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Revision as of 17:38, 25 January 2019

Summa Venâriva: A Social History of Venârivè

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Summa Venâriva: A Social History of Venârivè

• Summa_Venariva.pdf ~ Summa Venâriva: A Social History of Venârivè
  • 134 Pages

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Chapters and Sections

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Contents

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• Cover (Albertus-Bold 96pt)
  • Credits: AmasisMT,Bold 14pt
  • Chapter Title: Korinna-Bold 18pt (Header Title Name: Korinna-Bold 14pt/Header Section/Page#: Korinna-Bold 18pt)
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Notes on the Text

• Page ii
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Preface

• Page 1

For those of us gamers who were lucky enough to stumble across Hârn way back in 1983, the setting was a revelation. N. Robin Crossby’s creation had a vibrancy unlike anything else of the time - it brought texture and realism to fantasy gaming, but maintained a certain poetry as well. For myself, the experience of opening that original folder and unfolding that remarkable map was something like what an Italian peasant might have felt when beholding a Mantegna altarpiece. Just as the Renaissance artist imbued his images with an illusion of depth through the methods of trompe l’oeil, the author gave his game-world a sense of dimension through detail, restraint, and consistency.

Over the next thirty years, N. Robin Crossby and his creative heirs have worked to expand upon his original vision. For the most part, their efforts have gone in two directions. First, they have sought to expand the canvas - to apply the same methods to new regions such as Ivínia and Shôrkýnè. Among these projects is the very remarkable module, Venârivè, which is the primary inspiration for this text. The second direction is to fill in the blank areas within the existing works - an effort that has resulted in a fantastic variety of publications, many of which are available for free. The detail in some cases is incredible - real world historians would salivate at the idea of possessing as much information on any medieval province as is available for parts of Hârn.

As wonderful as all these contributions are towards our gaming, we would like to pioneer a new direction for exploration and exposition. The goal of this text is not to expand the canvas or fill in the blank spots. It is to lightly shade the work that has already been done - not to make it larger, but to bring out even more depth. We hope to tie together the many strands of thought in the existing body of work and explore their interrelations. In the process, we hope to bring Venârivè alive as a place to be understood on its own terms, not just as an analog of Medieval Earth.

There would be little point in our exercise if it didn’t make for better gaming. For many gamers, it might not. But we expect that for the kind of gamers that have been attracted to Venârivè in the first place, there will be definite - if indirect - impact.

It is often noted - and lamented - that fantasy adventures are almost always rooted in arbitrary inventions. The tropes were set in the early days of gaming - in products such as the World of Greyhawk and the classic TSR dungeon modules. Unfortunately, most of the published materials set in Venârivè are hardly more sophisticated. They present ‘Macguffins’ - the Sword of Calsten, ‘Big-Bad-Evil-Guys’ - like Panaga, and ‘location-based adventures’ - a broader term that has replaced ‘dungeon’ - such as Bejíst. There is a certain arbitrariness to these inventions. The feeling of victory that the players might enjoy is limited by the sense that the scenarios were created for the player characters to win.

In the real world there are few Macguffins and even fewer dungeons. Evil doesn’t always come in a big-bad form. Real world adventures have their roots in conflict. Often the conflict is demographic - wars fought over lebensraum. Sometimes the conflict is rooted in competition. But usually, the conflict is rooted in ideas. Religious crusades and inquisitions, ideological revolutions, political games and tests of legitimacy - these are the fires where real world heroes are forged. And in literature, even when the adventure is driven by a simple MacGuffin, the depth and interest comes from the ideas that motivate the characters.

Consider the tale of the Three Musketeers – perhaps the most popular adventure story of all time. The story is entirely driven by a very simple Macguffin - the Queen’s jewels must be retrieved from England in time for the dress ball. But the story gains its texture from the religious conflict that forms the backdrop. Were the story to ignore the Protestant Rebellion and the religious tensions between France and England, the Cardinal Richelieu would be a cardboard villain. But the story is elevated by the fact that the Cardinal energetically believes that he acts in his nation’s - and God’s - best interests, and moreover, that objectively he may be right. The character of the Musketeers is enriched by the fact that their position in the world is somewhat absurd - they are hardly more than anachronistic brawlers living on the shreds of legitimacy that their noble status affords. The story would not have held our imagination for so long if the author had not woven this delicious context into his story.

It would be hubristic to believe that we could bring the same richness of context to any gaming environment. But we hope to take a step in that direction, to develop a cultural background that gives depth to the environment and adds context to the plots and machinations of a game. In the process, we also endeavour to address the social and historical issues that seem to bother many gamers. For example, some have questioned whether the Mángai should be as coherent and powerful as they are portrayed. Many have lamented that the religions seem unrealistic and flat, and the ‘evil’ religions appear to have been created purely to provide villains for adventures. Scholars of medieval history have noted that the feudalism seen in Venârivè is highly idealised, as though reconstructed from the romances of Walter Scott rather than from actual history. But these are not defects in the concepts underlying Venârivè, but simply features that have not been fully explicated. The more that is known about Venârivè’s intellectual and social history, the more natural these features seem.

• Page 2

Our fundamental premises are simple. Venârivè is not an imitation Medieval Earth, but a world of its own. Where Venârivè is like the real world, we assume that similar causes are at work. For example, both Venârivè and Medieval Earth experienced a major plague. The Red Death is not the same disease as the Bubonic Plague, but it had similar - not identical - effects on society and economics. But in the analysis, Earth provides inspiration but never proof. The mere fact that the Bubonic Plague had a specific effect on Earth - say, the rise in wages or the fashion for macabre art - does not prove that the same is true for Venârivè. The fact simply suggests a direction for further investigation.

Where Venârivè differs from Earth, we try to extrapolate from the differences. And there are many important differences between Venârivè and Earth. Some are fantastic - the presence of the non-human races, working magic, and godstones all come to mind. Some are mundane - the distinctive religious milieu, the lack of a post-Imperial ‘Dark Age’, the antiquity and breadth of literacy, to name a few. Everywhere we look for internal explanations - to find answers in relationships within Venârivè.

We lean most heavily on Terran example when we search for evidence of universal phenomena. For this we look as far from Medieval Earth as possible, lest the example merely confirm the natural bias towards the familiar. Instead we examine the broad spectrum of historical, anthropological, and sociological sources, looking for phenomena that are so broadly true on Earth that it is unlikely that they aren’t true on Venârivè. Some of these are obvious to the point that few will recognize them as assumptions. For example, we take for granted that the economic Law of Supply and Demand applies in Venârivè, though it is possible to imagine a society in which it does not apply. Other examples may be less familiar, and in these cases we make some effort to explain. The evolution of religion receives particular attention. We trace the development of all of Venârivè’s religions in a way that is entirely consistent internally, but based on the way Earth’s myriad religions have actually developed. The assumption that underlies our treatment of religion is that, while Venârivan religions do not much resemble Earth’s, the reason religion is practiced is much the same in both worlds.

Throughout we ascribe to N. Robin Crossby’s original intent. Magic is special and miracles are subtle. We leave open to the imagination of the reader - or the game system being employed - what the specific capabilities that wizards, alchemists, and priests might possess. It is possible to read this history and assume that all Arcane Lorists are charlatans. Conversely, it may be that sorcery is real and powerful. The Cape Rénda Disaster may have been engineered by powerful Mèlderýni magi, or it may have been a fortunate coincidence - that is left to the individual to ponder. Since the spellcasting population is small, it matters little to the broad scope of history whether it has any real potency. What matters is whether the population believes in its potency, and how they perceive that power.

Of the Godstones, we say almost nothing at all. Whatever imports and discoveries have come through the Godstones or other magic are obscure. The only firm example of such an import is the Gârgún of Hârn, but these creatures have had little impact on Venârivan culture outside Hârn. As with magic, we leave it to the reader to ponder what power the Godstones might really possess.

As for religion, we hew to the principle that for the reader, atheism should be a viable option. There is no miracle described in Venârivan history that is any more remarkable or better attested than miracles in our real world, and yet atheists exist here. Therefore this text takes the view of the agnostic historian. Some may wish to treat the events and dates given in other publications on religion as literal truth, others may wish to treat them as merely popular belief. We make no comment about cosmology, as what matters in history is not the action of the gods but of their faithful believers.

Agnosticism permeates the text in other ways. Ancient history is deliberately vague, and the more remote the place and era the less certitude is implied in our history. Many ideas are presented as theories, and occasionally we even present multiple theories. We say little about the personalities of individual rulers and other historical figures, leaving it to the reader to choose their villains and heroes. We are interested mainly in the cultural forces that such men operated within, and leave it to the reader to decide the extent to which they drove events or were merely the pawns of fate.

• Page 3

A story told by the ancient Greeks recalls a contest between two renowned painters. The first, a man named Zeuxis, painted a still life of some fruit that was so realistic that birds came from the sky to eat the grapes. Zeuxis looked towards the painting of his rival, Parrhasius, and complained that the tattered curtains obscured the painting and asked him to pull them back. Parrhasius told him to remove the curtains himself, at which point Zeuxis realised that the curtains themselves was the painting.

Parrhasius won the contest, of course, because he understood something Zeuxis missed. While animals are attracted to superficial appearances, humans are enticed that which is hidden. This surely explains much of Venârivè’s allure, which is as much in what is left unwritten as in what appears on the page. With recognition firmly in mind, we reach for the tattered curtains and begin our text.

The Beginnings of Venârivè

• Page 5

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“Where to begin?” It’s the first question a historian must answer in any manuscript, and it’s a deceptively difficult one. It is simple to ask, but the answer often sets the stage for everything else in the work. In this work we wish to trace the development of the entire intellectual milieu of modern Venârivè. We must begin, therefore, with the point where that intellectual community first becomes apparent.

For this we have chosen a date, bt300. It is a rough date - we could have chosen a time a little earlier or later. But it is close to the moment when the term ‘Venârivè’ can first be used to describe a coherent entity. ‘Venârivè’ is a combination of Venârian and Iváe, the two seas that link the region, but just a few centuries before our chosen date the region was hardly linked at all. Instead it was divided into four disparate networks. One network spread along the shores of the Eastern Venârian Sea and inland towards Mafán. A second covered the western lands from Emélrenè to the Járind sea-towns. A third connected the northern peoples - Quârph and Rekâri. And a fourth centred on Hèpekéria and Thónia, and was perhaps culturally closer to Anzelôria than to any northern region.

But between bt1000 and bt500, these four networks slowly became connected. Kàruían traders planted colonies in Hèpekéria and Ûmélria, while the Járind expanded their activities east and south. Behind the traders came lorists, missionaries, fortune-seekers, and refugees. By bt500 all four networks were well connected, after two more centuries the ties were strong enough that we can talk about Venârivè as a meaningful unit. While the cultures of Venârivè remained distinctive, all were influenced profoundly by their cohabitants in the region.

Venârivè c.bt1000

The ‘Classical Age’

• Page 6

It is with some trepidation that we call the period from about bt1000 to tr1 the Classical Age. The term arises because much of the ‘classic’ literature and lore that is highly respected today was written in this period. Yet the term is misleading, in that the Classical Age was not a golden age of remarkable achievement. Granted, much was achieved that was worth remarking upon – as we shall see – but overall the level of culture was not markedly higher than in subsequent eras. Other terms sometimes used for the era, such as the ‘Foundations Period’, are too closely tied to events in specific regions to be useful in a work that studies Venârivè as a whole. Technological markers are impossible, since no particular technology marks the transition. While imperfect, ‘Classical Age’ references the most important cultural legacy of the era – the written works that are still studied as intently today as in the era they were written.

Widspread Literacy

While Venârivè as a region was a new thing, the cultures within were already old and accomplished. Everywhere, society was literate. Of course, the commoners rarely had access to the benefits of writing, but every culture had the ability to record its myths, traditions, and techniques. Writing allowed craftsmen to share their secrets, traders to plan their voyages, and rulers to record their edicts. And many cultures had their own literary tradition. As we will see later, some have not been exceeded in quality since.

It is possible that this widespread literacy was due to exposure to the elder races. The ruined empires in Mafán, Anzelôria, and elsewhere are also thought to be birthplaces of writing. Probably both statements are true. Writing seems to have been invented several times in several different regions, and no one culture can claim to be its only mother. Thanks to this diffusion, in bt300 no one culture can be seen as intellectually dominant. While not all societies were equally advanced, almost all groups made some contribution towards the advancement of the whole.

Connections and Centres

Contact among the cultures was routine, but economically ephemeral. Goods and people moved easily across the region. Not only do we find Járin jewellery in Hácherim burial crypts of the era, but a small colony of Járin craftsmen appear in the earliest known description of Hácherdad city, and many Hácherim nautical terms derive from the Járin language. Similar examples of cross-cultural contacts over vast distances can be found throughout Venârivè.

But economically, the scale of these contacts was too small to have much demographic impact. Cities remained small, and their prosperity was tied almost entirely to their ability to dominate their own hinterland. The caravan routes to the East brought only a smattering of goods from the ruined petty-states of Mafán, and the internal trade of the region was not enough to stimulate the specialisation that leads to city-building. Rampant piracy certainly didn’t help the traders. The largest Járind sea-towns held only a few thousand people, while the Kàruían cities were barely any larger. A few of the largest, such as Livélis, perhaps exceeded 10,000 souls at this time. But even Livélis depended much more on its olive groves and fishermen than on its merchants for its wealth.

The largest cities were not centres of trade but of worship. The temple-cities of the Târga Valley could exceed 20,000 in population, and smaller centres existed in many areas. Beréma and Chérafîr were two such centres. These cities were built on the religious needs of a society, and were usually the centres of an ethnic state. They varied considerably in character, but all followed a basic pattern. Each was centred on a large public space - a plaza or a thoroughfare - large enough for public rituals. Adjacent were two complexes - a palace that housed the prince and his military, and a temple or group of temples that housed the priests. Virtually all cities were walled, and larger towns had interior walls that segregated the classes - especially foreigners and low-caste workers such as street cleaners, butchers, and tanners. Streets were narrow and choked with mire. Larger cities had aqueducts, smaller ones used wells and cisterns, but these were always inadequate. Open spaces were few, and the absence of planning obvious.

Each city was the centre for a principality of commensurate size. Whereas little Chérafîr held only an ephemeral state within its orbit, Beréma controlled a substantial kingdom. City-states in Hèpekéria were in constant flux - their fortunes shifting with every dynastic change. But in the Târga Valley, the insular cities were immobilized by centuries of religious tradition, their rulers mere cogs in an immortal machine. We call these principalities ‘temple-states’, but they were not necessarily theocracies. While community life was centred mostly on the temple, the palace usually held the political power – though there were many variations. As we shall see later, these temple-states were under enormous stress in the centuries leading up to our period. Their reaction to the changing religious milieu would soon determine their path through the subsequent centuries.

Outside of these temple-states there were no other permanent polities. Only small states had the social cohesiveness to survive. While rulers might for a generation or so claim control over some large territory, these realms were extensions of the personal power of the ruler and lacked the permanent machinery of a true state. Upon the loss of the charismatic founder they inevitably fell apart.

• Page 7

So, in politics and economics, as well as in intellectual culture, no city or place in Venârivè was dominant. Not that all places were equal - Beréma and Livélis, to be sure, were remarkable enough places to attract immigrants of many kinds. But as no single cultural force could dominate, Venârivè could host a melange of traditions. The opportunities for cross-pollination were endless, but there were disadvantages to not having any large, dominant centres. Some advances require scale. Some require a broad combination of skills to be brought to one place, some require a large capital investment, and some address problems that simply aren’t apparent until a society reaches a certain size. Technologies and ideas that fit these latter categories were stillborn in the Classical Venârivè.

Technologies and Crafts

But most technologies thrived. In many areas it is arguable whether there have been any significant advances since. In music - an art that benefits most from cultural exchange and least from central direction - there is no question that the accomplishments of the era compare favorably with any other. While styles have changed over the centuries, the composer’s understanding of his art has not advanced in any meaningful way. The crude methods of musical notation used in Venârivè have barely changed since, and all theories of rhythm and harmony are rooted in works predating bt300 and well known in the era.

The arts of sculpture and painting were similarly well developed. Technically, the works of the era are on a par with those of any subsequent time. There are a few pigments and paints that were not available, but artists did not lack any skill or theory. They did not often use any theory of perspective, but at least some artists were familiar with the properties of the horizon and could use one- and zero- point perspective to add depth to their scenes. These methods were based on observation rather than any mathematical theory. Sculpture was not particularly popular during the era, but though the skills of sculptors would improve in subsequent eras, there has been little change in technique.

In architecture, the assessment is more complex. Many of the key elements that would allow the building of the great cathedrals and palaces in subsequent centuries were already in place. Arches were common, and domes widespread.

Architects understood that the most vulnerable part of a dome is the central section, and for large domes they often replaced this part with a second, smaller dome. The result is an even taller structure. At least one doubly-compound dome was described by a traveler to Hácherdad – unfortunately the palace he mentioned does not survive. Several examples of arched pendentives have survived, most notably in the Counting House of Phanósia.

But the era lacked a comprehensive theory of load and strength, and more complex vaults and spans were beyond the reach of the era. In part this was due to lack of need. The techniques already described were more than sufficient to build at the scale the era demanded. But it was also due to a lack of analytical sophistication. Architects relied on experiment and tradition, rather than a theory of mechanics. The goal of an architect was to create a building that was in harmony with its purpose. Domes were favoured in large part because they embodied the sphere, and thus paid homage to the celestial powers. To use a different shape merely to be able to build larger would have been counter to their purpose. If a space was too large to be covered in a dome, then all effort was put into improving the materials and workmanship - changing the shape was unthinkable. The compound dome was an acceptable alternative, and one usually arrived at after a simple dome failed. There was little point in analysing the mechanics - no other form would be contemplated.

