Northwest of the southern river city of Vedenemo there is a tranquil town of sloped roofs, well-built wooden cottages, purple hedges, narrow streets, and a small park littered with birch trees, one oak, and a few maples. Town of Carcassona. A town of blacksmiths, shepherds, poets, sculptors, painters, carpenters, farmers, and other kindred that enjoy a more peaceful life than the one in the Five Cities. Its inhabitants are strange creatures of mostly human-like shape that use pale sunlight as sustenance.
All wooden structures are coated with a special substance that stops the wood from catching fire. Just another wondrous invention from Vantium's scholars.
Any crops within Carcassona's perimeter—whether artificial or natural—are used to feed the livestock which itself is used for leather, fiber, and making scentless soap from fat. Horns and bones are carved into tools such as needles, combs, and awls while sinew was formed into bow strings or used to simply bind things together. Sadly, most of the flesh gets thrown away. The best cuts are sent to Maker since only he has the ability to savor and digest them. Some of the stronger or more daring kindred have an animal pet that consumes surprising amounts of this otherwise thrown meat.
Villages, and towns like Carcassona—strewn across the Western Equiya—are the workhorses churning out vast raw materials and equipment which feed the Five Cities.
The sun left a while back and it was all so peaceful now with only the death-quiet blue light of spherically carved crystals, attached to posts, wrestling the purest black in the modest town square. One home, in the western part of town, stood out with its flat roof and austere appearance. The pleasant cottage resembled a tiny fort and offered peace to its one townie.
Inside, only the sound of a crackling fire is breaking the serene quiet. But the fire was alone in the middle of the room since its maker was on the roof looking up and listening to the autumn winds. Silver smoke, rising from the only chimney in the middle of the flat roof, was quickly lost to them.
Nikolaos was gazing up at that black as if expecting the empty sky to provide an answer to his unspoken questions. Occasionally, he would pace in a chaotic pattern of a sentient kindred whose mind wanders the corridors of imagination—unshackled by such trivialities as perceived laws of nature. He never liked his eyes the color of molten gold. True, the kindred possessed eye color of all tints and variations but his own was not particularly common. It was an irksome fact that would irrationally invade his mind from time to time. His self-imposed exile had the advantage of an idyllic life but living in Vantium would be far more practical.
He continued looking up at the black carpet of the goddess. Decades ago, Maker told him that during the age of humans there were uncountable sparkling flecks spilled all across that carpet. He wondered if gazing at such an image would help or distract him when it came to his thought experiments.
Nikolaos would sometimes ponder on how creatures such as humans that led short lives—often in primitive conditions—could have ever come up with great, remarkable ideas and concepts that made them dominate the world. Even in his ninetieth spring, with roughly a third of his life spent, he felt as though all his knowledge was close to nothing. No. Nikolaos knew he knew nothing.
Days and nights would pass with relative ease while his mind wandered to the farthest reaches of creative thought. With almost no need to sleep, ideas would eventually become most forthcoming. Days would be spent walking on the flat roof of his small home. He found that walking helped him think. Concepts and ideas swirled and repelled each other incessantly.
This world was deceptive. There was always an irresistible desire in Nikolaos to see through it. Sometimes quite literally. Decades ago, he researched the accounts of his underground kindred: large, sentient earthworms. They could communicate with the surface dwellers only through Maker and the earthworms spoke about strange distant vibrations, which they felt coming from the deep belly of Equiya. Nikolaos was intrigued.
And so, to the additional scorn and ridicule of his peers, he took detailed accounts—with the help of Maker himself—and marked the locations of these vibrations on a map. Then he was able to extrapolate points of interest. Often these tremors were noted in proximity to abandoned crystal mines and deep below mountains. This led him to find bizarre, often half-collapsed, tunnels. They were monumental. With only the light of crystal placed onto the end of the oak staff to guide him, Nikolaos was wandering in the rotten bowels of the world. He had theories about what created those huge tunnels, theories he could never speak aloud.
He remembered reading hundreds of crisp-new-looking—and more than a few dusty and yellowed—books about animal physiology and behavior. Long ago there was a lizard with dark green-brown skin. This was during the time Maker and some human books claimed that Equiya's plants and especially grass were mostly green. This greenish lizard was well adapted to its living space. In another colorful book, written around the time of Nikolaos' birth, by one of his fellow scholars, there was a masterfully drawn picture of the same looking lizard but this one had dark purple skin with black stripes. It must have changed somehow over time to better hide. His writings on the topic of animals adapting to their environments were mostly well received, but only after years of scholarly debate.
The theory that was not well received, however, was the one he took the most pride in, and simply couldn't let go of. Decades of research and void-deep thinking led Nikolaos to propose the idea that if the entire world was at least somewhat larger then the force pulling down on everything would also increase. This would make it more difficult to build tall structures and the world would probably be filled with creatures that are shorter or that can just slither or crawl. Perhaps birds and those such as his flying kindred wouldn't be able to take to the skies at all. He condensed his reasoning from reading copious amounts of scientific scrolls and volumes written by long-dead humans as well as more recent works of kindred scholars. He was laughed at when he wrote or tried to lecture about such things. ''The world was already vast,'' they'd say. Or, ''It couldn't possibly get bigger.'' That was the problem with thought experiments, good luck proving one.
