Heart's Desire

        It is said that Mendarin, the Divine City, the Painted City, was made in the image of the gods' own home of Valehanis. You foreigners always scoff. I can see in your eyes when you come here, and when we tell you, that you think it is only Mandarin arrogance that dares lay claims to godhood in even so tenuous a link. But it is truth.

        Once, in a time not as long ago as many would think Valehanis was a living and breathing place within the realms of mortal comprehension. What I mean I, Valehanis was once a city of men and women. The gods were always restless beings. The only home they ever wanted was in walls of human hearts and human belief, for no city walls and towers would ever be able to house the essence of such immortal creatures.

        Valehanis was the quintessence of beauty. Its spires rose high above the eastern cliffs, where they could stretch their delicate fingers out to touch the sun as it rose each morning; and cry moonlit tears of russet and indigo and gold, when the sun set in the evening. The walls of the city glowed with he murals and paintings of the most celebrated artisans of the time (as Mandarin's walls do now). It was the center of all learning, art, and culture.

        There was an Emperor in those times, as there is an Emperor now. Do you know that there has been an unbroken line of imperial rulers from that day to this? If you go to the great libraries of Mandarin, you will see I tell the truth. Anyway, there was an Emperor, and he lived ensconced in the highest, most beautiful of all the towers of Valehanis. Assured of his place in the world, of his power, and his wealth, he unconsciously challenged the gods.

        "My reign has wrought a city lovelier than the face of Isandala the Fair," he mused. "When Vervidos dreamt the world into being, he would not have thought to imagine so wondrous a creation. Kane, Lord Death, shall not dare to touch bright Valehanis, for this city is Eternal! And Liri, little Liri cannot ever gain a corrupt foothold in this city of pure wonder."

        This is what the proud and foolish Emperor would think to himself in his most secret thoughts. He would hold his belief locked inside, like a delicious tidbit stashed away.

        At times, he would walk upon the arched promenades that connected the shining towers. The sun would dance in dappled chirographies across the rooftops, and he could not help but release those thought, to echo loud in his mind.

        On occasions, he would ride his steeds paved with mosaics of past glories, conquests, and rebirths. He would see the glory all around him, and he knew that glory was his own. On these occasions it was all he could do to choke back the whisper of those words.

        And one day he spoke them. Softly, it is true. And to himself, it is true.

        But the ever-pricked ears of gods and goddesses hear even the sotto voice whispers of a man. The sparrows heard his idle boasts, and twittered their message to the rats. The rats twitched heir noses and scurried through the maze of underground warrens to the outer walls and squeaked heir message to the fox. The fox whipped his tale about, and snaked and ran and slid through the forest until they found their patron, Liri of the Wood.

        And as Liri played tripping tunes upon her pipe the fox chattered a tale to her of a vain human.