Venârivan architects worked in a variety of materials. And while they did not much study the mechanics of shape and weight, they understood their materials very well. Their designs took advantage of the particular strengths of their materials - of the elasticity and shear strength of wood, the compressive strength of brick, the durability of stone. Unlike Anzelôrians, who often carved stone columns to look like palms, the Venârivans never engaged in ‘petrification’. Even in their earliest works, the distinction between stone and wood was unambiguous. P’vâric philosophy almost certainly contributed to this attention to the properties of their materials.

Concrete and mortars based on quicklime were used throughout Venârivè, and examples survive in many aqueducts. A description of the harbour of Belán, now a ruin near Árlanto, written c.bt250 suggests that the use of volcanic ash to create hydraulic cement had been known for at least two centuries. But some scholars dispute the dating of Belán’s construction, and definitive proof is lacking.

Many cities featured a fountain near their plaza. These were usually fed by siphons, and although the head they could achieve was limited, they were usually still impressive. They were engineered to provide a large, bubbly flow, to evoke a sense of plenty. The sculpture usually followed animal or horticultural themes, and the overflowing water was a symbol of fertility. Examples survive in the Ázeryàn Empire, including the Pomegranate Fountain that still froths in front of the Eónian temple in Shomîro.

• Page 8

The metalworkers of the era had over a thousand years of experience with iron, and countless more with bronze and other metals. Not surprisingly, their mastery left little room for improvement. The art of making steel through quenching was known to the Rekâri, at least. Other groups had the good fortune of finding iron deposits that naturally contained impurities that made good steel. The achievements of the smiths of the era would be exceeded in the following centuries by Târgan masters (as well as the Kúzhai), but their workmanship and metallurgy is still admired by modern experts.

However, whereas the quality of iron and steel works was high, the quantity of metal wares was very small. Blacksmiths were nearly the social equals of goldsmiths, and the bulk of their output was in the form of weapons and armour for the wealthy. Common households had few iron tools - usually just those necessary to make their everyday implements, and knives. Almost all farming implements were wood, including the ploughs. Peasant kitchens, too, were equipped almost entirely with wood and pottery.

Glassworking was also well developed. Glass was blown, usually using molds but occasionally using free-blowing techniques. Porcelain-quality ceramics were made in several regions, as well as more utilitarian thrown pottery. Enamel was used for jewellery and adornments. The emphasis was on making very high-quality products in limited quantities. The economy was dominated by the rich, and the middle-class was too small to support specialized industry. Almost all the surviving examples of these arts are exquisite, and their craftsmanship exceeds almost anything made since.

The influence of the ancients was most apparent in the alchemical crafts. The craft was very advanced in many ways. Distillation was a well-known technique for separating liquids, and several types of stills and alembics were in use. Various types of alcohol were isolated this way, including ethyl alcohol. However, if any beverages were so obtained, they are not mentioned in any trading records. Alchemists used filters made from a paper-like felt cloth. They even managed a limited form of cooling by placing a liquid called aculte in a bellows and expanding it – the reduction of air pressure causes the liquid to evaporate and absorb heat. A variety of chemicals were known, including the ari skatteros, which could dissolve gold. Many of these techniques have been lost in the centuries since, and almost nothing new has been discovered to compensate.

But for all this technical ability, there was no attempt to understand the principles behind the methods. P’vârism was the dominant means of understanding natural phenomena, and the six-fold system of elements was incapable of explaining such curiosities. There was no possibility of refuting or displacing P’vâric ideas - the success of the P’vâric system in generating magical results was indisputable. Anything that could not be explained by P’vâric principles was given an ad hoc explanation, or simply ignored as a trivial curiosity.

It is clear that the craft owed its precocious development to ancient sources - cultures that flourished before P’vârism had gained such a strong hold on the arcane community. Theories abound, and the truth may be that several sources contributed to the art. The riddle of alchemy’s origins is important, for it is clear that many secrets have been lost. If it is possible to extrapolate from what is known of this era, then the achievements of the ancients may have been wondrous.

Arcane Lore

But whereas alchemy was oddly precocious yet stillborn, arcane lore in general was thriving. Every culture had a class of arcanists, and the breadth of approaches to magic was tremendous. Many of these traditions have since been lost, or survive only in half-understood tomes and scrolls. Virtually every cultural group contributed at least one magical doctrine, and these ideas collided and combined with each other with exciting results.

While P’vârism was the dominant framework for understanding magic, the Shèk-P’vâr was not yet an organised body. But arcanists had already begun seeing themselves as a class apart from the kvikîr. Chantries were diverse in their membership, and arcanists travelled freely among them. The seeds of the Guild of Arcane Lore were already planted almost everywhere.

Whether the overall advancement of the arcane crafts was greater in this era than in subsequent times is debatable. There is no question that a lot of arcane knowledge has been lost as particular schools have fallen out of favour or chantries have fallen to disaster. But new developments have compensated, and the concentration on P’vâric techniques has probably led to greater advances than would be possible if efforts were spread more broadly. Overall, the achievements of the Classical Age covered a broader range of techniques and principles, but they did not penetrate as deeply as their successors.

In many areas the achievements of the era were considerable, but were hamstrung by a lack of scale. The region during this era simply did not have the concentrations of wealth required to create architectural masterpieces to match those built in subsequent centuries, or the critical mass of expert craftsmen needed to match the achievements of the Imperial Age. But though the era built few monuments that awe us today, or treasure troves that arouse our envy, it should not be seen as a backwards age.

Temple-States

• Page 9

This religious milieu in bt300 was in a state of ferment. Innovation was everywhere, and the relationship between man and the gods was changing radically. To understand this revolution, we will first look at the roots of religion in Venârivè.

When reaching back to an even earlier era, we find countless religions available to study. In the pre-Venârivan world, every ethnic group had its religion, and each tribe or polity had its own cult centres and specific traditions within that religion. Among the Kàruíans, for example, every city had its own patron god or goddess. That deity was venerated both as the guardian of the city-state and also as member of the larger Kàruían pantheon. The colonies planted by a city would share the same patron, and the general position of a deity within the pantheon was closely related to the power and prosperity of the cities that venerated it.

There were variations on this pattern. Some cultures venerated one or two deities that ruled over the entire culture, though these were usually served by lesser demigods or spirits that might be worshipped by smaller groups. Some deities were worshipped by only a single city or petty kingdom. Pantheons evolved, with specific deities waxing and waning in importance. But certain aspects never changed. Every tribe, town, or principality had a well-defined religion that unified the community and set it apart from its neighbours and rivals.

The state cult was the basis for the social order. It was religion - not kings - that defined and unified the political unit. Chiefs and kings had an important role to play in the religion, but their legitimacy rested on their faithful adherence to the expectations of the cult. It was rare that the secular leader also ruled as high priest. Where this was the case, it was usually in egalitarian societies where the chief had very limited power overall.

Somewhat more common was the two-headed state where a secular chief and a religious high priest shared power. Perhaps the best-known example was among the Eméla, where the authority of the Dhéria-Ísvan was on a par with the Emélan king. By bt300 the Emélan state had evolved to a point where the relationship was no longer as direct. But even today, though Emélrenè is thoroughly polytheistic, the King of Emélrenè must be invested by the Siémist Dhéria-Ísvan to be considered legitimate.

Most tribes and petty states fell in between these two extremes. While the chief was the greatest power in the state, he also served a ritual function, and if he failed in his religious duties there was no chance of his retaining his position. The priesthood had the ability, even the duty, to correct a chief who ruled poorly or neglected the gods. The temple was a power independent from the palace, and served as a check on the power of the chief. The temple was usually also the tax collector, or shared in the collection, and provided whatever bureaucracy the petty state could support. In more advanced polities the temple usually coordinated the public works, such as irrigation and aqueducts. But the chief controlled the fighting force, dealt with criminals, and ran the foreign policy.

Thus, in almost every case there were two centres of power. The chief and his retinue, or in more advanced states, the prince in his palace, protected the population and maintained the physical order. The shamans and priests maintained the spiritual order. It was the latter that truly defined the community and made it cohesive. The boundaries of the tribe or state was exactly equal to the reach of the cult or temple.

Social role

Building social cohesion was the foremost purpose of every religion. It was unthinkable for a member to not engage in the religion. Such an apostate would be shunned by the community. As we shall see, this started to break down in the centuries before our era, and by bt300 only a few communities still had this level of cohesion. But all religions have in their roots a deep revulsion towards apostasy.

In many religions the connection between the god and the community was made explicit in the form of a covenant. Even where the connection was not explicit, every religion had an implied covenant with its worshipers. The contract was simple: obey the rules and prosper. Disobey, and face punishment. For individuals, the punishment was usually shunning. But the community as a whole was responsible to the deity, and disasters of all kinds were interpreted as punishments for the failures of the entire community. Often the king would serve as scapegoat - and sometimes he would be the propitiating sacrifice, as well.

But though the contract was simple, the specific rules could be complex. Dietary restrictions were common, as were restrictions related to hygiene. Some provided tangible benefits - laws regarding the butchery of animals certainly prevented the spread of food-borne disease. But many had no apparent utility. Some were nothing more than taboos, which to an outsider seem random and, although each taboo is trivial they can be overwhelming in number. These laws still served two important purposes. They served as markers for membership in the community, and they discouraged freeloaders - people who wanted the benefits of belong

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ing to the community but didn’t want to contribute in return. Circumcision, tattoos, and other body mutilations served both purposes particularly well.

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In this context, ‘sin’ did not mean a moral failure. Sin meant disobedience. One who sinned was considered ‘unclean’ - unfit for service to the deity. In some cases he might be shunned, but more likely he or she would be prevented from participating in certain community activities or rituals. The sinner could remove the stain through a propitiating ritual - often including the sacrifice of an animal or foodstuff. The details varied considerably, but the general pattern was consistent until new forces started to break up the religious milieu.

In this way, the religion formed the main means of dealing with petty crime. There were no police. Petty crimes were punished through the religion, by shunning and exclusion from community events, and were expatiated through ritual. Greater crimes were dealt with using the only stronger tools at the community’s disposal - exile and execution. Exile - which eliminated the opportunity for the criminal to ever expatiate his sin and restore his right relationship with the gods - effectively condemned the criminal to whatever hell the religion envisioned. Execution merely accelerated the process.

Sacred Places

In religions that had a physical temple or holy place, the temple was usually also a place of revelation. Most temples included an inner sanctum where only an elite group - often, only the high priest - was allowed. From this sanctum came revelations carried by the priest. The nature of the sanctum varied. It could be the apex of a pyramid or the grotto of a cave. It could house a golden idol, an altar, or an ever-burning flame - or nothing but shadows. The sanctum was the holiest place in the cult’s world, and was sometimes considered the deity’s home. It was the site of the holiest rituals, and sometimes, the source of revelation. This was a critical role - revelation was the primary means by which a cult could adapt to changing conditions. When conditions made the existing order untenable, nothing less than a command from the gods could allow its modification. Human opinions and desires were irrelevant unless they were understood as the will of the deity.

Myths

Not all religions had a well-defined tradition of revelation, but all religions had myths. Myths are expressions of religious truths put in the form of stories. They had many purposes, not the least of which was to rationalise the order. The origins and purpose of the covenant - whether the covenant was an explicit construction or was merely implied in the human-divine relationship - was explained through myths. Often the gods personified the relationship, and the covenant was portrayed as a specific contract between one or more gods and the people. More frequently the covenant was revealed in a collection of myths, each of which explained a piece of the order.

When a single god was the divine party to the covenant, the covenant god usually evolved the aspects of a supreme deity. Over time this could lead to schism, or at least spirited rivalry, as seen among the Kàruían states. The covenant god usually absorbed the properties of other deities in the pantheon, and the myths were slowly rewritten with the new protagonist. The other deities faded to the background, often to be demoted to mere spirit, hero, or demigod. Pantheons tended to evolve to include fewer deities of power, but a greater number of lesser beings.

Myths also provided a history, which is important for the self-identification of the community. Such myths often echoed the objective history of the group. The gods and heroes of defeated rivals often appear as giants, goblins, or demons. Sometimes communities merged, and this can be echoed in myths of gods joining the pantheon. It is too much to say that all the events in such myths reflect historical reality, but many clues about the past can be gleaned from them nonetheless.

While it is too much to say that myths were a substitute for science, they did give explanations of sorts for various natural phenomena. All religions had a creation myth, and most had myths to explain phenomena such as rainbows and thunder. But almost all of these myths had a moral element in them, and some were purely moral fables. Satisfying curiosity about the natural world was rarely the most important point of a myth – more often the main purpose was to reinforce the moral code of the community.

Thus the most common type of myth were stories of sin and punishment, or of sin and expiation. All the crimes known to a society appear in its myths, and the consequences thereof are shown in vivid examples. Virtues are rewarded and vices punished, all in accordance with the mores of the society. Among these stories there will often be found examples of a seemingly blameless hero being horribly punished. Inevitably some reason is revealed for the apparent unfairness - an answer that represents that society’s attitude towards life’s most vexing question.

Rituals

If the role of myth is to rationalise the order of society, then the role of ritual is to reinforce that order through constant repetition. Rituals were usually centered on a temple, but some cultures favoured natural places of power. Barási Points were often used as ritual sites, as

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were promontories, caves, and natural springs. A few nomadic groups brought their temples with them, in the form of a portable tabernacle or altar.

Rituals had several purposes. Foremost were the rituals of expiation and purification, which were necessary to allow sinners to reenter society, and for the society to remain true to the covenant with the gods. These rituals could serve either the individual or the society as a whole. In the latter case, the chief or king often represented the society, and the ritual legitimised their rule for another cycle.

It was not just sin that required purification. Many ordinary activities were considered polluting, and ritual purification was necessary before the polluted could rejoin society. There was a hygienic rationale for many such taboos – for example, contact with blood was considered unclean by almost every faith. The priests had no knowledge of germs, but experience taught them that a thorough and pious cleansing protected people from illness. This taboo went beyond just butchering animals, though, but was usually extended to any contact with blood, including from menstruation or childbirth. For some, merely touching a menstruating woman required a ritual ablution. This was not always disadvantageous to the woman. In a Zonâran legend, the wise Queen Alraba prevented a battle between her quarreling sons by summoning all the menstruating women to the battlefield and chasing the men away.

Ritual ablution is still a part of most faiths, but it has much less importance today. It survives in the confession and penance rituals of Laránianism, the butchering rituals of Peónianism, in the laving bowls of the Sávè-K’nôrans, and perhaps even in the Dezenaka ritual of the Navéhans. It is also seen in the low social status accorded butchers, barbers, and hideworkers almost everywhere. In most cities, these guildsmen are segregated, and often the jobs are dominated by immigrants. In part this is due to the stench and mess the jobs entail, but it is also an echo of the ancient blood taboos.

Some rituals were expressions of thanksgiving - of a good harvest or a successful battle, for example. Others were meant to obtain favour from the gods, perhaps in preparation for harvest of battle. Some religions had rituals to divine the future, but for the most part oracles and haruspexes existed outside the religious establishment. The relationship between priests and fortunetellers is usually ambivalent and sometimes hostile. Societies look to their religion to provide certainty in a chaotic world, and the capriciousness of oracles is incompatible with that mission.

Many rituals serve only to reinforce the sense of community. Such rituals include rites of passage, such as those that mark a young person’s entrance into adult society. These are almost always among the most prominent rituals in a society. It is indicative of how deep the crisis was among the traditional religions that in bt300 very few of these rites were still being practiced. Circumcision and other body mutilations had already been abandoned by all but a few groups. But the rites did not completely disappear. The ritual dubbing of knights can be traced to Atáni practices, and tattoos remain common for many groups.

Pantheism

It was the myths and rituals that truly defined a religious community. These things were jealously guarded and adhered to. About the gods themselves people showed a bit more flexibility. The divine milieu within the community was occasionally monotheistic - Ilvîr, for example, was almost always mythologized as having no companion. But pantheism was more common. Individual deities within the pantheon all had a role in the myths and rituals. But to worship a god outside the community pantheon was a betrayal of the community itself.

Not that people did not acknowledge the divinity of their neighbour’s pantheon. In fact, in some cases a community might even consider a rival’s pantheon to be more powerful than their own. The Ilvîran communities among the Járind were not the only group that took a sort of pride in the obscurity and eccentricity of their deity. But whereas ethnic pride certainly swelled the opinion of a deity among his followers, what attached the followers to a pantheon or deity was not how powerful the deity was claimed to be, but the body of myth and ritual that connected the human with the divine.

The technical term for following one deity or pantheon exclusively while acknowledging the legitimacy of others is Henotheism. Most of Venârivè today is henotheistic, but whereas in pre-Venârivan society the distinctions between pantheons were drawn between tribal groups, in tr720 the distinctions are largely a matter of social class. Ethnic religions have survived, particularly in peripheral lands such as Ivínia. But even the worship of ethnic gods such as Sárajìn has evolved to resemble a class religion in places away from the ethnic heartland.

It should be noted that the cross-identification of deities across disparate pantheons (syncretism) is a relatively modern fashion. While deities often crossed lines to join neighbouring pantheons, this was almost always a local phenomenon and the identification was straightforward. The gods of a defeated tribe might become the demons of the victors, or might be remythologized as servants. Popular deities might even be merged into the pantheon directly. So, whereas it is possible to trace the path of some Kàruían deities like Haléa and Eóni through the cities and colonies of that region, in bt300 only a few speculative minds would have considered the idea that the Kàruían Eóni was the same deity as the Áltic Syra. The era for such theological theorizing was still in the future.

