Everything was black.
Muted song filled his ears.
Something pressed down lightly upon him.
Kosta felt paralyzed for a moment, a prisoner in his own sleeping body, and then the sensation melted away as feeling returned to his limbs. His fingers twitched desperately. He felt a great yearning in his gut as new knowledge roared in his mind, demanding to be freed.
He clawed—he was covered, trapped!—but the blanket was soon yanked away to liberate him. The night’s warm air brushed against his face.
“Ah, Myokipos no longer, I see. Come! Come, people of Dytifrourá! Welcome our dreamborne brother to his new life!”
Kosta’s eyes drifted open to see silver set against black. The quarter moon danced overhead like the blade of a silver sickle, but it was soon blotted out by a grinning giant with a fluffy black beard. His drowsy mind struggled, then recognized Headsman Linus’ beaming face.
He was hauled to his feet by a bearlike hand. Kosta soon realized that they were still in the agora, though it was laid bare now since the velvety illusions that had carried the Myokipos to their dreams had been torn asunder. What came prior to the Dòrognosis came back in a rush. Kosta nearly staggered under Headsman Linus’ palm as the man offered him a congratulatory slap on the back.
His fellow Myokipos stirred around him. Kosta wasn’t the first to wake, but neither was he the last. All around, families rushed forward to embrace their scions with peals of laughter, joyful tears, and incessant questions. Some families were hushed and urgent, intense, while others belted out billowing cries and happy exclamations.
All hummed with energy.
Magic spun. The void of night pressed in relentlessly, but was beaten back by the flickering of helioklept-fueled lights, bright lavender goblets ignited with a pale green flame courtesy of Headsman Linus, and the ignition of the gifts the Myokipos had been granted in the depths of their fantasies.
Kosta spied his fellow Myokipos showing off for their families.
Leon chattered away to his family’s dog, and the beast woofed back purposefully enough that Kosta felt a little unsettled. Cunning beasts weren’t unheard of, but they normally skulked far from humans, wary of the danger they posed.
He put it out of his mind as one of Clymere’s friends, a dull redheaded boy named Agathon, proudly stamped the butt of an ashwood spear proffered by his older brother against the stone. The weapon’s apeironic bronze tip crackled with golden lightning, which scattered wildly above their heads for a moment before focusing into a bladed edge of brilliant light that consumed the spear’s end.
Panicked shouts from other Dytifrouráns went quiet, then they erupted into cheers alongside Agathon’s family at the expression of elemental power. His burly father and brother were both noted members of the town’s militia and cheered him on the loudest. No doubt they’d hoped for Agathon to follow in their footsteps.
Agathon seemed eager as well, beaming beneath the praise. He literally glowed with bright golden light as he fed power into the spear. Its steady drip honed the edge until it looked massive and powerful enough to pierce a minotaur’s hide.
“Kosta!” Papa and Mama rushed over, forcing the smiling and laughing crowd around them out of their way. Headsman Linus took a step back to offer them space and ushered the others a short distance away.
Both of Kosta’s parents carried themselves respectably, but there was an unexpected lightness in the set of their shoulders and an easy glide to their dignified walk. It was undoubtedly an odd sight, and one that took Kosta some getting used to.
They did not embrace him (Kosta wouldn’t know what to do if they did), but Mama clutched his shoulders tightly. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears and the beginnings of a smile cracked across her delicate features.
“Your gift! Your gift!” Mama cried. “What did the Demiurge grant you?”
His dream… Kosta’s heart ached and his palms itched with the vivid feel of a world beneath his chisel, of something far greater than himself taking shape beneath his palms.
And something so beautiful had been drawn out from a simple mass of crude clay. It boggled the mind.
His voice was quick. Urgent. “Wood, clay, stone… it doesn’t matter! I need it!”
Papa didn’t skip a beat. He reached into the folds of his chiton and pressed a small block of aspen into Kosta’s hand. Kosta savored the feel of the soft grain, closed his eyes, and followed the thread of instincts granted to him by his Dòrognosis. Knowledge and experience not his own flickered behind his shut eyes and guided him.
