The sky was of amber glass, a distant sun setting on the horizon. The white ice streaked with flares of orange. It was peaceful, timeless, almost like paint drying on a newly finished canvas. But despite this beauty, from atop my ice skimmer, I could see angry, dark clouds swelling in the south.
In a few hours, the storm would arrive, and with it, the frigid night. I thought about taking shelter inside the ice skimmer as I had done previously. There were compartments that were big enough to fit a man and his furs comfortably. However, I would not have the ice skimmer indefinitely.
In Myz, the only shelter would be haunted ruins and what I could carve from the ice and snow. If there was any time to put my skills to practice, now would be it.
First, I began as I usually did, dismantling the mast and sails. I pulled a bolt of steel from the brackets drilled into the deck and gently set the mast down on its side. While quite large, it was made of a lightweight metal as was the rest of the ice skimmer. Unhooking the sails, I set them to one side as I folded the collapsible mast and placed it along the port side of the ship.
The white canvas doubled as tarps, which I threw over the ice skimmer. I struck metal pegs into the hard ice and tightly bound the sheets over the vessel, covering it completely. This served a two-fold purpose. One was to prevent snow from piling up inside. The second was to camouflage and hide the ship from wandering eyes.
I wasn’t too worried about that last part, only twice so far had I spotted another ice skimmer in the distance. And yet, Gereon’s warning remained with me. I would rather be overcautious than chance an unwelcome surprise.
I dropped two chained balls of iron—anchors—on either side of the vessel. They sunk deep into the snow and would help keep the ice skimmer in place. Finishing up with the ship, I ducked under the hull and opened a storage compartment. The lid was so flawlessly worked into the metal that I could not detect a seam. It was only by virtue of the small handle that I knew it was there at all.
Inside I kept a shovel, and I began digging out a shelter into the snow. I cut out steps deeper and deeper into the ice until the pack stood above my head. Going for a ways before turning perpendicular, I carved a tunnel several meters deep. On my left, I chiseled out a raised shelf to sleep on, as well as two blocks of snow to serve as a table and chair.
It was surprising to me how quickly I accomplished my task. The blizzard had just enveloped my shelter when I moved in my sleeping furs and canned meals. I sat rather comfortably as the storm raged outside. Even the wind was not too much of a nuisance, as I had prepared my shelter with several windbreaks.
I took my canteen and scooped a measure of snow into it. I had brought with me a portable flame, trapped within a metal canister. Twisting the valve, a small fire shot up. I heated the snow and then poured the hot water into my canned meal. The strips of beef in the brown stew were tolerable, and I was more than satisfied when I set down for sleep in the night.
For several hours, I rested comfortably as the storm raged outside. And yet, I could not drift off into dream. Rest eluded me, and to pass the time, I brought out the Historiae Astrologus to read. The tome was heavy in my hands, but it always gave me much comfort.
I opened its golden covers and studied the script contained within. There was a lens bound to the book, and therein lay the true mastery of the craft. The way of the Astronomers is the way of light. It was from those tiny grains of long traveled knowledge that we established our order. Light is not merely illumination; it is the illumination of all things, near and far. Light reveals in every way it pierces the eye.
The lens, or rather lenses, was an instrument that understood this truth of our order. Twelve glass discs were aligned in perfect consonance to decipher the secrets of this text. Combinations rendered ink invisible, others recombined script into images of mythological import, and still more created star charts of impossible detail. In the Historiae Astrologus was not merely an accounting of famed Astronomers, it was a remembrance of knowledge—all our knowledge. One moment I could glance upon a map of a distant star, and with the flick of my thumb, I could see all its history laid out before me.
Amidst the far-flung heavens, I had our accounting of creation itself, rendered in all its impossibly precise detail. As for the bounds of human exploration, there was no secret hidden from me. I looked upon illustrations of blinding constellations, and in the same breath, the faces of those who charted them.
It is one of my great regrets that Master Gnomon perished before I had the chance to meet him. Although his artistry was far below those come past, it was clear to me that his devotion far exceeded his forebears. After all, he did not have the luxury of prismatic etchers, which could calculate the variances and interpretations of light. What Master Gnomon wrote, he did so by hand and by simple glass.