Religious Change

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By bt300, the tribal religions were losing their grip in many regions. In peripheral areas, such as Ivínia, the community religions were still strong. And notably, in Hácherdad the temple-state survived all the way to modern times. But in most of Venârivè the traditional religions were in decline, and communities were under stress as a result. But the transition was far from complete. No new structure had yet emerged that could replace the temple-state or ethnic tribe. Until new institutions could be formed to provide order and cohesion, large polities would be impossible.

Part of the stress on the incumbent religions came from immigrants and trade. Outsiders are always a threat to social cohesion and are thus usually segregated as much as possible from the native population. Most cities of the era kept foreigners to specific quarters and made sure that their religious practices were kept discrete. But in most places these barriers slowly eroded, weakening the state religion in the process.

Missionary Faiths

But this is only part of the story. The greater challenge came from a series of religious innovations that occurred in the previous centuries. New religions appeared, their origins obscure but certainly based in conventional tribal faiths, but transcending their tribal origins. Each new faith was wildly different from the rest, but one feature that they shared in common was a missionary spirit. The desire to proselytise was foreign to the incumbent religions, and the advantage it provided would be disastrous to the existing social structure.

Àgríkanism

The first of the missionary religions was probably the worship of the warrior fire-god, Ágrik. One tradition places the founding of the church in central Lýthia at around bt1500, while another suggests Lysâra, but it is impossible to attach any dates or places with certainty. It almost certainly was a conventional faith, probably serving a community of Azéri peoples, and it may be rooted in older gods from the Vénic Isles. There is no evidence that at this time the faith had any missionary impetus. It seems likely that the worship was centred around a volcanic phenomenon, or, at least, the community that worshipped Ágrik was located in an area where fiery volcanic imagery was available for inclusion in myth and ritual. The faith also was probably centred around a physical temple where regular sacrifices could be held. This temple is echoed in the tradition of the 888 cairns, and Àgríkanism today is still strongly centred on physical temples. The veneration given the Balefire Chronicles is typical of that given to artifacts that embody the religious covenant. Although it’s possible that the Balefire Chronicles was an entirely new creation of the transformed religion, it seems unlikely that such a creation would arise from a community that was not already used to the covenant ideal. So it seems that Àgríkanism arose from a conventional temple-state, remarkable only for its vivid imagery.

But somewhere between bt1500 and bt800, when the first independent evidence of Àgríkan missionaries is found, the religion came unmoored from its temple origins. The cause must have been traumatic for the community and its priests, as it forced a dramatic change in the basic structure of the faith. We will look at the change, and from that derive some idea of what might have caused it,.

Certain things did not change. The need to sacrifice to maintain the social order did not. Arguably, Àgríkanism remains today the religion most faithful to the idea of sacrifice and propitiation. The Pàmesáni is much more than just a spectacle - it is a direct throwback to the original propitiation rites of the faith. The covenant has also survived with many of the features of its original form. Àgríkan moralism has nothing to do with modern ideas of good and evil. It is about obedience to an often capricious god, and the maintenance of a particular kind of community. That the community envisioned appears depraved to outsiders is irrelevant to the covenant. Ágrik promises order and prosperity for his dedicated followers - not a superior moral order.

We will note that in later centuries some Àgríkans, perhaps embarrassed by the shallowness of their faith compared to the more sophisticated religions that appeared later, began to alter the Àgríkan covenant. These innovations will be examined as they arise, well after the era we are describing here.

The difference between the original faith and the missionary version that replaced it was the nature of the temple and the scope of the covenant. The central temple was replaced by the idea of the 888 cairns. The number is, of course, a mythological term. It had a twofold meaning - that there were to be many temples, and that they should be built in every corner of the world.

Originally the covenant applied only to the temple community - Ágrik’s ‘chosen people’. But in the new religion the covenant applied not to an ethnic community but to an ethnically heterogeneous warrior elite. This difference radically changed the nature of the faith. Not only did it free the faith to spread to other places, it actually mandated the spread of the religion. The mandate was mythologized as the search for a champion - a search that required the adherents to spread out and find converts in every land.

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How can we explain this change to the Àgríkan’s concepts of the temple and the covenant? It is impossible to trace now exactly how and why the faith came apart from its moorings, particularly since we are not precisely certain just where the faith originated. But the evidence suggests that the transformation began when the original temple was destroyed in a cataclysm. Considering the imagery, a volcanic eruption might have been the culprit. Given the traditional connections between the early faith and the mountains of the Ázeryàn Peninsula, the possibility is reasonable. Apparently the temple-state was strong enough to survive the immediate cataclysm, but with its religious centre wiped out its myths and rituals had to be retooled. The covenant, which promised prosperity and order as long as the community maintained obedience to the temple regime, had to be reinterpreted. Throwing it out altogether was impossible - that would mean surrendering the community’s identity.

So the temple regime was replaced. Instead of being centred on a single temple, it would be centred on any location where adherents could gather. The covenant was removed from the temple and put into a book that could be moved and copied. Now anyone could be part of the covenant, regardless of their location or tribe.

But for a faith to uphold the divine order, it must be supreme within its geographic bounds. A faith that allows for an alternative to its vision will die for lack of cohesion. But the faith now claimed for its boundaries the 888 cairns – in other words, the entire world. Therefore the faith gained an imperative to bring all the world under Àgríkan rule. The earliest Àgríkan mission almost certainly was a militarily successful one, otherwise the idea would have seemed too absurd to survive. But the spread of the religion could not have been by sword alone - there is no evidence of widespread Àgríkan conquests during this period, yet the faith apparently spread as far afield as Hèpekéria and perhaps Mafán.

Àgríkan mythology portrays the early missionaries as bands of priest-warriors who built the 888 cairns all across the world. The stories of their exploits almost always follow a conventional pattern. The missionary leader challenges the champion of the ‘pagan’ tribe, slays him, and the tribe enthusiastically converts. These stories tell us much about how the religion sees itself, but only hint at actual events. It is more likely that a combination of military victory, political machination, and verbal persuasion were required to spread the faith.

PIC

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Àgríkan missionaries - whether they relied on words or steel - faced considerable resistance. Their message was a direct challenge to the incumbent religions they encountered, and they were often met with violence. It may be that Àgríkanism’s focus on the military caste came from the fact that the easiest path to missionary success was to start at the top. To the rulers of a temple-state, conversion to Àgríkanism provided an alternative to the strictures of the conventional temple. It weakened or removed the primary brake on their power. When Àgríkanism was a local community faith, it would have had to serve the needs of the entire community. But as a missionary faith, it could focus on just the ruling class, and evolve myths, rituals, and rules that best serve the warrior caste. We can’t do more than guess at the details of how the Àgríkan faith evolved and spread. But we can say that by bt300 the faith had reached almost all of Venârivè. In some regions the incumbent religions fended off the challenger, but in others it completely wiped out what existed before. Lysâra was definitely an important centre in bt300, but its claim to be the mother city of the faith is dubious. As we shall see, Lysâra’s position in the faith has been intimately tied to the power of the Amànasûrif. The myth of Lysâra’s antiquity is a crucial support for the legitimacy of the Amànasûrif’s position.

Navéhanism

Àgríkanism was the first missionary religion, but it did not have the field to itself forever. Some time before bt800 a second faith began to compete against it – the cult of Navéh. At some point it also jumped from being a community religion to one with universal appeal. It’s appeal would prove to be much broader than Ágrik’s, and it would spread across as great an area despite starting centuries later.

There is no question that Navéhanism is an ancient religion. The myriad demons and demigods that populate the mythos can only be the product of centuries of accretion. Navéh began as a moon-sky god, and probably was venerated by a temple-state similar to the one that spawned the Àgríkan faith. It is hard to guess just where it began. The Târga Valley seems to be the centre of the faith today, but the documented presence of Navéhans in Hârn at the Battle of Sorrows (bt683) suggests an origin among the Phâric peoples. Most likely, the Târga Valley was proselytised somewhat later. Regardless, the identification of Navéh with the moon and night sky suggests a deity sovereign over fate and order. Kèthîra’s night sky is extraordinary predictable, it’s orderliness apparent even to observers with the crudest of markers. Navéh could not have been a capricious deity, but a god who kept the machinery of the universe running like clockwork.

The myths of Hârsa-Návla and Sínan-khu-Hazâr suggest that the early Navéhan religion had a strong tradition of revelation. Hârsa-Návla is a place where only the chosen few can enter and receive visions from Navéh - which exactly describes the sanctum of a temple. So it seems likely that Navéhanism, like Àgríkanism, was a conventional temple-state religion. But somehow Hârsa-Návla changed from a specific physical location to a mythical citadel, and the religion picked up a unique apocalyptic doctrine. How it did so is not recorded - the earliest records of the Sínan myths came too late to preserve the necessary details. But we can make a fair guess of the process.

Some conventional religions have a tradition of prophecy - something entirely different from the divination of oracles, astrologers, and other soothsayers. A prophet was not an oracle but a gadfly - a preacher who pointed out the problems in society and called for their correction. Like the diviners, he made predictions of the future. But his predictions were based only on his understanding of the divine order, usually helped by a knowledge of human nature. Most prophets were relentless pessimists, insisting that the community was doomed unless it lived in more perfect accordance with the laws of the religion. But some were astute political observers, and some were moral thinkers of a high order. Not all societies tolerated them, but the few that did usually benefited from their candor.

The mythic founder of the Navéhan religion, Sínankhu-Hazâr, seems to be the heir of a prophetic tradition. His language and imagery is similar to many other prophets, and on the face of it is simply a conventional call towards greater piety. There is little in his literal words that suggest that he was attempting to create a new religion. He was apparently merely predicting the destruction of the temple-state if the population did not adhere to Navéh’s strict code. As such, he was following the template used by prophets everywhere.

The extent to which Sínan himself exhorted his followers to a higher degree of asceticism than that demanded by an already order-driven religion is hard to tell. Most of what is attributed to Sínan was written down much later under very different circumstances. Even if Sínan did tell his followers to “shed all fleshly ties”, in the prophetic context this simply meant to avoid the sins of the body - lust, gluttony, and laziness. He certainly attracted followers - the Fifteen Prophets, at least.

But there are two features of the Revelations of Sínan-khu-Hazâr that are not part of conventional prophesy. In the Revelations, Hârsa-Návla has been removed from physical reality. It has become a place outside the world, accessible only to Sínan and his chosen disciples. This is a revolutionary concept - a complete break with the temple system.

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The second innovation was the apocalyptic eschatology. Sínan’s apocalypse comes in the form of a war among the gods that would bring chaos to the world. In the aftermath, Navéh would restore order - at least, for his chosen followers. Not all religions feel the need to establish an eschatology, but many that do include an apocalypse followed by a heavenly age. What makes the Revelations unique is that the source of the apocalypse comes from gods beyond the native pantheon. An apocalypse myth is at its core a retelling of the sin-and-propitiation myth, writ on a larger scale. To include outsiders in the myth offends the sovereignty of the native pantheon. The Navéhans must have had a strong reason to include other gods in their eschatology. And it is notable that the end comes, not from fire or flood, but war.

One event suffices as the origin of both innovations. The temple in the state where Sínan-khu-Hazâr preached must have been destroyed by an outside army – probably after Sínan had died. Some of the details can be deduced from the Revelations. The myth makes a point of establishing that before his death Sínan took the Fifteen Prophets to Hârsa-Návla. This strongly indicates that at some point in time Sínan’s followers were in need of a new revelation, and at the same time the Fifteen Prophets required a boost in their credibility. They obtained this credibility by claiming that Sínan had anticipated the need for the revelation. It was a powerful myth.

Sínan had preached that if they kept to Navéh’s law that he would keep the community orderly and safe. Sínan’s followers did their best, yet disaster befell the community in the form of an outside army that razed their temple. They had three possible responses. They could repudiate their religion. They could admit to their own personal failings and confess to sins that merited destruction. Or they could reinterpret their religion. They could place Hârsa-Návla beyond the reach of their enemies, separating it from the now-destroyed temple. By stating that the Fifteen had themselves been to Hârsa-Návla, they could both establish the myth and also counter the attacks of any remaining traditionalists in the community.

With the original temple gone and its people dispersed, Sínan’s disciples began to proselytise in the broader world. It was probably a forced diaspora, as there is no indication in the Revelations that any part of the faithful remained in the original homeland. The Revelations were probably written well after the diaspora began. It’s portrayal of Sínan as a wandering preacher is an attempt to place the origins of the diaspora with the mythic leader, but all the details of Sínan’s life and preaching suggest he never travelled far from the original temple. But Sínan’s followers certainly did travel, and began recruiting followers from every culture they met.

So, like Àgríkanism before it, Navéhanism became unmoored from its original temple. However, the teachings of Sínan-khu-Hazâr differed greatly from the Àgríkan ideals. First, there was nothing about his teachings that limited it to a particular class. As we shall see later, the religion evolved in many areas to appeal mostly to outcasts, but the Revelations are clearly written as an appeal to all peoples. Sínan’s original message was intended to all members of his community, and the destruction of the temple allowed his message to be reinterpreted to apply to all mankind. No distinctions are made for class or ethnicity.

Secondly, the code of conduct it promoted was disciplined, ascetic, and appealing. To the members of a conventional religion, with its capricious demands and its unfailing support of a sclerotic social order, the ascetic Navéhans must have been fascinating. The Navéhans built no temples and made none of the propitiating sacrifices that marked conventional religions. The religion was uniquely personal. Instead of demanding arbitrary sacrifices and obtuse rituals, the religion encouraged a strict code of personal conduct. The new faith engaged the believer in a deeper way than any religion had before.

The creation of Sínan and his followers was not a complete moral theory. The motivation for good conduct was still the propitiation of a deity rather than any abstract ideal. A higher level of moral thinking would have to wait until more religions began to compete in the intellectual arena. But it was a considerable improvement over the comparatively arbitrary codes that it competed against, which helped it spread rapidly. The lack of temples also made a rapid expansion easier. By bt300 it had reached every corner of Venârivè.

Sávè-K’norans

A third religion broke the conventional mold as well - perhaps the earliest of them all. The origins of the Sávè-K’nôr faith are completely obscure. The myths regarding Eilár el Íronoth and his three companions are entirely conventional and tell us little of the historical truth. As we shall see in a later chapter, they were first recorded in their current form to give the church an Ázeryàn connection, which was important in the early days of the Empire. Even the date is an invention, meant to give the church the dignity of great antiquity without placing it so far in the past that the Ázeryàn connection was broken.

If there really was as Eilár el Íronoth, he must have been an organiser and missionary rather than a hermit in the Ázeryàn Desert. In this era he would have found chantries of arcanists already scattered about Venârivè.

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The members of these chantries had little connection to the local communities, and therefore no stake in their religion. As outsiders they would not have been welcome in the local rituals or appreciative of the local myths. They were separated by distance from their native temples, which left a terrifying hole in their lives. Rather than face a life separated from the divine, at least some arcanists chose to build a faith of their own.

Most likely, the members of these chantries would already have been familiar with one appropriate deity. As they studied the achievements of Mafanese lorists they inevitably were brought into contact with the Mafanese god of knowledge, Shávkan. Despite their limited familiarity with him, it would not have taken much effort for these lorists to build up enough rituals and myths around him to form a new religion. This process would have occurred in many chantries simultaneously, connected as they were through the peregrinations of their members. The role of a man such as Eilár al Íronoth would have been to regularize the faith, spread out as it already was.

However, it is doubtful whether the character of Eilár al Íronoth has any basis in a real person. Such characters usually are attributed with the composing of a holy book, and it is remarkable that a church which considers itself a mirror of Inor Teth, where the Vâr-Hyvrák resides, has no tome of its own. This lack suggests that the church evolved in multiple places roughly simultaneously, and the various strands of the faith unified in a slow process of convergence. A holy tome would have required a level of unity that probably did not exist until much later.

Like Ágrik, Sávè-K’nôr was worshipped by a particular social class. The faith had no claim to universality. But it was otherwise completely conventional. The rituals of ablution and the rites of passage that still characterise the faith have the same functions as the rites of any of the community faiths of the era. Only the definition of the community was different. At first the rites of the faith was practiced within the chantries, and there are few dedicated temples that date to this era. The faith certainly reinforced the evolving structure of the chantries, giving them more unity and regularising their practices. In this era, before the creation of the Guild of Arcane Lore, the line between the faith and the chantries was blurred, and the the two institutions would not become thoroughly distinct until they were struck by an intellectual crisis at the beginning of the Túzyn Era.

Impact of Missionary Faiths

By bt600 the missionary religions had begun to have an serious impact on the traditional religious communities of Venârivè. The spread of Àgríkanism was particularly devastating to the communities where it was successful. The defection of the warrior elite to the new religion destroyed the covenant relationship between the community and the pantheon or deity, and the entire edifice of myth and ritual could only crumble in response. Once the religion could no longer provide for the social order, it lost its legitimacy. The members of these communities began searching for new alternatives.

Not all communities fell to the Àgríkan onslaught. The relatively stable and cosmopolitan Járind and Kàruían city-states kept their faiths, though the similarly urban Târga Valley states were fertile recruiting grounds for both Àgríkans and Navéhans. A number of tribes - Alt, Quârph, Ivínian, and others - dealt violently with the Àgríkan interlopers, while some like the Bésha were won over. The temple-state of Hácherdad proved to be entirely immune, to the point where Ágrik and Navéh were treated as demons.

