Parsnip's Testimony

At first, all that can be seen is a face, close to the display before it pulls back. Bright red eyes, big, in a dark blue face marked by sea-green stripes. Lavender hair atop, straggled and slightly unkempt. The background is pale wood, but it's all washed out, bright, as if lit by something blinding, pearlescent, and strobing. The woman in the display walks a few steps from the viewpoint, before turning and clearing her throat. When she speaks, her voice rings out clear, as if she were there in the room.

"Well. It has taken a couple of false starts, but I do believe the device is operating. In truth, I am slightly astonished I have it working at all. It's not as though I've built a Speaking Stone before. Hells, were we not carrying a text describing artifacts of antiquity, I doubt I would have been able to do so at all. But if I have the glyphs correct, and activated it property, then the device is finally functioning as it should, and should be taking down my image. And words. My ... testimony, I suppose.

If Cohosh has performed their task as charged, then this stone has been delivered to the younger of my sister's twins, with specific instruction to return home and play it first only in seclusion. If so, then you know who I am. If not ... well, I do hope you turn this off, out of respect for the privacy of the intended recipient, though I am certain curiosity to be a damning mistress. And if none of my plan works as it should ... well, it is a good thing that I made two to record with, and I suppose I shall have to gin up another way to get this in your hands. The invocation took nearly all I had, at this distance, so I am not sure what that method might be. Perhaps ... well, not now. Regardless, and all that said, I shall proceed as though all has gone according to plan. I must, or else this has been for nothing."

She smiles, faintly. A weary and sad smile, but with warmth in the eyes, as if addressing one much loved.

"... hello, Neep. Your eyes and ears do not deceive you, my girl, and there is no trick at play. I am, true to life, your aunt Parsnip. Now, I intend, in later parts of this message, to instruct you to share its contents, and so for the sake of introduction ... my name is Parsnip Pasternak, daughter of Madnep Pasternak and Tatsoi Rassic of Sutet, Metric of the Imperial Academy of Arcane Arts and Sciences at Kitet. Chief Engineer, Designer, and Shipwright of the flying vessel Realmbridge, which must be long presumed lost. And well lost indeed it is. But as of this recording, taken on the twoct-first of the month of Mage, in the year 3617 of the Imperial Era, it is not yet gone. The ship still flies, and I yet dwell within. And in two weeks' time ... that will no longer be the case. The ship will be gone, and I will be dead. And I have made ... a kind of peace with that. In a way, I welcome the coming of the end. There is nothing left for me here."

A tear begins to well in her eye, and she wipes it aside on her sleeve. Her voice shakes, but remains steady

"I am aware how impossible this all sounds. A year ago, I would have thought the same. But it is the truth, unvarnished and plain. And that is the greater part of what I wish to convey, with this message. What happened to the Realmbridge and her crew, and what happened to ... to me. And what is going to happen. And what must happen after that is passed, which I entrust to you.

Do you recall, Neep, when I turned foct? My mother insisted on a grand celebration, as I'd been far too consumed with my curriculum on my throcth to do anything, and this time I'd been unable to deny her. I came down to Sutet with the start of the Hellraising, and spent nearly the full festival on the estate, with that great party on the necth. And when we retired to the sitting room of the main chambers, exchanging birthday and Raising gifts both, you offered me a bloodbound journal. You told me that journalling had helped you greatly in working your way through your own struggles in life, and that you hoped the practice should help me find clarity as well. In honesty, I was being polite as I accepted the gift, and I suspect that was obvious; I've never been the best at hiding my emotions. But opening the thing, glancing at the inside cover and seeing the message you left, signed as it was with your real name ...

I will say, the journal has come in quite handy. I had little use for it until I was tasked with the Realmbridge project, but since then, I have had much and more to record under the security of a bloodbound clasp. But the real gift I recognized from the moment I saw it, sitting there among the family, before I resealed the thing with a prick of my finger. You gave me your honesty, and your trust, and that meant more to me than nearly anything I have been given in my life. And that is why I return your trust in kind, why I am sending this message to you and no-one else. I trust that you can carry my will to fruition, and see that my legacy is carried on.

Legacy. It is a weighty subject, and I have had so much time to think on such matters. All works will fall to ruin in the fullness of time, and all people to dust. We all die, some of us sooner than others, but all of us in time, and my time is nipping at my heels. And when that happens, all we have left, all we leave is our legacy. Our heritage, or our remembrance, or our impact on the world. We remain in the change we fashion, in the futures we seed for those yet to come. In the footprints we leave on history. But as we make our marks, we must ever be on our guard, against those that would tear down the legacy of their forebears and the future of their children for the sake of the stability of today. That too, Neep, must be part of your charge. You must not allow the forces of stasis and stagnation to quash the truths I am revealing to you today, as they have so many before to preserve the integrity of their reign." Her teeth are grit, and her fists clenched at her sides. "You must not let my memory be lost to this sea of void and stars. It is the only thing that I have left to give."