His gift.
Kosta’s spark of desire sent his power surging to life. Before his Dòrognosis, Kosta’s magic had seeped within him with the sluggish, creeping crawl of molasses and thick mud. It would shift and rise at his command, but stubbornly, like trying to force a mule to labor.
Every work accomplished with the power of his soul felt like an uphill battle. The magic would strain his concentration to the max and leave his body and mind trembling with the exertion. By the end, his limbs would be like lead. His thoughts would be scrambled.
Post-Dòrognosis?
His magic flowed like water.
Kosta summoned the power, then allowed his magic to slip away in shock as a torrent raged beneath his skin. It came too easy! Too strong! His magic’s previous resistance seemed a distant memory as power flooded his body. Each vein tingled, which soon gave way to a light burning as it circulated within him.
He gasped as he struggled to wrest it under control.
The ghost of a rare smile played across Papa’s lips. “Like quicksilver, isn’t it? You are its master. Control it.”
Papa’s lessons raced through his mind. It belongs to me. It is me.
Even now, his energies had not quite settled. Little waves rippled throughout him with every heartbeat. Kosta felt the magic stir and writhe like a restless beast awakened after a long slumber. It itched, desiring nothing more than to be expressed into the world to mark it with a little bit of Kosta.
Once, Kosta invested everything he had to stir his magic into action. Every scrap of focus and willpower he mustered had been necessary to cajole the light of his soul into manifesting.
Such effort was unnecessary now. Kosta clutched the light aspen block between his hands, shut his eyes once more, blocked out the songs and shouts and happy laughter, and painted a picture with his imagination.
Stocky legs and burly arms lined with defined muscle. A thick trunk to support them, with body and limbs alike protected by a panoply of blessed bronze. The upper limbs were shielded by pteruges, the strips of armor bound tightly together. His thick beard and straight nose were all that was visible of the face beneath his helmet. An apeironic bronze axe was clutched tight, ready to be brought down into an enemy’s skull…
The picture came together in broad sweeps. As time continued, Kosta added detail after detail until he was at last satisfied. Power trickled out of his palms from beginning to end, suffusing the wood and infiltrating its entirety with grey light. He could feel every grain, every knot, every imperfection that made the block unique, and felt his magic take hold of it.
Shavings and pale strips fell to the earth. He didn’t have to manually shape every blade or chisel. Kosta imagined, let his magic flow naturally, and it brought his imagination to reality. Satisfaction rushed through him as the work progressed with a speed that he never could have imagined!
Bevel. Sharpen. Engrave.
He cut.
He smoothed.
He sharpened.
He created!
Instinct guided him until Kosta at last felt satisfied with his creation. He opened himself to the world again and smiled at the heroic figure in his hands: Kraton the Kleosian.
It wasn’t exactly how he’d imagined it, but it was close. He traced a finger over the wood, admiring the texture and little details that would have taken hours to carve by hand, and smiled.
Was it beautiful? Perhaps not. But it was well-crafted. One day…
Your dream is within reach. Seek it in the waking world, should you accept the challenge.
The boy—no, the Demiurge—hadn’t granted Kosta the divine power to sculpt a world of his own, but perhaps the Demiurge had offered Kosta the seed to live that dream.
A world of infinite creation, unbound by mortal limits. A world of monuments. A world where every mortal was a god.
A world crafted by his hands, just as they did in the legends.
Kosta was broken from his musings by Headsman Linus’ booming laugh. The giant plucked the great warrior from Kosta’s hands (he almost yanked his creation back, but thought better of it with Mama and Papa’s firm stare on him) and turned it to admire each detail.
“Fine work! Fine work, indeed. You take after your father!” Linus chuckled. The onlookers clapped appreciatively, though quite a few broke away to go seek out other Myokipos now that the mystery of his gift was solved.
Kosta soured. He dared to glance around for Clymere, but caught no sight of his twin.
His eyes immediately snapped back to the figure of Kraton as Linus offered it to his father before wandering away to congratulate another of the former Myokipos. Dread settled in Kosta’s stomach as brilliant white magic, Papa’s magic, rushed over it.