For those communities where the incumbent religion was crumbling, one available alternative was Navéhanism. But the asceticism that faith demanded made it hard to sell to the broad population, and nowhere did it become a majority faith. Instead, communities fell into the two most degenerate forms of religion - faiths that addressed the most fundamental human concerns in the most direct manner possible. They prayed to a mother goddess to bring fertility, and to a god of death to avoid a hellish afterlife.

Peónianism and other responses

Peónianism first appears as an independent religion in about bt600. Many pantheons include a Peóni-like goddess of maternity and fertility, and the appeal of this goddess usually remained strong even after the rest of the pantheon shrank in the presence of the new religions. It took centuries for these several mothergoddesses to coalesce into the universal goddess, Peóni, and even today there are substantial regional variation in Peónian myth and ritual. The church remains perhaps the most decentralized faith, and the most tolerant of local idiosyncrasies.

Peónianism replaced the temple system for the expiation of sin with a simpler idea. The temple was idealised in the form of Válon, the Peónian heaven. Sin was no longer a matter of disobedience to the ideals of the local community - the local community no longer had a unified set of ideals. Instead, sin was defined as disobedience to the ideals of Válon. And the expiation of sin no longer required a temple. The rituals could be performed anywhere.

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It was an good religion for chaotic times. It has particular appeal to the rural peasantry, who were finally free of their obligations to the central temple. For most, Válon was the most attractive vision of heaven yet seen. And the ethical vision was competitive with the Navéhans, but didn’t require the strict self-discipline that Navéh required.

In bt300 it was still too early to use the term ‘Peónianism’ to characterise the many mother-goddess cults. It would take several more centuries for the cults to fully coalesce. At the same time, it was also too early to characterise the many death-cults as Môrgáthanism. But they were nearly as widespread as the fertility cults - in fact, they were very often found together.

The need to propitiate the death god is a common feature in religions, and, like the desire for fertility, often outlasted the devolution of the community faith. Death cults will exist as long as mankind fears death. Like the fertility religion, the death cults varied widely from place to place. They generally required some kind of temple for their rituals, and the priests had a more powerful role. But there was no ethical content to their rites and mores. The death cult could not replace the old religion nor compete with the new religions as a central institution in the community. It was always a secondary cult - a deity that most respected but few followed.

Although Laránianism was just beginning to flourish in the last decades of this era, the discussion of its origin and growth properly belongs in the next chapter. Over the next thousand years all of the religions rooted in this era would evolve - some, dramatically. Religions would become more sophisticated in their understanding of ethics, eschatology, and theology. But in bt300 they were still young, and had not yet travelled far from their roots.

Emélan Religion

The path of Emélrenè shows precisely how the temple-state of the Early Classical Age evolved in reaction to the religious ferment of the age. The earliest Emélan religion consisted of a fairly conventional pantheon, the Kuélrhyn, headed by a forest deity, Ylvýr. Not all lead deities are sun, sky or earth gods who claim universal power. Some, like Ylvýr, are strongly associated with a geographic area or feature of particular importance to the community. Ylvýr headed a pantheon appropriate to the Emélan environment. It included Elarána, a hunting goddess; Beóna, a hearth goddess; Gáranik, a warrior god; Edâryr, a sea god; and a brother-sister pair, Zârenor and Úlana, who are the primary characters in the morality fables of the faith, with Úlana usually getting into trouble through her capriciousness or immorality, and Zârenor resolving the situation through his wits and magical power.

Some time around bt1600, the Emélans made a radical change in their religion. As contact with the Sinái increased the Emélans became familiar with their deity, Síem. Given the enormous advancement of the Sinái, the Emélans could not help but desire to emulate every aspect of their culture, including their religion. Perhaps at the invitation of the Sinái, the Emélans entered into a covenant relationship with Síem. The Covenant of Es represented a major break, and could only have been possible because the community found the Siémist covenant extremely compelling.

And for nearly a thousand years, the covenant worked brilliantly. That is a remarkable time for a relatively small state to exist and thrive within the same borders, and surely much of the reason was the domestic tranquility that a well-regulated religion provides. Neither the Àgríkans nor the Navéhans could get a foothold in the kingdom. The Àgríkan technique of co-opting the warrior class failed against the cohesive Emélans, and the Navéhan asceticism was less attractive than Siémist asceticism, the effectiveness of which the Sinái provided an immediate proof. As we have seen, the worship of Sávè-K’nôr did evolve among the scholar class. He was associated with Zârenor, and his worship was tolerated as long as the practice was confined to scholars who did not challenge the community rituals.

The covenant ended abruptly, though, with the disaster at the Battle of Sorrows. The Siémist covenant had been broken when the Atáni – many of them Àgríkan or Navéhan – forced the Sinái to abandon the Codominium and sever most of their ties with Emélrenè. Emélrenè was shaken as though by an earthquake as the social contract was suddenly nullified. Total collapse was entirely likely, as confidence in the templestate was shattered. The Dhéria-Ísvan responded by invoking the only other religious concept that had any credibility in the realm – the Kuélrhyn. The Covenant of the Eméla was declared in bt670, just ten years after the Battle of Sorrows. The Siémist Dhéria-Ísvan ceded most of his power to the king, who previously was a secondary power except in times of war. He also brought back the old religion, ceding the public square to the old gods and reducing the Siémist presence dramatically.

Veneration of the Kuélrhyn had never disappeared, but during the Covenant of the Es it was not relevant to the community rituals. The myths were still popular, though much of the meaning was forgotten. The perception of the deities had changed, as well. Ylvýr was no longer the centre of the faith – in fact, he appeared almost as a foreign deity, his connection to the rest of the pantheon was now obscure. Gáranik had been mythologized out of the pantheon some centuries before, presumably as people noted his resemblance to the hated Ágrik. Some time around bt1200 a myth

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appears in which Gáranik is expelled from the pantheon for stealing fire for himself. Edâryr and Úlana had been nearly forgotten. So Elarána and Beóna became the principle deities of the pantheon, and the temple district of Beréma was rededicated to their worship.

The new Covenant of the Eméla was clearly imperfect. The character of Elarána had to change considerably from her original archer-huntress form. She was now one of the central deities of a sophisticated state, and her worshippers began seeing in her aspects of a war leader. In particular, they had to see her as capable of keeping the Àgríkans on their borders at bay. In contrast, Beóna required little rethinking. Her cult eventually merged easily into the other Mother-Goddess cults that were coalescing as Peónianism.

Whether the cult of Elarána evolved into the Laránian Church, or Laráni first appeared elsewhere and absorbed the Elarána cult is an unanswered question. The great period of Laránian expansion started about two centuries after the Covenant of the Eméla and was led at least in part by Emélan missionaries. All this is consistent with an Emélan origin for the faith. But it is also possible that Laránianism arose elsewhere – the northern shores of the Sea of Ménkris, home to a horse-warrior culture, is often mentioned. In this theory, some time around bt500 Laránian missionaries convinced the Emélans that their Elarána was cognate with Laráni. Nothing rules out either possibility. What is known for certain is that most Emélans believe that all three ‘white gods’ – Laráni, Peóni, and Sávè-K’nôr – were first venerated in Emélrenè. They credit this to their own superior spiritual awareness – the gods reveal themselves first to those most capable of understanding.

Sources and Spread of Ideas

Tracing the origin of specific ideas and methods found in this era is a challenging task. To start, there is very little evidence available. There are very few manuscripts that can be be reliably dated to this era - many that are believed to be this old are actually much younger. Scholars commonly attribute their own works to more ancient masters. The practice is so common that it is not considered fraud at all. Placing an ancient author’s name on a work is a form of homage, and is considered acceptable as long as the style and content seems appropriate. Digests - collections of materials from multiple sources – often have the stain of plagiarism erased by attributing the work to a great master, preferably one that is centuries dead. Most readers accept the practice uncritically - accepting without conscious irony autobiographies in which the author dies in the next-to-last chapter.

As a result, very few works that are attributed to the legendary scholars and writers of this era are authentically ancient. The best source of information is usually from digests that are known to be much younger, but which contain excerpts from ancient sources. It takes a practiced eye to discern these passages and extract them from their modern context. It also takes a gadfly’s willingness to flirt with heresy - or at least, a disregard for ancient authority. Unfortunately, the main result of this sceptical and analytical approach is to realize how little is really known.

But if we can’t trace individual ideas with any precision, we can at least trace broad styles and schools of thought. Individual scholars are too obscure to discern, but cultural influences can be deduced by analysing language, style, and content. Myth and tradition have to be considered as well. But no one source can be accepted uncritically. To accept linguistic evidence alone ignores the fact that ideas can be easily translated across languages. Style and content are more durable, but scholars looking for parallels often misinterpret similarities as proof of common origin when in fact they are coincidental or the results of parallel evolution. And tradition is the least trustworthy source - and yet usually is the evidence that is most vehemently defended.

We will not attempt to trace any particular idea or style through this era. Instead we will describe the pathways by which most have travelled, and the most important sources from which they originated. Venârivan cultures were children with many parents, many of which were highly advanced. As literacy was widespread, elements of these older cultures could spread broadly and penetrate deeply. Literacy allowed ideas to travel haphazardly, but certain pathways were followed again and again.

Eastern Influences

The most important path led from the East. Cultural elements that originated in Ch’mísa or even ancient Molkûra travelled west, first through Mafán, which added elements of its own devising, and then to Venârivè. The route fell into decline after the collapse of the Mafáni Empire in the mid-Sixteenth Century bt, and for most of the subsequent millennium-plus the cultural exchange between Venârivè and the East was comparatively limited. But despite the long drought, a huge amount of Venârivan culture came from Eastern roots.

There were three main paths by which Eastern ideas were introduced, and over the centuries each varied in importance. The most travelled path followed the Târga River, and throughout our era the cities that dotted that route styled themselves as survivors of the lost Mafáni Empire. With the conservatism that has always been characteristic of the Târga Valley, the city-states

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did their best to imitate and preserve the remnants of Mafáni culture that they inherited. While this was plain enough in their crafts, it was even more apparent in their religion. The temples of the Târga Valley were mostly built to the same gods as in Mafán. Shávkan and Zârath predominated - interestingly, two gods of knowledge and craft. The path went both ways - the worship of Navéh and perhaps Ágrik spread to Mafán during this era.

The Béshakan Desert was a second conduit for Eastern ideas. But the Bésha nomads and Hácherim city-states were more resistant to adopting Eastern habits, and the culture did not penetrate very deep. Hácherdad served as a buffer, allowing ideas through while stripping them of most of their political and social power. On the other side of this barrier were the Kàruíans, who sifted through Eastern ideas and assimilated many that provided direct benefits, yet still preserved their own cultural identity.

The third conduit was in the north. Various Ketâri tribes controlled portions of the northern plains over the centuries. At times the situation was quiescent enough to allow significant trade to pass from Ch’mísa and its environs to and from Venârivè. But even when the routes were closed, ideas still percolated through.

Anzelôrian Influences

Foreign influence came from the south, as well. Traces of ancient Anzelôrian magic and lore can be found everywhere south of the Venârian Sea. There are two paths by which the legendary jungle empires influenced the region. Although maritime connections were limited - the Faláni trade culture did not exist yet - overland connections through Tuvâra and Thónia existed throughout this era. Much of what is now Býria was culturally more closely connected to the South than to the rest of Venârivè.

But the more intriguing connection to Anzelôria came through the survival of an Anzelôrian templestate in the Târga Valley. How such a city came to be is completely unknown, but in bt300 M’ji’mbali still stood as a bastion of Anzelôrian culture in the Târga Valley. The temple-state venerated the Anzelôrian god, Kelána, and although the population spoke Târgana, they were noted for their swarthy skin, unique dialect, and especially their arcane knowledge. The city was reputed to be a thousand years old when it was sacked and utterly destroyed in the wars that birthed the Târgan Empire. The worship of Kelána went underground under Târgan rule. But it reappeared in the Dalkésh pantheon centuries later; kept alive, apparently, but the descendants of the M’ji’mbalites.

Considering the esoteric paths by which Anzelôrian lore reached Venârivè, it was inevitable that all things Anzelôrian would be imbued with a dark mystical reputation. In M’ji’mbali memories of a jungle empire were kept alive, but when that city was destroyed most of its myths and records disappeared. This paucity of reliable sources merely fed the imaginations of adventurers and scholars, and the legends of jungle ruins overflowing with treasure grew. The legends still grow, fed now by the trickle of gold that flows along the Tuvâran trade routes from obscure southern sources.

Influence of the Elder Races

The Elder Races - particularly the Sinái and Kúzhai - had an impact on Venârivan culture entirely beyond proportion to their numbers. The Kúzhai influence was widespread, as they had several cities scattered all across northern Venârivè. It is possible that they taught humans the art of writing, as well as many techniques in working stone and metal. As tempting as it is to believe this, it is more likely that most Kúzhai influence was through example rather than direct instruction. The Kúzhai’s neighbours often appreciated and imitated Kúzhai artistic styles in jewellery and metalcrafts, but there is little evidence that the Kúzhai shared their methods. Only in stonework is there clear evidence of Kúzhai providing direct instruction to humans. Humans have often employed Kúzhai masons, who in turn hired human apprentices. The quality and style of stonework in the areas where Kúzhai have been employed - that is, Western Venârivè - show the results.

There is some evidence that the Sinái took a more active role in their neighbours’ development. In heraldry, for example, the Sinái clearly did more than lead by example. Almost all the Sinái influence came from their relationship with the Járin of Hârn. The Sinái ruled over a Járin population during the Hârnic Codominium, and these Járin absorbed an appreciation for the artistic styles of the Sinái, knowledge of crafts such as glassblowing, and other cultural elements such as heraldry and Siémist mysticism. The Járin adapted the Sinái culture to match their needs and abilities, and shared it through trade with their relatives on the continent. After the end of the Co-dominium the Sinái no longer took a direct interest in human affairs, but their influence continued to spread anyway, carried in the hulls of the sea-traders of the Járind ports.

Internal Developments

Not all cultural advances came from outside. Much Venârivan culture is entirely the product of its indigenous peoples. Groups such as the Númec of Hèpekéria, Bésha of the eastern deserts, and Alts from the north contributed stylistic elements, at least, to the milieu. But few technological advancements or important intellectual concepts came from these groups. Intellectually, as well as physically, they remained on the periphery.

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But one group that began on the periphery eventually grew to provide much of the core of Venârivan culture. The Phâric peoples - actually, a collection of only loosely related tribes - are the source of many of the most fundamental concepts in Venârivan culture - religious , political, and social. In later chapters we will trace a number of ideas to their Phâric roots. In bt300 they were still relatively backwards, with scant urbanisation and an unremarkable material culture. They had been forced from their original homeland over a millennium earlier by the same Ketâri horsemen that conquered Ch’mísa and redrew the map of the East. They responded by pushing into every gap in the defences of the Járind, Alt and other peoples in the West. Contact with new cultures and the stress of incessant warfare caused the Phâric tribes to refine their own institutions, and their military success ensured that their innovations would survive.

Cultural Dispersion and Transmision

Two other cultural regions within Venârivè deserve particular attention, less for their original contributions than for their role in assimilating outside influences and retooling them in original ways. Both the Eméla in far Western Venârivè and the Kàruía of the Vénic Islands near the opposite end of the region had a remarkable genius for digesting the achievements of others and advancing them in new directions. Geography certainly was a factor - both were central nodes where trade routes from several directions met. But stabili y was also important. Neither region suffered overmuch from external attack or internal stress. Their institutions grew and matured with few setbacks, giving them influence throughout Venârivè far greater than their demographic weight would indicate.

The Arcane Eméla

The Eméla are known first as masters of the arcane, but this gives them too little credit for their achievement in other areas. In later chapters we will examine in considerable detail their role in the regularising of several churches and in adapting Phâric political ideas to create the modern feudal state. As of bt300, these accomplishments were still in the future. But the Eméla already were leaders in matters of the esoteric.

For their leadership, the Eméla owe much to the unique character of their land, which contains a remarkable number of places of arcane interest. But they owe as much or more to the close relationship the Eméla shared with the Sinái during the Hârnic Codominium. Almost all of the legendary mages of the era had ties to Hârn, and presumably, the Sinái.

So, though Tódwhyr (c.bt1400) and Úlmeràllawn al Mallóch (c.bt1050) were Emélan, they are both closely associated with sites on Hârn. Barási al Kýnvallwyn (b.bt780) spent most of his career in Mèlderýn while the Sinái still ruled Hârn, and he almost certainly based his writings on knowledge shared by the Sinái. Tarl al Barún (b.bt936) seems to be the exception. He is the only major arcanist of the age that is not closely associated with Mèlderýn, Hârn, or the Sinái. But he is also best known as an organiser and compiler of alchemical lore, rather than an original thinker.

The relationship between the Sinái and Emélrenè is still embodied in the Dhéria-Ísvan. The Siémist High Priest was the religious head of the original templestate and he remains a figure of power in Emélrenè. According to Emélan tradition the Sinái King Daélda established the office, and through him the Sinái King Áranath delegated to the Emelene the task of guarding “the land between the rivers.”

Emélrenè became much more than just a conduit for Sinái ideas. It also attracted scholars and craftsmen from all of Venârivè, making Beréma an entrepot for ideas. At the same time, Livélis and other Kàruían towns were fulfilling a similar role in the Eastern Sea. The Kàruíans were exposed to Eastern culture through their trade with the Târga Valley and, indirectly, Hácherdad. Their colonies on the southern Venârian shores brought them into contact with Númec, Tuvâran, and Anzelôrian culture. Through Ûmélria they touched the Ketâri as well as Phâric tribes. And they traded with the Járind states of the West, and attracted immigrants from there.

