The Great Salt Flat of Miraj was a place of blinding white and absolute neutrality. A vast, cracked sheet of ancient, sun-baked salt, it was the one place in the fractured lands of Zahram where a merchant-prince from an oasis-city and a chieftain of a nomadic tribe could meet without either feeling they had conceded an advantage. Today, the colorful silk tents of a dozen different factions dotted the edge of the flats, their banners snapping in the hot, dry wind, a temporary city of mistrust and desperate politics.
Matriarch Soraya of the Al-Sabil tribe sat in the shade of her simple, dark-blue canvas tent, her obsidian eyes watching the proceedings. She was a woman of patience, a trait learned from the desert itself. She watched the preening, silk-robed envoys from the great city-states, their faces hidden behind veils to protect them from the sun they claimed to worship. She watched the younger, hot-headed nomadic chieftains, their hands never far from the hilts of their curved daggers. They were all children, she thought, squabbling over a single well while the world was dying of thirst.
The state of Zahram was fragile. The Reaping continued its grim work, and Ashen hordes now prowled the deeper wastes. But it was the poison of hope offered by Ouen from Qar-Teth that was truly rotting them from within. The Covenant of Sacrifice had become a popular, terrifying new faith among the desperate, and every city-state and tribe was now wrestling with the Covenanter sympathizers in their midst.
This council had been called to address that very crisis. And into this simmering pot of paranoia, two new ingredients were about to be added.
They arrived almost simultaneously, from opposite ends of the salt flat, as if directed by a playwright with a flair for the dramatic.
From the north came a small, dust-caked party flying the Royal Sigil of Aethel. Envoy Soren, a young man with a clever face and eyes that were clearly overwhelmed by the brutal vastness of the desert, presented the King's summons with all the formal grace of the northern court. He spoke of a "shared humanity," a "common foe," and the need for a "global alliance" at the Council of the Sundered Sky.
From the south came a larger, more confident delegation. They marched under the jagged black sigil of the Covenanters. Their leader was a man named Lord Jaspar, a renegade noble from one of the oasis-cities, his face shining with the zealous certainty of a new convert. He did not bring a plea; he brought a promise from his master, Ouen.
"The Voice of the Tyrant invites the true people of the sun to join him," Jaspar announced, his voice booming with a confidence Soren's lacked. "Why shiver in the shadow of a heretic Northern King and his dead god? The God of Bargains offers to make the desert bloom for his chosen. He offers you power. He offers you victory. Aethel offers you only a shared grave."
The two summons, one a scroll of desperate hope, the other a promise of ruthless power, were laid before the assembled leaders.
The first to speak was an envoy from the great city of Jade Oasis, his voice trembling with fear. "We must do nothing," he pleaded. "You all know what happened to our esteemed Ambassador Kasim. He spoke of an alliance with the North, and he was cut down in our own city by these… fanatics. To side with Aethel is to invite Ouen's assassins into our homes. To side with Ouen is to invite the King's armies to our borders. The only path to survival is neutrality. We must seal our gates and wait for this storm to pass."
He was answered by a young, aggressive chieftain whose tribe had already seen several miraculous bargains. "The storm is our salvation!" he roared. "The God of Bargains rewards the faithful! For generations we have been at the mercy of the Heartland's trade and the pride of Jade Oasis! Now, a god offers us the power to be masters of our own destiny! I say we burn the Northern King's summons and send our fealty to the true power in Qar-Teth!"
The debate raged, a fire of fear against a fire of ambition.
Finally, Matriarch Soraya rose to her feet. Her age and her wisdom commanded a grudging respect, and the other leaders fell silent.
"The envoy from Jade Oasis speaks with the voice of a rabbit hiding in its burrow, hoping the wolf will eat its neighbor first," she said, her voice calm and steady, cutting through the heated rhetoric. "And the young chieftain speaks with the voice of a scorpion, eager to sting, not caring that the venom will poison the well for everyone."
Her dark eyes swept across the council. "This is not a choice between two kings or two gods. It is a choice between knowledge and ignorance. We are a people of the desert. We do not trust promises of blooming gardens made by prophets of a new and thirsty god. We trust what our own eyes can see."
She pointed a wrinkled finger at the envoy from Jade Oasis. "Your ambassador was a wise man, and he was silenced because he sought the truth. To hide from that truth now is to dishonor his memory." Then she looked at the pro-Ouen chieftain. "And you. You are so eager to trade your freedom for the power of a god who demands your life as payment. You are not a leader; you are a merchant of souls, and you are selling your own people cheap."
She turned to the assembly. "I say we do neither. We will not swear fealty to a Northern King, nor will we bow to a desert prophet. But we will not hide in ignorance. I, for the Al-Sabil, will go to this Council in Aethelburg. Not as an ally. Not as a subject. As an observer. I will go to measure the strength of this King Valerius. I will go to learn the true nature of the enemy that leaves Ashen in its wake. And then, I will return, and we will make our own choice, in our own time, as a free people."
Her pragmatic, cautious path, a path of intelligence-gathering, appealed to the deeply ingrained survival instincts of the desert tribes and the more cautious city-states. A vote was cast. The council agreed to send a delegation.
But it was a fractured victory. The ambitious, pro-Ouen chieftain and his allies also voted to go, a predatory glint in their eyes. Soraya knew their true purpose. They would not be observers. They would be spies, agents of Ouen, sent to sabotage the Council from within.
The council was adjourned. Soraya stood, watching as the two messengers, the nervous Northern diplomat and the smug Covenanter lord, departed. She had committed her people to a long and dangerous journey into a nest of Northern vipers, and she knew she had just allowed vipers from her own lands to join them. Zahram was now playing for all sides of the war, a dangerous game where the only prize was survival.
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The Chronicle of the Fallen
Time period Covered: Approximately Day 305 through 315 of the Age of Fear
Victims of The Reaping: 3
Victims of the Covenant: 117
Deaths from Ashen Attacks: 145
Deaths from Civil Unrest: 19
Total Lives Lost: 284
Of Note Among the Fallen:
— The last master of the ancient art of sand-reading (a form of desert divination) among the nomadic tribes of Zahram, who refused to join the Covenanters and was executed for heresy.
— The entire Elder Council of a remote river-tribe in Verdane, wiped out by a sudden and unnatural plague.