Papa examined it with his sharp gaze. Kosta steeled himself for what he knew to be coming.
“Imperfect,” Papa assessed. No disappointment, just a simple statement of fact. Kosta’s spirits crashed back to earth. “See this? You didn’t chisel this section exactly. It is sloppy. Look at these edges! Uneven! Disproportionate…”
Chiseling his own world seemed a far more attainable dream at the moment than earning a word of Papa’s praise.
“Dear,” Mama murmured below the clamor of the crowd all around them. She laid a hand on Papa’s shoulder. “You’re causing a scene.”
Papa blinked, caught sight of several pairs of eyes pointed their way, and eased up. “It is a fine gift,” he said grudgingly. “But a gift alone will not carry you far. You must learn the skill and discipline to wield it, or it will just be a waste. See?” Papa held out Kraton’s figure and twisted it so that Kosta could examine it. “It bears your mark. It’s just another of yours, limited by your own ability. You’ve been granted speed and flexibility, but not talent.”
Whatever magic had once filled this night was long gone.
“Yes, Papa.”
Papa passed Kraton’s figure back to Kosta. He took it silently and spied out every single flaw in its creation. The limbs were too long, and the left arm was slightly shorter than the right. Kraton’s helmet lacked the crisp edges that he’d intended. Even the fluffy beard was a little lopsided!
Not so well-crafted after all, Kosta decided.
Imperfect.
He longed to toss the figure to the ground with all his might, but refused to cause any sort of disruption to the festival. Not with Mama watching him like a hawk.
Children still awakened—hauled up by Headsman Linus or siblings or gleeful parents—and laughed as they shared their new gift with the world.
Air shone with rainbow arcs, snowflakes danced on a summer’s eve, insistent songs filled his ears and demanded that he join the revel, boys lifted more than they should or moved with uncanny speed…
Clymere was nowhere to be seen.
Kosta’s lips pressed into a flat line. “Mama. Clymere… is she back?”
“Not yet,” Mama gestured to a little lump laid flat atop a woolen cloth. Clymere’s face barely peeked out from the voluminous beige veil tossed over her for comfort. It was light, designed to offer pressure rather than warmth.
Clymere tossed and turned fitfully beneath the drape.
Why would they do that to her? Didn’t they know better?
There was a bored militiaman poised over Clymere to prevent any drunken reveler or hyper Myokipos from trampling over Clymere’s sleeping body. Kosta frowned, slipped past the short man, and plucked the sheet off of her.
“Kosta!” Mama said, aghast. She apologized voraciously to the militiamen, who blinked dully. Perhaps he’d been lost in his own little world and was terribly confused regarding this woman who just rushed up to murmur apologies. Or perhaps he’d snuck a few of Eneas’ spirits already. “He’s usually such a well-behaved boy, I promise! Kosta! You know it’s improper to interrupt the ceremony. What if you…”
Mama trailed off as Clymere’s restless shifting ceased. With the obstacle gone, Clymere sprawled out inelegantly in a contortion of lanky limbs. No reasonable person could ever find comfort in that awkward configuration. Kosta’s lips twitched as his sister twisted, stretched, and bent herself into a tangled mess until she looked more like a knot of arms and legs than a human.
Clymere shoved her face into the plaza’s stone floor and sighed happily in her slumber.
“Oh dear,” Mama muttered. She twitched, probably fighting the urge to go in and untangle the messy sleeper. “I’d hoped that she’d grown past that.”
Kosta shook his head and neatly folded the thin blanket that had covered Clymere. He knelt to place it by her feet. The guard still looked like he couldn’t care less so long as they didn’t try to wake her. In fact, he was staring quite intently past them. Kosta followed his gaze.
If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
Ah, no wonder he was staring.
Evanthe danced amidst the crowd, her long golden hair flying every which way as she smiled radiantly at the townsfolk and led them in a joyful chorus. She was the Myrtle of Dytifrourá, their local beauty and master of celebrations, and it wasn’t just the guardsman who watched her with lovestruck eyes. Young men (and more than a few women) tracked each graceful motion, utterly enraptured.
