The Language of Everything

Prologue 9 years earlier He’d brought only a map, three horses, and two soldiers to scout with him in Devoran; it was too early in the process to trust more than a loyal few. Unfortunately, neither Price nor Bernhardt seemed up to the challenge. Years of cautionary tales had painted Devoran as a dangerous, magical country, and both cowards shuffled along as though every rustling leaf could turn them to stone. Marten snarled and spurred his horse. His objective was far too important to indulge such childish superstitions. The precious parchment stowed away at his side had fallen into his possession only a few weeks before, and ever since its secrets had consumed him. It had been confiscated material, taken during a routine arrest back in Cantor. He shuddered to remember how those foolish guards had almost thrown it away. He, alone, had realized its potential. His mind wandered to the painted green flames that flickered from the hills of Devoran on the intricate map. He felt as though they were dancing for him, calling out to him— and he would answer. Long had there been rumors of potent materials and energies stored away in the wild forests of Devoran. With the growing hostilities exhibited by the Rie—falsely reported and spread by Marten himself—the time had come to wield the full might of the Cantic nation. Those green flames, so delicately drawn, had the potential to deliver all that he needed to succeed, and his desire for them burned through him as he rode. If Marten Landsing had been the kind of man to care, he’d have taken the time to look about as they rode, and appreciate the wonder of this uncharted land. Devoran seemed to alternate between every biome imaginable. As they rode, deep forests gave way to rainbow deserts which bled into breezy fields. Of course, he was not that type of man. For as long as he could remember, Marten had been two things: practical and calculated. Nothing of value was to be gained from sightseeing, and so he made his way through Devoran as though it were nothing more than a brisk ride through a bustling Cantic street. Eventually, Marten thrust out his hand, bringing his companions to a sudden stop. They had arrived at a wide plateau layered with years of multicolored sediment, but Marten hadn’t come all this way to marvel at geology. He was interested in the opening that lay at the base of a cliff a mere hundred yards from where they were standing. “Bernhardt!” Marten snapped, gesturing for the man to come forward. “Yes, sir?” “Do you see the cave over there? I need to you take a stone from inside and bring it back to me.” “Yes, sir.” Bernhardt brought his trembling hand up for a short salute before sliding off his pony and jogging off. In his absence, Marten and Price waited in silence. He had found that this tactic not only limited unnecessary chatter, but was also an effective intimidation technique. Marten accomplished more with silence than a foolish man’s bellowing ever could. When Bernhardt came back with the sample, Marten grabbed it wordlessly and held it up toward the sun. He squinted intently, and from the stone’s crannies he could make out a green glint that shone incongruously with the dull mix of rock around it. Inside, Marten’s thoughts soared. This was it! But his was a private celebration. He turned towards the two soldiers and nodded once as he wheeled his horse about. “Okay. Let’s head home.” Both mounted their horses without question, eager to leave Devoran unscathed. “Price,” Marten snapped again, burying his joy long enough to deliver the next, crucial order. “I nearly forgot. Before we left, I received a report of dangerous activity along our border with Rien. See to it that we circulate news of the insurgents. People must be informed of the threat. “Of course, sir,” Price saluted. And so it begins. Marten thought. He kicked his horse and started home. There is much to be done.