Kàruían Thought

In arcane matters, the Kàruían city-states could not match the Eméla. Where the Eméla can point to a half-dozen or more arcanists of legendary status during this period, the Kàruíans can only point to Damókra el Abdêra, the founder of a chantry in Livélis in about bt900. The Livélis chantry, writing in Damókra’s name, introduced a considerable body of Eastern alchemy and astrology to the West, and made some new discoveries in mathematics. But Livélis would never challenge Beréma for leadership in this area, and would eventually be eclipsed by a colony on the Ûmélrian shore, Lekûria.

But as a melting pot for art and ideas, the Kàruían ports were unparalleled. Perhaps the greatest cultural figure of the age was Damókra’s contemporary, the poet and playwright Shéran el Kólchra. His Lay of Léios, which presents the foundational myths of the Kàruían people as deeply moving stories of personal tragedies and triumph, is still considered the finest epic ever written. Shéran’s mastery over pathos continues to inspire inquiry into the human condition. The Kàruían people have never relinquished their leadership in poetry and drama, and in later centuries their pursuit of artistic excellence would lead them to advances in ethics, politics, philosophy, and even theology.

Attitudes and Perspectives

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The closing centuries of this age were an era of change and stress. New religions undermined the ancient social order, new trade routes brought new juxtapositions of ideas. States were small and weak. Materially it was an unremarkable age, with few monuments built or famous treasures hoarded. As we have seen, the craftsmanship and lore of the age was well advanced, but the weak social structures could make little use of their assets.

From the era came little to excite a modern treasure-seeker, but from it emerged the key traits of Venârivè’s intellectual milieu. Arguably, the Venârivè of bt300, though advanced in many ways, was still just copying from its various elders. That which was original was generally not very advanced. But this would change in the subsequent centuries, due in large part to two attitudes that emerged in the last part of this era.

The first was an attitude of cosmopolitanism. It is remarkable in the tales of the era that the ethnic origin of travelers is rarely mentioned. Characters are usually described only by their occupation. Only if it is important is their home city mentioned. By bt300, class identification was growing to be stronger than ethnicity. It was supported by the emergence of new religions that appealed to class, as well as by the weakness of the ethnic states. This attitude made possible the emergence of the chantry system and, eventually, the Guild of Arcane Lore. The Mángai would come a little later, following the template pioneered by the lorists. There were few impediments to the growth of such regional institutions.

The second attitude was an acceptance of a diffusion of intellectual authority. Venârivan scholars learned to tolerate conflicts among authorities - they considered it the inevitable price for speculation. Their fetish for antiquity is still a part of Venârivan culture, but it was tempered by experience. It is impossible to study, say, both Ch’mísan and Sináin ontology without being struck by the apparently irreconcilable differences. But by bt300, scholars had learned to accept both sides of such disputes as true within their own context. Debate was encouraged, and while appeals to ancient authority were highly respected, they were not considered definitive. Appeals could even be made to obscure authorities with some success.

While this attitude certainly encourages speculation and prevents popular ideas from devolving into dogma, it also discourages any attempt at systematic thinking. There has been no successful attempt - and few attempts whatsoever - at a general theory of physics or chemistry in Venârivè. A general theory would require the explicit refutation of multiple masters and their specific theories. Very few scholars would even think that such a thing was logically possible - it contradicts the fundamental principle that all truth exists within a context. A universal truth is by definition without a context, and therefore insensible. Even if a scholar could talk himself past that irrefutable point, it would require the ego of a megalomaniac to make the attempt.

There are other reasons why systematic thought never penetrated very deep into Venârivan thought. The extreme regularity of the Kèthîra heavens made astronomy too simple. The planets travel with such regularity - perfectly synchronised in circular orbits - that even the crudest observations suffice to reveal its principles. Nolocentrism - the model of the heavens in which all the planets, including Kèthîra, revolve around the sun, has been the standard astronomical model since at least Molkûran times. No alternative has ever been seriously proposed. Accurate astrological charts can be constructed from naked-eye observations by merely watching the relative position of the moon, planets, and the stars along the ecliptic. Not surprisingly, astronomical equipment remains crude, and the mathematics of astronomy - that is, spherical trigonometry - is almost non-existent.

Some trigonometry came to Venârivè, probably through Mafán, for the purpose of surveying and building. But there was no stimulus for developing geometry any further. Without the foundation in geometry, algebra and axiomatics could not get started. It is unlikely that Venârivan scholars would even appreciate the axiomatic approach to mathematics, considering their disdain for absolutes.

But in other areas of mathematics, the Venârivans were extremely precocious. Given the regularity of the heavens, Venârivan astrology is an exercise not in trigonometry but number theory. Their understanding of combinatorics was remarkable, and included the rudiments of group theory - The Ch’mísan Remainder Theorem was just the starting point for their investigations into prime numbers. They applied continued fractions to number theory, and could even calculate such values as the square root of two to any level of precision.

The Venârivans had no problem with dealing with infinities and irrationals. In fact, the existence of irrationals was known to the Molkûrans, who proved it as a property of the orbits of heavenly bodies. But no specific example was known until the ‘golden ratio’ was proven to be impossible to express as a precise fraction by a Kàruían scholar c.bt450. (The credit is given to Damókra el Abdêra, but this is extremely unlikely.)

Mathematics barely touched the realm of arcane lore. Those few alchemists with a numerical bent could quantify some physical properies - duration, weight, and length - but stumbled at anything that could not be directly measured. Density and momen-

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tum were treated as qualities - like hardness or color - not quantities. Speed was quantified - perhaps because at some point an alchemist watched a pilot on a ship - but acceleration was not precisely understood. Temperature could only be described qualitatively. The alchemists have never considered the quantification of physical properties to be important. Like the patisserie who judges the temperature of the chocolate by how it feels on his hand, the alchemist of Venârivè prefer to emphasize the personal over the mechanical.

Most of these deficiencies would never be overcome in Venârivè. But some of the areas in which the region was backwards in bt300 would eventually be areas of brilliant achievement in later centuries. The small and simple states of the era had little need for social or political theories. There are no speculations in the written corpus of the era on Law, Economics, or Politics. The states had almost no bureaucratic machinery, and therefore no need for experts in any of these areas. The states did promulgate edicts, of course, but there is no evidence of any legal theories being applied by even the cleverest rulers. The annals of rulers and events that were collected were given only the slightest glosses. Important events were mythologized, while lesser events were inevitably forgotten. No one thought to study the past for clues to the future. History was not yet invented.

Chronology (Before BT300)

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Possible Link

Colour Highlights: Yellow

INSERT TABLE

c. bt20000 Earthmasters arrive on Kèthîra.

c. bt15000 Earthmasters depart (‘lost years’ begin)

c. bt10000 Siém and Sinái settle on Hârn

bt7190 Kúzhai present on Kèthîra;

foundation of Kúzhan city of Mêrdáin

c. bt7000 Siém departs Hârn with many Sinái;

c. bt5300 civilisation in Mafán

c. bt5000 Járind people descend from sacred caves in the Mountains of the Moon (Ûmélria);

approximate date of first Númec Rock Art in the Dùrqúdani region of Hèpekéria

c. bt4290 Empire of Mafán founded

c. bt4000 Yârhin (Járind) settled in Quârphor and Lánkor

c. bt3700 Second Númec Rock Art period begins

c. bt3500 Járind Zéran migrate to Zêrhanor (Ázeryàn)

c. bt3500 Járind Émhlè migrate through Lánkor

c. bt3300 foundation of colony of Mokôra, Mafán

c. bt3200 Járind Yârhlè migrate to Huriséa

c. bt3100 Járind Émhlè reach Zonâr (Tríerzòn);

Târga River culture first emerges

c. bt3000 Járind Émhlè reach western shore of Lýthia;

Járind Zónawè migrate to Zonâr (to bt2400);

colonisation of Chògôrana coast by Mafáni

c. bt3000 Kuélrhyn pantheon worshipped by Eméla

c. bt2900 henge culture in west Shôrkýnè;

Kingdom of Nálhaan (Upper Târga River valley);

colonisation of Shénti coast by Mafáni

c. bt2800 Vénic Island culture (Azéri)

c. bt2700 henge culture on Mèlderýn;

Third Númec Rock Art period begins

c. bt2300 Kingdom of Nálhaan extends to Târga mouth;

creation of ‘Golden Empire’

c. bt2100 fall of ‘Golden Empire’ (Târga River valley);

Vénic settlement on mainland Zêrhanor

c. bt1900 linear henge culture begins

c. bt1750 Ketâri militarism enabled by iron-working technology

c. bt1700 Phâric peoples driven west by Ketâri

c. bt1600 foundation of Emélan tribal confederation;

‘Covenant of the Es’ established.

c. bt1550 Empire of Mafán falls to Màfakéta nomads

c. bt1500 Ilpýlen delivers the word of Ágrik;

‘Traditional’ foundation date of Àgríkan religion

beginning of Vénic Dark Age;

c. bt1500- Àgríkan tribal religion becomes separated from

bt800 its temple origins ~ CHECK

c. bt1450 Quáandehn / Màfakéta alliance, conquests

c. bt1430 Great Betrayal of the Quáandehn; conquest of Târga River valley by Màfakéta nomads

c. bt1400 fl. Tódwhyr, Emélan Arcanist

c. bt1400 Yaríli migrate to Iváe

bt1388 first walls of Beréma constructed

bt1340 Uphâri defeated by Eméla in Álagon;

closing of Emélrenè

bt1307 Uphâri defeat Shóna Alliance, take Plain of Káretan

bt1300 Járin migrate to Hârn;

bt1286 Co-dominium on Hârn under King Daélda

bt1198 first Phâric (Atáni) confederation founded in Tochéma (Palíthanè)

bt1180 Tochémi-Emélan Wars (to bt900)

c. bt1170 Kingdom of Chúaanagûrlla, Târga River valley

bt1120 ‘foundation’ of Livélis, start date of Kàruía calendar

c. bt1100 Principality of Mokôra is leading Mafáni state;

approximate end of Númec Rock Art period;

c. bt1050 ‘traditional’ date of the foundation of the Church of Sávè-K’nôr by Eilár al Íronoth fl. Úlmeràllawn al Mallóch, Emélan Arcanist

c. bt1000 rise of Kàruía city-states in Venârian Sea;

c. bt970 Árgollûr Uprising, fall of Chúaanagûrlla.

c. bt950 Járind hill-forts on Chel and in Hârbáal

c. bt946 birth of Damókra el Abdêra, near Dúrien

bt936 b. of Tarl al Barún, Emélan Arcanist

c. bt910 unification of Árganaal kingdoms (Târga River)

bt904 Tarl al Barún begins to lecture at Íshranor

bt903 foundation of Damókra’s chantry, Livélis

c. bt900 composition of the ‘Lay of Léios’ by Shéran el Kólchra

c. bt900 Ivíni begin migrating to Iváe;

Phâric peoples (Atáni) begin raids on Hârn;

beginning of the Atáni Wars (to bt683)

c. bt895 Damókra devises the Kàruía Calendar

bt873 death of Damókra el Abdêra, Livélis

bt870 b. of Barási al Kýnvallwyn, Arcanist

bt750 ‘traditional’ date Church of Navéh’s foundation

c. bt700 height of Járind hill-fort culture (Hârbáal, etc.)

bt683 Battle of Sorrows on Hârn; fall of King Daélda Navéhan presence attested at Battle

bt680 Great Abdication, end of Hârnic Co-dominium

bt670 foundation of Kingdom of Emélrenè;

establishment of the ‘Covenant of the Eméla’

c. bt650 beginning of the Eldritch period of Mèlderýn;

Álantra is centre of a Zonâran petty-state (to c. bt200)

c. bt600 Missionary religions have had significant impact on traditional religious communities across Venârivè

c. bt600 ‘traditional date’ of foundation of Peónianism;

Kàruían states develop on coast of Býrios

c. bt550 Quârphic Phâri begin to migrate west

c. bt500 last of Ivínian migrations to Ivínia

c. bt450 height of Járind sea-town Culture;

break-up of Árganaal Kingdoms Confederation (Târga River valley)

Kàruían scholar(s) determines that the ‘golden ratio’ cannot be expressed as a precise fraction

c. bt400 Sôrki (Shôrka) tribes reach Álagon;

Tríeri (Tríerzi) in north Zonâra (Tríerzòn);

Ivínians dominate Iváe;

end of Eldritch period of Mèlderýn (Hârn)

c. bt380 Táneri conquer significant areas of Thánema;

conflict involving Emélrenè (to c. bt250)

c. bt370 traditional date of foundation of the Church of Laráni

Ôrthas the Defender recorded in court annals of Emélrenè

c. bt350 Thánemi culture in Palíthanè

c. bt330 first Hácherian states formed

The Summer of the Classic Age

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When Ámys Tourástis was dispatched from Beréma in bt320 it is unlikely that he thought that his expedition would eventually become the marker that would define an era. He certainly seemed unlikely to become a famous scholar - perhaps the most influential of all time. Ámys was not even a lorist, but a Járind merchant who married into Emélan nobility. He was well-travelled, had a facility with languages, and most importantly, was an ambitious man. Seeing an opportunity to raise his stature in the Emélan court, he volunteered for a ten-year mission among the Atáni peoples.

At the time Emélrenè was engaged in a long war against a barbaric people on their southern flank. The Emélans would contend against the Táneri off and on from bt380 to bt250, and although the Emélans generally kept the upper hand, the occasional losses had destroyed their sense of invulnerability and gave them a dose of humility. Although the greater part of their conquering impetus had been spent centuries earlier, the Atáni that lived to the north were rapidly growing demographically and politically, and still had an aura of victory about them. Emélrenè’s cultural advantages were diminishing, and it seemed that the future would belong to the Atáni.

Ámys’ mission was a simple matter of espionage. He visited the courts of several Atáni petty kings and reported on their alliances, personalities, and movements. Unfortunately, the information was of little use to Emélrenè, and Ámys’ mission ended quietly. He earned the sobriquet ‘the Barefoot’ when he showed his disappointment with his pay by appearing in the royal court sans footwear. His stunt was spectacularly unsuccessful.

His failure to impress the Emélan court did not discourage him. He began writing about his travels, this time for the edification of the literate Emélan middle class, who found his vivid descriptions of Atáni customs and lifestyle fascinating. Ámys was a gifted writer with an eye for detail, and his works are a marvel simply for their literary content. But the influence of his writings - six folios are known - was much more than stylistic.

It is not a stretch to say that Ámys Tourástis invented history. He was the first in Venârivè to provide perspective on events, rather than merely chronicle them. His description of a war in Western Hârn includes analysis of the motivations of the kings involved, the constraints that dictated their strategies, and even information on their logistics. It was nothing like the poetic descriptions in the Lay of Léios, the mythic histories of religious founders, or the dry chronologies found in the royal annals. It would inspire other writers to do the same, and more importantly, inspire his audience to begin thinking more deeply into events and their causes.

Ámys’ annals also described the laws and traditions of the Atáni, and analysed them in counterpoint to Emélan society. In doing so he opened up new avenues of thought. Previously, law could not be talked about without the context of religion. But Ámys compared legal traditions outside their religious context, freeing later scholars to develop legal theory as an independent field.

Ámys’ Annals of the Atáni were phenomenally popular in Emélrenè. It was already apparent to many that Emélan society was losing its preeminence, and the time was right for a new direction. The Emélans found inspiration in Ámys’ descriptions of the energetic Atáni, and they began emulating their neighbours. Or, more precisely, they began emulating Ámys’ descriptions of their neighbours.

Because as fine a writer as he was, Ámys still had his limitations. Ten years was not enough for Ámys to completely understand everything that he saw. The Atáni were hardly a monolithic culture, and much of the variation was lost or misinterpreted by him. And, like most storytellers, Ámys tended to idealise his subjects. So the Atáni that the Emélans admired and copied were somewhat more perfect than real.

The fashion for all things Atáni grew rapidly, and was soon adopted by the royal court. The leaders soon felt the inadequacy of their own political culture, and they set to reforming Emélrenè’s governance along the lines indicated by Ámys’ works. Their first objective was to shore up the military power of the realm. Events on the battlefield had proven the value of professional heavy cavalry, and the Annals suggested a method by which Emélrenè could obtain a loyal force of armoured horsemen. In bt259, the first king in the Vásinir Dynasty assumed the throne under a new constitution, and Emélrenè became a feudal state. But the feudal structure was highly idealised, with clear-cut rules of precedence and formal oaths. The Atáni themselves did not recognize it at all – their own society had not yet organised itself on the basis of landowning, and Atáni knights were still equipped directly by the kings. Ámys had simply misunderstood what he observed, and conflated the huscarls he saw in the court of the Atáni kings with tributary clanheads and rulers. As we shall see, several centuries later most Atáni realms began imitating Emélan forms, bringing the development of feudalism full circle.

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The Atáni had learned heraldry from the Sinái during the wars for Hârn and from the Járin afterward. Ámys wrote at length on the subject, and the Emélan gentry became enthralled with it. The rigid rules of Venârivan heraldry stem from Ámys’ work and the Emélan’s appetite for idealised models. The works of Ámys Tourástis changed the way people thought about their world, and even the ways they organised themselves within it. His works are a fitting marker for what we will call our Classical Summer, a time of tremendous growth. But his accomplishments were not unique. All across Venârivè, other men would soon tread similar paths.

Underlying Trends

We can find in Ámys Tourástis the cause of many trends, but was there a deeper cause that created Ámys Tourástis? Directly, none deeper than the simple ambition of a talented man. But by bt300 Venârivè was ripe for the appearance of just such a man. A variety of long-term trends were converging to rewrite the cultural map.