The Myrtle’s power was subtle like a soft fragrance, yet washed over the crowd and stirred them to greater and greater heights of revelry with a heady aroma. It was said that Evanthe lacked the power to compel anyone with her magic, but her great power urged them to laughter, expression, and dance. Evanthe took elation and delight in the air, nurtured it like a seed, and returned to the people tenfold.
There was a reason she presided over their ceremonies and festivals.
Join! Dance! Celebrate, for it is a beautiful eve! Welcome our new brothers and sisters, the power seemed to whisper. Kosta wished nothing more than to follow its tune and throw his worries to the wind, but he couldn’t.
Not yet.
He sat down by Clymere and waited patiently for his sister to wake.
Minutes passed by, the song always in his ears. The temptation to leave was there, but he quelled it even as his fellow Myokipos rose, demonstrated their awakened magic, and dashed off to join the revels. Most had already awoken. The crowd embraced them, cheering the children on as they witnessed the dreamborne powers, and offered the former Myokipos a flashy little display or presented a token of their joy to the lucky child.
Many of the Myokipos strolled and wandered with half-eaten sweetmeats in hand, layered in golden honey and a thick candied glaze. Others nibbled on crispy biscuits and flaky pastries painstakingly crafted by gnarled old Eneas, the laughing baker who was always surrounded by a dozen grubby-handed beggars in search of a treat. Some of the bread exploded with color when the children took a bite, while others shifted consistency and texture with every bite.
Eneas spied Kosta and waved, which he happily returned. The baker was always happy to trade Kosta’s crafts for a few treats. He even hung them in his shop!
Hopefully Eneas would still have a few treats left by the time Clymere awakened…
What was taking her so long?
The sights and sounds of the festival grew ever wilder as more and more townsfolk joined the fray. Lucky Myokipos were called upon to exhibit their power, although no one questioned the children about their dream.
Kosta preferred it that way. Such a thing was too precious to share lightly.
Well-wishers came to compliment Kosta and sought out his gift, offering polite greetings to his parents. Kosta plastered on a smile and crafted little trinkets for them with a thought. Most were quite happy with their baubles and scattered to share them with other revelers.
Kosta soon had more and more Dytifrouráns swinging by to collect, although his stock of materials soon ran dry. He hid one aspen block, begging that he had nothing to craft. Mama seemed quite pleased.
“So skilled! You’ll be a fine craftsman one day, little Kondos.”
“You are truly blessed. Dytifrourá has a fine new son.”
“Your father has a gift much like this, you know. I’m so pleased to see you following in his footsteps!”
It all passed by in a blur. Kosta was pleased with most of the compliments, but his mind constantly strayed to the little figure of Kraton the Kleosian and his imperfections. These petty distractions wouldn’t teach him anything. He could make these in his sleep!
They wouldn’t help him craft a world.
Kosta’s ruminations shattered as Clymere finally stirred. The Headsman drifted out of the crowd as if from nowhere, materializing far too quickly and sneakily for such an enormous man. Kosta and his parents scarcely had time to react (not that Papa so much as twitched) before the Headsman knelt over Clymere.
The knot of limbs slowly untangled itself to reveal a human beneath. Clymere’s eyes sleepily opened, greeted by the sweet notes of Evanthe’s voice as her song washed over the revelers and urged them to greater heights.
“Wha—” Clymere babbled while Headsman Linus proudly greeted her in the same booming voice that he’d beckoned Kosta with.
He hoped that he’d sounded a little more composed. Clymere’s eyes were gummy with sleep and her tongue seemed filled with lead. Every mumbled word was slow and twisted.
This was normal for Clymere. Waking her was a miserable task.
“Welcome, former Myokipos! Come, come! The festival is here, and you are one of the last to wake. Don’t miss out on the fun!”
