland, ruled by the royalty of formidability instead of relation. His heart leaped up.

As Kosartes climbed atop the podium stone, like the relapse of a tide, silence took hold over the amphitheater. He walked a circle.

“Liberty is nigh!” he declared and spread his arms into the audience. The scholarch made a fist. “In the name of the god of humanity, we, likeminded people that we are, find joy amid structures of which the foundations were laid by the gods, and which were enhanced by the founders of our ideal. Ea and Astaros would exult to find so many people praying for good governance. In veneration of them, it is, that I have an announcement to make.”

Stoked by the words of the philosopher, the people yelped.

Meanwhile, the man with the scholarch’s cloak had been prompted to climb the platform as well. “We are close,” said he and interrupted whatever annunciation the philosopher had tried to establish. “But speeches of political alliances soon to be entertained will take us only so far. Nobody outside of our affiliates knows that we exist and if we do not vie for completion now, there will be no guarantee that our supporters will follow us any further.” Just like that the heightened mood sobered. The acclaiming claps died out and were replaced by a thoughtful murmur. “Let us not forget that it took a civil war, a grandson battling his grandfather, to end magical segregation. What do you think it will take to remove a king?”

“Our king is no tyrant.”

“He is the son of one,” said the scholarch. “Peace will take us no further with him.”

“Teophrastos!” exclaimed Kosartes. “Do not instigate fray when we haven’t applied yet a more proportionate measure.”

The scholarch shook his head. “No. We–the people–will hear this. Right now King Aevar is preparing a new campaign. Did you know that? This is why he and his most senior mages have left Doomsbane, and this is why there is an opportunity to strike right away. Be vigilant, Kosartes! Anyone who has studied history as diligently as you cannot exclude what I suggest.”

Kosartes approached the scholarch, but the argument had already unraveled its effect. The people were in furors. He slumped his shoulders and something appeared too odd for Varion’s taste. The platform, the people… It shot to him, and he gazed around but finding him, he could not.

“We need to form a host,” insisted the scholarch. “And then we will storm the acropolis.”

“Not only do we need a host, friend,” replied Kosartes calmly. “For mages defeat any human army.” That was an untruth, Varion knew.

“Are you saying…”

The scholarch didn’t continue. It was the philosopher who took it upon himself to finish. “We need mages. That is what I have been trying to acquire in the greater classes but until now nobody declared themselves willing. They are all too afraid of the King’s impetus.”

Teophrastos frowned. As did the others surrounding them. “Until now? Does that mean–”

And here Kosartes repeated his favor of interception, raising his palm and pointing… He was pointing to what Varion had been looking for: Estas.

The emissary disrupted onto the stage, his lilac haze spreading like a torch-lit mist.

“Are you willing, friend?” asked him the philosopher.

“I understand that you wish for a guarantee from my side. I am here to ask of you the same.”

“And we can all imagine what that would be…” murmured Teophrastos. “Are you not the offspring of the conquered?”

The emissary turned a vile eye to the scholarch. “Aren’t you the ones who seek redemption from the old families?” He pointed to the civilians that had remained deadly silent since Estas had crested the rock, and then he pointed back at himself. “Aren’t you the ones aspiring to partake not only in political life, but also in the formation of the highest offices? Right now your chambers are based on breeding instead of utilizing the means of reason with which you have acquired your great wealth.” There were many nods. “We wish for the same then, you and I.”

Anger or envy at the fact that it was not him who was introducing the help of a dynast, Teophrastos sounded like his voice was a funambulist between both. “This bargain with a mage, Kosartes. Beware of it!”

“Astaros led his Auridons, an alliance of humans and mages to end segregation once and for all. Who says that it can’t happen again?”

“So you are for war then?”

Kosartes scoffed. “Definitely not. But with Estas Araseon backing us, we can take the acropolis while the King deploys his troops in the tyrants’ realm. When he returns, the sheer prospect of civil strife will force him to comply, and we will be able to strike a bargain.”

Varion had heard of the civil war that had ended magical segregation but was still surprised to learn that it had not been a regular mage who had fought for human freedom but an Aurian. These devils belonged to the toughest breed, he’d learned during his militaristic schooling. The last Aurian tyrants had been disposed of with horrendous sacrifices hundreds of years ago and yet they were in charge again, as if the human race had never rebelled.

It was good, hence, to hear the people speak up against the monarchy and wish for a modern form of rule that represented progress. Something that made him fight down remorse at the thought of a woman who would have enjoyed such a scenery even more than he did.

“And this is not it, my friend,” Kosartes resumed. “There is another mage who can help us. Him, I think, you will find easier to trust.”

He pointed at Varion.

The people fell back as though he was a leper. The same word that had crossed his ears once or twice before resounded once more, this time easier to understand, as he’d grown accustomed to their accent. Strange was their behavior. Had they constituted a sea of many faces, the dive of his stride would have been the spear that broke the surface and cleaved a path for him to march through, dry.

But Varion did not retreat. He walked forward, straight and self-conscious, and even though he was surprised and frightened, he let it not show. His blood circulation accelerated, toasted his cheeks rosy and palpitated his temples into strategic analysis.

The stares around remained an intense pressure that he had trouble to withstand. Met by sheepish glances–some distributed tears on their cheeks–he thought the people here had never laid eyes on a mage.

“Long grace to your father,” said a man with a thick silver mustache and inclined his head before moving out of his way. Nobody touched him. Even the scholarch retreated in shock, his eyes wide, his mouth open and his arms shaking. Varion could deny it no longer. He was the bastard son of some mage. Mayhap there was even the kernel of a truth to his childhood visions.

As Varion reached the rock, Kosartes bowed to him. “My dear freethinkers! If you think yourselves lucky with the former Prince to the Valley of Wind, you must feel truly blessed now.” The index finger was targeted at his face. “May I introduce to you the son of Astaros Aurian!”