The next day they followed the river, now that they had come to its edge anyway. According to Naaren the original route he’d planned would have been shorter, but this one ended up being easier, resulting in a split difference. Trekking cross-country over the intermittent patches of desert and prairie would have necessitated more breaks; following the river ravine gave them access to water, as well as shade from both rocky outcrops and even small desert trees. In the end, they came to their destination as the day was drawing to a close, the sun falling enough that the blue of the sky had begun to fade, though it was not yet turning to orange.

  Cresting a rise, they beheld a ruin occupying a rocky plateau around which the river bent. Though half-collapsed, and even its golden sandstone remains worn by the elements to rounded shapes that seemed almost organic, its identity was still plain at a glance to Kaln.

  “Why…that’s a Rhiva outpost,” he said. “Not just a fort, but a whole settlement! Look, you can see the fortifications there, but also a temple of the Nine, the housing division, the outer market segment… This layout is standard, it’s still in use today. I never realized we had a presence this far north.”

  “That’s a story,” Naaren said, stepping up alongside him, and then past. The Hiiri priest climbed up to a small outcropping which gave him a particularly commanding view of the ruins, and also made him taller than the rest of them for once. Well, taller than the humans; he wasn’t about to compete with Vadaralshi and Vanimax, who had remained in their larger forms. “In fact, exactly the story you’ve come all this way to hear.”

  He turned to face them, and though the shift in his bearing was subtle, it was unmistakable. The young priest stood straight, hands folded before him, gazing at them in distinctive seriousness. This was now ritual. Kaln took note of how deftly the Hiiri seemed to slide in and out of formal posture; the faiths of the Nine required more ceremony.

  “Our oldest memories, our longest-told stories, are of the lives our distant ancestors lived in the ancient nation of Rhivaak,” Naaren said, his voice seeming to entwine with the soft wind over the prairie and the distant voice of the river, a music that was part of the land itself. “We Hiiri are small and nimble, well suited to climb and burrow—easy to hide, and adept at patience and quiet. Then as now, we were hunters and gatherers, but in those days we were barely a people. Not truly a culture. Hiiri lived among the households of humans and elves, valued for our skill at hunting. Kept for the same purpose as hunting dogs, and treated much the same. Sometimes with affection, sometimes with abuse…never with respect. We were not equals.”

  He half-turned, looking for a moment at the old ruin, then faced them again.

  “That was before the black dragon came. Izayaroa has always seen value in the small and the weak. It is said that when she first arrived in Rhivaak, it was in the humblest of disguises, and that she first lived in a dockside hovel, working with the fishers and oyster-divers, learning their troubles so as to help them craft solutions from their own strengths.”

  That, of course, was how the story was still told in Rhivaak; Kaln wasn’t sure that had actually happened, and was not about to ask her. A country’s founding stories needed to be meaningful a lot more than they needed to be accurate, and Izayaroa was definitely canny enough to lean into a useful legend once enough time had passed that no one but she remembered the truth.

  “As Empress,” Naaren continued, “she changed the laws, protecting not only us, but other peoples in similar positions. She brought the Raithe out of the sewers, found work suited to their knack for underground scrabbling—sending them to the mines, where she made sure they were well-fed, well-paid, and respected for their efforts. To the wandering Nhiyah she gave land, the first home they had ever known, and brought them desert plants from all across the world, charging them with finding the best to cultivate in the arid domain of Rhivaak outside the river valleys, that even the harsh land could support people. And the Hiiri, also, she made laws to protect, abolishing any keeping of people as chattel, protecting our families from being broken up for the benefit of others. She had villages built for us. For the first time, we were a people, dwelling together with our own kind and building ways of our own, not living as pets at the hearths of those who deemed themselves our betters. Despite everything which came later, the Hiiri remember the black dragon’s kindness—that she gave us not merely charity, but independence and pride. Even now, these things matter.”

  He paused, with a veteran storyteller’s command of rhythm, and Kaln found himself waiting in suspense even though he knew what was coming next.

  “Then came the Lost Century.”

  Naaren lowered his head for another moment before continuing.

