M’arz’ahn

Rain was a chimera; a hallucinatory anecdote, a cruel dream.

The pervasive wind had finally stilled so I tried to work up enough saliva to spit out the accumulated grit of the morning’s travel, but couldn’t achieve enough moisture to notice the difference and only succeded in scraping my sandpaper tongue across chafed mouthparts.

I looked down from the crest of the hill.

A lazy river curled around the western edge of a mist-coloured city. While waiting patiently for Dauphene or Sandorsen to enlighten me regarding the sight below, I imagined the cool chill of the river-water and the ecstasy of sinking to the bottom of a pool, away from the ubiquitous dust of the prairie.

Emotive emanations passed between the two Sages, but they sat on the baldanders in silence. The sun slowly climbed the sky.

My patience — which had lasted for over an hour — finally ran out. With as much aplomb as I could manage, I asked: “What city lies below?”

Sandorsen replied with a query of his own: “What is it that you see?”

“A city many times larger than my home.”

“Describe it fully, if you would.”

I looked carefully and said, “Imposing walls surround a city of many buildings. A monolith-tower rises out of the city’s hub and thrusts high above the other structures. Radiating out from the tower are eight concentric rings of interconnected buildings.”

Sandorsen gazed downhill and said, “Do you see people?”

A moment later, I replied: “No. No signs of movement. Perhaps it is deserted.”

Sandorsen nodded and said, “It is M’arz’ahn, the ghost-city.”