She chokes up, the emotion of her speech getting to her. Her fists unclench, and for a moment, her head hangs low, her body weak and tired. But then, her head raises, her eyes set.

"I have thought at some length how to relate this story. The great revelation first, or the historical, or with instruction first. But I have come to the conclusion that the simplest way to impart my understanding of the reality of the world, and of history, and of my own situation would be to relate my own perspective, in the approximate sequence that I experienced it. To raise the mysteries first, and show the answers as I found them.

On the 11th of Sky, 3615, I was approached by Magister Muntrie Kunzea of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and Magista Falsa Rewi of the Ministry of Security, to consult on a project of the highest secrecy: the design and construction of a flying ship, of the lineage of the Realmgirt, to carry out a diplomatic mission and serve as proof of concept for a trade fleet of similar vessels. I requested, and was granted, access to the sealed archives at the palace and the restricted stacks at the Academy library. I also asked that one of the researching students in my Alchemic lab, a Metric candidate by the name of Midyim Austromyr, be permitted to join me as an assistant for the project. You might remember her from your visit to my Manse, for mother's birthday, as she was living out of one of my spare bedrooms at the time. But if you do not recall her after this time, you and all else hearing will likely remember the name from the Realmbridge's stately announcements, listed as one of its fated crew." Her eyes squeeze shut, as if to stop a flow of further tears. "Well. That was how I roped the poor girl into it.

As the month of Sky came to an end, digging in the Palace archives for any historical information about the Realmgirt to inform my design, I found a secret door behind a bookshelf in the archives' third basement. Exploring, I found a fourth floor, unindexed and choked with the dust of hachetries. On the 3rd of Storm, documenting and mapping that floor, I located a massive door clasped shut with an ancient and powerfully warded arcane lock. It took a week to figure out how to open it, but I managed eventually, and within that chamber, I found the Realmgirt itself. Or, at least, what remained of it. I don't believe this information had been made public by the time of my departure, and I doubt it will have been released in my absence, though I cannot have scried every daily broadsheet. In any event, the ship was ... in ruins. Most of the internal compartments, the holds, were gone; there was only the shape of the keel and the hull remaining, and that in rotting shards, with a couple compartments at the bow and stern still standing in framework. Time had left the rest to rot. Still, I found the twisted remains of Silphion's Everburning Engine in the aft hold, and the cracked Windbreak Prow atop the figurehead, as well as a pedestal in front of the thing with a massive tome pinned on it. The pedestal itself was also warded, and strongly so, but those wards were simple barriers sagging with age. It was only a matter of minutes to brush those aside and uncover the tattered, faded, and illegible remains of Silphion's own grimoire. The find of a hachetry, in truth, and one that promised untold archaeological import.

And yet, this is where my suspicions began. The Rassics, as you know, are a shipping concern first and foremost; though not my first focus, one can hardly grow up in that manor without learning a thing or tect about the construction of boats. The Realmgirt, as one might expect, was crafted of ivory pine, and as you know, ivory pine grows only at the Pole and cannot be exposed to ocean air without warping irreparably; it was only the invention of stasis magic in the third hachetry that made it possible to bring ivory pine here to the Empire to be worked. So, we must conclude, the ship I found either flew here on its own, or was flown here, or came after the invention of stasis magic. No great revelation on its own, I know, and it may sound so ludicrous as to be blasphemous to say - as all know, the Realmgirt flew not in the third hachetry, but shortly before the Founding in the year zero - but, the other circumstances of the site were ... suspect.

You grew up a Rassic, same as I, Neep, and so the history of Imperial shipbuilding has been drilled into you nearly since you could walk. So, you should know the import, when I say that the ship I found had a three-chined hull. But, to those else who may be hearing this, three-chined hulls were not present in the Empire until the 12th tectad; all ships built before that were of single-chined design, or two-chined barge construction. But after bringing it here for the Founding, it makes little sense for us to have forgotten the method, does it not? Further, the rate of decay of cured ivory pine is controlled strictly by the presence of moisture. The chamber in which the Realmgirt was stored was walled in smooth marble, showing neither crack nor leak, and there was no stink of dried mildew in the chamber to suggest that it had been any more humid at any point in its past than it was when we found it. And yet, even in ideal conditions, cured ivory pine simply does not last the nearly four hachetries since the Founding; that ship should have been a pile of moldy dust, not a largely intact keel with distinct ribs and identifiable chining. And finally, the chamber itself, sheathed as was the hall without in solid marble, which as you may recall from your history was not quarried in the Empire until the 7th tectad. Certainly, marble may have been traded for overseas, but in light of everything else? A shipload taken, to wall a chamber so hidden?

