Severian Veyrathi, Edge-Sent
I was born far from Ostbrook, far from Rubury, and far from the road that now ends before me. My people are called the Veyrathi, though I doubt that name means anything here. Perhaps it is better that way. Forgotten things are harder to kill, and my tribe has survived for a long time by being both disciplined and difficult to find.
Among the Veyrathi, the body is the first spellbook. Before I learned letters, I learned posture. Before I held a blade, I learned stillness. Hunger was a lesson. Pain was a lesson. Fear was a lesson. None were to be obeyed. All were to be studied, endured, and mastered. Most of my people become monks, hunters, wardens, or scouts. A few are chosen for something rarer. Those with the patience to shape the body and the mind together are taught the old art of bladesinging.
Outsiders might mistake it for swordplay mixed with magic. They would be wrong. A blade is not an ornament. A spell is not a trick. Breath, steel, thought, and motion must become one. That is what my masters taught me. That is what I have spent my life failing to perfect.
I was never the finest student. I was precise, but impatient. Strong in stance, but restless in thought. I could hold a form until my legs trembled and my lungs burned, yet my mind would drift toward sealed doors, forbidden names, and questions my teachers did not welcome. The greatest of those questions was always the same.
What became of The Mirror of the Unbound Form?
That was the name given to the lost book of my people. The old masters said it held the complete doctrine of the Veyrathi: the true union of body, blade, spell, and spirit. Not power without purpose. Not immortality. Transformation through perfect discipline. But the book was lost generations ago. Some say it was stolen. Some say hidden. Some say the masters destroyed it because they feared what it revealed. No one speaks long on the matter, and silence among my people is often more honest than speech.
There is another matter bound to the book. One that is spoken of only in fragments. The self may travel where the body cannot. That is the oldest teaching. Or the oldest heresy. I do not know which. It is said that through discipline beyond ordinary flesh, the spirit may be cast outward while the body remains anchored. A kind of projection. A separation, but not an abandonment. In my homeland, such things were once considered the height of mastery. Here, near Darkmyst, I am told they are forbidden, feared, or hunted. That interests me more than it should.
Recently, the elders began to dream. One saw a forest that changed its paths while he watched. Another heard Veyrathi battle-hymns beneath trees no Veyrathi had planted. A scout, half-dead and raving, returned from the east speaking of Refugium, the children of the forest, and the Wild Hunt. After that, the council gathered.
They did not send a master. A master would draw eyes. They did not send an exile. An exile could not carry our name. They did not send a novice. A novice would vanish before learning anything useful. They sent me. I am to go to the edge of Darkmyst. I am to observe. I am to learn what Refugium is, and whether it touches the lost history of my people. I am to seek any trace of The Mirror of the Unbound Form. Above all, I am to represent the Veyrathi with discipline.
It is an honor. It is also a warning. Among my people, to be sent beyond the border means two things: you are trusted enough to carry the tribe’s name, and not trusted enough to remain among its secrets. My master gave me my blade, my spellbook, and one final lesson before I departed.
“Darkmyst changes all who enter it. If you return unchanged, you have learned nothing. If you return unrecognizable, you have failed.”
I have written those words often. I do not yet know whether they comfort me.
Now I sit in Rubury, at the end of Lord Ledon road. The town smells of damp wood, old smoke, and fear disguised as trade. Every fool here has a story about the forest. Every coward has advice. Every drunk has seen something impossible between the trees. Perhaps some of them speak truth.
Tomorrow, or soon after, I will enter Darkmyst. I do not seek gold. I do not seek fame. I do not seek the approval of men who mistake noise for courage. I seek the missing shape of my people’s soul. And if the old teachings are true, perhaps I seek the missing shape of my own.