Far along the Eastern edge of the world, there was a sweep of desert where the sun never rose. The Cimmerian storytellers had wandered this land for thousands of years, borne by silver Arabian horses, veiled in amethyst mist. On this particular night, the desert caravan pitched their tents, kindled their lanterns, and gathered in a circle around their elder.
He placed his hand on the shoulder of a very small, slender boy. “My child, will you recite from the Remembrance?”
The boy was shrouded like all the others in rough indigo cloth, sitting in the sand with his legs folded under him. He drew the cloth from his face and stepped forward, revealing haunting, sea-gray eyes. The old man placed an open book in the boy’s hands, and the boy began to read.
We began as a whisper on the lips of i