I know, Neep, that you intend to apply for admission to the Imperial Academy. A year young, at that, truly you take after your aunt in more ways than one. And I am desperately sorry that I will not be there to welcome you. But when you are there, when you go into the great library, you will see on the southern wall a massive mural, in panels, marking every great achievement of Imperial mages through the tectads. You will see Metric Damson Mestica, surrounded by grateful mothers and children. You will see Metric Noni Morin and Metric Lippia Almer, offering a banquet of food and drink to the common folk during the Despoilage. You will see Magus Chervil Thriscu, tending to the sick in the streets of Old Sutet, in the early days of the Scourge. Every worldshaking achievement by a graduate of that institute is marked there, the designs of their namesake spells marked out in shiny tile. When I was studying at the Academy, I made a habit of studying that mural. I would read a passage two or three times, to drive it into my memory, and then gaze at the wall, picking out details while the information percolated into my mind. I thought that one day, I might earn a panel of my own upon that wall. It was ... a meditative practice. Calming, when the stress of my study began to overwhelm.

I had a particular cubby in which I liked to do my reading, the plaque it bore claiming it had been dedicated by Metric Rukam Lacourt. As you attend that great institution, I would suggest you seek that cubby out for your studies; the light of the overhead lamps is of the perfect angle for reading, and neither rising nor setting sun will ever glare in your eyes through the windows. Just forward from that cubby, and slightly to the left, was the panel of that mural marking the Great Migration, of the seventh tectad. The work of a hachet mages casting in concert, lifting the Clocktower, the Academy grounds, and the Imperial Palace from the very soil in which they lay. Carrying them upriver to what would become Kitet, as the former capitol of Sutet was abandoned to the Scourge. A shameful act, thinking on it, leaving the common folk to suffer in that plague while the powerful made their escape, but a marvelous magical achievement nonetheless. And so, a great deal of effort went in to depicting that famous casting. Every aspect marked out in exquisite detail, every window and crack and tile on the roof, the hair of every mage marked in bright precision as if the image was torn direct from history. No detail was spared, even down to the soil falling away from the two floors of basements of the palace archives in the east wing." She sighs. "I said before, I found the Realmgirt in the fourth basement. Why paint only two, if there were four? The fourth was behind a secret entrance, it is true, but the third was down a well-lit stairwell in the center of the floor. Why not paint three, if they were painting what was to be known to the public? Hells, all the basements were sealed to the public, so if they were keeping something quiet, why paint any at all?"

She closes her eyes again. Pensive, this time. A slow intake of breath, to steady the speech.

"And then there were the wards on Silphion's grimoire, and on the door to the chamber itself. They were strong, even faded as they were after this time. Little challenge for one such as myself to remove, but still, artfully fashioned by a Metric of extraordinary potency. If those wards retained the power they still possessed four hachetries after they were laid, then the mage who laid them was mightier than any twoct Metrics I could name, myself included." Her eyes open. She knows how dangerous it is, what she is saying, even from where she is. "And yet, were they laid, perhaps, in the 12th tectad ... well. The mage who laid them would be of approximately my own talent. Not measurably less, but not measurably more either. I say this not from ego, Neep, but as a point of fact: I am an exceptional mage, even by the standards of the modern Academy, and the field has only grown more and more competitive over the ages. Either Silphion could bring more aether to bear in his prime than twoct of me, with four hachetries of magical progress at my back ... or he would be merely at the top of the field now, peerless though he might have been when the wards were laid, a mere two and a half hachetries ago. And that truth, that mystery, is not one that could be placed behind the cover of a brilliant but unreplicable hull design, or preservative enchantments laced into the wood. Nor could it be excused as readily as a full boatload of marble, traded at the dawn of the Empire while the Oblivion of Icen Rot yet raged, and used entirely to sheathe a forbidden and locked underground archive, while the floors above it were bare brick or cut granite.

This is hardly enough information to draw a conclusion, particularly so staggering a conclusion as the data might suggest. The implications were ... challenging, and threatening. And until publicized, none of these were things that I could prove, in any event. All I was willing to accept at the time was that the ruined ship I had found would be of little use to me, even as I directed Security Agents to carefully gather the smashed Engine and Prow, and remove the grimoire for restoration. Let the archaeologists have it, I thought, knowing that should anything result, I had little cause to trust what might be found.

There were ... some politics involved, in my own investigation of the Realmgirt's history. I was never one to let well enough alone. But when I learned that multiple consultants had been tapped to submit designs to the Ministries, it was only in the context of learning that the packet Midyim and I prepared had won out. We were, officially at last, on the job. The construction proceeded, and grew complicated from there, and I must say I did not realize I would be actually flying aboard the Realmbridge until it was publicly announced. But the revelation was ... not entirely unwelcome, at the time. I thought it a chance to make a real mark on history, not merely shipwright but navigator, the first in flight since the Founding. I knew not what was to come, needless to say.

I had been grappling for some months with the enchantment to control the flight itself, to actually make the ship take to the air, when in the month of Stars of 3616 a team from the larger project revealed they had succeeded in restoring the portion of Silphion's text that contained his own spell for flight. And this is where my suspicions came crashing to the fore. It might have been one thing, were I setting the spell down and walking away, but if I was to set foot on that ship, I had to know that every glyph laid was correct and functioning as it should. But I could not trust the Realmgirt I had found to be authentic, and did not yet know in what regard it was lacking. I would not use the spell presented, untested and unverified, and I told the project's directors as much. Until I knew exactly what that spell would do, it wasn't going anywhere near my ship."

