And Love is the soul flowing into another,
But Power?
Power is much more predictable,
Power is the crashing wave of the Past”
- El Civvero, Khorana Averro
“You’ll perish, Mazih!” Molto blurted out into the court, his words echoing from the magenta drapes. His now-frenzied eyes began to wander around the familiar oval.
“Address the Kyser by his proper title,” commanded the Vorkati bluntly. The guard’s words washed over Molto’s ears, an attempt less to reward the Kyser’s standing than to preserve his own ceremonial habits.
The Kyser rose out of his chair to address him, “My dear Molto, in all the years of this Ymvero, not once have any of my fathers cared so much as to lay an eye on the planet. Their neglect is no longer mine, for I welcome my constituents as full and equal members of the Ymvero. Thus, they should be full and equal members of my itinerary, no?”
“Their backwater routes have led to the deaths of countless of our espionage officers, you cannot take it as lightly as a cruise to Beorazzo-”
The stone tiles of the palais oval watched as sage wise men who had seen far more than would be permitted without having their memories washed away with the waves. Unfortunately, however, their memories of dust formed by the wind of words were instead swept away on the daily by the Ymvero custodial group. Mazih flicked his wrist and the mechanical projector rose in the middle of the room. Its metal was newer, from the finest mine. It shined onto the tiles, boasting its purity. Such a show-off, truly embodying Mazih’s words in that sense more than iron it set into motion as two canines emerged from the machine.
“Let me tell you a story Molto. When I was a boy, I watched two dogs outside our palais. My Madra, rest her sails, never allowed me to go outside and pet either or give them food. The canines would sweat their mouths in desperation watching honos grill. Yet not even a single palais servant, not even you Molto, gave them a cent of affection. One grew weary and became a friend of the night sky. Eventually he tired of that life and trotted away to another town, trying his luck again. And yet the other, now abandoned, lost their patience with our ignorance and attacked one of the chefs. Of course this could not happen again, so the dog had to be sent off to the countryside. As a child, I believed that to have been what actually happened, and yet I am sure you, Molto, with your age knew it was not, eh?”
“Your palais was a well-guarded vault of royalty-” Molto gestured around the purple floors passed down seven generations “-the sand of the beach the palais stands on may be as numbered as the stars, yet the dangers they present to a child, or one with childish intents, were limited by the beloved Madra rest her sails. The…less desirable roads of the Ymvero are governed not by her yet by those who now above guide her swimming to the End.”
Mazih’s smile faltered at the remembrance of his Madra’s passing on. The ceremony of hers had been held only hours ago, and fresh blood still dripped from his ears whenever she was mentioned. The older guard saw this behind Mazih’s eyes and began to lead the young Ymveriator away to his chambers.
The Cazosur of the Ymvero who had been watching the verbal parry from the sidelines began to murmur. Many of them had watched Mazih grow up firsthand. A greeting here, a point of eye contact there, attempting to peruse what future wealth those golden eyes might hold. They had no memories of dogs in the palais, except for the other Cazosur who sat on the far side of the oval.
Others were from the Celuvos, brought in as a line in a treaty signed centuries before their birth. A dog in the palais. Sprung into their life on the manufactured and processed corpse of a papyrus. A bug, in essence, which happened to be what some factions regarded them as. The primordial soup of black ink wrote their roles into existence, diplomats playing god. They were led to be sat down near the doorways, away from the speakers. Sometimes they would object. Jokes. Their clauses were written to be squashed. Fortunately, they had no taste for chefs. The night sky was more alluring.
Pokhart also stood out of his chair. Of course, his chair was not of platinum like the Kyser’s was, yet the words he would speak would resemble the precious metal more closely. Or at least that was what the Celuvos Cazosurs were hoping for. Would be such a shame, sacrificing a strategic move for the inadequacy of muscles in the jaw.
“Why not eh visit Bolikar, the most famed of the Celuvos,” his ancestral pride quivering at the corner of his smile for a brief moment, “we would never dare to harm a Kizor.” Seeing the reflection of a Jester in the Cazosur’s eyes, he clarified, “Perhaps along with some sort of a guarantee you would pass without harm, be treated like a slight ripple in the night sky’s waves. We could organize a, how you say it, contingent party of Bolikari citizens to travel around your escort in their own commercial flyers and such. We vould never open fire on our own.”