  “All know this story. The Nine Calamities which occurred in so short a span of years that, from the perspective of history, they might as well have been simultaneous, bringing the world entire to its knees. To the very brink of oblivion. Two of the Calamities befell this continent: the arrival of Atraximos the Dread in the north, and the explosion of the Lifemount in the south. While the dread dragon savaged old Valereld, tearing the great empire apart brick by brick, the eruption of the mountain from which all this land’s rivers flow spread ash in clouds that blotted the sun for weeks, falling to blanket the land and smother every living thing. The rivers ran black with acrid poison, dooming the fish, and every crop grown in the floodplains. While Rhivaak starved, the great jungles to the south perished as well, as both rivers and rains had turned to salt and venom. And worse, when even this apocalypse had begun to abate, it was found that the land itself had been salted and killed, no longer able to grow more than weeds. Disease sprang from what had been fertile soil.

  “More perished than survived. The Lost Century grew more dire with each decade, as the retreat of civilization let loose every wild thing which had hidden from it. Fiends and fae stalked the wilds, transgressing ever deeper into what had been the lands of mortals. The Ravening Host raided from across the planes with virtual impunity. Cultures disintegrated, entire languages were forgotten, some of the very gods faded as those upon whose worship they depended were wiped out. Knowledge itself was so reduced that in the aftermath, science was rebuilt from scratch by scribes examining ancient Timekeeper contraptions. Nations collapsed, one and all—on this continent, only Rhivaak remains the same country it was before the Calamities, and that only because its Empress returned from her sojourn to take the helm and protect her people. But not even an elder dragon can hold civilization together by force of will and the strength of her own claws. Rhivaak trembled and toppled, escaping only outright destruction—barely. Even in that safest refuge, the loss was cataclysmic. And in such times, it is the small and the weak who suffer most, and this time, the Empress could spare no attention for us.”

  He was good at this. Naaren’s voice had the skillful rhythm and cadence of a well-practiced storyteller; Kaln was spellbound, even as he narrated ancient history that everyone knew. Even the dragons were silent and intent, their long necks arched low to gaze closely at him. Now, Naaren paused again, letting the solemn mood hang in the air and work deeper into them all before he continued.

  “The Raithe,” he continued at last, “vanished so deep into the mines that no one but they knows their ultimate fate. The Nhiyah retreated to their mountain, where at least they could claw enough sustenance out of the desert to feed their own small numbers, and throw rocks down on the heads of anyone who tried to take what was theirs. And the Hiiri…”

  Naaren made a wide gesture with one arm, sweeping along the curve of the river and the dry land stretched out around it.

  “Then, as now, we lived in these lands. In our own little communities, hunting and gathering in the Empress’s name. As Rhivaak crumbled, as there was not enough food to support those working honestly and the cities became ever more dangerous, people fled. And in conditions like that, two kinds of people survive: those who band together to share their strength, and those who abandon all virtue and seize what they can, however they might. In those days, in this land… Those who chose the second path were just…bigger. Izayaroa had no soldiers to send to protect us, and no time to come herself. And so, soon enough, we found ourselves once more on leashes.

  “It was during these times that a woman called Hii was born—in the last years before her name became ours. And the things she did…” He turned back to them with a warm smile. “We tell these stories every night at every fire. They are that important, the adventures of the desert fox, her journey from servitude to godhood, and how she liberated a people. By the time a young Hiiri reaches their first trial of adulthood, and stands where you are now, they’ll have heard these tales a thousand times each. And, most importantly, absorbed their lessons.”

  Hiiri rituals really were pleasantly informal; Kaln wouldn’t have dared interrupt a cleric of the Nine mid-ceremony, but it felt only natural to chime in here.

  “I’m afraid I’ve let you down, then. Somehow I never even read these stories of yours. It wasn’t a deliberate snub! There’s just so much to read, and so many years in a life.”

  “I…haven’t heard them either,” Isabet admitted, her brow furrowing in consternation. “The entire time I’ve been living with you, I don’t recall anybody telling campfire stories about the adventures of Hii-Amat.”

