CHAPTER -1-
"...pride you shall not overcome by yielding to passion. It leads you so gently toward death..."
The ford lay at the midpoint of a long river bend where the wild waters otherwise spread into a wide arc. Thus the small grove with the spring where the guards had taken position was nearly encircled by the river, accessible only by the road leading to the crossing.
On the opposite bank, practical peasants had built a six-foot dike which had over time become overgrown with grass and small shrubs. It constrained the river between itself and the higher opposite bank, preventing floods and preserving the nearby plains for cultivation.
The only break in the dike was where the road crossed before descending to the river. There, the first rider appeared.
He slowed his pace and halted. His silver armor, covered in an astonishing layer of dust, had lost its luster during the midnight chase. A wide belt with metal fittings at his waist secured a leather sheath holding a short sword.
He raised the visor of his silver helm, scanning carefully while slightly rising in his stirrups and shading his eyes with one hand. In the sand beyond the ford, he could clearly see hoof tracks continuing along the road through the silent grove.
The scout saw nothing alarming and waved his hand.
Immediately, horsemen poured onto the road toward the river. They guided their mounts carefully, constantly looking about. Their commander halted them before entering the water and rode forth. He recognized this as prime ambush territory and took the threat seriously. After surveying both sides of the road along the dike and spotting the six archers he'd sent ahead—three on each side—he gave the order to cross.
The first two horsemen urged their mounts forward slowly into the river. The water barely reached the horses' flanks, flowing gently with weeks without rain leaving it clear enough to see the pebbles lining the bottom.
The riders advanced cautiously, holding their mounts' reins in one hand and small round shields to protect their left sides. Their right hands gripped short swords pointed forward. When they reached midriver, a second pair entered the water.
The commander of the pursuers took no chances. He'd ordered his men to form a defensive arc near the ford after crossing, without venturing into the woods.
Those who'd crossed did exactly that—one moving several paces left, the other right. They stopped, facing the grove, watching it intently.
When the second pair took position beside them, the commander betrayed his own strategy—committing his first mistake. He ordered the remainder to cross together.
Perhaps pressed for time or simply impatient, he erred. He never imagined fleeing caravan guards would dare ambush citadel guardsmen. His arrogant nature and upbringing couldn't conceive it.
As they entered the river, the pursuers saw their comrades on the far bank tumble from their saddles, pierced by arrows. Battle cries rang out. Archers along the dike began falling, some without even drawing their bows.
Under arrowfire, the horsemen in midriver broke formation. Some charged forward, swinging swords; others retreated, clinging to their mounts.
Still others were flung from saddles as terrified horses reared, smelling blood.
Neighs and screams, war cries and shrieks of despair. The water churned with desperate bodies.
The river's previously clear waters ran red. Guardsmen charging forward fell in the water or collapsed on the sandy bank. Some turned back, seeking cover behind the dike.
Last up the dike came the commander. After waiting for the sole survivor of his blunder to reach safety, he dismounted—whether from courage, stupidity, or simple pride.
Ignoring the arrow in his thigh, he stood tall in the road's center, sword and shield ready.
His visored eyes sadly counted nine corpses on the far bank—all lifeless.
Following the river's course, his fury grew seeing three more bodies with protruding arrows bobbing downstream.
Gripping his short sword's leather-wrapped hilt, he struck its polished blade against his shield. He'd lost without seeing his foe or staining his steel.
Staring at the nearest trees, he waited. After ten seconds, he raised his sword and struck his shield's inlaid cross again—the dull ring echoing across the silent ford. Again. And again. Jaw clenched, he glared at the woods, awaiting his adversary.
His pale cloak, dulled by dust, flapped lazily in the dawn breeze. Facing failure and mission's end, he sought personal vengeance.
This was an ancient custom celebrated in songs—legendary warriors challenging foes for rematch, vengeance, or honorable death. He expected an enemy commander to emerge for exchanged glances, words, or blows.
He hoped for single combat, but was disappointed.
A girl emerged. Without ritual or ceremony—as in songs—she raised a bone bow and, seizing his moment of lowered guard, shot him through the throat before vanishing into the trees.
From the ensuing silence—even birds and insects having hushed—came a curt, dry shout filled with pity:
"Fool!"
CHAPTER -2-
"In the blue sky and in the grass the song whispers. What sings so well? A bird, perhaps even a snake..."
You could count on one hand the number of lowlanders who'd glimpsed Briest, even for a moment. Little was known. All had heard of the inaccessible land perched atop a system of high plateaus, but pressed for details, they could offer nothing more.
Who ruled that country? Was its plateau-dwelling population unified, or did several kingdoms share that rugged geography? People called the unknown "Briest" and thought no further. No one knew of its governance, military might, or anything else. This void bred theories—and fear.
It was known that Briest maintained some diplomatic mission at the Church, though secular rulers couldn't access its members. The mission dwelled in the Church's heart, within its most guarded Citadel, shrouded in such secrecy that some claimed it didn't exist. A handful of better-informed souls knew of one other exception: Briest's representative among the Healers at their knowledge hub. Beyond that, the Healers permitted no further inquiry.
Everything about Briest was veiled in mystique—a convenience for both the Church and Briest. Two forces dominated this world: the Church, its power proven in blood and clenched in the iron fist of its despotism, and Briest—closed, unreachable, terrifying in its mystery, recognizable only through its unparalleled goods that hinted at extraordinary knowledge.
Deep in Briest, far from the Pillar, at the heart of the plateau territory, stood a peak called Karov Rock. Towering 1,500 meters above sea level, it rose in the southeasternmost part of the Dobrost Plateau, half a day's ride southeast of the town of Ostovo.