Population

Everywhere the population was growing rapidly. Cities exploded in number and size. The majority of cities today trace their roots to the period between bt300 and tr 1 - either they were founded then, or they experienced substantial growth. In this era the pattern of urbanisation was set for the rest of history.

Today this pattern is unusually uniform. It is striking that in tr720, the proportion of urban to rural population is nearly exactly the same in every region, and city populations vary little from region to region and within each region. In theory, the populations of the largest cities should be much higher relative to their lesser kin, and the degree of urbanisation should vary much more. The uniformity of Venârivan urban populations is one of the central puzzles of history, and we will explore it at length as we examine other eras.

But during this era of rapid foundations the distribution of urban centres was closer to expected norms. Leading centres such as Beréma and Hácherdad dwarfed all rivals, and whereas the urban population of the eastern littorals were near modern levels - a little over ten percent, in most of Venârivè only about one in twenty souls lived in a town.

Emergence of True States

Along with the cities came another major social development - the emergence of true states. In earlier times it was impossible to speak of a state as an entity independent of its cult, and whereas tribes might temporarily unite for a specific purpose, no permanent state could exist unless it was small enough for the entire population to have access to the cult centre. But as the ethnic cults weakened the link between cult and state was eventually broken. The political power of the palace could finally outstrip the temple.

The first true state to emerge in the Classical Age was Emélrenè. The Covenant of the Eméla reduced the power of the Dhéria-Ísvan in favour of the King, and over the next few centuries the state grew more self-confidently secular. If there was any doubt about the supremacy of the King at the start of this era, it was erased by the Atáni-inspired reforms of the Third Century bt. Whereas Emélrenè never expanded its borders (as it well could have), from this time forward it functioned as a political state. Power resided predominantly in the King’s Court in Beréma, and its policies towards its neighbours were driven almost entirely by political, not religious, considerations.

The Kingdom of Mèlderýn perhaps best illustrates the pattern in which several small temple-states coalesced into a larger political state. The Five Kingdoms showed the limits of a temple-state - none were larger than could be traversed in a day, and despite the obvious differences in power the larger states never considered conquering or absorbing the smaller. The tiny realms occasionally united to meet common threats, but such unions were always temporary. That is, until the temple system weakened enough for the political to overwhelm the religious. Only then was a permanent unification possible. The Târgan Empire followed a similar pattern, but on a much larger scale.

In many cases the transition can be traced to a particular leader. On Hârn, that man was Lóthrim the Foulspawner. The process came late to that geographical backwater - as late at tr100 there were no polities of any size beyond Mèlderýn. But the colony of arcanists founded by Lóthrim soon changed that. Lóthrim’s empire destroyed the power structure of the existing petty states, and made possible the true states that emerged in the wake of its destruction.

By tr1, true political states filled all but the most remote lands in Venârivè. But the political state was not the only institution that emerged and grew in this period. Just as the weakening of the ethnic cult allowed kings to rise, it also allowed the churches to wax in power and organisation. While they usually claim mythically ancient origins, in truth most of the church organisations have their roots in this era, though they generally had very limited authority.

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Venârivè tr1

Statecraft

In the wake of the growing churches and states came their inevitable followers - the bureaucrats. The administrative demands on a state grow in non-linear proportion to its size. Taxes and tithes that formerly could be collected at a single point and tracked with simple tallies start to require detailed accounting and new checks and balances. The demands on the law outstrips the ability for traditional forms to provide, and kings must begin issuing edicts and their governors must record and interpret them. Of course, kings never write laws. This task is one of many that is delegated to bureaucrats, and as states grew their bureaucracies grew even faster.

But bureaucracy wasn’t limited to palaces. Churches began to build their own bureaucracy, and as we will see later, the first seeds that would grow into the guild system were planted in this era. With bureaucracy comes a need for education, and the proportion of the population that was literate exploded. Bureaucracy also tends to alter the power structure. Warriors no longer had a monopoly on influence in the royal court - litigants, tax collectors, and other bureaucrats mattered as well.

With the advent of bureaucracy the state took on a life independent of its ruler. The death of a king was no longer as devastating to the state, as the bureaucracy maintained the machinery regardless. Even war could be handled without a king - at least, in those states where the bureaucracy was the paymaster of the army. Once this fact was appreciated a new attention began to be paid to the concept of legitimacy. Scholars - and through them, the population at large - began to examine the relationship between the ruler and the ruled in more sophisticated terms.

The Kàruíans were the first to explore these ideas seriously. About bt220 the Livélis playwright Ménekrata wrote The Dèsmédeans. Set in a fictional island kingdom, the play can be read as a gentle lampoon of the deities. In the play, King Dèsméd has died and a number of potential heirs vie for the throne. Each claimant happens to bear a striking resemblance to a deity of the age. (Besides being a epochal work, the play is a valuable resource for those interested in how the human perception of the gods has changed over the last nine centuries.) In the process of pressing their claims -

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usually in a comedic scene - each character elucidates a different idea of legitimacy. The play ends with a stroke of creative genius - an earthquake destroys the island kingdom before a king is crowned, guaranteeing that long after, audiences would argue the merits of every claim.

Ménekrata was probably motivated by the fractious politics of Livélis, which during this era was marked by innumerable plots and coups. He was active in the politics of the city-state, and probably wrote the play to enhance his own reputation as a sagacious thinker. Ironically, it merely gave his rivals the means to force him out of the city. For his comedic portrayal of the gods he was prosecuted for immorality, and he fled Livélis rather than face a trial. His play gained popularity in his absence.

Technology

The explosion of population, wealth, statecraft, and culture demands an explanation, and a considerable number have been suggested. Of course, to some extent progress is self-reinforcing, and an initial advancement in a narrow area can sometimes lead to broader accomplishments, which in turn can stimulate still more advances. But to defer to the idea of the ‘virtuous cycle’ is to abdicate our role as historian, especially when several more direct theories are available.

The foremost theory among those looking for a materialist explanation is that a single invention redrew the map of Venârivè. The mouldboard plough first appears in the decades just preceding our era, and by bt200 it had reached virtually all the regions where it could be of use. Before the invention of the heavy plough the heavy clay soils of the bottomlands were waste. In most areas, farming was limited to the less fertile uplands. So the introduction of the mouldboard plough greatly increased the quantity and quality of land available for cultivation.

It also changed the nature of the city. The citadels of the early classical age were almost entirely hilltop complexes. Their primary purpose was to house the king and the priests, as well as to provide a point of defense. For this they had to be in the midst of the population, and preferably in a defensible position, which almost always meant a hilltop. This was certainly inconvenient for traders, but they played only a small role in the decisions of the early petty-states.

The exceptions were the littoral cultures of the Sea of Iváe, the Kàruían Islands, and a few other coastlands. Here fishing could supplement farming, making possible the port towns from which the maritime trade networks were based. The Kàruían states were particularly successful - the hilly islands and coasts that birthed them have long been cultivated mostly in olives, grapes and other crops which require little or no ploughing. The mouldboard plough has hardly touched those lands, and, notably, much of the advantage that the Kàruían cities held in bt300 was lost by the end of this period.

Over most of Venârivè, as the valley bottoms began to be ploughed, cities were built along the rivers. Palaces and temples moved with the masses to the more productive locales. The valleys could support a greater population density, and river transport allowed towns to draw resources from a larger hinterland. Cities could thus grow considerably larger. They were also much more strongly linked by trade. Trade became a central component of urban life.

The new plough also placed a new requirement on rural society. The plough is expensive, and requires multiple oxen or horses to draw. (In later centuries the development of new horse breeds would reduce this requirement to a single animal.) Individual farmers could not afford such expensive equipment. To afford the plough and beasts the capital of a community had to be aggregated in some way. In some regions this led to the emergence of a highly stratified society, with a landowning class that controlled the plough and thus the means of production, reducing the remainder to a state of actual or near slavery. In other regions a free peasantry was able to avoid this fate, but the needs of the plough caused them to organise into recognisable social units. In time the political organisation of these regions was adapted to the new settlement pattern, and the manorial system emerged.

This transition was marked by two other evolutionary changes. Water mills were not invented in this era - they are mentioned in some of the earliest stories committed to writing. But with the emergence of the manorial system far more communities could build them. We also find the first use of mills for orecrushing, which might explain the fall in the price of iron in this period. Blacksmiths, who formerly were found only in the towns and citadels, now spread into the manors. In addition to crafting the new advanced plough, they made metal implements far more available to the peasant class, advancing the standard of living considerably.

The effects of the introduction of the mouldboard plough are most plainly apparent in the development of Central Hârn. Here a precise date for its introduction is known - the plough was introduced by the Empire of Lóthrim - and the effects on society are well documented. Before the plough the region was divided into dozens of petty states. Like the temple-states of the previous era, the territory of each was limited to a day’s travel from a central citadel. Too small to be called towns, these centres were usually located on hilltops and housed both the religious and military establishments.

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But within a century of the introduction of the plough these petty states had been consolidated into just four sizable realms. While the example of Lóthrim’s Empire certainly encouraged this consolidation, the influence of the plough is plainly seen. Settlement patterns changed considerably as the valley floors were introduced to cultivation. Tashál was transformed from an administrative centre under the Empire into a true city built on trade and industry. The Kath eschewed the new innovation and remained a hill-dwelling culture, and the gap between the Kath and Káldôr became a chasm despite their close ethnic kinship.

Manorialism

While it could be argued that the new realms were, at least in part, survivals of Lóthrim’s Empire, the social structure that they were built on was a new thing entirely. Under the pre-Imperial petty states the only social structure beyond the clan was the petty-state itself. But the manorial system quickly evolved after the fall of Lóthrim. It should be emphasised that manorialism and feudalism are not synonymous. Manorialism refers to the economic arrangement in which tight-knit villages share certain land and assets – either in common or under the ownership of a landlord. Feudalism refers to a political structure in which military service is tied to land ownership through a pyramid of personal bonds. In Káldôr, manorialism developed first and feudalism followed. The petty kings easily transformed into the barons of a proto-feudal system. But it took several generations for their military retainers to become established as the lords of the new manors.

The delay was due to the need for the clan system to adapt to the new economic circumstances. Formerly all military and political power was found in the citadels of the petty kings. But in the new milieu, the manors were an economic power far more concentrated than the old freeholds, and with their growth came a devolution of power from the courts - now held by barons rather than petty kings - to the manors. The huscarls migrated from the keeps to the manor houses, forming an new intermediate class between the barons and the commoners. The barons were not entirely abandoned, of course. They maintained their power through the ties of vassalage, which linked landowning to personal service, and through the personal forces they maintained in their keeps. The new arrangements would be reinforced by the introduction of the Emélan ideas of feudalism adapted from Ámys Tourástis and further romanticized through heraldry and local legends. Once established the system proved remarkably stable.

It has been noted that the goddess Peóni is particularly associated with the mouldboard plough. Her principle servant is Maérmal, the Plough-Ox, and the Peónian faith is strongest where the plough is most used. We have seen other religions tied to specific social groups, but the cult of Maérmal may be unique in Venârivè for being connected to a specific invention.

Farmer

Changes in Settlement Patterns

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The changes in settlement patterns that took place in the late Classical Age are readily apparent in these two maps of this region near the modern imperial city of Ómrium. The first map shows the region as of about bt500. The coastal plain is occupied by a Zónawè culture, centred on the fishing town of Vilépyn. The majority of the population of the plain lived in the central town, which probably held a little more than a hundred households and housed both the local temple and the sub-king. On the rolling plateau above, two Zéran petty states were centred around motte-and-bailey fortifications. These fortified villages were somewhat smaller than Vilépyn, and like Vilepyn housed the civil and religious structures, as well as most of the skilled craftsmen. The countryside was dotted with small thorps – huddled groups of five to ten houses – and some isolated houses. The three population centres were barely connected commercially or culturally.

Changes in settlement Patterns

Four hundred years later the situation was radically different. The mouldboard plough opened the river valley to cultivation, and changes in the religious environment broke the power of the temple centres. The city of Ârriri now dominated the region. It held somewhere around five hundred households, and was part of a regional trade network centred on the mouth of the Zónan River, near modern Berónè. The cultural distinctions between the Zónawè and Zéran were disappearing. Both cultures were now organised around estates, some fortified. Each estate housed twenty to forty households, and collectively they accounted for over eighty percent of the farming population. A few allodial farms survived, mostly in the margins.

The region was now considerably more connected. Not only were roads and bridges better, but the countryside was safer. The military force was no longer completely concentrated in the baileys, but was in part distributed among the more numerous estates. There was less wilderness to traverse, as well. The overall population increased by at least fifty percent in this region, and was generally wealthier due to both greater productivity and access to trade.

Politically, the region was in constant flux. As of bt100 the entire region shown was part of the Kingdom of Ârriri, which stretched up the river valley over fifteen leagues and had a population of roughly twenty thousand. The next year, however, the realm collapsed in the face of a rebellion in an upstream province. Vézyn and Belkenmot each became effectively independent, while Ârriri was annexed by a petty state centred on the upper river valley. Such flexibility would have been impossible in the earlier age. Then, boundaries were dictated by communitarian needs. Now they were a matter of military and economic strategy.

Changes in settlement Patterns

Laránianism

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While it may be that the explosive growth of the Laránian religion was a consequence of the demographic expansion of the age, there are good reasons to consider the spread of Laránianism as a causal factor. The fact of the expansion is indisputable. In bt400 it was the cult of a petty state so unremarkable that we cannot today state with any certainty even the region in which it began. Several cities claim to be the birthplace of the religion, but the evidence for any of them is sparse. Yet by tr100 Laránianism had spread across almost all of Venârivè, and had a profound impact on the political as well as religious structure of the region.

That Laránianism grew as a direct response to the challenge of Àgríkanism is certain. That both religions consider the animosity between their gods a central feature of their mythology is remarkable. Given that Àgríkanism’s expansion predated the rise of Laránianism by centuries suggests that Laránianism was a reactionary force. Àgríkanism challenged the social structure of Venârivan society by breaking the bonds between the military class and the rest of the population. Laránianism countered by rewriting the compact between the governors and the governed, creating a new social order that was ideal for the emerging manorial civilization.

So ideal, in fact, that some credit for the demographic expansion of the era surely belongs to the emergence of the Laránian order. Coupled with the feudal ideals that were being imagined in Emélrenè, Laránianism provided a stable political order that reinforced and supported the new economic order wherever it prevailed. The feudal-manorial order of this era was considerably more efficient than the petty state regimes that preceded it. It was effective at defending the population - the incursions of the Sôrki during this period barely affected regional demographics, particularly when compared to earlier invasions. And it also encouraged the growth of the manorial economy, as the new lords learned to value a well-run manor. The Laránian faith explicitly reinforced these virtues, while the success of the system also reinforced the power of the faith.

While the church officially finds its roots in the myth of Saint Ambráthas, the first missionary for which we have definite independent evidence for is Ôrthas the Defender, who appears in the court annals of Emélrenè in about bt370. He had only a little success in converting the Emélan court, which was still dominated by Siémist and Sávè-K’nôran influences, but he received considerable support for his efforts to proselytise the surrounding region. The Emélan crown considered the Laránian church a stabilizing influence on the new states that were beginning to emerge on their borders. Emélrenè would wait another century before the noble class, inspired by romantic descriptions of virtuous Atáni warriors, began to adopt Laráni as their patron.

The progress of the faith was far from uniform, but over the next four centuries Laráni’s reach would expand until she matched her fiery rival. By tr100 the faith had reached as far as Hârn and Mafán. But, as with Àgríkanism, there was no central organisation directing the faith, and practices and attitudes varied considerably from place to place. It would be several more centuries before the religion would evolve the structures of a church.

The Târgan Empire

Another explanation for the cultural advance in this era looks to the emergence of the Târgan Empire. The Empire was the first state in Venârivè to burst the limitations of the temple-state system. Unlike the Árganaal Confederation that loosely united the region from c.bt910 to c.bt450, there was a strong central power that had precedence over the local temples and palaces. Being the first true empire to rise in the region, its claim to be the successor of the ancient Empire of Mafán was legitimate.

The valley had nurtured great kingdoms before. The development of irrigation in the Upper Valley around bt2900 led to the first known example. The Kingdom of Nálhaan built canals that stretched as long as forty leagues, and from their capital at Nálhathâr they ruled entire Târga Valley after about bt2300. There are deep connections between the Nálhaan and the later empires of Anzelôria which are the subject of considerable conjecture today. There are parallels of language, script, architecture, and religion that suggest much more than just a trading link. The ruins of Nálhathâr are now deep in the Béshakan Desert – proof that the Târga River has been fickle in her course - and some of the dried-up canals are used by Bésha nomads to mark routes and boundaries. The ‘Golden Empire’ collapsed around bt2100, and for most of the next two millennia the Valley was a patchwork of city-states. At times larger realms emerged, occasionally even uniting large portions of the Valley. When the Màfakéta nomads arrived after being displaced by the fall of the Mafán Empire around bt1500, the frontier city of Quáandehn allied itself with them and built a temporary empire. But that lasted only a few decades before the Màfakéta lost their cohesion and disappeared into the Târgan cultural mix. Around bt1000 Chúaanagûrlla briefly united the Lower Valley, but it fell in a broad revolt which led to the creation of the Árganaal Confederacy. This was little more than a defensive agreement, made necessary by the increasing power of the Bàkésha nomads – cousins of the Màfakéta - who had moved into the nearby desert.

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The Târgan Empire was a true empire - that is, a collection of states united by a central force. The cities of the Târga River Valley retained considerable autonomy. The state religions were left in place, but each temple complex had to make room for the Imperial cult. The Imperial cult absorbed the deities of the more powerful cities, creating a large and confusing pantheon. Myths were mashed up, shrines converted for new deities - even the identities of the gods themselves were put into flux.

