“Listen carefully, and do not interrupt to ask what I meant. My breaths are thinning. These will be my final words. Know that I have served two emperors of the Alary Realms, although it was during the rule of the latter, Prash-Traniash the Fourth, that I earned my rank and riches. It was in service to him, while the man was little more than a boy, that I lent my Kainomantic Art and called forth beasts of power and pageantry. When the young emperor wanted for amusement, I called for him fowl resplendent and crooning. When malice and envy were heavy on his mind, I called for silent wings and sharp talons to slay his foes in the dead of night. This and more besides I performed, and was paid in full. You have seen the chambers of my dwelling, the rings upon my fingers. They count in the dozens. Besides these corporeal treasures, I was granted apprentices and privileges. Men who would have spat at me in the streets for the peculiarities of my Art nodded and bowed to me while I passed them in the palace corridors. A man set to noble purposes has little to lament. By every mundane reckoning, I will die content.”

  Here the old Master paused, coughed and returned his weak arms below the silken sheets. His infirm body had resigned itself to the bed. With a lethargic finger, he bid his apprentice closer. “Come,” he said in a low voice. “Sit closer. But lay down the quill and scroll.” The Apprentice obeyed, bringing his seating closer and leaving behind the writing instruments.

  “As we die, death comes to us in waves. Each time it flows into us, its ebb reveals the truth beneath. Decay unveils us. What I say to you now might be a flaw in me, or the final honesty freed by dotage. Perhaps only death permits me these words. Whatever is the case, I must tell you of one whose shadow has smothered my lifelong satisfaction and final serenity. I must tell you of Homay.”

  At the name, the Apprentice started. His hand rose without command and began performing a warding sign not taught in any propaedeutic stage or Art. The gesture faltered before it was finished. Suddenly aware of himself, he let the hand fall to his knee. The Master observed all this, the reaction and realization, with faint amusement.

  “Do not shake your head,” said the Master, “nor chide yourself. And do not glance at the window as if the wind had ears. Prash-Traniash the Fourth is dead. Alongside his decree of silence. Although whispered, the name yet echoes villainy. Does it not?

  “You are young and have no doubt heard it only as a rumor. Perhaps from your peers or previous masters. When the candles burn low and men indulge the softness of confession. You have read the annals of our Art, in which the winged warriors are surreptitiously recorded. I assure you, their viciousness and brilliance are not captured by any record. You have been taught, as I was taught, to believe that mastery is a matter of patience and correct cultivation. No patience ever raised me to Homay’s heights. He was a man of true artistry, not industry. Talent, my dear Apprentice, cannot be cultivated.

  “In the reign of Prash-Traniash the Third, when the realm’s modest borders made it barely a kingdom, there came a springtide of marvels. We were not always so vast or feared. The king understood, as kings rarely do, that the metals do not forge the finest weapons. He gathered the arcanists of his measly realms and those bordering his, extending sanctuary and tolerance for the fouler Arts. Not because he revered us, but because we were useful. Homay, it was said, was exiled from his village in the northern mountains and came to Prash-Traniash’s petty kingdom after decades of peripatetic cultivation. Even then, rumor followed him – but the king found him favorable. They saw advantage in each other. A pledge was agreed to. And truly, there is nothing more impactful on the lives of mortals than agreements made between the powerful.

  “Yes, I have seen them. They were dozens at first. I will not insult your intelligence by describing his creations as men with wings. That is how children imagine them. That is how poets later wrote them, after they had watched safe from the rear and turned slaughter into song. They were not men. Nor birds. They were a third, profane blurring of the two forms. Perhaps a reflection of our own ancestors. Their wings did not look attached; it was no butcher’s deed. They were immense and dark, with the muscles resembling a man’s. Their feet were also manlike, but culminated in talons rivaling assassinous daggers. Their skin was red, their overgrown hair and plumage white, just like ours. However, like the noble ossifrage tinges its lighter plumage a rusty red by dustbathing, so the winged warriors crimsoned themselves in earned gore.