She laughs now, bitter and mocking.

"Arrogance. My reasoning was sound, though I could hardly explain all of it for fear of being thought mad. But I was arrogant, certain that I could know everything that was going on. That arrogance is what doomed us, Neep. You must always question, always suspect, but do not presume that you can always dig up the hidden truth. Sometimes, the truth is just too buried to surface.

I set to work deconstructing the spell. Measuring the flow of aether, glyph by glyph, to determine exactly what it would do and how it would do it. Extraordinarily difficult work, and painstaking, reverse-engineering even a simple spell, and this was the most complex spell I've ever seen in my life. More than three tect major glyphs, and almost two hachet minor. I will give Silphion this for credit, the man was a genius enchanter. I'm fairly certain I could do it a lot more efficiently, given time, but this spell was artful. After a month of work deciphering, I was less than a quarter the way through. The woman I was seeing at the time had broken up with me, telling me that this project was consuming me, and she wasn't wrong. Midyim, as well, was desperately worried for my health and mental state. And then, as the month of Hearth began, I was called into the headquarters of the Ministry of Security, to meet with Magista Rewi in their private office.

Falsa Rewi sat me down, offered me a coffee. I hadn't been sleeping well, and no doubt I looked it. They told me that my obsession was bordering on madness, and the project directors were thinking of removing me from my position. I told them that if I was to be removed, then I was to be removed, but I would not set foot on a ship powered by unknown and underexamined magic, and any who would were the mad ones. This, they had to admit, was likely true, and they said that this was why I had been brought here; to ask why I was so mistrustful of the spell, and if possible, to put my mind at ease.

And now we come to our first great revelation, Neep. I do hope you are sitting.

I suppose I should have been more guarded. I would not have been so quick to speak, were I of right mind, but the long hours and tiring work of deconstruction had taken its toll on my wariness. I admitted that I did not trust the spell because it came from Silphion's grimoire, and I did not trust the grimoire because it was found alongside the Realmgirt, and that I did not trust the Realmgirt because ... well. For the many reasons I have yet told you. And several more, besides, that came to mind later. I couldn't trust that spell to work, unverified, and was not willing to stake my life, Midyim's life, and the lives of the rest of the mission on something so suspect.

Magista Rewi asked if I had shared my suspicions with anyone else, and that's a snare of a question if ever there was one. I admitted that I had told Midyim, when pressed, as she had herself demanded to know why I had dragged the project to a standstill, but I suspected the Magista already knew that. It had been only a week prior, after all, and though I took steps to secure our privacy, they were not foolproof. I had enough presence of mind, at least not to mention that I shared my suspicions about the Realmgirt with your grandfather Madnep, during your grandmother Tatsoi's first tectad celebration. The Magista told me that they suspected it might have been something like that, and asked if an explanation of the discrepancy might set my mind to rest. I joked that it could hardly put my mind more astir.

There, Falsa explained to me the truth of our history. That I had the right of it, that the Realmgirt flew and landed not before the year zero of our calendar, but in the 12th tectad. That is why the wards were as they were, that is why the ship was so intact, that is the explanation for the hull design and the basement on the mural and everything else. And yet, this explained nothing to me; how could that timeline make sense? The calendars of the lowland people are clear, the Oblivion of Icen Rot began in the tectad before our calendar begins. How could the Realmgirt have flown so much later? How could the Empire have been founded twect tectads after the Founding? And that is when the Magista offered their second great truth: that it was not. The Empire was founded sometime long before, well prior to our year zero. Karella, her generals, the people of the Realmgirt, they landed on an inhabited continent with a thriving empire, and a capitol already at Kitet. They were not fleeing the Oblivion of Icen Rot, they were fleeing their own failed coup against their chief.

I realize, Neep, this is ... a lot to hear. But these Stones have only so much capacity, and so I cannot give you time in this recording to process. I believe there should be a glyph on the side to pause the reproduction, should you need.

I asked how this was possible, how Karella could have risen to be the First Emperor of an Empire that already existed, and Falsa gave me their third great truth: through conquest, marriage, and betrayal. The Academy was raising great and talented Magi and Metrics, skilled in every arcane art, and the Empire had its own armies strong. But the people of the Realmgirt, half a hachet though they numbered, had an advantage that the Empire of eld could never match in the field; the people they had invaded had never discovered crestwork, and the people of the Realmgirt were bedecked with it. The army of the Empire was massacred, and Karella stormed the palace, offering the reigning Emperor a peace through marriage: she would wed the Imperial Princess, and he would name her as his heir, and the invaders would not burn Kitet to the ground and settle the ashes. The Emperor agreed, and once the marriage was conducted, she executed the old Emperor and took her place as the first of the Dynasty of Karella. The old noble houses were butchered, and Karella's generals established new houses and fiefs of their own. Only Silphion, horrified at the slaughter he had enabled, refused to found a house, settling in to govern the Academy and bequeathing his ecth of the Empire to that institution upon his demise.

