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© ООО «Издательство «Эксмо», 2023
Prologue
“Man only exists when he is capable of changing his world. Destruction is the highest form of change. Truth is only born of struggle, and only by killing can a man show who he really is. Show us who you are!” he finished writing and looked out of the window. Evening descended, warm and soft. Weary from the day, the celestial body spread its gold-embroidered vestments across the horizon and prepared for its nightly ablutions in the Infinite Ocean. A thin ray of sun fought its way through the thick branches of the trees and landed on the face of a young man bent over a piece of parchment, but the celestial messenger’s efforts were in vain. It had prepared for this meeting, and it would gladly have told the young man of the wide meadows where the sun’s followers capered until it was completely dark, of a pair of dolphins that frolicked in the warm, milky waters of the Misty Sea, far to the south, as they chased after a Capotian merchant ship bearing west. But it was thwarted in its quest, for the young man turned in annoyance, squinted, and bowed his head lower over his writing table, which was made of wood that was as black as coal. The work that had engrossed him for the past several months left him no time to enjoy the beauty of life around him. He was writing in traditional Herandian script, but without the carelessness and indifference that marked the official style of the imperial bureaucracy. Quite the opposite: each letter was set on the parchment with neat attention, and the author often set aside his quill pen and, resting his unshaven cheek on his fist, closely read over what he had written…
I want this book to tell the story of my father, Unizel Virando. He is a famous man, but does anyone know him as a human being?
The first thing we know about a person is his or her name, but everyone reads that name differently, giving it their own meaning, gazing at it like a mirror in hopes of seeing their own familiar feelings and desires. That being the case, I will write about the things that are important to me. How and why did my father become the man he is today? How does he live, and what thoughts come to him when he looks at the world we see around us? What people has he met on his path, and how have they changed his understanding of the world?
My father and I are very different people, but when I listen to his stories, it always seems to me that I would do exactly as he did if faced with similar circumstances. I suppose this gives me the right to add my own elaboration to those events about which, for various reasons, I cannot know the full truth.
My book describes people in this empire, but it also touches on people from wondrous, far-off countries. Much of what happened to those people did not concern my father directly, taking place without his immediate involvement. Still, just as droplets of spilled mercury finally come together, the fates of all the people who ever saw, knew, or fought with my father will come together as something whole and unbroken – something that could be called Destiny. Each character in this story of his life has added a grain of knowledge, love, hate, or suffering, and all of it has now come down to me.
When I took up my pen, I knew that my father’s stories and memories alone would not be enough to bring his world to life. If I hope to relive his life – from my own point of view – I must have deep knowledge of Dashtornis, the Known World. The archives in our capital’s library are still being put together, but they are always open to me, and I am glad of the opportunity to access the wisdom contained therein.
To avoid confusion, I will do my best to present proper names and certain other concepts in the classical Herandian transcription. The original text would certainly be more interesting to the serious researcher, but my book is not a scholarly work, despite the fact that it concerns knowledge of the world and of oneself. I must warn the reader not to expect scientific precision in the names of people and places. Virilan names, for example, are not pronounced exactly as I give them here. And while it is natural for residents of the empire to have a first name and a last name, Virilans have no last name at all. Instead, they have two first names, one of which is given by the parents at birth and the other is chosen by the Virilan when he or she reaches adulthood. Another difficulty is the fact that many sounds (such as the soft k and g) are absent in the Virilan language. Virilans are simply incapable of making these sounds, just as we risk breaking our tongues when we try to pronounce even the simplest phrase in Arincil. The fact that my father speaks these and many other languages fluently – most of them learned from books alone – is proof of his linguistic talents which, unfortunately, were not passed down to me.
And finally, the most important question: who is this book being written for? My father is a shrewd man. He has studied so many people over the course of his life that understanding his own son gives him no trouble at all. For this reason, Unizel Virando did not bother asking me what I was writing about. Instead, like snow falling from a clear sky, he paid an unexpected visit to my small estate, leaving me no chance to avoid him. Casually taking his seat right on the table where I do my work, my father stared at my parchment with a vague, secretive smile in his sky-blue eyes. I must admit that my heart began to beat faster than usual, and my guts were gripped by cold. I expected him to criticize me, to point out mistakes I had made, to demand that I rewrite or remove certain parts, but he did none of these. No, my father seemed to enjoy taunting me. The sun slipped past its noonday peak, and still he said nothing. He seemed to draw out all the life force I had put into my scrolls, giving nothing in return. All torment eventually comes to an end, though, and this time was no different. My father suddenly looked up from the parchment and turned to me. His eyes were full of understanding.
“I hope you realize that it would not be a good idea to publish this?” As always, his manner was sleek and perfectly polite.
I let my breath out with a tremendous sense of relief. I had prepared myself for this question long ago. “Of course, Father. I…”
“Then can you explain to me why you have wasted so much time on this? You are no longer a boy wondering who he will become when he grows up. You bear the weight of an incredible responsibility, a mission that passes to you as my only son. When I see what you have been doing instead of learning the things you will need to know…”
“I think of that constantly! But Father, isn’t your own destiny perfect proof of the fact that, by following the dictates of his own heart, each man eventually arrives at his own Hour of Truth? I am writing this book for my children, so that they may know the story of the head of our family. These seeds of knowledge, when thrown into the future, will bear the fruit of wisdom and provide a strong foundation for our family and our empire!
“Are you saying that this will be a book to be read at home?”
“Exactly. It is a book and a textbook and a memory aid all in one. I swear that everything set out in these scrolls will remain our family’s secret forever!”
My father snorted skeptically and shrugged. He looked out the open window, where the cool breeze from the river was shaking the arms of the trees and the nimble squirrels were stealing delicacies from the altar honoring our ancestors, which stood under a large oak.
I could tell my father did not have much faith in me. Or perhaps he did have faith, but secretly wanted to change his own mind. I would have to think quickly to save the situation.
“Father, I am like you in everything. Think back to how it all started. Thirty years ago. An evening just like this one. Enteveria, the capital of the great Herandian Empire. The archives of His Heavenly Majesty, master of everything under the sky…”
Part I. From Shadows into Light
Chapter 1. Burdened by Hope
The young falcon had been gliding masterfully for over an hour in the wind’s soft embrace on that evening in May. Ash-colored wings spread wide, he cast a knowing eye over the city that lay beneath him. If the residents of the boundless Herandian Empire had worshipped a more mundane deity instead of the Sun, they would have paid less attention to birds, who were on familiar terms with the bright face of the sky. It was a grave sacrilege to kill birds, and yet something had to be done to protect the Emperor’s palace and the heads of the statues (and those of regular citizens) from the power-drunk pigeons. Only the falcon – that holy guardian of the Heavenly Throne – had the lawful right to reduce the population of