Keeping the Fire: The Old Speech

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The arrival of the Edgaran king came with a great blaring of horns, a crash of symbols, a climax of drums and roar of cheers. But his arrival alone was not the start of such a formal occasion. First was an eternity of waiting as the king’s ministers spoke of this or that, or as he welcomed the greatest among the many gathered by name. Polena had to remain silent but this she could tolerate, for her eyes were drawn elsewhere. From amid the soldiers of the Proper, a leader had emerged. He was tall and his earth colored skin was tanned by many days on the road or the battlements, worn and tested as if the face of a sand stone cliff slowly carved by a millennia of storms. His hair, raven black save a few errant stands of gray, was back in a long an elegant tail tied with leather cord and set with the long brown feathers of the migrating geese that fed Fiedjan in the Spring months. He bore no mustache or beard, but his office could be gathered by the finery of his belly sash and the rod of office tucked within it. He was the Djaught, the Captain, of these men and he would be the one to speak for his nation. She had seen this famous Pureblooded certainty only in the Curator’s ceremonies before, but the way this Djaught stood at attention held the same power within it. It was as if his whole life had prepared him for this single moment. And then at last it was his turn to address the Edgaran king and he stepped forth, taking his rod of office in hand, struck a quick knee before the throne, and spoke with a loud, clear voice as if a thousand soldiers were waiting for his word.

“Djebiren-athe thet khaoba’Eno, khet mi, nafuthe. Edji, Mehethe, Ukhen-aro khet Djaught. Hinqwokha mem khanar o fint’chaufathe.”
The hall was silent.

“What did he say?” asked Coralm, and he must have voiced the question of many in the court.

“It was Khaobishar, the old speech,” replied Polena, thinking as fast as she could to keep up with it.

“But that speech is lost, why is he speaking in it? What is he saying.” Asked Coralm before Polena quickly hushed him. It took every ounce of concentration to pick out the words she knew in that ancient tongue, the fabled progenitor of all Westin speech. After a moment the Djaught paused as one of his men came forward with a box, and Polena whispered closely.

“Yes, Khaobishar is lost, it is not spoken except for the few words that have been preserved by the Curate ceremonies such as the greeting for a king, but there were words in that I did not know. I believe he introduced himself. He is Djaught Mehethe of Ukhen wall.”

“Where is that?”

“The Orekhi,” she said and then clarifying, “the southwestern coast, a wooded region, it doesn’t matter, but he is proud of it I suppose. I think he is presenting “a blessing of... of something I don't know the word for maybe teaching, or medicine, or wisdom, to the King whatever that means. Look there.”

An attendant stood just behind the throne of the king where it was difficult for the masses to see him, he was whispering to him and the Queen by his side.

“Probably a translator, I guess even the Edgaran king doesn’t know much of the old speech.”

“I am surprised you do.” whispered Coralm.

Polena did not reply. Westa had been a place that fascinated her, especially the old days like the Great Migration or in the Classical Period, both now a many centuries past. She doubted more than a handful of people in the chamber had understood what was said, yet, she guaranteed they all knew that it had been very important. As she mused on the purpose, the Djaught Mehethe withdrew from the box brought before him an ancient tablet of clay, the kind on which runes were often fired to be preserved. Holding it before himself the Djaught spoke, and though he held it as if to read, he clearly knew the letters of the tablet by heart. And the words which he spoke were a poem, first in the old speech and then in the modern Djashar.

A river fathomless; stepped and folded like cloth.

Hands of stone clasp; Hiding many secrets.

Fertile water’s course; a relentless summit.

Oh countless blessings.

“It’s a poem,” Polena explained, confident that Coralm could at least understand the modern translation.

“And what does it mean?” he asked. Polena did not know how to answer, but the Djaught Mehethe answered for her to the whole of the chamber.

“This, great King of the eastern branch Jacalm Mire, is a poem of Djasho, a poem of the First Poet. This, in the old speech, we present to you as wisdom.”

“My heartfelt thanks,” the King replied in very formal Djashar, then, “and to what occasion is such wisdom owed?”

“To the occasion of my visit great king,” replied Mehethe, “for we come asking the aid of our ancient friend, the only nation besides our own ruled by a true king and independent of all others.” This common insult caused only a slight ripple among the crowd, for indeed all were intent upon the long hidden purpose of a military visitation.

“What do you require of us, Daught of the Proper.”

“We require your scribes and your libraries, for we mean to make apparent our claim to the lands of Free Westa in such a way that no other nation could dispute our given right.”

“Ah,” murmured Coralm behind Polena, “it is war then.”

For fear, for worry, and for sorrow Polena could not answer.

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