  “No, you wouldn’t have,” Naaren agreed, smiling. “It’s all right! This pilgrimage is also how we welcome newcomers into a tribe, if they choose to walk that path. It’s easily adapted to your needs. Isabet, I promise it was not a personal rejection that the tales weren’t told in your hearing,” he went on, his expression growing more serious. “This is an important rule that all the tribes follow. The Hundred and One Tails of the Fox are not only the accounts of Hii-Amat’s mortal exploits, but the crystallization of our values as a culture—and of her own divine identity. We do not tell sacred stories where outsiders might overhear them, especially outsiders who might write them down. Gods…are known to sometimes be influenced by the belief of their followers. What if an account of Hii-Amat’s identity were written with crucial errors? Or worse, re-interpreted to be palatable to a different culture, as nearly always happens when folktales cross borders? And that version then went on to be read and repeated and morphed further by a much larger society than ours, becoming the default?”

  He shook his head, fixing his gaze directly on Kaln.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “To be clear, it isn’t certain that this would have any effect on her at all. There are accounts of such things happening to gods—and then again, of them not happening under almost exactly the same circumstances. The rules of divinity are awfully vague; it seems like the only constant is that they’re different for every god. I hope she has some answers for you, Kaln, because I rather suspect you won’t find them anywhere else. But whether or not that is a certainty…it is a risk. And we desert dwellers do not thrive by taking reckless chances.”

  Even the free-spirited Zhiiji nodded gravely at that. Isabet did likewise, her expression understanding.

  “So we don’t get to hear your bedtime stories?” Vanimax huffed. “Well, that’s just—”

  “Oh, countless hells, shut up,” Vadaralshi groaned, whacking him with her tail. “You would not care if nobody was telling you it wasn’t allowed. When we get home I will dig into Emmy’s library and find you some nice folktales that won’t give Kaln’s new friend some kind of complex.”

  Kaln cleared his throat. “This is still a ritual, kids. Please keep the byplay to a minimum.”

  “It is?” Vanimax looked rapidly between him, Naaren, and Zhiiji. “Wait—since when? When did that start?”

  “Just hush, boy!” Zhiiji ordered. The dragon stared at her in shock, mouth open.

  “The important takeaway from the Hundred and One Tails is best absorbed by repetition,” Naaren continued, again adopting that ceremonial cadence, but now with an amused smile, “but it can be summarized easily enough. Hii-Amat’s exploits were how she refined the philosophy that guides us to this day, which at its heart comes down to the three core virtues of the Hiiri: solidarity with one another, respect for nature, and the rejection of brute strength.

  “People working together are many times stronger than the same number of people alone; it is by combining ourselves, our skills and aptitudes, that we become something greater, and cover for one another’s weaknesses. Most importantly, no one’s soul is whole in isolation. People need one another as they need water and air—less urgently, perhaps, but no less acutely. There is thus no more sacred duty than hospitality. The stranger met along the trail must never be suffered to go hungry or cold.”

  He smiled and glanced quickly around at them again, then carried on.

  “We live in harmony with the world itself, respecting the balance and making ourselves part of it. Even during the Lost Century, even in this harsh land, there was enough for those who lived as part of nature rather than trying to extract everything they could from it. We take only what we need, and always with gratitude, and give back in whatever way is needed to keep the land healthy. Living itself is a sacred act.

  “And finally…well, this is the most prevalent theme of the Tails, and frankly the most fun. Cleverness defeats power, every time.”

  Kaln noticed, from the corner of his eye, that at this last, Zhiiji had folded her arms and her expression grew wry, but he did nothing to draw attention to her.

  “It follows,” Naaren added more gravely, “that there is nothing more dangerous than power added to cleverness. That we avoid at all costs. Ours are simple ways and simple lives, and not because we couldn’t live differently if we wanted. This is a choice, a meaningful one. We are what we wish to be.”

  Isabet nodded, opening her mouth as if to say something, but then closing it again with a subtle shake of her head when Naaren looked at her. A similar spectacle was reflected behind her, Vanimax opening his jaws and then thinking better of whatever he’d been about to say under a particularly fierce glare from his sister.

  Naaren glanced up at them fleetingly, but was wise enough not to acknowledge them, instead shifting his body again to gesture once more at the ruins and the landscape spreading all around, now stained red by the sun as it crept toward the darkening horizon.