Kosta doubted that she made sense of more than two words of that: festival and fun. But Clymere’s eyes brightened. She clambered to her feet, nearly tripped, and beamed at the radiant light and raucous laughter that pressed down upon them.
More and more of the townsfolk broke from their dance and drinks to greet her. Clymere was a frequent sight around Dytifrourá. Most everyone knew her grinning face well or had experienced her antics firsthand.
Clymere’s eager fingers twitched to her phosogen, but stilled as Mama clutched her shoulders. It wasn’t quite an embrace, especially not in public, but it was close. Papa’s stare was flat and intense as it always was, yet Kosta could still read a splinter of curiosity in his distant gaze.
“Show us your gift, Clymere. Show us!
“My gift…” Clymere looked past them all, dazed. She closed her eyes. “The dream!”
Heat radiated off her skin as she reached for the awakened power within her.
“Careful.” Kosta leaned forward to whisper in her ear. “Your magic is alive now. Draw it out slowly.”
Clymere looked appalled. “Slowly?” The word rolled off her tongue with disgust. Clymere tossed her plaited black hair behind her as she mustered everything she had.
She thrust her right hand into the air (Kosta wisely took a step back) and beckoned a great cheer from the onlookers as a great flash of heat and light burst from Clymere like rays from the sun.
Kosta smiled as a brilliant gout of raging fire exploded from her palm, crackling up into the air in a red-orange surge before disintegrating into a shower of cinders.
Eyes from all over the agora turned to stare at the display, and Clymere exulted in the attention as she cast up another stream. It billowed upward, higher and higher, until she could sustain the twisting torrent no longer.
His sister’s eyes reflected the depths of the flame. The fading remnants of its dancing light brought her own wild smile to light. Kosta’s lips twitched. She would’ve been sorely disappointed by any other gift.
“That’s our Clymere! Again! Show your people what you can do.” Headsman Linus seemed far happier with the pyromania that he’d unleashed. His booming cackle drew more and more curious Dytifrouráns to him until they had quite the crowd surrounding them.
Papa seemed vaguely amused as Clymere opened her lips to spout clouds of smoke and trickles of flame like a dragon.
Poor Mama looked as though she had an executioner’s ax hanging over her neck.
Other Myokipos were delighted by the display, of course. They rushed Clymere, clamoring for her attention and begging for another blazing display. Most, especially the boys, showed off their own talents.
Agathon beamed as he suffused his spear with a lightning edge, Isokrates cast delightful mirages with a handful of crystal powder, Karpos clutched a seed in his palm and revealed a small, delicate fruit when his fingers unclasped, and a dozen others fought between themselves for the attention of Clymere and the onlooking crowd. Leon hung on the edges, bemused as he whispered to his keen-eyed dog.
The display soon descended into an impromptu competition. Kosta had no desire to take part in it, and Clymere edged nearer to him as Mama and Papa became distracted by the parents of the other Myokipos and the dazzling display of magic taking place. Mama watched the new talents carefully, the gears of her mind always turning.
Sparks fanned between her fingers. Clymere’s endless fascination with the unsteady patterns and perpetual dynamism of the element appeared ignited for good now that she could conjure it up at a whim. Kosta might argue that there could be too much of a good thing, but not to Clymere.
Fire was fun. Fire was good. Thus, the more fire the better.
But Kosta couldn’t help but think that Clymere appeared oddly pensive without the crowd’s energies to fuel her. Her free hand, marked by countless little burn scars, tugged idly at the end of her black plait.
The former Myokipos were so eager to present their newfound skills to the adoring crowd that the initial object of their attempts to show off was long forgotten. She turned to him and her thoughtfulness burned away like dry tinder.
“Show me what you learned!” Clymere exclaimed. She took his hand and squeezed. “I bet it has something to do with this, doesn’t it? But it’s okay if you can make fire too! I won’t complain.”
“Not this time!” Kosta laughed. “You can teach me, though. Here, let me show you.”
He sent his parents a surreptitious glance, found that they were far too distracted by Headsman Linus and the rest of Dytifrourá to notice Kosta’s efforts, and felt it safe to continue. Kosta pulled the last of his training blocks from his chiton and clasped it between his hands.