I was ... astonished. Horrified. To hear that we are not the descendants of brave pioneers, who risked everything in a madcap venture to escape the end of their world into an untamed wild ... but the descendants of traitors twice over, who fled their due punishment to slaughter a native populace they violently outmatched, and trick them into surrender and peace, only to pounce again when their guards dared to lower. The Empire is a fraud. We, as a nation, have no claim to our continued existence as a political entity, and the Houses and Ministries and Imperial no claim to the bloody fortunes and corrupted power they have stolen. And yet, there is none of this in the history. None of this is known. It seemed ... impossible. I had to know, how could this be?

And so, the Magista's final truth. From time to time, the path of history has been adjusted, to suit the narrative of the reigning class. Karella's bloodstained wedding became a wedding presided over by a cheerful father, welcoming new guests to the land; which, in turn, became a wedding to the daughter of Kasturi Mangi, her great military leader and father of the high house of Kasturi. The lifespans of the Founders were gradually extended, the reigns of the early Emperors stretched over the tectads, until the gap was covered, and the old Empire erased. The story that, before the Oblivion, people lived for nearly a hachetry, and that the vanishing of so much of the population had led to a diminished breeding pool and correspondingly diminished lifespans since then is a convenient lie to explain the missing eon. It has been the responsibility of the Ministry of Security to ensure the temporal stability of the Imperial Rule, through careful massage of history and careful pruning of errant thorns, and so the Magista's question to me was, knowing the truth, was I going to cause a problem? Or was I going to fall back in line, and finish my work?

I am not ... proud of what I said, Neep. I like to think that, given time, I may have come up with a better answer. Had we landed in Masjet as we intended, perhaps Midyim and I might have done something. But I told Falsa Rewi that I was not fool enough to wage war with the entire Ministry of Security, so long as they understood that this story proved me to be right in my actions. They seemed confused at my retort. Yes, I was right to suspect the ship, they said, but that is explained and answered. Surely, we can proceed now with Silphion's spell, its provenance known.

I disagreed, vehemently. This proved that I could not trust anything about the spell to be accurate, until I verified it firsthand. The first priority, the only priority, was that the mission succeeded, that the Realmbridge flew, and how could we know that it would unless we were certain of the magic that powered it? They said themselves, it was the responsibility of their Ministry to bury the truth of things; could they be sure that this was the authentic Realmgirt, and not a falsity laid to cover for something already lost to history? That even if the ship was real, could they be certain that its accompanying text had been authored by Silphion himself? That if it was, that he had not coded the spell, or recorded a false version, or that some agent of the Ministry had not strolled in and altered it in the shorter-than-they-seemed hachetries since the writing?

I suspect I must have seemed quite unhinged, in my rant, but still. They could not make such a guarantee. They admitted as much. They could offer no assurance that the spell I had to work with was truly the spell that flew the Realmgirt, that no steps had been taken at any point to hide that truth along so many others. And so I told them, I would indeed finish my work, and they were going to let me, but that work meant finding the truth of this spell, and if it could not be relied upon, it would have to be discarded. And this, they were forced to grant me. I may have been tired, and in shock, and still struggling to process the enormity of what I'd heard, but I have never been one to struggle with shouting down an administrator. It is an important talent to master, Neep, and fortunately, one the Rassic women take to well."

She chuckles briefly, but then, a somber silence.

"I do not mean to be glib. This is ... this was a lot. It was a lot to hear, and it was a lot to say. I've told you that nearly everything you've ever been taught about the history of our Empire is a lie, and I am sure your worldview must be a bit shaken. And yet, I swear to you, on the little that remains on my life, all that I have told you is the truth. Everything happened as I have related it to you. And you must know this, and move beyond, because there is more yet to come. Much more than this, a deeper lie and truth I must burden you with. The name you gave me must seem a small price now.

It took another month to complete the deconstruction of Silphion's nameless spell of flight. I had begun to joke with Midyim, dubbing it Silphion's Sophistic Skirr. We ... shared a rather esoteric sense of humor, I'll grant. But, with the dawning of the month of the Sun, I finally cracked the thing, driven as I was to know the truth of the spell now that I knew the truth of its origins. And the spell was ... it was nonsense, Neep. I had Midyim check my work, for comparing a known deconstruction to a glyphic pattern is far easier than building it, and she confirmed that I had made no errors. So, I presented the fruits of my research to the directors of the project, informing them that Silphion's spell was utterly untenable, and they confirmed both my analysis and my interpretation. Whether the True Metric had writ his spell in code, or in falsehood to deceive those who would try to repeat his work, or whether this grimoire was of false origin, or whether the page was simply too damaged for an accurate restoration and the restored spell was inaccurate to what once was writ, I could not say; what I could say, presenting the fruit of my research, was that this spell would doom us.

