Pillar of Yita

The passage in the tomb corridor was empty, desolate, and long, as though it would never come to an end.

The never-dying, wavering firelight cast the pairwise-facing stone pillars into heavy shadows on the ground, one after another, crossing over the King’s body. Barbaltan looked in silence at those cold stone statues: Aizhuo, Katan—the figures of maidens carved from indifferent rock, the two Vassal Gods of Androma.

The Gatekeepers of death; in myth they stand at the entrance to the Land of the Dead, waiting for the Souls that journey to the world of the deceased. The steps before that Gateway are paved with Obsidian, cold to the bone.

The statues behind wore Armor: they were the kings of ancient Istania. They were born in that age of the Giant War, symbols of Mortal courage and fearlessness; stone statues holding sharp swords, as if still guarding this land—Zhemimu, Helihad, founders of the dynasty; Leibihad, Rugebu, the wise kings. Barbaltan’s gaze passed over these statues one by one.

The nights in the desert were freezing to the marrow, and underground the chill was even more biting. Every time he came to this place, he always had a certain feeling. He felt the eyes of the ancient kings upon him, as though silently watching him from behind. Every successive Kingdom of Istania had worshiped Androma; perhaps that deity who governed life and death had indeed bestowed upon this place a Strength unlike any other.

Just as in the legends—

The Guardians of Istania.

What, then, was the meaning of guarding this land?

The King of Sand walked forward, passing along the path between the stone pillars. On the stone walls where Shadows intertwined, many words were inscribed, recording the merits of the ancient kings, and also their vassals, consorts, and offspring. Some were no more than a single name, but most of them were ”history.”

In this long passageway, it was nothing but a few scant lines. Like a long scroll of history, on a soundless, flowing river where the occasional splash of water rose—yet all together they converged into the seven hundred years of Istania’s time, from the opening all the way to the end.

But perhaps the moment of the end had not yet come.

This Royal Household’s mausoleum had been repaired many times over the past three centuries. The most recent expansion was about half a century ago, when the Penelope Family had only just become the rightful rulers of this land.

His father, the first King of Sand of the Penelope Family, lay in eternal rest deep within this mausoleum, as did several of his elder brothers, elder sisters, and younger sisters. Barbaltan walked on until he reached the tombs of his two elder sisters, Salika and Princess Mihase—there, between them, stood an utterly ordinary stone stele, set in the sand.

The stele turned its back to the wall, and behind it lay a stone coffin.

Upon the stone coffin rested an unfinished wooden carving. It had always been there, as though no one had ever touched it. Barbaltan stopped before the stele, crouched down, gently brushed the dust from its surface with his hand, and silently fixed his gaze upon the name carved upon it.

Only after a long time did he straighten up again and look toward the stone coffin. He reached out and picked up that wooden carving, gently caressing it.

He did not speak, like a stone statue himself.

Perhaps after he died, he truly would turn into a stone statue as well, standing here in the underground darkness for a thousand years. As for what inscriptions and long poems later generations might give him, it would already be of no importance. His gaze seemed to pierce the darkness; he remembered only the brilliant Starlight above the Sand Sea, how beneath those Stars he had made promises to the woman he loved—yet in the end, he had broken his word.

His voice was a little hoarse as he spoke:

”I swear I will find that person. I swear I will avenge you with my own hands, under Androma’s witness. You need only wait a little longer...”

His murmured words flickered in and out of hearing within the darkness, half like a soliloquy, and half as though he were speaking with his beloved somewhere in the unseen Nether.

”In truth, I already have some leads...”

”...and as for that notebook, I have actually always known...”

”As for your daughter, she is well. I also do not wish to drag Rupert and the others into this. In this, I trust you can understand...”

”Furthermore... about the fleet, your elder brother left too soon. Some time has been delayed since then, but do not worry, preparations will be complete before long...”

”...you were not wrong at all...”

”That Holy Grail and the Holy Relic are both parts of it... Only it is a pity that the Spire is already broken and incomplete...”

”Fortunately, there is another way...”

”And as for the Verdant...”

He let out a soft sigh.

”Recently, I did something wrong. I already told you about it last time...”

”Yet perhaps I have been too greedy in what I ask. Some things, perhaps, were never meant to belong to Mortals...”

”...only, I miss you far too much—the days and hours we once spent together. Since then, I have been tormented in nightmares almost every single day...”

Again there was a long silence before Barbaltan went on:

”I met a young man.”

”He is the one the Lizardmen believe to be chosen by the Stars.”

”Do you still remember that legend? I once heard you tell it...”

”But I am not overly fond of the Holy Chooser, for none of them are worthy of trust...”

”Yet Aleph seems to trust him greatly. It is that child you were so fond of. His mother was not highly born, but he has indeed learned some rare and precious Qualities from you. Now he has already come of age, and I intend to place the throne in his hands...”

”Let it be; this matter will follow its course. I believe that if you were still alive, you too would support my decision.”

He laid his hand upon the stele once more.

But just at that moment, a faint sound suddenly came from the darkness.

The King of Sand’s face changed at once; he turned toward that direction. ”Who is there?” His voice was icy cold, almost devoid of any feeling.