Grey power flowed.
By now, the magic began to fray his stamina. This would be his last work of the night. He cracked his eyes to witness Clymere’s delighted expression and resolved to make this final piece a good one. No, a great one!
Inelegance. A wiry frame and long, lanky limbs. A tunic that drifted to just above her knees to free her motion. Thick black hair. Fierce eyes set against a thin face. Lips turned into a determined flat line—nothing could stop her. Flames were tricky, so he left one upraised fist surrounded by a sphere with the tiniest ripples to represent its constant movement…
At last he finished and presented his work to Clymere. Kosta caught her stowing away the wood shavings from his project into her pouch, although she looked utterly delighted as she took the wooden figure in hand.
“Oh Kosta, it’s beautiful! You did it so fast. The Demiurge blessed you.”
He cracked a smile at the praise. It was imperfect, not quite the vision he’d imagined, but he was glad that she liked it. “Look closer.”
Clymere took in every detail. He took a great deal of pleasure in the surprise that slowly drifted over her fire-lit features. “It’s me!” She declared, astonished. It was loud enough to draw a few eyes their way, although a loud bang from the nearby talent show (apparently it had devolved into a sanctioned brawl between a few boys and girls) distracted the onlookers. “Thank you, Kosta! It’s perfect!”
It really wasn’t, but Kosta soaked up her compliments. “Keep it. It’s yours.”
She thanked him again, then flicked a finger to conjure up a little candle’s worth of fire. Clymere looked deeply into it for a moment, transfixed, then shook her fascination off. “To a great Dòrognosis, eh?”
“To a great Dòrognosis,” Kosta echoed. He hesitated for a moment, then pressed on with the question burning at him. “Clymere, what did you dream of?”
Clymere was hesitant. Kosta almost rescinded his question, but beneath her mask of solemnity was a spark of jubilance. “Fire,” she said. “Fire and ashes.”
Of course.
“A world beneath my hands,” Kosta returned without prompting. Clymere nodded, seemingly unsurprised. He felt exposed to have revealed his dream, but if he couldn’t share it with Clymere then who else would ever hear it? “A world of my own.”
Both knew there was more to each dream, but neither pressed for more. They knew enough. That was what mattered.
“Don’t worry, I’ll keep my fire away from your art,” Clymere promised after a moment. “You have nothing to worry about!”
Another voice bellowed over the crowd before he could respond.
“Clymere! Get over here so we can fight!”
Her eyes lit up as sparks showered from her hands, but Clymere was considerate enough to look questioningly at Kosta before simply racing into the crowd. Part of him longed to keep his sister here with him so they could talk amidst the festival, but he shook it off. She’d grow bored, and getting her to visit the rows of sculptures, paintings, and other crafts created for the festival would be like pulling teeth.
“I’ll catch you later,” Kosta said. He spied Agathon, who seemed rather proud of himself for someone who was little more than a bruised and beaten pile of red hair and fair skin. Most of the other boys were nowhere to be seen, however. Agathon must have come out on top of the brawl. “Just beat the snot out of him. Promise?”
Clymere grinned and punched his shoulder hard enough to bruise. Ugh. “Promise!”
With that, she dashed into the little arena a few of the adults had made and made her presence known with a roar that brightened the night sky. Kosta watched her brawl for a moment, all undignified sweeps and jabbing elbows and pointy fists punctuated by the occasional burst of flame, and at least took comfort in the fact that Ademia could wash away any burns or punctures with a wave of her hand.
He turned to watch the great dance as Evanthe fostered the melody into something wilder and primal. She glowed like a gem amidst the revels, mingling wherever she would and flitting between the masses of people like a bird. Evanthe spun random Dytifrouráns about, dragged others into the center of the dance, and recruited more and more hesitant onlookers into the midst with her radiant smiles and gentle prodding.
Headsman Linus bounced over with far too much grace for such a huge man, offered Evanthe his bearlike hand, and bellowed out a great laugh as she inducted him into the dance as just another one of its participants.