Silphion's spell, you see, worked by ... an unfathomable mechanism. It required entry of coordinates for both launch and destination, relative to the Pole, as well as elevation relative to sea level. This was plain from the straightforward glyphic analysis. But what it did with that information ..." She bows her head, exhausted. "It made no sense, Neep. You need to understand this. It made no sense. I will tell you this, and it will sound off to you as well, but you must understand, I'd been working on the trajectory maths for nearly a year at this point. I knew the path we ought fly to go to Masjet, and this was not going to do it.

The spell affixed itself to a point directly below the caster, more than twoct-two hachet miles below sea level. It would then lift the subject of the spell to avoid collision, and rotate around that point, cutting directly across the continents until the subject is directly over the destination, before lowering. And this is nothing! This is madness! To rotate around a point so far beneath our feet ... we would smash headfirst into the ocean, before we even reached the Spine! Something about the spell was wrong, and the directors questioned my decoding, but it was not on my end. I showed them my work. I brought in Metrics from the Academy to verify my analysis of the spell, and the answers were unanimous - my efforts were not in error. The spell would dash the ship upon the seas."

She begins to shake, and clasps her arms around herself, to steady. When she speaks next, she is slow, and deliberate.

"I have told you, Neep, some truths are too buried to uncover through even our greatest efforts. To believe otherwise is arrogance, an arrogance that leads only to ruin. And here, we have the proof of this warning manifest. I thought, because I could find no explanation for this spell, that there then was none, and there must have been an error in the process. In truth, had we but used Silphion's spell, we would have landed safely in Masjet and returned home without issue. Instead, I finalized the enchantment I'd been working on, one of simple calculative propulsion - the ship would move forward along its axis at a set acceleration, and tilt down from its axis at a set acceleration, and these two forces in common would land us in Masjet Square if launched from the precise spot, with the angles of tilt and launch set precisely. My calculations were exhaustive, consuming reams, but impeccable. And so, as the Hellraising of 3616 came to a close, the Realmbridge prepared to launch. You know the common story of what happened next, but I am going to tell you the truth of it.

We flew, Neep. We flew beautifully. Bright, and high, soaring smooth across the air exactly as we ought. Except that as we crossed the Spine, the ship's cartographer noticed something as she stared beneath the ship to paint the world from above. A lovely woman, by the name of Bael Marmel, whom I do miss dearly. She saw that we were miles above the mountains, when we should have been within a quarter-mile from the peaks, and alerted the rest of us. There was ... a panic, as we tried to figure out what was happening, even as the ship continued to rise. Blame was cast, mostly at me, though Midyim rallied to my defense. But it was I, staring out a window in dismay, that realized what was happening. As I saw the horizon fading in the distance beneath us, fading into the shape of a curve.

A curve, Neep. My spell was correct. My calculations were correct. I accounted for everything I had reason to know about. And should the world have worked the way we knew it to work, my spell would have landed us in Masjet accurately. The only thing I failed to account for was the truth so buried, I had no way to find it. A truth Silphion knew, a truth Silphion's people knew, but which has been lost to the vagaries of time and the shears of ruling integrity. Our world is not a Plane, Neep. It is a Sphere. And a spell that would have traversed a flat surface with ease, instead pulls away from one that curves down and casts itself into ... what lies beyond.

I do not know why this has been kept secret for so long. Why nobody knows the truth of the world, when clearly the Founders must have in their time. Bael offered a charitable interpretation: that only Silphion had discovered the truth in his preparations to fly the Realmgirt, but that he had kept silent to avoid controversy. Conker had a more security-minded theory: that Karella and Silphion had deliberately concealed the truth of the spell, so that none would attempt to build another ship and flee the shores of their burgeoning empire. Midyim, she suspected that the goal here was assimilation: that the native people of the Empire believed the world to be flat, and the Founders knew it to be round, but the decision was made to bury their knowledge to ease in the transition. Myself ... I think Midyim may have had the right of it, but I fear it was the other way around: that all the Founders save Silphion thought the world flat, and the truth was erased to quell the native culture, that theirs might dominate and spread. It is impossible to say, at this juncture. I believe that, had they known about this, Magista Rewi would have told me about the shape of the world. For all their desire for secrecy and control, I do not think that they would willingly doom this mission to such public and catastrophic failure simply to keep the secret. They wanted us to land in Masjet, not be flung off into nothing.

For that is what there is out here, Neep. Nothing. We like to swear by the aether above, a common idiom in common parlance, but it is baseless metaphor. What lies atop the world is not aether in raw, untamed form. All that can be found up here, stretching farther than the mind can imagine, is Void."

She stops. It is a long minute before she speaks again, slow shuddering gasps of air drawn in as she tries to regain her composure. The speech has taken a toll, the emotion of it has been draining.