This confusion has its roots in the very origins of the Empire. The Empire began as a defensive response to ever more intense raiding by their Bésha and Péch neighbours. The decades around bt300 were unusually wet in the region, and the nomad population was bursting. Bésha armies plundered the city of Prâtha in bt292, Ámfar in bt288, Prâtha again in bt286, and razed Rezân so completely in bt280 that it was abandoned. The Péch plundered Parlora in bt290 and bt284, and were barely repulsed by the defenders of Mârkor (now Mánquideh) in bt280. It was this last battle that inspired the unification of the beleaguered cities under the leadership of Mârkor. A series of victories over the nomads and a few recalcitrant cities solidified the arrangement, and the Empire was established.

The temple of Mârkor worshipped dual divinities - Târga, the river goddess who brought order and prosperity when mankind was obedient, and Orgûrl, who brought chaos and death when mankind strayed. To this pair was added Pyârvir, the father-god of Pélona - an important ally in the creation of the Empire. Another deity was added in about bt200: Áranu, the covenantgoddess of Férez - the richest city in the region until its harbours silted up c.tr100. Some believe that the Férez cult was the wellspring of the Laránian religion, but the evidence is sketchy, at best.

But while these four were the primary deities, all the deities of the many cities had a place in the temples. A popular deity from a successful city had the chance to be promoted, as was Áranu, but the more common fate was to be forgotten in the crowd or be hopelessly confused with another. For Shávkan, who had almost been forgotten, new prominence was achieved when he was identified with Sávè-K’nôr and became the patron of scholars. At least two completely foreign deities insinuated themselves into the pantheon - the Mafáni deity Zârath and the Anzelôrian Kelána. Perhaps because of his association with the ancient and literate Mafáni Empire, Zârath had the role of covenantrecorder in the mythologies of several cities, and he continued that role under the Empire. Kelána was the civic deity of M’ji’mbali, a city that managed to preserve its Anzelôrian heritage for over a thousand years until it was destroyed in the Târgan Genocide. For the goddess of luck and fate, Álneha, prominence came late. She begins as a minor servant in the Ámfar pantheon, but gained popularity among the peasant caste and begins appearing in major temples near the end of the Empire.

Considering that the Empire was forged to combat powerful external foes, it should not be surprising that the realm was deeply xenophobic. Trade was monopolised by the state and conducted only in three strictly controlled enclaves - the port of Zerúla and the caravanserai of Ámfar, north of Mârkor/Mánquideh, and the eastern city of Kándar. A state monopoly on foreign trade was common in the petty states of the earlier age, but in this era it was rare, and nowhere was it as carefully enforced as here. There were two major benefits to the state - it kept at bay the missionary religions that had decimated state religions elsewhere, and it allowed the state to reap fantastic profits from the transport of Mafáni and Anzelôrian goods to the Venârian Sea.

More surprising is the power of the theocracy, which was remarkable even by the standards of the era. The unprecedented demands of managing a true empire required a sophisticated bureaucratic apparatus. Only the priests had the expertise required, and they came to control the administrative apparatus. When the priests became the paymasters for the army, the balance between palace and temple shifted decisively to the temple.

The prevalence of slavery was typical for the era, but the scale was unprecedented. The Imperial army engaged in nearly annual raids to replenish the slave population. The success of these expeditions allowed the Empire to works the slaves extremely hard, despite the mortality rate. The system reinforced the power of the state, which controlled the supply of the most important commodity in the economy - slave labour.

The reach of the Târgan army was extraordinary for the era. H’anvúchè was sacked in bt180, ports on the Shéntu Sea learned to pay tribute in the form of slaves purchased from Anzelôria and the East, and even Livélis was forced to buy off the Târgans at least three times. The primary goal was always the acquisition of slaves. Strategic considerations were secondary, and conquest was never intended. The theocracy had no desire to try to integrate foreign cities into the system. They looked upon their neighbours only as a source of slaves. To push the frontiers further from the Târga Valley would only make the logistics of the slave raids more difficult.

It was this aspect of the Empire that encouraged the development of the rest of Venârivè. The Empire itself was intellectually stagnant, impervious as it was to foreign ideas. But it presented a practical challenge to its neighbours. The neighbouring states had to get

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stronger or face slow destruction. They needed to develop larger polities and better defences, or wealthier economies to buy off the raiders.

The Tuvâran states of the Býrian Peninsula failed to respond, and the Empire continued to acquire slaves there until the very end. The Mafáni states along the Shéntu Sea responded by making themselves the middlemen in a regional slave-trading network. The impulse was negative, but the ultimate effect was a considerable increase in all forms of trade in the region. The Kàruíans responded by building their defences and strengthening the alliances among the city-states, setting a pattern of cooperation that can still be seen in the modern Karéjian League. The Hácherim became experts in defensive fortification, but the petty states along the Venârian shore - Pélona, Mérkur (Chenósolis), Gálan (Gálamonìa) and others - were reduced to impotent tributary states.

Mapping the effects of the Empire’s depredations reveals two concentric zones forming a doughnut. Close to the Empire the effect was negative. The constant sapping of demographic strength condemned the Empire’s nearest neighbours to weakness and obscurity. But just outside this zone the states were strengthened by necessity. The political and economic bonds forged in this era still have power almost a millennium later.

Whereas the Târgan Empire was held back intellectually by its insularity, in some areas of material culture it made considerable strides. The Empire was famous for its excellent steel. Târgan steel begins with an unusual ore that contains traces of tungsten or vanadium. This ore was first found in the Sóbranah Mountains in deposits that were exhausted by tr200. Further deposits were discovered in Hèpekéria and have been exploited by Târgan emigrants since the Târgan Genocide. The ore is heated in sealed crucibles following procedures shrouded in ritual and secrecy. The trace elements, combined with the precise proportion of carbon, creates microscopic carbon structures that create a distinctive pattern in the finished product and also gives the steel particular strength. Târgan steel is still the standard that no other human culture has matched. The greatest of their craftsmen, Pytâma Rylátha (bt60-tr7), is still remembered today, while the names of the Târgan high-priests are almost entirely forgotten.

The demands of administering the Empire led to another development that had a much more profound effect on Venârivan society. The Târgan Empire was the first polity to treat the city as a built form, the subject of conscious design. Shifts in the course of the river forced the Târgans to move their cities on occasion, and the rigid, theocratic state deployed the plentiful slave labour with considerable forethought when the occasion demanded. Entire cities were architected and built according to a definite plan.

Târgan cities were organised into distinct zones, with residents grouped by profession. Canals were used for transport within the city as well as for sewage removal. Open spaces were created for orchards and gardens, and squares for public functions. The Târgan cities were enviably livable. No other state at the time had the resources to emulate them, but they would eventually inspire later empires to try to match their virtues.

Growth of Trade

The rise of the Târgan Empire stimulated trade in Venârivè in two ways. First, the Empire had direct control over the entire trade route to Mafán, reducing the cost of transport across the East-West barrier. Eastern spices and silks became available in greater quantity and at lower prices, while Venârivan products - mostly bullion - flowed the other direction. But even ignoring the trade passing through to and from Mafán, the size and wealth of the slave-enriched Empire made it by far the largest market Venârivè had yet seen. Despite its distrust of foreigners, the Empire had a considerable demand for foreign goods. These wares were bought largely with the production from manufactories where slaves produced fine cotton cloth and other labourintensive goods. Zerúla was the greatest port of the era, easily exceeding Livélis.

But the growth in commerce was not limited to the Târgan Empire. Everywhere the growing cities and states were linked by increasingly robust trade networks. Where previously there were four distinct and barely overlapping trade systems, now goods flowed from one end of Venârivè to another without a break. Other factors besides the rise of the Empire fueled the emergence of this new trade regime. As states grew more powerful and better organised, piracy diminished. The general demographic increase spurred both production and demand for trade goods. New Kàruían colonies in Hèpekéria opened that subcontinent. The increase in overall trade was substantial - from two to ten times, depending on the particular place.

As merchants began traveling farther afield and doing more business, they developed more sophisticated means of exchange. At the beginning of this age, merchant exchange was entirely through true barter. Salt, pepper, and silk were as commonly used as a standard of value as silver or gold, depending on the region. But by tr1, gold and silver weights - the mark and shekel, were standardised throughout Venârivè, and true money was on the horizon. This was accomplished alongside the emergence of the first trade guild, the Goldsmiths.

Early Guilds

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The search for the roots of the Mángai inevitably leads to two institutions, both of which originated during this era - the Guild of Arcane Lore and the Goldsmiths. Of the two, the Lorists have a somewhat better claim to antiquity. The Guild of Arcane Lore provided a set of standards that the existing chantry system lacked. It began informally among the chantries of Emélrenè and Mèlderýn - a loose group of comparable institutions that cooperated to promote their common interests. As those groups prospered, other chantries from farther afield emulated the practices of these leaders - in particular, the system of degrees and examinations. Faced with apparent competition, the leading chantries formalised their standards and created an organisation to enforce them. Most were P’vâric chantries, engaged in the study of elemental magic, and many of the early traditions of the Guild survive as the particular rules of the Shèk-P’vâr.

At first the purpose of this elite group of chantries was exclusionary. The top chantries banded together to enhance their own power and reputations, not to build up the lorist community as a whole. But this attitude eventually changed. The failure of the Shèk-P’vâr to control Lóthrim the Foulspawner (tr83-tr120) was one of a long series of failures that proved that the task of maintaining caste discipline was too great and too important for individual chantries and schools. The young Guild had to respond or face eventual disaster should public opinion turn against the lorists, so it engaged in a campaign of expansion, eventually absorbing almost every significant chantry and driving the recalcitrant into obscurity or dissolution. This allowed the Guild to monitor the education of almost every lorist, instill a caste discipline intended to promote the broader interests of the class at the expense of personal aggrandisement, establish standards for the quality of education and the treatment of members, and represent the interests of the class in society. As the Guild grew in power, problems with renegades diminished. Those rare individuals who chafed at the limitations imposed by Guild law were dealt with by various ‘White Hand’ organisations - the secret and unofficial enforcers of the Guild.

From the Guild of Arcane Lore came the tradition of grades of membership - apprentice, journeyman, and master - which are seen in almost every guild today. More importantly, it was the first organisation that was collegial, universal, and self-governed. That is, it was a voluntary association of like-minded people, its membership transcended state boundaries, and it maintained its own rules. It followed the Sávè-K’nôran faith in possessing these three properties. Notably, in this era no other religion could claim the same, as the Àgríkan, Laránian and Peónian faiths were not yet organised across boundaries.

The Goldsmiths began as an early offshoot - or, perhaps, it developed in close parallel with the Guild of Arcane Lore. Workers in precious metals have always been associated with the arcane. The common perception is that these occupations are not much removed from alchemy, and the smiths themselves encourage this notion. But the factors driving the development of the Goldsmiths Guild were different than for the Arcane Lorists. The demand for bullion of consistent weight and purity was exploding, and the Goldsmiths were able to take advantage of this. By tr1 they had leveraged their secret knowledge and organisational abilities to achieve the fourth key property of a true guild: monopoly.

The Goldsmiths controlled the production and certification of marks and shekels. (The Silversmiths would eventually split off to form their own guild in the Second Century.) This made them both the mints and the moneychangers of the era, and therefore exceedingly powerful. In large part their success was due to the acquiescence of the extremely conservative Târgan Empire, which reinforced the guild monopoly by refusing to barter in any medium except the mark. This was in fact a considerable benefit for commerce as a whole. Without the Târgan demand standardisation would have probably never occurred, and gold and silver might not have emerged as a universal currency until much later. While trade can be conducted using other commodity currencies, gold and silver have the advantages of being widely available, portable, imperishable, and of consistent quality no matter the source. By providing a trustworthy standard for weight and quality, the Goldsmiths created a form of coinage that made trading with strangers in distant lands immeasurably safer.

Art and Architecture

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With increased wealth and trade came an explosion of innovation in art and architecture. Everywhere there was a greater capacity for large-scale work. We already noted that the Târgan Empire was learning to build entire cities according to plan. The defensive bulwarks erected by their neighbours required an advancement in construction techniques, as did the need for larger ports. The use of cement became more common, and, in areas where the right kind of volcanic ash was available, hydraulic cement. The architectural achievements of the era would not match the great buildings of later ages in scale, but they were a marked advancement over their predecessors.

As builders struggled with the challenges of building larger edifices they found few models to teach them. So they solved the problems of spanning larger distances, supporting heavier weights, covering larger faces and floors, bringing light and ventilation, and all the other ramifications of scale in their own idiosyncratic ways. Every region or state developed its own style - or in some cases, styles - of construction. Builders sought to attribute their ideas to ancient experts, but their fanciful claims were betrayed by the striking individualism of their work. Most of these regional styles would eventually be abandoned, either due to technical flaws, aesthetic deficiencies, or theological or political considerations. But no one was predicting this winnowing at the time. There was no self-conscious analysis by the builders or their patrons - architecture was still a craft, not an art.

With increased wealth came advances in other arts. The new palaces and citadels in the northern realms required warm wall coverings, and the art of tapestry advanced considerably. As more silk and cotton imports came from the East, western weavers improved their skills to compete. But painting and sculpture showed little advancement, and poetry languished as the favoured literary form became the travelogue. Ámys Tourástis was followed by many imitators, such as Chéka the Wanderer, who recorded the details of his pilgrimage to Aráka-Kalái (c.bt72). The Bjâri Sagas, popularised by the Ivínian skald Bjâri Threehand in the mid-Second Century bt, were translated into at least nine languages by bt100, introducing all of Venârivè to the Sárajìnian mythology. Ivínian raiders of the Fifth Century tr were surprised to discover Búqdin peasants (a Thónian tribe of Eastern Hèpekéria) who recognised Shálka despite having obviously never seen an actual sled. The thirst for knowledge of distant lands was nearly universal - only the Târgan theocrats fought against it - and was slaked by a stream of works by missionaries, merchants and (inevitably) pretenders.

Heraldy

We briefly mentioned heraldry already as an import from the Atáni via Ámys Tourástis. But that statement doesn’t fully reflect the creative energies of the Eméla, who went far beyond the practices of their neighbours to create not just the modern heraldic system but the institution and laws that surround it. The heraldry that Ámys Tourástis saw among the Atáni was simply the colored pennantry used by war leaders to identify their cohorts. Heralds today generally credit the Sinái for the invention of the heraldic blazon, but in doing so they disregard the similar practices found in the ancient Empire of Ch’mísa, as well as a few references in ancient poems and stories that suggest the Atáni already used painted shields and pennants on the battlefield. It may be that this simple idea has more than one mother.

Ámys Tourástis’ vivid descriptions of the Atáni blazons ignited a fashion for heraldry throughout Emélrenè. Not just nobles, but merchants, craftsmen, and even taverns and churches began drawing up coats of arms. At first there could be no regulation, but almost immediately the noble class began demanding exclusivity. For this purpose the nobles discovered in the Annals the concept of the Herald.

The Annals only barely mention the idea. Tourástis noted that in each Atáni clan there was at least one man charged with maintaining the genealogy of the clan, and that the ‘heir-men’ of different clans occasionally met among themselves to check their records. Tourástis also mentions ‘hall-lords’, an office within a keep, perhaps equivalent to a chamberlain. Tourástis mentions this office as being the carrier of the pennant on the battlefield, and having some ceremonial importance in the court. The Emélan nobles conflated these two offices, creating the office of herald, and devising a ‘college’ for their heralds to meet. The Enclave of the Silver Orb was founded c. bt220, and within a generation had an effective monopoly on the granting of arms in the kingdom. (The Enclave claims to have been created at the same time that the Vásinir Dynasty was crowned, bt259, and that the Vásinir crest is the first to have been registered, but this is simply a pious fraud.) The monopoly was established by royal edict in bt207, and confirmed in an edict of bt200 that explicitly limited armorial bearings to the nobility.

With the establishment of a professional class of heralds came a slew of regulations. The responsibilities of the newly invented herald were not well defined at first. But once the Enclave was established, the institution quickly evolved into an advocate for the noble class within the social realm. The Enclave became the enforcer of noble privilege - not just the giver of arms, but the arbiter of who was allowed into the class

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and the preserver of class distinctions. The Enclave and its child institutions were legalistic from the very beginning. The fussy rules for tinctures, metals, and charges were among their earliest inventions, intended to establish and maintain the distinction between their professionally designed and recorded arms and the amateur, unrecorded bearings that were produced in other lands or before their monopoly was established.

The herald was not yet an ambassador, though even at this time a herald was granted some immunity on the battlefield. This immunity was not to facilitate negotiation, but was simply a matter of honour. The enthusiasm for chivalry created a number of similar battlefield rules - baggage trains were not to be attacked, mercy was to be extended to the defeated. As the herald took on the extra danger of bearing the pennant, which compromised his fighting ability, chivalry demanded some special treatment. It would not be until the Ázeryàn Empire began to disintegrate that this tradition would evolve to allow the herald a diplomatic role.

Heraldry spread to wherever Emélan culture was viewed as being worth emulating. Mèlderýn and the petty states of Western Venârivè took to it early. The Atáni states adopted it enthusiastically - within a few generations they thought of it as their own invention, though almost nothing in Emélan heraldry resembled the old Atáni practices. It is not at all clear whether the Silver Harp Palace of Arms in Eváel and the White Mountain Lodge in Ázadmêre predate Emélan heraldry or were founded afterwards. Armorial bearings among the Elder Races certainly existed before Atáni Wars, but the colleges might have been founded in imitation of the human institution to provide a new avenue for diplomatic and cultural exchange.