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Molto hoarsely giggled. The accent never failed to disappoint him. Neither had his accented proposals. The bureaucratic trust Pokahrt was requesting had pranced outside the plane of existence centuries ago. It had left their realm of imagination off to the stars, enjoying a Cilio on Bilosos. And yet some still chased after the mythical beast of the mind of governance. Molto began to consider forming a response but his lips closed into a wry smile instead.
“To be an "Ivicito man" is an enviable distinction, and one that I sincerely hope I shall attain.”
- Kyser Mazih, Aptitude Essay
The high professor of the Ymveri court led her pupils down from the dome of the palais, to the commons, down to the stairs leading to the beach on the New Atlenti Ocean. The students, this particular group graduate students in the prestigious Ymverikon economics studies program, sat around the professor’s pedestal. They had hopes for a seemingly ambiguous speech the professor had long had an affinity for.
“All of you aspire to eventually join the upper ranks of the Ymvero through your studies and work, no? Of course, how else would you guarantee your bloodline once again sees these steps, wafts the salt of the Atlenti once more. Such is the nature of the Ymvero, an ancient Habsburg realm of incestuous finances.” Jonaco, displaying a fa?ade of interest, responded.
` Of course, such can only exist with the stability we create, Professor Khorusa. Sans a planet falling out of the sky, that stability is immutable.”
“And yet if a planet was to fall out of the sky, what then Vz. Jonaco.”
The water slowly rushed against their ever slightly hovering stools. As if thousands of bitter soldiers threw their frontline at the shore only to be summoned back by their celestial general. Even their makeshift weapons of destruction simply quietly popped in the ears of the students.
“Well of course we would have to reorganize that specific departments related to that planets administration, increase imports from the other Celuvos and-“
“However apart from being regrettably removed from their heavenly coordinates by the governmental department of Physics, that other planet of the Ymvero would have no issues. In fact, our infrastructure would have set them up for a self-sustaining future, save for our wondrous institutions that were joyfully bundled in with having their planets military be utterly demolished.” The professor smiled watching his student expectedly regurgitate the ancient language of
“That may be so, but does their planet possess the amount of educated and elite that governance requires of them. All the great institutions, the Ivicito College, the University of Javenyord, even the Institute of Ymveri Science and Technology reside on the Ymvero planet.”
“What stops them from creating their own institutions as such, thousands of their citizens came from these institutions and have been implementing that intellectual frenzy we call an Ymvero education within their own high cities. Of course, our beloved ancestral governance has thought of this and kept high finance and governmental positions firmly rooted in proximity to the palais. I would venture to assume that many of your own aspirations include being subsumed into the slow magma flow that is palais authority. We have engraved the seal of the capital into our studies to the point that I fear the officials of the planet would rather reach back into the stars to us in a suicide mission than subject themselves to the suffering of possibly engaging in their own culture.”
“Perhaps the greatest stealer of understanding is life itself.”
- Khorana Opniso, Les Chronicla
The Madra’s funeral processions had been performed without a single computational error. As the corpse was led down the Ymvero palais’s steps, the advisors began to chant a solemn hymn, Molto first among them. Their notes proceeded like the waves, uttered into existence by an agent they could never seek to comprehend.
Or perhaps it is we who could not comprehend them, perhaps a wave can view fully their progenitor in the sky and yet Nuyos could not learn of the children of its existence. As quickly as they were brought into this world the notes followed the Madra into the great after, some lucky enough to catch Atlenti winds into the rain and greet her finite portion. Initially one would perceive this as a tragedy, and yet perhaps their closeness to death for as long as they live is what grants them the comprehension of their universe.
The greats saw this perhaps, Kh. Averro and Kh. Opniso, attempting to live as if one’s life was simply a wave from being swept back into the peaceful waters.
When one rests their sails, one of two things have occurred. Either they have found golden sands, losing the desire to ever look on from it and along with settling sails setting down their mind itself in the process. Almost all would give anything for such an eternity, perhaps resting down their ears, feet, or hippocampus to sweeten the deal with the unforgiving Isle.
The alternative being that such a one instead of becoming allured by the reality of rest becomes entranced by the concept of it. Uttering the remembrance with this meaning would be a faux-pas, as if wishing the worst. Waves only flow on eroding rocks continuing on their journey or having reached the paradise of a coast. There is no honor in the solitary of the most easily convenient rock.