It was infectious, and Kosta hoped to muster up the courage to join soon enough. But as his stomach rumbled, Kosta decided that he should see to finding old Eneas first. His sweetbread was heavenly.
Kosta turned away from Clymere’s brawl and the bacchanal celebrations to seek out Eneas again only to freeze.
Something towered in the distance.
There was something there, something shrouded in the darkness beyond Dytifrourá. It was vast enough to make small hills of the mountains that cradled their valley. It stretched on for an infinity, surpassing the clouds.
Lines were faint. Details were sparse. But Kosta realized that in the distance, set against the depths of night and beyond the touch of starlight, loomed the ethereal figure of a mountain. Or the idea of a mountain, perhaps. It was too big, too vast, too much to be real.
“Ah, you can see it now. I expect Clymere will notice it tomorrow.”
Papa loomed over him, his eyes set on the same vision. Kosta was too enraptured to tense as he normally would.
“Is that…”
“Spectral Oroneiros? Yes. Our constant companion. It will follow you wherever you go. It will watch over you no matter how far you stray.”
Kosta squinted to pick out details, but he soon found the task impossible. Even the faint etches of its slopes seemed wavering and indistinct, flickering like a mirage. Or curling smoke from a flame’s edges. Kosta discovered attempting to pin down anything concrete about the phantasmal mountain to be a fool’s errand as it danced beneath his vision.
The vast mountain stole his imagination. He could imagine great forests sprouting from its craggy surface like thick moss, drenching it in heads of green. What sort of wondrous creatures might make such a strange place their home? What would it feel like to stand upon its peak and gaze down upon the wide world? Surely the stone there would carry some hint of the mountain’s power… what could he chisel from it?
Kosta dimly realized that one of his hands was outstretched. He yanked it back.
“Will I ever reach it?”
“No.”
Papa’s curt dismissal must have left a visible mark on Kosta, because even his father decided that it was time to elaborate.
His father stared off at Oroneiros. Something inscrutable twisted his hawkish features. “The Mountain of Dreams isn’t real. It’s an illusion, the ghost of a collective memory.”
Papa paused.
“Your eyes have only just been opened,” he said. “As you grow, Oroneiros grows with you. You see the truth of it. Perhaps the Aretans, praise their names, perceive it as proper stone,” Papa dipped his head for a moment. “Yet you will never find yourself at its foot. A man chasing Oroneiros across the world would simply find himself back where he started.”
Well, that dashed his hopes of seeking the mountain’s foot one day, but Oroneiros still demanded his attention. He would see it in its entirety, Kosta resolved. Even if he never reached the base, Kosta would know all that it had to offer.
Every day that it grew more solid to his eyes was a day that he had done his best.
Papa’s firm hand laid stiffly upon his shoulder. Kosta froze, uneasy, but didn’t shift at all for fear of ruining the moment. He was hyper aware of the hand’s weight.
“You are a man now, Kosta,” Papa said, voice low beneath the raucous cheers of the festival. “Even if Oroneiros is to remain a distant dream, perhaps the measure of a man is marked by his attempt to seek it. An impossible goal is one still worth pursuing.”
“What do you see?” Kosta ventured. “When you look at the mountain, I mean.”
“An emerald forest with trunks of gold. A base shrouded in impenetrable fog. A silver peak that spears the clouds,” Papa said after a moment’s thought. He appeared pensive, then jerked his head to the festival and its heady madness. “Enough. Return to the festival. You only have one Dòrognosis.”
The rest went unsaid. Kosta slipped out from beneath his father’s hand and let the tension bleed out. His hands itched with the desire to make, to get that energy somewhere productive, but his stomach rumbled.
First Eneas, then the dance!
He dared one last look back at Oroneiros, traced the impressions of its slopes, and—
“Go.”
Kosta fled into the depths of the festival to an onslaught of cheers. Smiling Evanthe danced over to greet him at the edge of the dancers and drinkers, took his smaller hands into her own gentle ones, and guided yet another soul to lose themselves in the revelry.
Oroneiros would wait.