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What really hurt more than Nikolaos will ever admit, even to himself, was that even Maker found the idea far-fetched. Maker, despite being a wise and great scholar, only truly believed in things that can be proven repeatedly. A good trait for a scholar to have but also potentially limiting.
We are standing on the shoulders of giants. Maker was always heavily interested in uncovering the lost knowledge of the human empire and yet he does nothing to address this petty odium his kindred have toward knowledge of old.
Occasionally, he thought about returning to Vantium—a good few days of flight to the north—and stopping his way of pursuing knowledge. There was always that cursed instinctive desire to belong, to be accepted by his peers. But then he wouldn't be in his element.
Because of his fascination with the humans, and with him often noting how most of his kindred's language and knowledge has human roots, he became shunned by his scholarly peers. Eventually leading him to continue his work far away from the central capital. An unusual accommodation, possible only due to Maker's intervention to allow the most precious of books to be packaged and sent far away, directly to Nikolaos.
He released a deep sigh while spreading his fingers against the wind.
Scarce birds and leathery-winged craklers, diminished in numbers by the autumn, were starting their secret symphonies—so lost in thought Nikolaos was, he didn't even notice. The adorable chirping of the tiny, pale red blushes, each slightly smaller than a fingernail, resonated through the crisp air of Carcassona's melting night. Not to be outdone, a few smooth-skinned craklers, used their long, narrow, spear-pointed beaks, to rapidly click-clack, as if speaking in a secret language known only to them and others of their breed. There was also the pleasing whistling of occasional pufferpie. They resembled extremely bloated fish that can somehow levitate in the air. The dark-green floating balls even had wings that looked closer to fins than anything feathery-leathery. They were helpless and slow creatures—if one ignored the fact that their flesh is highly poisonous and could melt your stomach away. A rooster could be heard in the distance proclaiming something he instinctively knew was coming.
Murky reddish dawn, similar in shade to his red skin, was breaking the eastern horizon. The fire is probably out by now, he thought.
Every now and then he begins to glance northward. In the distance, the scenic violet, topped with pure white snow of the Xanadu mountain range, consumes the vista. I hope the winds were kind to him. He tugged slightly at the sides of his hood—protecting his bare smooth scalp from the winds.
There was something in the distance. A giant bird was rapidly moving toward the cottage. Welcome, old friend, he thought. He then smiled and began to wave at the oncoming regal shape.
The sleek, air-cutting, chestnut-brown form of the feathered creature began to land gently on the roof. Nikolaos' black with red trim silken cloak swayed and protested the gushing winds made by its mighty wings. After contracting them the large hawk lowered his head and Nikolaos roughly rubbed his fingers across the top of it.
''Hope no storms were daring to come across your path.''
The creature straightens up, silently regarding him. Not intelligent, perhaps, but there were many forms of intelligence and Ganbold was a clever Winged nonetheless.
Nikolaos untied the package from the hawk's right leg. There was a metal chain on top of the box for easier hold during flight—the leg bond was just a safety measure. The large hawk was never used as a mount. Ganbold would transport smallish packages but the creature refused to have a rider.
Nikolaos had spread a thick layer of straw over a third of his roof—covered with a big cotton blanket and edged with rocks holding it in place—so the Winged could rest for a while after its long journey.
Ganbold is larger than a horse and can be a fearsome sight to soak in, especially with his wings fully unfurled. Nikolaos patted the beast some more and talked to it as one might to a child before heading inside. He opened a hatch and went downstairs with his package.
This shipment contained several, centuries-old, human tomes—gems of Vantium's great library. Many old human books of science which survived their fall were considered to contain ''junk science,'' as one of his peers had said. While the vast percentage of human knowledge was taken for granted, only newer works of kindred scholars were truly appreciated—sometimes even to the detriment of scientific facts. He had no love nor hatred for humans for he understood that emotions have no place in scientific pursuits. Except...maybe there was room for passion toward such things as learning and always questioning. While he was holding lectures in the capital he would say to his students, ''The day you stop asking questions is the day you need to retire.'' He would teach them to question everything—especially themselves.
His study still had a pleasant warmth to it. After leaving the box crate gently on the table he moved to the fire pit in the middle of the room and grabbed an iron poker to uncover the embers hidden in the ashes, still dancing with light. Nikolaos then placed a few twigs and other kindling on top of them.
Later he will need to package an old shipment together with a note for more volumes, to be sent back to Vantium after Ganbold receives much-deserved rest. It helped that the hawk listens only to Maker and those scholars closest to him. Otherwise, the new shipments of goodies might end up drying away.
He used the poker to crack open his delivery of securely packed books. Opening the crate always felt like opening a present from an old friend. Nikolaos removed the straw and blew some chunks of it from the silk wrappings protecting the tightly bound tomes. Despite all he read and all the lectures he listened to, there was always more. More truths to be questioned and much more to learn.