Magi: The Cataclysm of Magic

Prologue

"Long ago, the people of Zaref totaled a culmination of 27 tribes. Bear this in mind, child, that these tribes united under us, the magical royal family. They all swore themselves to our side, our guardianship, and our ways. 26 tribes, once ceaselessly at war, came to find peace and balance under the 27th's rule."

"Maman, there are not so many now. No matter how many times you tell me this story, the drilling won't bring them back."

"Patience, my radiant child. You know this is to be your purpose. It is my purpose, my husband's purpose. It belonged to our parents, and their parents, and even the ones who sired them. This purpose, this destiny...it is shared by all of the members of the royal family. Especially you, who will one day take the throne and guard your siblings. You are gifted especially, my child, and I suspect this task will find its end with you."

"Ma, I'm too tired to go over this tonight with you. I can recite the tale by rote better than you, anyway."

"Once more for your mind, once more."

...

How many times would they go over that story? As the eldest daughter, as the "gifted" child of Solomon - though in Zaref, everyone was called a child of Solomon, so she saw nothing special about her - she still had so many other siblings who could learn those very same tales. And, of course, they did. After all, it was their only bedtime story; even those who were born to her Father's harem knew the story better than their own names. And Aravis' mother, the 437th Queen in particular, was well on the way to producing yet another ear to which this story would be lent, time and time again.

The story was pretty simple, and didn't need to take hours to tell - truly, Aravis despised the way the orators often dragged it out. In order to end the ceaseless bloodletting that resulted from crossed borders and misunderstandings, the house of Zaref united the people of the island. They built a great walled city, within which all 27 tribes were housed; here, enemies became neighbors and were educated on one anothers' beliefs and customs. For some time, soldiers were stationed on every street, and patrol was heavy while trying to keep...issues, between tribes, to a minimum. Eventually the people themselves became familiar, and personally offered direct truces of their own via a sharing of knowledge; hunting, each tribes' "trade" (or so they called their individualized special skills), festivals, and so on. However many generations later - Aravis could not be bothered to remember the long line of "so-and-so begat ...enter long list of names here... and lived however long..." She realized it was her own family tree, being...narrated orally...but quite honestly, if she was ever to be interested in such a thing then she saw no reason why she would not just study the actual document. Half of those names were not direct ancestors of hers, and all of the men the orators bothered to name in their passages were long-dead, anyway. Why learn the names of people she would never meet?

But the bards, and the orators! They were so fascinating, with their myriads of different features. Their instruments, played so beautifully! Those wild gestures and expressive faces! The way their voices changed, able to boom over the heads of all of her siblings to reach her where she reclined on her chalice. And one man, with a long red braid of hair falling just so over his shoulder and down to his ankles, with those baggy black pants and the cloak that fell over the left side of his body. He whirled, he hooped, he hollered and danced! Green eyes flashing with anger as his voice flew up an octave, arms striking out like quick and lethal cobras! The golden bangles set on his wrists flashed in the firelight as he stood perched before her on the stage, but he had thrown his voice. Believing she heard the man standing beside her, the girl's rimmed silver eyes grew wide as she glanced to her right, then looked back, mouth agape behind her veil. Though she might have disliked hearing from her beloved mother, in the quiet bedchamber...she was always drawn in by the performers on the stage.

That man's tale in particular focused less on ancestry, and more on her "duty." Three tribes who, at odds with the half of the governing court which attended to the royal family, threatened to secede from the country of Zaref. Despite being begged not to, the small group would not be dissuaded. They left for the country of Balbadd, but were - of course - pursued. There, in a pseudo peace conference, the royal family attempted to offer for them to return, unchastised. That was denied, as was the offer of monetary support for the suddenly homeless group of tribes. Somewhere in all of this came the intervention of a certain organization, which concealed the group from the royal family.

On some level, they held themselves responsible; it was their own family that they believed they had lost, and to an organization which had appealed to them for diplomatic relations previously and been denied. Mistrusting the group, countless generations of Zaref's finest kings had turned them away. It was on these people, who came offering the country "assistance" time and time again, that the family ultimately chose to lay the blame upon. Aravis was raised to feel that same malice against the group. A bitter dislike, a...hatred, of sorts, that made her instinctively curl her lip and turn up her nose, eyes narrowed, even at the hint of their mention.

"If nothing else, child, remember...be wary of Al Sarmen."

It was only a cheap immitation of the way that man had finished his own glorious narration of the tale. Remembering the way she had raptly watched the bard glide smoothly from the limelight in awe, the young girl yawned and laid back against her pillows, eyes drifting shut. She did not remain awake long enough to hear her mother leave the room.