His work was undoubtedly the lesser, but by merit of his devotion, it could be called unrivaled among masterpieces. Men have often claimed the measure of a man’s effort is not the measure of its quality. And while I would agree insofar as the wisdom of men concerns, it is the wisdom of men which is the foolishness of the Potentate.
It is in this spirit I shall offer you our history, which among the wisdom of men, was considered the most foolish.
…
In the city of Ilarnek resided the House of Terah. There dwelt Arneb, the ninth son of a ninth son. He lived to be seventy-five years of age when the Potentate called him out to the desert. For many days, he ate of locusts and wild honey. He wore sackcloth and walked unshod on the sun-burnt land.
Every night, he went upon the mountain to make libations and study the stars. Oftentimes, he would observe meteors of Anemoi grazing in the sky. In those days, they were referred to as the Viridi, the emerald shimmering of the empyrean, as no man had yet laid eyes upon them except from afar.
One night, the Potentate called him to the starry mountaintop and bade him offer a sacrifice in the manner of the Chaldeans, for the Potentate knew Arneb had seen many capricious gods and all manner of deceits. Arneb found a ram caught in the thicket, and dividing it in two, offered it up to the Potentate.
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The Potentate saw this offering and asked Arneb. “Who do you think I am?”
“The city of Ulthar worship all manner of beasts. Are you one? Are you Livyatan, the Drowned Sleeper from the Deep, ruler of storms and seas?”
The Potentate answered, “No, I am not. I moulded Livyatan from the ancient water. And in the depths of unheard song, I wrestled with him for sport.”
“The city of Hatheg worship upon the Great Mountain. They praise Gaea and her rumbling fissures of earth. Are you one such voice?”
The Potentate answered, “No, I am not. I reared Gaea when she was but a young girl. Upon her brow I crowned her with countless green garlands.”
“The city of Carcosa worship the stars and their children. They fall at the feet of a Golden King named Hastur, the One who knows the Secret Way.”
The Potentate answered, “No, I am not. For I tell you, Hastur delights in his own madness. I am the Way. And of the stars I have sown into the sky, Hastur was among the fallen.”
“Who are you?” Arneb asked.
“I tell you now that I am El Olam! I am the First and the Last! I am That from which all things come forth and depend!”
When the Potentate spoke these words, a great column of fire blazed upward from between the offering. It rose into the heavens above, far beyond sight. But it issued no heat, nor burned Arneb in its splendor.
Arneb fell to the ground in fear and awe and worship. “I am at thy mercy! What would thou wilt with me?”
“Go and see these words I have spoken are true.”
At once, hundreds of Anemoi flew down from the sky to meet their newly beloved. And from that night onward, the Anemoi would always return to that site to deliver men up into the stars.
Arneb was the first to craft the saddle, first to tame the hallowed steeds. Upon wings of emerald, he delved farther than the flimsy ships of iron. He was the first to venture upon the outer spheres, traveling through unknown lands of fire and ice, of verdant jungles and blackened deserts.
It was he who laid the first stones that would become Ogygia. He broke down the gates of Telepylos and rid the land of the man-giants. He flung the shape changers from the white cliffs of Aeaea. When the dragon Delpyhne descended upon the Chroniclers of Mount Parnassus, it was Arneb who rode out to meet the she-beast.
“And who are you, to think you might challenge a child of Aapep? If your Potentate was so mighty, why did He allow you to come to me?”
“So that I may delivery your ruin,” Arneb answered.
And so the two fought for three days and nights. Delyphne breathed the poison fire of the celestial, for she was born and nursed of those fires. With claw and tooth of flame, she fought bitterly against Arneb. With sword and spear, the First Astronomer struck down the dragon on the tumbling mountainside. And so the writ history of the Parnassian Chroniclers came to pass. The swift hare bested the dragon, and he was known as Aapep’s misery.
For this act, the Chroniclers revealed one of their dream-visions to Arneb of the coming world’s end. There was a great and terrible flood that washed away the sins stained upon the stars. The son of Lamech raised the greatest vessel ever seen, so vast as to hold the world in its hull. And he went to war against the drowned kingdoms of Livyatan. The ancient waters were split in twain and that which has slept for aeons took up arms against the last family of men.
“But do not despair!” The Chroniclers told Arneb. “A hound has planted its torch in the firm ground, and neither storm nor sea nor time may quench it. Memory has survived through him.”
