Preludium

  What art thou, O cinder bright, thou white and wandering flame, thou pursuer of Sol? Thou ember of twilight and herald of dawn. The legends of Ed? name thee Archon and Light-Bearer. Wherefore is this so? What deed hast thou wrought, O resplendent diamond of the firmament, that men should tremble at thy rising? Why did the sons of Ed? abhor thee? Why did they proclaim thee the author of their undoing?

  And yet, the chroniclers of Me? tell another tale— of that bleak and desert realm whose hidden dynamo waneth like a dying pulse within her breast. To their ancients thou wert no omen of ruin, but beacon of their longing: a pyre upon the darkened waters, guiding the lone vessel through shadowed seas. “Come,” thou seem to cry, “follow after me, and I shall lead thee unto plenty and deliverance!”

  Upon one matter, however, all tongues are agreed: that this silent brilliance, this wandering sign they call Vê, was the cradle of that most glorious and terrible of creatures— the dragon.

  O dragon. How men both love thee and loathe thee. How they dream to bridle thy fires and bend thy sovereign will unto their own design. Yet never is it accomplished, for thy will is thine alone, unmastered and untamed. Thou foul and fuming wyrm, thou serpent of the sweltering dark, gliding unseen, unheard—like lightning loosed from a cloudless vault. Hunter. Reaper. Weaver of stratagems. Fools are the sons of men who deem they may confine thee. Fools, I say!

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  None but a witless dolt would seek to yoke a thing so dread and spiritless. None but the blind would strive to command that which he cannot behold in its fullness at once. “The root of all evil,” men name thee. And yet—what were man without the beast? A naked savage, perchance, clashing stone on stone beneath the idle shade of palms, breeding and perishing without ambition. Might such simplicity be the kinder fate? I dare not say. For it is not the condition appointed unto man. Nay, the dragon draweth forth our hidden cravings. Power. Renown. Dominion. Wealth. Desires not merely of flesh, but of spirit, and all may be purchased, if one will pay the dragon’s alms.

  O dragon, how men adore thee and revile thee in equal measure. How they entreat thee with trembling lips: “Save us! Deliver us, O dragon!” And many times hast thou answered, yet only by thine own choosing. Glorious, winged splendor, whose shadow scattereth the hunters of men. But what art thou without mankind? I shall tell thee, O dragon: a winged lizard enthroned over witless beasts of jungle and fen; a god of appetite alone; or else a memory burned into molten stone, unhonored and unsung. A pitiable end for so mighty a terror.

  And thus we return unto our beginning: Vê coursing the heavens, chasing Sol through the vault of night, seizing him beneath the earth’s dark rim, and dragging him forth again at dawn.

  Little of Vê’s legend hath endured in written form. Most surviveth only in the frail keeping of mortal tongues. That which is inscribed lieth graven upon stone pillars, or daubed upon cavern walls. Some few fragments rest upon vellum and parchment, forgotten in dust-laden alcoves of ancient libraries, there to moulder with the passing years. Whether the tale of Vê be a hymn of hope or a warning writ in flame, I have gathered what shards I might from the ruins of memory, that thou mayest read and judge for thyself.

  —Veronicus