Volume 1

A tale of a nameless ancient god-king, told by drifting jinn—truth cannot be verified.

Desert dwellers say the four quarters of the earth were once ruled by a king called "Ahmad" (Ahmar). He was king of warriors, gardeners, and sages, and also mastered the desert wind, dunes plated silver by moonlight, and the thousand-and-one jinn that hide in night-dreams and owl-cries.

They say Ahmar was a child left by the sky. Thus even as king of the four quarters, believed by countless of the three great tribes, worshiped by elusive jinn, whenever he looked up at the firmament and recalled the ninefold-and-ninefold paradises of heaven, recalled the merciless chastisement of millennia past, Ahmar still bowed his noble head and uttered an unsolvable sigh.

In those moments even the nightingale's sob and the rose's fragrance could not wake the king from grief.

Desert dwellers know that nostalgic raving often foretells an age of calamity. Yet in that world where the wise enjoyed peace, in that age when brave youths and maidens courted with lions and roses, none foresaw disaster's approach.

How can we of today blame the ancients and the jinn? Even one wise as Hermanubis, sage of sages—how could he foresee that the warrior tribe once able to wrestle dragons would, a thousand years on, fall into corpse-eating scoundrels, their desecrated glory and bones buried forever by gilt dunes? How could he foresee that the tribe of sages, once rich in wise men, would lose every book and become singers wandering the dunes, only mourning our absurd king in long songs only jinn understand?

As the sages said: the disaster that sweeps all often begins from one thought—from a king's unmasked melancholy and fancy.

So the three flattering ministers at Ahmar's side (may sevenfold-and-sevenfold curses fall on them!) offered counsel:

"Your Majesty, lord of the world, king of the four quarters, master of mortals and jinn," said the Sheep-King, vizier of viziers, in flattery, "Forgive the trespass—but Your Majesty should know drowning in old dreams and grieving thoughts is no lasting plan. Power and knowledge on earth are boundless; enough for you to raise a palace beyond the nine heavens and bring your people a carefree future."

"It may not be," Ahmar frowned. The Sheep-King said no more.

"Your Majesty, child of the sky, conqueror of Archons, head of sages," said the Ibis-King, scribe of scribes, in admonition, "Heaven's punishment millennia past scattered wisdom and history. For a better future a king must master the past. The oasis realm holds all the wisdom of 'today,' but to seize 'yesterday' you must act soon."

"It may not be," Ahmar struck the ground with his staff. The Ibis-King said no more.

"Your Majesty, lord of dune and oasis, guide of living and dead, mover of the elements," said the Crocodile-King, marshal of marshals, bluntly: "If you would call back lost life, lost chances and dreams—this is the last chance. More power, more emptiness; more wisdom, more sorrow. Against delusional void, only life resurrected and undying can fill bottomless regret."

Ahmar was silent.

"It may be."

The arbitrary king heeded the three ministers' slander. Over centuries upon centuries Ahmar built a vast labyrinth for his realm and trapped himself deep within seeking black forbidden knowledge, hoping for a wonder-drug to cast off mortal flesh.

What followed is knowledge that should not be looked back on, to be forever forgotten by rational history.

Desert dwellers say that in one night the realm of wisdom and authority was buried by retributive sandstorms.

They say Ahmar at last drew his own wisdom from bone and blood and cast it into endless corridors, stairs, doorways, and carved beams forever snaking deeper.

They say his flesh rotted on the throne, eaten by great worms, while his soul fused with the screaming millions of the capital, forever wandering lost in the howling end-days, charging along the dark serpentine gallery toward a bottomless abyss…

Thus the wisdom of millions gathered into one wisdom; lonely wisdom became madness at last.

Thus the capital Ahmar built with one hand was destroyed with the other.

They say that night the desert shook and shook; the seven gem-walls of Ahmar's palace collapsed one after another; a thousand and one pillars trembled in the gale, the bulls and griffins high upon them that once looked down on lifeless dunes unwillingly fell into gilt embrace. Countless dwellers—sage or fool, hero or coward—vanished that night in the rolling sandstorm.

Those who survived and fled fell into permanent silence. People say that to punish their sin of benefiting from forbidden knowledge, they became blind and mute.

Sages say: to monopolize knowledge is always the folly of ignorance, and the punishment of ignorance is ignorance itself.

And as descendants of the ignorant who lost history, the Eremites say:

We have returned from that lost place, We have changed the sky of the years, We will no longer bow from fear, Nor listen to the gods' words. Crossing a sea of gravel hard as iron, We will set sail for its end.