The summit itself was a high rock plateau with sheer hundred-meter cliffs, stretching northeast to southwest. Beyond the plateau, the terrain dropped sharply through a complex system of massive boulders spanning a thousand meters northeastward. The plateau measured roughly 130 meters long and 35 meters wide.
Its crest was relatively flat with a slight incline, divisible into a level southwestern section and a steeper northeastern one. Dozens of pits dotted the plateau—some worked by human hands. Between its outcrops lay natural depressions and gullies filled with soil and low vegetation.
The sole approach was from the southwest through a rocky cleft called the Oasis—no one knew when or by whom. The eighteen-meter-high cleft bore about ten carved steps near its top, worn smooth by rainwater. Legends claimed steps had once existed below too, but now only traces of four remained. Between the rocks, where stone pits and gullies were carved, ritual offerings from petitioners across Briest were placed.
At the boundary between the southwestern plain and the steep slope stood the Temple of the Prophetess—a three-meter-high mound with a nineteen-meter base diameter. Eight stone slabs stood in a row along its southern edge, aligned west to east.
An excavation had exposed the northern transverse slab of a large dolmen at the mound's center, its façade formed by the southern slabs. Two meters west of the first dolmen stood a smaller second one. The large dolmen had a rectangular chamber and dromos, though parts of its walls and capstone were missing.
The chamber was oriented northeast-southwest, with a southwestern entrance—an opening cut into the central front slab, featuring an external groove for sealing. Side walls were composite: two inward-leaning slabs over three meters long, stacked. Only the lower ones remained, spanning the transverse walls, their joints secured by carved grooves. Triangular wedges at the transverse walls compensated for the slabs' narrower bases, creating a trapezoidal chamber section.
Its floor was paved with two large slabs, later modified with an oval opening. Only the dromos's western side slab survived. Access was through a gap in the façade slabs, mirrored by a second pair immediately north.
On the floor slab near the western side lay a glass urn containing human bones—skull fragments, ribs, and vertebrae.
The second dolmen followed the same design but was significantly smaller. Access was between the façade's first two western slabs. Its chamber was a third the size, with an entrance carved at the western end of its southern slab.
Inside, three glass urns held human remains, while eight smaller ones arranged around them contained ornaments: rings, fibulae, saltaleons, beads, and a spiral bracelet.
The so-called Temple was merely a nod to antiquity. The current Prophetess used it for no rituals. She deemed the sky ample canopy for her thoughts and prayers, the grass a worthy carpet for sitting with her disciples.
The dying fire's flames sketched figures in white robes. Faces—diverse in hue but united in youth—never wavered from the elderly woman seated bare-earth across the flames. With her kind, measured voice, she painted visions and ideas that the eyes pressed toward her devoured and memorized.
Three ornate brooches adorned her white robe. The two single-spiral fibulae had bow-shaped arcs with triangular needle plates, their designs half-worn away. One bow had a rhomboid cross-section while the other featured twisted metalwork.
The third brooch was of rare design—its bow shaped like the letter "M," also single-spiral with a triangular plate bearing the same strange grooved symbols carved into its surface.
The woman's hands rested calmly in her lap, their parchment-thin skin nearly translucent. On the ring finger of her right hand sat a simple open-ended ring, its spiraled bronze wire forming a subtly curved arch. A bronze spiral bracelet clasped her left wrist, terminating in an encased green stone.
That same green stone formed the pendant now swaying against her chest with each breath, its leather-bound casing secured by thin cords.
"Have you ever wondered why so many across different provinces of the plain still support Briest?" Her gaze traveled across the students seated before her. "No?"
"These aren't born heretics or feudal loyalists hiding their true allegiances, as the Church's official sources would smear them." She tilted her head slightly forward. Her eyes narrowed as her lips curved into a faint smile.
"Despite this unprecedented decade-long anti-Briest propaganda from every pulpit, Briest maintains terrifyingly many adherents. Even if they themselves don't fully understand what they're supporting." She raised a hand, twirling her fingers absently above her head before continuing with a soft chuckle.
"The core reason—something these narrow-minded Church devotees will never grasp—is that Briest represents the alternative to their dogmas. To this new consensus that shackles original thought. To the arrogance that some 'experts' in the Capital or temples somehow know everything from A to Z while the rest must obey their so-called wisdom. Yes."
"With its enduring mystery, Briest ignites minds and dreams. It offers freedom—not just from suffocating Church doctrine and its endless holy mandates—but proves another life exists beyond their manuals of pious drudgery. Anyone with a shred of independent thought sees this. That's why there's such frenzy to annihilate this Briest alternative once and for all."
She halted at the perfect moment, letting the youths digest her words. Stretching her right arm, she took a twig and stirred the embers of the dying fire. Freed, dozens of sparks undertook their brief brilliant ascent into the darkening sky before joining their celestial brethren.
"So much blood spilled. So many lives erased. All for this one ultimate goal." She exhaled slowly. "I'm no strategist, but I suspect the task of destroying Briest shall remain... fortunately uncompleted. For both our sakes."
Olana de Ruhr rose with the stiffness of her years. Smoothing her white robe, she moved haltingly down the path toward a ramshackle hut beside the old Temple.
The students remained captivated even after her departure, the power of her words lingering as they stared into the intermittently flaring coals—each ember fading into gray ash, merging with the remnants of its own expired existence.
Thus, after every discourse with the Prophetess, the students' consciousness assumed new shapes of settled understanding, their perception of the world forever altered.