  You have heard their feats. They are the reason you live as you do now. You have heard the dates. The names of the captured fortresses, the captured provinces and hunted traitors. There is no need to recite them. It was the winged warriors that made distance obscene and walls decorative. Wherever Prash-Traniash’s armies marched, the warriors had already secured or weakened. None under the sky were above their reach. The messenger bird and spy were caught and slain before reaching the enemy. When needed, their flight was high and irregular, avoiding eye and arrow alike. Where desirable, their onslaught was quiet or conspicuous. And so Prash-Traniash the Third and Homay the Kainomancer campaigned into the bordering kingdoms. They warred and made themselves glorious, carrying the banner eastward and westward along the rivers. Then southward to the desert’s edge and northward to the mountains. The king’s appetites were glutted and his avarice gorged. Then peace came, not for the kingdom but a new Alary Empire.

  “The new state turned its gaze inward. Prash-Traniash the Third, now emperor, built fountains and gardens. He sponsored plays. He married women worthy of continuing his lineage and neglected their charms for the thrill of the hunt. Homay’s reward was simpler: he was granted a tower on the outskirts of the new palace complex, perched where the cliffs fell away into the sea. It included hanging gardens and stone aviaries built around it. Narrow, forbidding ways wound toward and around his hermitage. There he sealed himself, with no further interest in the dominion he had abetted. His seat at Prash-Traniash’s council remained empty. He remained absent for the ceremonies and celebrations of the state, as well as festivals of the sky. He did not fraternize with the other arcanists or partake in the society of wizardry. He lived among his increasing creations in the tower. The court and council, eased yet wary, let him.

  “In those years the stories about him softened. The winged warriors became an ominous but diluted legend, and Homay became a quaint figure who made songbirds for the amusement of ladies and princes who might wander by his gardens. The court began to speak of him with a gentle condescension, as if his earlier work had been a youthful excess he had outgrown. That seemed to be true of Prash-Traniash the Third, then known as “The Merry.” Yet cultivation, no matter its twists and curves, has only one direction.

  “When Prash-Traniash– “The Merry” – died in repose, he was surrounded by wealth that had once fueled his desires. After a turbulent and nearly calamitous struggle, to which Homay was most certainly oblivious, his third eldest accepted the burden of crown and throne. With them came an appetite. Prash-Traniash the Fourth looked at the perdurable borders and saw not peace but unfinished work. He wanted to be his father, not in virtue or merrymaking, but in glory. He wanted to taste conquest, having grown up on the praise of it. And so, inevitably, his eyes turned to Homay.

  “Messengers were sent first, requesting Homay’s presence and bearing gifts. With a subtle simplicity belonging to those who reside profoundly in their Secret, and all due deference owed to the Alary throne, Homay refused. The privileges granted to him, he reminded his willful summoner, were accolades for service already rendered. The death of Prash-Traniash the Third did not absolve the living of his decrees. The will of the son does not undo the will of the father.

  “The emperor raged. His ambitions for expansion had been inhibited from within his own palace. Attentive advisors counseled caution. Homay was said to be past his prime, his Art surpassed. Homay’s rights were inscribed and witnessed by contemporaries surviving from those days. To annul them would be to admit that royal promise meant nothing. The boy was calmed by such ideas and suggestions of compromise. If the master will not serve, he will teach. The winged warrior would fly and slay anew, with or without Homay.

  “Once more, Homay refused, citing only his disinterest for instruction. Specifically, he stated that even if the world fell back into war, his tower would remain in peace. Requests turned into orders, declarations of imperial ownership and royal primacy. The new proclamations declared that Homay would be retrieved from his tower and made to impart his Secret to a select circle of adept arcanists. That peerage included me. It is here, my diligent apprentice, that my life became entangled with Homay’s renouncement. The stubbornness of that old fool! How he stained our prior skills and standing with his grand eschewals… My throat is tiring.”

