The Quest of Iranon

Into the granite city of Teloth strolled the young man, crowned with vines, his yellow hair shining with myrrh and his purple robe tattered from the thorns of the Sidrak mountains that stretch across the ancient stone bridge. The men of Teloth are dark and serious, living in square houses, and with furrowed brows, they questioned the stranger about where he came from and what his name and fortune were. So the young man replied:

"I am Iranon, and I come from Aira, a distant city that I vaguely remember but want to find again. I am a singer of songs I learned in that far-off city, and my purpose is to create beauty from the memories of my childhood. My riches lie in small memories and dreams, and in the hopes I sing in gardens when the moon is gentle and the west wind stirs the lotus buds."

When the men of Teloth heard this, they whispered among themselves; for even though there's no laughter or song in the granite city, the stern men sometimes look to the Karthian hills in the spring and think of the lutes of distant Oonai that travelers have mentioned. And thinking this way, they invited the stranger to stay and sing in the square in front of the Tower of Mlin, even though they didn't like the color of his tattered robe, the myrrh in his hair, his vine-leaf crown, or the youthful sound of his golden voice. In the evening, Iranon sang, and while he sang, an old man prayed, and a blind man claimed he saw a halo over the singer's head. But most of the men of Teloth yawned, some laughed, and others went off to sleep; for Iranon told nothing useful, singing only his memories, dreams, and hopes.

I remember the dusk, the moon, and gentle songs, and the window where I fell asleep. Outside the window was the street lit by golden lights, where shadows swayed on marble houses. I remember the patch of moonlight on the floor, which was unlike any other light, and the images that twirled in the moonbeams when my mom sang to me. And I also remember the bright morning sun over the colorful summer hills, and the fragrance of flowers carried by the southern breeze that made the trees sing.

"O Aira, city of marble and beryl, how many beauties you have! How I loved the warm and fragrant groves across the clear Nithra, and the falls of the small Kra flowing through the green valley! In those groves and in that valley, the children made wreaths for each other, and in the evening, I dreamed strange dreams under the yath trees on the mountain as I looked down at the lights of the city and the winding Nithra reflecting a ribbon of stars."

"And in the city were palaces made of marbled stone, with golden domes and colorful walls, and green gardens with blue pools and clear fountains. I often played in the gardens, waded in the pools, and lay dreaming among the pale flowers under the trees. Sometimes at sunset, I would climb the long hilly street to the citadel and the open square, and look down at Aira, the magical city of marble and beryl, stunning in a cloak of golden light."

"Long have I missed you, Aira, since I was just a kid when we went into exile; but my father was your King, and I will come back to you, as Fate has decided. I have searched for you through seven lands, and one day I will rule over your groves and gardens, your streets and palaces, singing to people who will understand my songs and not laugh. For I am Iranon, who was a Prince in Aira."

That night, the men of Teloth put the stranger up in a stable, and in the morning, a local leader came to him and instructed him to go to Athok the cobbler's shop and become his apprentice.

"But I'm Iranon, a songwriter," he said, "and I have no passion for the cobbler's craft."

"Everyone in Teloth has to work hard," replied the archon, "because that's the rule." Then Iranon said:

"Why do you work so hard; isn't it to live and be happy? And if you work just to work more, when will happiness come to you? You work to live, but isn't life filled with beauty and music? And if you don’t have any singers among you, where will be the fruits of your labor? Working without music is like a tiring journey with no destination. Wouldn't death seem more appealing?" But the leader was gloomy and didn't understand, and scolded the stranger.

"You’re a weird young man, and I don’t like your face or your voice. The things you say are blasphemy, because the gods of Teloth have declared that hard work is valuable. Our gods have promised us a peaceful afterlife, where we will have eternal rest and a refreshing tranquility, free from troubling thoughts or distracting beauty. So go to Athok the cobbler, or leave the city by sunset. Everyone here must serve, and singing is pointless."