"Our world is tiny, and distant, compared to the immensity of the sun around which it spins. Another great sphere in the cosmic dark. The enormity of this vast emptiness is ... humbling. It challenges the mind to comprehend its own insignificance. But this is the true shape of things, Neep.

It was too much for our diplomat, Comfrey. He threw himself from the ship before we'd fully slipped the bonds of the Plane, plane though it never was. Our bodyguard, Conker, from Security, he lasted a week. Bael, she lasted three, until her glyphic-carved eyes could no longer find the light of our star, and she left us to search for it. And then it was Midyim and I, alone, in this eternal voyage. We ... grew close, I will admit. Working together for so long, living together the past year, we knew how to share a space with ease. And out there alone, we found a way to be content. We ... cleaved to one another, taking solace in each others' embrace. In a way, despite all we had lost and would never see again ... I would say we were happy.

The Realmbridge has traversed this Void since the time of its launch, with much opportunity to witness the truth of things. We have gazed at the stars in the sky, speckled across the unceasing blackness of the Void, and I believe them now to be suns, much like our own. Perhaps with worlds of their own, perhaps populated by people. I can hardly say from my own vantage. But we observed one great horror, and that is why I have reached out to you now. There is ... a limit. I know not what is limited, whether it is time, or light, or information, but my scrying shows events of the Plane as they happen, and our spyglass now shows events months past. I can explain the math behind it, as best I understand, but ... it matters little. Depending on the method of observation, our view of the world is differently delayed, and that delay is calculable by our distance from the Plane. As far as I can measure, there is an upper bound at which anything material can travel ... and the Realmbridge has been continually gaining speed all this time.

That is why I say I shall be dead in two weeks time, Neep. I'm nearly past it."

She chokes up. What she is saying, or about to say ... it's too much for her. She takes a moment to force her tears back, but in the end, they come regardless.

"Learning this ... that was too much for Midyim. She could not stand by and wait for death to come, to count the hours until her end. The dread of it was overwhelming, too much to withstand moment to moment. I begged her to stay, to reconsider, but she ... she was firm. She was always so certain, in all she did and said. She had the strength, in that moment, to escape such a fate, and so she took that leap. And then ... then I was alone. As I have remained, for the past four months.

I have often thought to leave as she did. To cast wide the hatch, and join her in oblivion." She bows her head, a sob escaping briefly. "Perhaps I should have. These months have been dark, and cold in their emptiness, and I have ached in every moment she has been gone. It has been a torment, and I have barely had the strength to carry on, day to day. Midyim charged me with finding a way home, as she left; she proclaimed that if any could do so, it would be me, that it could only ever have been me." Her eyes squeeze shut, briefly. "Not that I would deserve such salvation, having killed them all by taking them on this ship. Having killed the woman I love twice over, in rooting out our incipient end. But I have failed her, even in that." Her eyes flash open, and her tears are flowing now. "I haven't the strength to end my suffering myself; I have stared down that hatch too many times not to realize the infirmity of my resolve. Midyim was stronger than I, braver, more certain in her escape. I cannot bring myself to do it. My will is too weak for that. But I am prepared to sit, and wait, and let it be done. With this delivered, I have nothing more to keep me.

This is my last truth, Neep. My last revelation. Soon, the Realmbridge will cross that barrier of time, and I know not what will happen. Whether we shall be scattered to dust, or smashed to pieces, or simply fade from existence with nothing at all to mark our passage. But the end is near for me, and there is no escaping it. I have tried every tool at my disposal, and there are none that work. All I can do is make this message, and see it to the hands of one who would do right with it.

Midyim Austromyr was from a fishing village on the northern coast. I am reasonably certain that the name of the place was Hunat; she certainly spoke of it often enough. She loved her life there, and its people. Before she was drawn in to the world of higher academia, she thought to return with an Arcanist's and settle in as a resident mage. Had she done so, she would still be alive, and more damned I for encouraging her education. Her parents should still reside there, fisherfolk both. Get word to them that she is gone. That she died in bravery, and in strength, and ... that she died truly loved. And tell them that in her last months of life, she was genuinely happy. She was the greatest light I have known in my life, and it is only in her absence that I have truly felt the coldness of this space.

I don't know precisely where Bael Marmel was from. She mentioned a village in the eastern mountains, but I do not know the name. I know she was in residence at the Kitet Conservatory, and they will know her origins. She was with us only briefly, but she was kind, and sweet, and supportive, and always a delight to speak with. Her art still graces the walls of this ship; though it pains me to see the faces of those I have brought to destruction, I cannot bear to take them down. She mentioned a mother, once. Her mother should know what has happened to her.

I know little about the Security Agent operating under the identity of Conker Karavanda. Agents of that rank assume pseudonyms for their work, and he was not open about his life. The man was a bit of an ass, but circumstances were ... extreme, and in the end, I can hardly hold his actions against him. He did not deserve to die as he did. The Ministry of Security will know of his details. Should the chance present itself, attempt to set right his affairs.