  Here the Master stopped, hiding his face from view of his Apprentice with a withered hand. He contemplated his exacting words, weighing them against the past his memories carried. When the Apprentice offered water and narcotics, he revealed his amber eyes. The embers in them burned low, beyond rekindling. He accepted the water and was seated.

  “The extirpation was supposed to be a small matter at first. Not a siege. The access to Homay’s tower was narrow, as I’ve told you, clinging to cliffs. Fearing the loss of whatever arcane valuables might lie within, the emperor forbade the use of flame and stone. The first group of palatial guards approached in daylight, expecting to drag an old man out in manacles. As they neared the gardens, the many-voiced birds ceased their singing and watched the intruding formation. I want you to understand what that silence was, for a garden full of songbirds is never truly quiet. There is always some soft note, some accidental rustle. The sound mind takes heed of such silences. The soldiers slowed, stopping fully as one of the silent watchers landed in the path ahead of them. It was dovelike in inspiration, a small thing that should have been kicked aside without thought. The captain raised his boot to do just that when it spoke.

  Stolen story; please report.

  “‘Turn back,’ it said. ‘Or be taught what was taught to those who opposed Prash-Traniash the Third.’ This was uttered to the guards not in a voice of mimicry, as a clever parrot might repeat, but with a comprehension that reveals itself reluctantly and only partially.

  The captain froze. Men behind him howled uncertainly and pushed forward, eager to espy the modest source of the warning. Expectedly, they laughed and emboldened their leader to push on. And so they did, retrieving and brandishing their scimitars. The messenger cocked its head as if listening to some distant sound none of them could hear. Then, in one motion, all the peaceful birds in the trees lifted and flew away, leaving the path and air bare.

  “As the guardsmen reassured themselves and moved to the gate of the tower, some soughing shadow descended with such speed that those who survived could not agree what they had seen. The captain was taken, dragged sideways and vanishing upward. His scream rose and fell suddenly. Then, he too fell among the guardsmen, breaking bodies with his mangled weight. That was the first lesson of the winged warriors. In a frenzy that fractured the formation, they began emerging from beneath the bridge and from the cliff-faces. They struck with avian alacrity and savagery wholly human. Arrows were loosed and swords were swung. When the initial force was depleted and in retreat, more were summoned and sent. For a whole day, until the mercy of dusk, men battled with beasts and died like dogs upon the threshold of Homay’s tower.

  “That night, a dove came to the throne room of Prash-Traniash the Fourth. I was not there to witness the scene, but heard detailed accounts of it afterwards. Again, a dovelike creature appeared, landing amid the gilt hall and walking to the base of the throne. There it gave the emperor his dues, bowing and prostrating as much as its avian form could allow. Finally facing the indignant boy, advising him to forget the specter of Homay. It said his Art would no longer partake in war, unless that war was the defense of his own peace. Prash-Traniash the Fourth snorted, ordering the messenger to be seized and roasted. On the morn, more men were sent.

  “After that came elite palace guards in lacquered armor and pavonine helmets, mercenaries who had known battle in lands abroad and select groups from the standing army. Even a handful of court arcanists were brought to assist. They proved least effective of all. The smaller birds returned at opportune moments and with no diminution in their ranks to disrupt their evocations with cruel precision. Their rituals and incantations collapsed into farce, as no time or attention was afforded to their demanding Arts. How lucky they were to be recalled so soon and unscathed.