So Iranon left the stable and walked along the narrow stone streets between the dark square granite houses, looking for something green, since everything was made of stone. The faces of the people were frowning, but by the stone bank along the slow river Zuro sat a young boy with sad eyes, staring into the water, hoping to see green budding branches washed down from the hills by the spring floods. The boy said to him: "Aren't you the one the leaders talk about, who searches for a distant city in a beautiful land? I’m Romnod, born of Teloth’s blood, but I’m not familiar with the ways of this granite city, and every day I long for the warm groves and the far-off lands of beauty and song. Beyond the Karthian hills lies Oonai, the city of lutes and dancing, which people whisper about, saying it's both beautiful and terrifying. I'd go there if I were old enough to find the way, and you should go too, where you could sing and have people listen to you. Let’s leave the city of Teloth and travel together among the spring hills. You’ll teach me the ways to travel, and I'll enjoy your songs in the evening when the stars gradually bring dreams to the minds of dreamers. And maybe Oonai, the city of lutes and dancing, is the beautiful Aira you're looking for, because it’s said you haven’t known Aira since ancient times, and names often change. Let’s go to Oonai, O Iranon of the golden hair, where people will understand our desires and welcome us as brothers, never laughing or frowning at what we say." And Iranon replied:

"Okay, little one; if anyone in this stone place longs for beauty, they need to go to the mountains and beyond, and I wouldn’t want you to waste away by the slow-moving Zuro. But don’t think that joy and understanding are just over the Karthian hills, or in any place you can reach in a day, a year, or even five years. You see, when I was small like you, I lived in the valley of Narthos by the cold Xari, where no one would listen to my dreams; I told myself that when I got older, I would go to Sinara on the southern slope and sing to the cheerful camel drivers in the marketplace. But when I went to Sinara, I found the camel drivers all drunk and rowdy, and realized their songs weren’t like mine; so I traveled down the Xari on a barge to the onyx-walled Jaren. And the soldiers in Jaren laughed at me and drove me away, so I wandered to other cities."

"I've seen Stethelos, which is beneath the great waterfall, and I've looked out over the marsh where Sarnath used to be. I've visited Thraa, Ilarnek, and Kadatheron along the winding Ai River, and I've spent a lot of time in Olathoë in the land of Lomar. But even though I've had a few listeners at times, they’ve always been scarce, and I know that true welcome awaits me only in Aira, the city of marble and beryl where my father once ruled as king. So we will head for Aira, even though it might be nice to stop by the distant, melodious Oonai beyond the Karthian hills, which could actually be Aira, though I doubt it. Aira's beauty is beyond imagination, and nobody can describe it without feeling overwhelmed, while all the camel drivers gossip suggestively about Oonai."

At sunset, Iranon and little Romnod left Teloth and wandered for a long time through the green hills and cool forests. The path was rough and unclear, and they never seemed to get closer to Oonai, the city of lutes and dancing. But as dusk fell and the stars appeared, Iranon would sing about Aira and its beauty, and Romnod would listen, making them both happy in their own way. They enjoyed plenty of fruit and red berries, losing track of time, but many years must have passed. Little Romnod was no longer so small and spoke in a deep voice instead of a high-pitched one, while Iranon remained the same, adorning his golden hair with vines and fragrant resins found in the woods. One day, it happened that Romnod appeared older than Iranon, even though he had been very small when Iranon first found him watching for green budding branches in Teloth by the sluggish, stone-banked Zura.

Then one night when the moon was full, the travelers reached a mountain crest and looked down at the countless lights of Oonai. Peasants had told them they were close, and Iranon realized this wasn’t his hometown of Aira. The lights of Oonai were different from those of Aira; they were harsh and glaring, while the lights of Aira shone softly and magically, just like the moonlight on the floor by the window where Iranon's mother used to rock him to sleep with a song. But Oonai was a city of lutes and dancing, so Iranon and Romnod descended the steep slope to find people who would enjoy songs and dreams. When they entered the town, they found revelers wearing rose wreaths moving from house to house and leaning out of windows and balconies, who listened to Iranon’s songs, threw him flowers, and applauded when he finished. For a moment, Iranon believed he had found those who thought and felt just like him, even though the town was not even a fraction as beautiful as Aira.

