A fragment, part of a larger work (which is, in itself, part of a larger series of works). Hope you like it.
The wind begins far to the south.
Out beyond the coast of Mertlund, at the point where the icebergs that calve from the Frost King’s Maw each spring melt, the wind rises, a thing of vapour, and begins its long journey north.
It crosses the sullen land of Mertlund, where fanatics endlessly devise reasons to burn each other alive in shows of piety, and follows the long, slow course of the river Gyernys northward, gaining heat and vehemence from the pyres of the faithful and cruel.
It blows over Abilene, the ever-shifting City of Women, where no man can set foot save by invitation, and the cookfires and forges of that place add their smoke and independence to the wind as it passes.
In the foothills of the Milwena, the mountains that separate Mertlund from the rest of Teleran, the wind piles up, slowly building in height until it can dare the peaks. Always, it leaks northward through the Pass of Durac, where that once-great god, who either killed himself or begged a friend to kill him (accounts vary), is buried in his fitful sleep, not truly alive, not able to die. The smoke vents and lava streams of the pass add their passion and sadness to the miasma.
And still the wind blows north, carrying this horrid fog with it, until it reaches Talicaeda itself.
In the City of Dreaming Architects, few will venture out of doors on the nights when this wind blows. For the wind and the fog have a strange effect on that great city, and it is not Dreaming Architects that it is named for at such times.
It is called the Home of Regret, the Unchosen, the ending of all paths not taken.
It is the City of Abandoned Dreams.
High on a place balcony, Jarryn watches the fog below, and the wind toys with what remains of his hair. Jarryn is an old man now, and the triumphs of his youth are long behind him. His reward for a great service has been a lifetime of still more service, although as Prince-Consort and King in all but name, this service has had its compensations. For three years now, he has been making slow progress in his campaign to persuade his strong-willed wife to yield her throne to their oldest daughter.
Tonight, that all seems like a mockery.
Tonight, Jarryn can see the map of all his forgotten hopes and dreams, all the choices he did not take, laid out before him. And he wonders, not for the first time, what it is that makes his city like this. What it is that makes the glorious City of Dreaming Architects turn into this hideous and mocking shadow of itself.
Most say it is the wind, and all it carries north, but Jarryn has long since satisfied himself that this is not the case. Unfortunately, that satisfaction has been his only progress in solving this mystery of what afflicts his city.
For those who wonder: yes, I do know what the story of Jarryn’s great triumphs is, and I fully intend to write it someday soon. This is just a little more congenial to my mood right now.
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