  “The siege lasted two fortnights, advancing in costly increments. One by one, the winged warriors were slain. The beasts did not die or collapse where they could be recovered and studied. Exceeding obedience and brutality, their foremost instinct was to preserve the Secret of their making. Most fluttered back into the tower, from which they did not return, or flung themselves into the turbulent waters below. At least one fulfilled its final purpose through immolation, plummeting into a tent erected for the injured. There it overturned a brazier onto the cloths and linens, perishing mutely among screams. Yet each death made the air quieter and spurred the bleeding men. And with each day the guardsmen, soldiers and mercenaries pushed farther in. They breached the gate at last. The climb upward through the tower took more days still, halted by contraptions and distractions both arcane and mundane. Stepstones shifted and crumbled beneath the foot. Shapes and shadows confronted them in every new chamber, only to dissolve when approached by torchlight. The screeches and whispers of the winged warriors we oft heard, but none were seen again.

  “In the last days of siege, I was summoned with my peers to witness, if possible, the final incantations and workings of the elusive Kainomancer. We had already parsed through the lower levels of the tower as it was being secured, finding only miscellaneous trinkets, furnishings of an ascetic life and a pyre where the wounded winged warriors had gone to secure their Secret. When the summons came, we thought ourselves fortunate. Half a dozen of us reached the uppermost floor as the final door was breached. The battle-worn men on the circular staircase told us that Homay was still alive and preparing some wicked ‘Sorcery,’ as they called it. We too heard the noise from behind the sturdy door. It was disturbed by the wind, but we were certain it was no known incantation. Even then, we expected an aerie study adorned with codices and curiosities, a sanctum of hoarded Secrets.

  “What we found was a littered and windswept round room. It was more a deserted dakhma than a renowned arcanist’s workspace. A dozen large black birds crowded in the center. They were not the ordinary crows of the city or the ravens of the fields. Their thick plumage was atramentous, but what little I saw of their chests and inner wings was paler, yellowish. They stood close together, pecking the corpse between them while we watched aghast. When the first soldier stepped in, the strange blackbirds scattered upward through the porous ceiling. Their wings made a dry, crinkling sound as they flew, reminiscent of parchment. None were taken down by the archers.

  “Only then did we see the excarnated body. Homay lay there, under the filtering sunlight, seemingly long dead. His modest white robe was wholly under the remains, smeared but untattered. I shunned this sinister sight and searched the clutter strewn about. Besides smaller bird bones and diverse feathers, what I found were mostly spines and covers of private tomes. They were well-preserved and clearly brought up from the lower levels during the siege. Like Homay’s remains, they were empty. The verities within had fled. All that remained were the skeletons. Page after page were pulled out. There was no ash, soot or signs of fire around. I held one of the plucked volumes, cursing Homay.”

  “He would rather waft his wisdoms to the wind?” the Apprentice asked, “than entrust it to others?

  “Yes. In a way. We were left with only husks… It was then that the seed of rancor lodged itself into my soul. The boy-emperor arrived later, furious in anticipation. Furious in disappointment. He demanded to see the recovered tomes and diagrams. There was nothing to show. He demanded anything that could be seized and implemented for his future conquests. There was nothing. In the following days he forbade the utterance of Homay’s name while he lived and ordered the tower to be dismantled and cast down the cliff. This was done, and we said nothing.

  “My peers and I returned to our duties. Homay or not, we had our own Arts and designs. They were sufficient. We served Prash-Traniash the Fourth in his decades of aggrandizement. The beasts of land and sky we evoked for him proved to be ingenious instruments of death. We produced hummingbirds and bats capable of discreet espionage. We produced airborne and seaborne assassins able to track down and envenom the most craven, well-lurking foes. Our innovations were superb, and our abominations servile. It is through this work that I have amassed the titles and riches elevating me above the princelings and magisters of other realms.