Comfrey Symphyt told us, before we left, that he was a widower, with no extant family. I do not know if this was true. I never thought to check on it. Regardless, though he flew upon the Realmbridge for less than half an hour, he was still a victim of my folly, and his memory should be honored.

And then, my story. My truths, as I have related them."

She pauses, for a brief moment. A smile slips her lips, despite the gravity of the message.

"... you know, Neep, you're a frightfully clever one. The naming scam you were playing on Cohosh, it's an old one, and difficult to pull off. I of all people should know. But it is a prized trick, and hells, the attempt is practically a tradition for mages like us. And yet ... here I am, calling you by your real name through this entire message. I told you, I would have you share this missive, but please, call forth another demon and take your prize first. Cohosh should have offered you a list of their rivals to scheme upon - their payment for this delivery was the knowing not to bargain, under Writ of Parol - and I would not rob you of your victory for the sake of my remembrance. But once you have done that, once you are prepared to reveal yourself, I would ask that you play this message for others. For your parents, Texsel and Brindall, and my own, Madnep and Tatsoi. The whole family, in fullness. Let them see what has become of me. And then ...

Then, Neep, I ask that you take this message to Kitet. Find a woman at the Academy named Karkalla Brotus, she is a student approaching the age of fict. Tall, long lavender hair worn straight, slim spectacles, soft manner. A rich and throaty voice, a laugh that always set my heart leaping to hear. You will surely recognize her. By now, she is likely in the final days of her Metric's coursework, though I have not chanced to witness her schedule. Show her this message, and these words."

She coughs nervously. She can be seen to take a glass of water from a table nearby, and take a sip.

"Karkalla, my dear. If you recall the subject of our last conversation, before my departure? You were right. You're a lot smarter than I ever was, when it comes to matters of the heart. Hells, if I had half your wisdom, I might have saved us all a great deal of grief, might have settled things with Midyim a year earlier. Perhaps if I had, she would have felt more sure in our love, and would not have ..." She stops, clearly unwilling to entertain again what must have been a very familiar line of speculation. "I wish, Karkalla, that I had been better to you while I was still there. You did deserve better than the likes of me. And now, I must come stomping through your life once more. I ask you to take my niece in hand, to keep her and this information safe. I have kept copies of all my research notes in my Manse, in the third bedroom. There is a chest of drawers there, engraved cocobolo, with false bottoms and backs to every shelf, and my notes are stored within these secret compartments. All of my work on the Realmbridge, all of my work on Silphion's spell, everything I have done with this project lies there. Do with them as you will, but do not let them be lost. This is a bitter charge after this long absence, I know, but it is everything I have. I am certain you will figure out where to go from there. There is nobody else in the Empire that I would trust more.

I spoke before of legacy, and this is mine. It must be, for what else remains shall be lost to the Void soon enough. My legacy to you is revelation, is truth. I give you the reality of the world, the true history of the Empire. Do not let this truth be buried once more. Let it be known. Let it roam free. And if it sparks something among the people, then fan that flame. The willful obscurity enforced by the Ministries has already doomed my crew to oblivion; do not let that be the death knell for my truth as well. Let it be known."

She smiles thinly. The effort of her speech has drained her energy.

"As disruption goes, this is rather more significant than streetlamps. This is the foundation of our society, of our cosmology. It is ... I know not how the truth may spread, what the impact might be. Perhaps it will be nothing. Perhaps, everything. But no matter the spread, you will be making targets of yourselves. I ask you to take caution. I beg you to take caution. Keep your secrets safe, trust few, and watch for those who would turn this around upon you. And, come what may, please, take care of each other. To all of you, who hear this, take care of each other. Trust not in the institutions of power, corrupted by the perpetuation of their authority; trust instead those dear to you, with whom you may share your own deepest truths. In a cold and uncaring creation, we are truly are all we have.

I love you, Neep. And I do love you still, Karkalla, right though you were about the truth of my heart. And to both of you, I am sorry. I am sorry I will not be there to see you admitted, graduated, see you become great Metrics at my side. I am sorry that my arrogance and folly have cost me everyone I held dear. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry ... I'm sorry, Midyim, I love you, I'm sorry, I am so sorry ..."

Her tears flow freely now, as she seems to slump almost to the floor in her breaking. She cannot finish what she is saying, and it takes her a moment to regain even enough composure to speak.

"I am sorry beyond my ability to convey. For everything, to everyone. For my absence, for my failings. I have let down everyone that I have cared for. And I shall shortly pay the price for that.

Neep, I shall be scrying when you attend your next invocation class, this Getesday, and I shall keep watching as you bring this stone home. If there is anything you wish to ask me ... well, you won't be able to hear my response." She laughs, once, darkly, through her tears. "But if there is anything you wish to say, I will hear it. I love you. I am sorry. Tell everyone that I love them, and that I am sorry. And ... tell them goodbye."

Still choking on her tears, she steps up to the view, close, her hand reaching out. A brightly glowing circle extends out, touching her fingers, and as she twists her hand, it all goes dark.