When dawn came, Iranon looked around with disappointment, for the domes of Oonai weren’t shining gold in the sunlight, but gray and dreary. The men of Oonai were pale from partying and sluggish from wine, unlike the vibrant men of Aira. However, since the people had thrown him flowers and praised his songs, Iranon decided to stay, along with Romnod, who enjoyed the town's festivities and wore roses and myrtle in his dark hair. Often at night, Iranon sang to the partygoers, yet he remained as he always was, adorned only with a vine from the mountains, reminiscing about the marble streets of Aira and the crystal-clear Nithra. In the painted halls of the king, he sang on a crystal platform raised above a mirror-like floor, and as he sang, he conjured images for his audience until the floor seemed to reflect old, beautiful, and half-remembered scenes instead of the wine-stained revelers who showered him with roses. The king ordered him to discard his tattered purple garment and dressed him in satin and cloth-of-gold, with rings of green jade and bracelets made of colored ivory. He was housed in a gilded and decorated chamber on a sweetly carved wooden bed, complete with canopies and silk coverlets embroidered with flowers. Thus, Iranon lived in Oonai, the city of lutes and dancing.

It’s unclear how long Iranon stayed in Oonai, but one day the King brought in some wild, whirling dancers from the Liranian desert, along with dark-skinned flute players from Drinen in the East. After that, the party-goers tossed their roses more at the dancers and flute players than at Iranon. Each day, that Romnod, who had once been a small boy in granite Teloth, grew rougher and redder from drinking, until he dreamed less and less, and took less joy in Iranon’s songs. Yet, even though Iranon was sad, he continued to sing and, in the evenings, would share his dreams of Aira, the city of marble and beryl. Then one night, the bloated and tipsy Romnod snored heavily on his banquet couch, dying in a fit, while Iranon, pale and slender, sang quietly to himself in a distant corner. After Iranon wept over Romnod’s grave and covered it with green budding branches that Romnod had loved, he set aside his silks and trinkets and left Oonai, the city of lutes and dancing, forgotten and dressed only in the tattered purple he had arrived in, adorned with fresh vines from the mountains.

Into the sunset walked Iranon, still searching for his homeland and for people who would appreciate and treasure his songs and dreams. In all the cities of Cydathria and in the lands beyond the Bnazic desert, cheerful children laughed at his ancient songs and worn purple robe; but Iranon remained forever young, wearing wreaths on his golden head as he sang about Aira.

So one night he arrived at the filthy hut of an old shepherd, who was hunched over and dirty, and who tended flocks on a rocky hillside above a quicksand marsh. Iranon spoke to this man, just like he had to so many others:

"Can you tell me where I can find Aira, the city of marble and beryl, where the clear Nithra flows and where the waterfalls of the tiny Kra sing to lush valleys and hills filled with yath trees?" The shepherd listened, gazing intently and oddly at Iranon, as if trying to remember something from long ago, noting every feature of the stranger's face, his golden hair, and his crown of vine leaves. But he was old, and answered:

"O stranger, I have indeed heard of Aira and the other names you mentioned, but they come to me from far away through many long years. I first heard them in my youth from a playmate, a beggar's boy lost in strange dreams, who would spin long tales about the moon, the flowers, and the west wind. We used to laugh at him because we knew him since he was born, even though he believed he was a king’s son. He was handsome, just like you, but full of foolishness and oddness; he ran away when he was young to find people who would happily listen to his songs and dreams. How often did he sing to me of lands that never existed and things that can never be! He spoke often of Aira, of Aira and the river Nithra, and the falls of the tiny Kra. He would always say he once lived there as a prince, even though we knew him from birth. And there was never a marble city of Aira, or anyone who could appreciate strange songs, except in the dreams of my old playmate Iranon, who is gone."

And in the evening light, as the stars appeared one by one and the moon lit up the marsh with a glow like the shimmer a child sees on the floor while being rocked to sleep at night, an elderly man in worn purple walked into the deadly quicksand, adorned with dried vine leaves and staring ahead as if looking at the golden domes of a beautiful city where dreams make sense.

That night, a bit of youth and beauty faded away from the older world.