  “Yet nothing we could achieve compared to the winged warriors. None would say it aloud. Every one of us held the comparison in his mind, although our tongues would never make it common. We searched in silence for the Secret, keeping our ears attentive. When our campaigns took us into the hinterlands, I heard of a promising superstition among the peasants at the foot of a mountain. A giant, ebony bird, they said, was seen on cliff-faces and in high, barren places where men do not climb. Flying too high to be hunted, roosting in places unknown. Shunning human sight. And when one was glimpsed close, it would fold its lush black wings to conceal itself, as a maiden hides her skin from a lustful gaze. They were called omens; blamed for miscarriages, droughts, sudden madness. Even for the war we had brought to their homes. Peasants oft speak such things unashamedly, revealing their fearfulness. I heard many such tales but never spoke of them to others. No doubt, they did likewise. In the privacy of thought, each one of us inferred that Homay’s Secret had escaped on black wings. Even after Prash-Traniash the Fourth – then called ‘The Conciliator’ – died, the fear of the name lived on.

  “I am tired now. Do you see my hands trembling? I have not trembled before emperors or their enemies. I tremble now because I am near the end, and my tongue has unspooled a truth I was not ready to hear. I hated him. I envied him. Both stances are rooted in my admiration for him. He had done at an earlier age what none of us could replicate at the zeniths of our cultivations. Do you understand? Such disparity curdles even admiration into resentment. The service, obedience and labors… For what? My titles – or students? The emperor himself bestowed the title of ‘Master Kainomancer’ onto me, but what is a Prash-Traniash compared to Homay? I could not do what he had done.

  “Yes, I hunted his blackbirds. We all did. Quietly, as all arcanists do when their curiosity becomes hunger. We went alone into those hills, with nets and charms and soporific arrows. Those were our declared periods of retreat and contemplation… Hah! I did little else while I waited for days without speaking, fearing that even a loud mind would alert the Secret-bearers. On those mountains, I waited in intimate solitude with my fire and thoughts. The Master’s messengers never revealed themselves to me. I learned nothing. And in that ignorance, I grew old.

  “Now the emperor is dead. Another sits in his place. The realm has shrunk in some places, swollen in others. My students have students. My name will survive as a footnote in the annals. I have contributed notes to the Fugue. Homay’s shadow remains over me. That is why I cannot die content.

  “I have spoken enough. My chest is empty, but not light. Take your book and your ink and go. Leave.”

  The door settled and the comfortable room was silent. Sleep came to the old Master slowly and irresistibly. The candles burned and he closed his eyes. As time closed its coils, it brought back the past. In the dark, he felt the softness of childhood, the first fruits of cultivation and marks of distinction. It was a good life. A triumph. Fit for the Flock of Akasa, abode of the lightest Soshosi souls. Then – noise. Weight struck wood, which struck stone. The shutter was flung open from without. Wind and rain entered first. A form barely distinguishable from the dark and stormy sky beyond stumbled in. It walked awkwardly, as if compelled into a seemlier posture. Talons clicked against the floor and droplets fell upon it.

  The Master’s throat tightened. For a moment, he thinks himself dead and his guide to the Flock arrived. Lightning cracks outside, and the shadowy guide is revealed. The body matches the silhouette in shadow. It leaps onto the foot of the bed, centers and straightens itself. Talons dig into the board. The dying Master, what became of the student denied, lies seen. Their piercing gaze is steady. Soon unbearable.

  The blackbird spreads its wings. Droplets fly aside. The Secret of Homay is revealed in plumes, not parchment. Feathers relay the inborn script illumed by fulguration. They are words of exile and descent, of growth through return. They do not tell of Creation. Although writ in black, the Secret is red. The lightning fades and the seen Master lies seen.

  Era: 1995, Homay is a respected and culturally significant historical figure for the Soshanaha. He stands alongside giants like Akor er-Akash and Naya il-Hamaya. Many have proposed his ascension into the Nychthemeron as a Minute Saint. The blackbird is considered a natural species, albeit an odd and understudied one. Its elusive behavior has earned it the name 'secrecer bird.' It has become an emblem and mascot of many groups, institutions and organizations. Among them is Eisenstadt's Bureau of Arcane Affairs, where a stylized version of the blackbird is shown (still hiding) on badges and IDs.

  Comments appreciated, questions welcome.