  “Eventually, the world healed. In every nation, on every continent, people found ways to restore what was lost—some of it, at least—and begin anew with what they could. Here, the Valefolk learned to live under the threat of the red dragon in the ruins of their empire, and the black dragon deployed the finest wizards and scholars she could gather to restore the earth itself, to make life bloom. Rice once more grew in the floodplains; the great jungles began to return. Civilization stabilized, and finally started to expand, to recover lost territory and drive back the terrors that had crept free in its absence. It was during this time that Rhivaak became an empire in truth, expanding southward and west to the rest of the continent outside Atraximos’s range, as Izayaroa meticulously restored order, law, and peace.

  “Here, far closer to her heartland…we waited. With our newly born goddess, our prized and fragile independence, the way of life we had laboriously built for ourselves, we waited to learn what would become of it all once the Empire had attention to spare for us.”

  For a few seconds, he stared at the weathered old ruins as if in thought. Even knowing the effect was deliberate, Kaln had to respect it.

  “But instead of soldiers,” Naaren said at last, quietly, “the Empress sent us diplomats, to invite us back into the fold. The newly organized tribes met, and deliberated… And decided. We respected the black dragon still; we were grateful for what she had done for our ancestors. Nor did we blame her for failing us in those darkest years, for it was obvious to all that she had done the best she could for as many souls as she could, and done better by them than nearly everyone who had tried the same. But we had come to value our liberty, and to disdain authority. Power wielded over us, however benign its nature, was a threat.

  “The decision of the tribes was to ask the Empress—politely—to leave us be. The diplomats went away, and we waited. Retreating into the hills, the caves and canyons, our most secure and unreachable hiding places, for what we were sure must be coming next.”

  He turned back to them, smiling again.

  “And yet when the diplomats returned, it was with a treaty in hand, and without armies at their back. Izayaroa ceded these lands to the Hiiri in payment of her failure to protect us a century before. She made it known we would always be welcome to return, and that if we had need, Rhivaak would always send us aid should we ask. In the centuries since, dark times have come upon us now and again; given enough time, things always grow both worse and better, in new and old ways as the earth continues to turn. But we have never taken up that offer, for so long that it may be only Izayaroa herself who remembers making it, and has not troubled to remind the newest Lords Regent. We need only each other; we rely on and care for our rugged land. We disdain those who presume they should rule. This, to us, is enough.”

  Naaren extended one arm to point at the ruins now.

  “We live on the move, in our caravans. In the places where we settle permanently, we choose secure areas carved out by nature itself. Places such as this, left behind by mortal overlords who retreated from this land, are left to be reclaimed by the wild. Left, but not forgotten. These are the places where Hii the Desert Fox schemed and scurried, fought and fled, and carved a nation from the bitter ambitions of paltry men and women who thought to make themselves our masters. These we leave, now, as shrines to Hii-Amat. The desert reclaims mortal ambitions in the end, and we Hiiri never let ourselves forget it.”

  “So…the ruins themselves are the shrine?” Isabet asked hesitantly.

  He smiled at her. “Yes, and no. You may have noticed that our idea of the sacred is somewhat all-encompassing; we don’t make clear delineations between mundane and spiritual aspects of life. The ruins are meaningful to us, remembered for what they signify, but… Well, once within, you will see. Many of our pilgrimages and other ritual practices involve making use of ruins such as this, and by now I think we have left at least as much a mark as those who originally built them. There are many places within which you might consider shrines. As to your ultimate destination…”

  Naaren turned to face them again, once more folding his hands at his waist in the posture in which he’d begun, and smiled, nodding deeply.

  “Pilgrims always come this far on their journey in the company of friends and tribemates—because, as you have heard, no Hiiri walks the desert alone. Here we will part, and you will continue on without us, but you will still not be alone. We’ll be here waiting, and you will be in the company of the Fox. Once you step into her home… Well, what happens next will depend largely on you. She’s not big on ceremony herself. Don’t be afraid; Hii-Amat is a gentle soul, playful and not at all vengeful. Even had you come here with malice in your hearts, little danger would await you. For you two in particular… Well, it’ll be very interesting to see what she makes of you. But that will be between you and the goddess.”

  He stepped to one side, and though moving his small body did nothing to make the way forward more accessible, it was a clearly ceremonial opening of the path whose significance was felt.

  “Isabet, Kaln, the next steps are yours.”