Arneb gave his thanks and departed the Chroniclers.
Twelve men, inspired by Arneb’s deeds and valor, approached the man. At his feet, they laid their swords and knelt. They swore fealty, and Arneb took their oaths. As his first command, Arneb ordered them to don plain blue cloaks to mark them as new men. These twelve would go on to defeat mighty foes, raise great spires to touch the sky, and win renown of their own. They scattered amongst the stars, meeting once every seven years in the fledgling city of Zodiak. Those were the days before the city had taken flight, and men toiled under an old sun.
As promised by the Potentate, Arneb was never bested by any foe on the battlefield. He lived to the age of four hundred and twenty-three or thereabouts. Visiting the court of King Lycaon, Arneb had not known the man had sworn himself to the Hunger of Many Names. The king, knowing his guest was a man touched by the divine, sought to dishonor him. Lycaon knew he could never beat Arneb in combat nor persuade him away from his oaths. And so he resolved for a manner of deception, so that Arneb be dishonored without his knowledge.
Lycaon took his eldest daughter and slew her. Cooking her body into a stew, Lycaon kept the utmost secrecy of the vile deed. That night, three courses were served, and at the last, Lycaon offered the stew to Arneb.
And yet, little did he know that a spirit of the Potentate had been watching. As for the words of the Potentate speak true, wherever an Astronomer may choose to tread, He has already sent His servants to guide the way. The spirit warned Arneb of Lycaon’s treachery. Throwing the plate to the ground, Arneb slew Lycaon where he stood. The king’s blood ran over the stone floor, and none of his soldiers nor servants dared to oppose Arneb.
Weeping for the girl who was slain because of him, Arneb begged the Potentate to restore her to life. A spirit appeared before him and said, “Arneb! Arneb! You are much beloved, and that is why the Potentate asks you to refrain from this request, for it will break your heart. He is most wise in His judgements, and it is better for both you and the girl that she wait for the next life. The Potentate does not call those to death without reason.”
“I ask anyway!” Arneb begged. “For how can this be just?”
The spirit delivered this message to the Potentate, and He did as Arneb asked. The girl was raised from death, and rejoicing with Arneb, she declared a feast in his honor the next night. This feast was seven courses long, full of splendor and delight. The stores of Lycaon had been opened and nothing was left to spare.
At the end of the long meal, the eldest girl opened a barrel of the most delectable wine. Serving it personally to Arneb, the spirit of the Potentate once again entreated him, saying that the wine was poisoned.
Arneb, not wishing to believe this, drank anyway. He felt the poison run through him, and yet the spirit protected him from death. At once, Arneb drew his sword and again, neither soldier nor servant dared to intervene with the man.
“What manner of trickery is this!?” Arneb demanded of the girl. “I begged for your life, and you chose to poison me!?”
He held the blade at her throat, and the girl thus responded, “You murdered my father. In surviving, you dishonored my name. How shall men speak of my line now? When I wed, my husband will call me daughter of abomination, and in revenge, I shall make of him an abomination.”
Arneb mourned, and he knew he could not slay this woman for whom he had begged for life. Taking his leave, he kicked the dust from his sandals and returned to Zodiak.
The eldest daughter raised her father from the dead as a half-wolf, taking on the form of his master. The king took his daughter as wife and bit into her breast. The two roamed the wilds together, king and queen, forever ashamed.
Arneb spent the rest of his days in Zodiak. When the twelve took their novitiates, it was Arneb who separated the weak from the worthy. It was Arneb who chose the men who would follow in his path.
And yet, despite his devotion and his deeds, Arneb was never the same again. One day, he took his twelve and their students up on a hill. He named Maru, the first among the twelve as his successor, and he bequeathed upon him the blessing of the first-born son. Maru was neither the mightiest, nor the most loved of the twelve, and yet Arneb gave upon him the responsibility because Maru was the man who most loved the School and its tenets.
His followers waited until nightfall, and thereupon the Anemoi flew down in numbers never seen before. Upon a great whirlwind, Arneb was taken into the sky. And thence the First Astronomer was taken from men. And of all the witnesses, it was Maru who saw him last, flying ever forward into the shimmering sky.
And thus it is written, Maru and the twelve had embers placed on their tongues, and they travelled throughout all the lands of men and beyond.