This history of heraldry illustrates how the Emélans took the practices and institutions of their Atáni neighbours, reshaped them into radically more sophisticated forms, then watched as their neighbours adopted the new forms as their own. Virtually the entire legal and cultural structure of feudalism advanced in this way. Ideas of noble privilege, fiefs and vassalage, administration of justice, serfdom and freedom - all were adapted and codified in these centuries by the Emélans, and all were eventually adopted by their neighbours. But few even in Emélrenè give proper credit - due to the popularity even today of Ámys Tourástis’ Annals, almost everyone assumes that feudalism is as ancient as the people themselves.

A Region Transformed

By tr1, Venârivè had been transformed. It was richer and better organised. The triumph of the missionary religions had freed statecraft from straight-jacket of the ethnic cults. Cities were widespread and commercially active. Trade networks were established and busier than ever. After three centuries of nearly continuous expansion, Venârivè was awash with optimism.

In bt9, in the Azéri city of Îrkárgai, a new capitol building was completed. It was built in the shape of a symmetric Y, with three halls each opening into a raised central chamber. In the centre sat the Autarch - a position that rotated every eight years. In one hall assembled the heads of the noble families - men grown rich on the produce of their slave-run villas. In a second assembled the priests - of Navéh, Peóni, Laráni, Ágrik, Sávè-K’nôr, Môrgath and two local deities. The third hall held a new class of men - the merchants and craftsmen who earned their position by paying for the construction of the entire capitol. There was no pretence that everyone in the hall had a vote, but the arrangement virtually guaranteed that the interests of all three groups would be considered. Upon its completion the Kàruían writer Éscalos el Résha wrote an enthusiastic description for his friends in Livélis.

“Those who work are here heard alongside those who fight and those who pray, giving full wisdom to the one who must be responsible for all. A more perfect assembly could not be imagined.”

But Éscalos would outlive the object of his enthusiasm. Just ten years later the Îrkárgai Capitol would collapse in a deadly earthquake. In the aftermath the discredited government would be swept away by Môrgáthan zealots, and Îrkárgai would become synonymous with barbarism. The capitol’s fate was a fitting marker for the end of an age. The Summer of the Classical Age was over. Behind it came a brooding winter that tested every fibre of the cultural fabric.

Chronology (BT300 - TR1)

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Note: Colour Highlights: Yellow

Possible Link

INSERT TABLE

c.bt380-250 First Emélan-Táneri Wars

c.bt350-200 spread of mouldboard plough across Venârivè

c. bt320 Ámys al Tourástis travels amongst the Táneri

c. bt315 Ámys Tourástis writes the Annals of the Atáni

c. bt300 Àgríkan and Navéhan faiths have spread all across Venârivè

c. bt300 rise of Târgan Cults (Pyârvir, Târga, Áranu, and Orgûrl)

bt292 Bésha plunder Târgan city of Prâtha; this is repeated in bt286

bt290 Péch plunder Târgan city of Pârlóra; this is repeated in bt284

bt280 Bésha sack and destroy Târgan city of Rezân, which is abandoned.

bt277 foundation of Târgan Empire (Dalkésh)

bt270 ‘Time of Darkness’ in Emélrenè (to bt264)

bt259 Beginning of the Vásinir Dynasty in Emélrenè;

creation of an idealised feudal state begins

c. bt250 written description of the use of hydraulic cement in the harbour of Belán, Árlanto

c. bt250 Isýnen (Hèpekéria) sacked by Númec

c. bt250 traditional date of the foundation of the Church of Môrgath (Ázeryàn)

c. bt230 foundation of Kázeria (Xêria, Hèpekéria)

bt228 Five Kingdoms period on Mèlderýn (to tr1)

c. bt220 Playwright Ménekrata of Livélis writes ‘The Dèsmédeans’

bt220 Foundation of the Enclave of the Silver Orb college of heraldry, Emélrenè

bt200 Royal Edict restricts armorial bearings in Emélrenè to the nobility.

c. bt200 worship of Áranu begins at Temple of Mârkor (Mánquideh)

bt180 Târgan Empire sacks H’anvúchè, Tuvâra

c. bt150 Composition of the Bjâri’s Sagas by Bjâri Threehand

bt140 Târgan colonies on coast of Býrios (to c. tr1)

c. bt100 Bjâri’s Sagas have been translated into at least nine languages across Venârivè

c. bt100 Kàruían states and Hácherian towns manage to put themselves beyond the reach of the Târgan Empire

bt72 Pilgrimage of Chéka the Wanderer to Aráka-Kalái, Hârn

bt60 Birth of Pytâma Rylátha, Târgan Weaponmaster

bt47 Destruction of the Târgan navy by a mixture of storm and Kàruían attack; islands of Hepónia now beyond Târgan reach.

bt47 ‘Black Wind’ destroys Yelástrys (Jéltrè), Hârbáal

bt9 Construction of the Capitol building of Îrkárgai;

Éscalos el Résha documents the government of Îrkárgai; Eón of Réshan laments the ‘depravity of the world’

tr1 Kingdom of Mèlderýn founded

Crisis and Depression

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In the same year, bt9, that Éscalos el Résha was writing optimistically about the new capitol in Îrkárgai another author was expressing an almost diametric opinion. Eón of Réshan lamented the depravity of mankind. “But we are all as an unclean thing, and all our righteousness are as filthy rags; and we all do fade as a leaf; and our iniquities, like the wind, have taken us away.” Everywhere Eón looked he found hypocrisy and sin, and at first blush his response was the same as moralists in every age. “Fear not them which kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul: but rather fear him which is able to destroy both soul and body in hell.”

But Eón stretched the point one step further. Since mankind was depraved, the promise of heavenly rewards was a false one. What man deserves Válon, Dòlithôr or Bàlgasháng, when even the priests were corrupt and unworthy? For Eón, Hell was the only possible destination for a man’s soul. Heavens were false promises.

Eón’s conclusion was possible due to a philosophy that gained in power in the previous optimistic age. Gods were now worshipped as ideals - perfect, incorruptible beings. Idealism had long been common among the mystically-minded Emélans and Hácherim, and came naturally in a world where the celestial cycles were nearly perfect. The philosophy was strengthened as deities vied for followers. The Navéhans and Laránians, especially, pressed the claim that their deities were something apart from - and better than - a physical entity. Eón’s audience took for granted that the deities, like the celestial orbs and the P’vâric elements, were ideal things - perfect beyond the capacity of material man.

Publicly, Eón exhorted his audience to prostrate themselves before the God of Death. There was nothing new in this - most pantheons had a god of the underworld who dealt with those souls who died while unclean. Some had their own temples, and many had special holidays for their propitiation. In the mechanistic morality of the old ethnic religions, everyone, no matter how virtuous, faced the risk of dying while unclean, and therefore had an interest in making sure that the god of the underworld was satisfied. These practices often outlived the demise of the rest of the pantheon. Where missionary religions displaced the old gods, the death god almost always continued to be revered - sometimes secretly, sometimes openly.

As Eón was writing, the death cults of the Ázeryàn Peninsula were starting to coalesce around the figure of Môrgath. The first to consider Môrgath not as an ancillary member of the pantheon to be appeased with occasional sacrifices but as a primary deity - in fact, the only deity worth worshipping - were the disciples of Lekéthan. About bt250 these men began preaching the revelations of their inspired leader throughout the region. Progress was slow, but by bt9, temples staffed by professional Môrgáthan clergymen existed in over a dozen Azéri cities, and at least six different sites claimed to be the catacombs from which Lekéthan gained his insights.

It was a small start. There were hundreds of temples to Navéh, Laráni, Ágrik, Peóni, and Sávè-K’nôr in the same region, and at least as many temples to those local deities that survived the missionary onslaught. Few noticed Eón’s writings or listened to his preaching. But his message would prove to be uniquely suited to the following century, a period of tumult when it seemed that hell had grown uncomfortably close to earth.

Târgan Genocide

Hell came first to the Târgan Empire. Decades before its ultimate fall cracks had begun to appear in the Imperial power. Whereas formerly the Târgan slave raids plagued states even more remote, from bt100 forward, Livélis and the Hácherim towns were beyond the Empire’s ability to threaten. In bt47 the navy was decimated by an untimely storm and subsequent defeat by a Kàruían navy, putting the islands of Heponia out of reach. The grasp of the Empire was growing weaker, and as the power of their military ebbed the flow of slaves slowed and the economic strength of the Empire was sapped.

Little is known of the specifics of the Târgan Genocide. The term itself is clearly an exaggeration. Some cities were completely razed and their populations slaughtered. But in other cities only the elites were executed, and some cities were virtually untouched. Some rural areas saw their irrigation systems destroyed and their farmland turned to desert, while others were completely bypassed by the invaders. The image of the Genocide as a single invasion by a monolithic force is clearly mistaken. It was a chaotic melee featuring at least six independent invading armies, an internal rebellion, and at least two palace coups. This list represents only what can be confirmed by the sources, which are patchy and confusing. The full story is lost, and today we can only guess at the causes and summarise the effects.

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Most accounts of the Genocide place primary importance on the Bésha tribes on the Empire’s northern flank. The Béshans provided the largest and most successful armies, and when the bloodletting was over they held most of the power in the valley. How the Béshans achieved the strength and unity necessary to successfully invade the still potent Empire is one of the mysteries of the Genocide. Once they were successful the Béshans wasted no time in putting their imprint on the conquest. Most of the atrocities of the Genocide have been pinned on them. They slaughtered the priests in the cities they captured and converted most of the temples to the worship of Áranik (Ágrik) and Navéh. They also destroyed much of the irrigation system in a misguided attempt to turn the land into pasture. But the Béshans quickly fell apart as a ruling caste. They were politically and economically naive, and their rivals were easily able to take advantage of their internal squabbles.

And there were plenty of rivals. A Kàruían navy captured the port of Zerúla, from which they hoped to spread their commercial influence inland. An army from the petty Tuvâran states to the west of the Empire sacked Náthaparanda and kept control for almost a decade. During the invasions Péch invaders from the south were as likely to fight the Bésha as the Târgans, and when the dust settled they held several cities. Native regimes survived in at least six other cities, while Mánquideh itself ended up in the hands of a group of Mafáni mercenaries. Within every city factions vied for power - especially the priests of the Târgan gods, who still controlled many of the levers of power.

For none of the invaders had any experience running anything larger than a petty state, and many had no administrative skills whatever. The new rulers depended on the old regime to collect the rents, maintain the canals, and rebuild the cities. Every one of the new states had imperial ambitions, which required placing ever increasing amounts of power in the hands of the old clerical regime. Inevitably, the new regimes began looking very much like the old one.

Empire of Dalkésh

The problem of integrating the old and new was solved most effectively by the Mafáni regime that ruled Mánquideh. In tr16, Mavráma khu Lékha rebuilt the Imperial Pantheon - an event that is seen today as the founding date of the Empire of Dalkésh. Formerly the Pantheon was a meeting place for the priest-governors of the ten Imperial provinces. It consisted of a courtyard flanked by ten alcoves to shelter the provincial delegations. Mavráma reorganized it, dedicating the ten alcoves to the ten most important deities, including two - Áranik and Navéh - that were recently introduced by the Bésha. It is doubtful whether Mavráma meant to create a new theology. He probably was merely attempting to signal his intentions to unify all the factions in the Târga Valley. But the way the new Pantheon was arranged had a much more profound effect than he expected.

The Dalkéshi did not invent Dualism. The Hácherim have practiced a dualistic faith for as long as historians can tell, and the idea of co-equal forces of light and dark, good and evil, or order and chaos was a part of many ethnic cults, though most have been forgotten. But dualism was not a part of the Târgan religion, yet it soon would be part of the Dalkésh system that replaced it, in large part because of a fortuitous architectural accident. The layout of Mavráma’s Pantheon suggested a dualistic interpretation. Deities that were opposite each other along the central forum were dissimilar enough to be considered dual pairs. This interpretation was reinforced by politics. By making the pairs co-equal, the new arrangement eliminated the idea that any one deity - or city or ethnic group represented by the deity - was supreme. In particular, the Béshan Áranik was placed opposite the native Áranu, an accommodation that was respectful to both the Bésha and the Târgan populations. Whether Mavráma intended it or not, a dualistic theology provided a path towards unification that would serve the Lekhan Dynasty well.

After thirty years the grandson of Mavráma managed to unite enough of the Târga Valley to declare himself the Emperor of Dalkésh. The name was a deliberate refutation of the theologically meaning-laden name of the old empire. The Dálken Emperors constantly strove against the power of the priests, skillfully playing rival clergy against each other and establishing countervailing institutions such as the Guild of Arcane Lore. The first Imperial Dynasty cultivated a reputation as sorcerer-kings, and encouraged myth-making around them. By aggrandising themselves they neutered the clergy to the point where the priests could be replaced by a professional bureaucracy.

The creation of the Empire did not settle matters in the Târga Valley or its environs. It took forty more years to consolidate the Empire’s power in the Valley, and its flanks were still insecure when it was attacked in tr79 by the rising Mafáni Principality of Mokôra, leading an alliance of Chogôro petty-states. A six-year war was inconclusive, and led immediately into a war with the still-independent Zerúla. War was a constant for the next century. It ended only when the exhausted Empire was forced to cede in tr180 most of the Kàruían territories it had won in the three decades before. The Empire gave up its ambition to destroy the Kàruíans who teemed all around their western flanks, and accepted defensible borders almost identical to their modern bounds.

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Nearly two centuries of almost continuous warfare destroyed the southern route to the East. While this helped the Hácherim in relative terms, in absolute terms even Hácherdad suffered. The East was itself in a state of collapse. Mafán had disintegrated into at least seventeen squabbling states, and beyond them the successor states to the great Ch’mísan Empire were in a state of constant war. Even with a near-monopoly on East-West trade, the Hácherim caravans had less to carry.

So, after three centuries of unprecedented growth, the Eastern Sea fell into almost two centuries of depression. Livélis was perhaps the hardest hit. It had benefited the most from the expanding trade of the previous era, and now it suffered greatly. It had already lost roughly half of its population when it was conquered by Dalkésh in tr162 and the treasures of its arcane chantry were hauled away to Mánquideh. Livélis and most of the Kàruían cities would regain their independence in tr180, but they would fall feebly to the Àzeryáni in tr263. The greatest cities of the Classical Age would be second-tier cities of the Empire for two more centuries.

Closing of the Venârian Mind

If Eastern Venârivè was debilitated by an economic crisis, Western Venârivè was struck nearly as hard by an intellectual crisis. The foundations of arcane and religious thought were found to be built on sand, and the realisation changed the basic relationship between the arcane community and the rest of society.

The discovery was made by the Mèlderýni astrologer Túzyn. Note that astrologers rarely bother making celestial observations. The extreme regularity of the planetary motions make observations redundant. It is far more accurate to simply calculate the position of the planets by interpolating from the extremely regular conjunctions. Charts are trivial to prepare using basic mathematics, and exceed the accuracy of any observational equipment available. To measure a planet’s position directly is folly - if the measurement disagrees with the chart, then it is certainly the instruments that are at fault.

But Túzyn was not engaging in a folly when he made his remarkable discovery. In fact, he was attempting to calibrate his surveying equipment. Túzyn was charged with overseeing several construction projects in Chérafîr, and had invented several new instruments for leveling and measuring. To test his designs he turned them towards the stars, intending only to fine-tune his apparatus.

Instead Túzyn discovered that something was unspeakably wrong with the heavens. At the time it was taken for granted that all the celestial bodies revolved around Nolomar, the Sun. In the Nolomar-centric model, every heavenly body, including Kèthîra, travels in a perfect circle around the sun - a shape befitting a perfect clockwork universe. Túzyn proved this was impossible. According to the Nolomar-centric model, there should be a measurable change in the apparent position of the stars as Kèthîra moves in its orbit around Nolomar. But Túzyn could find no evidence of this parallax.

The first theory meant to explain this observation - that the stars were simply too distant - was easily refuted. A simple calculation shows that since the apparent diameter of a typical bright star is on the order of a minute of arc, any star distant enough to have an imperceptible parallax would have to be millions of times larger than Nolomar. Over several years Túzyn refined his observations, and each improvement in his equipment made the calculation more and more absurd.

The only logical answer was a Kèthîra-centric model, which places a stationary world at the centre of everything. But this model forces the planets into bizarre epicyclic orbits around Kèthîra - an unthinkable deviation from the clockwork universe familiar to everyone.

It eventually became clear that there was no answer to the paradox. Nolocentrism was impossible, but the alternative was impossible as well - and the true form of the heavens was impossible to understand. The effect on the arcane community was profound. Other imperfections had been observed and tolerated. It was well known in the lorist community that the orbits of Yael and Nolomar were not perfectly synchronised, as eclipses are not perfectly regular in occurrence. But this fact was easily absorbed by a culture that was already familiar with irrational numbers. The parallax paradox was a different thing entirely. It destroyed the way lorists understood the universe without replacing it with a new way of thinking.

Túzyn, and the small cadre of scholars he confided his results to, were gripped by fear. It wasn’t clear to them how the general population would react to the realisation that the most basic principle of the universe - a fact obvious even to the most ill-educated peasant - was self-contradictory. Obviously the general population’s respect for arcane lore would be damaged, if not destroyed. But there were deeper concerns. Could faith in gods - especially Sávè-K’nôr - survive in a universe where Truth was not absolute - in fact, did not exist at all? Idealism, clearly, would be impossible. And not just the idea of the gods as ideal beings, but the possibility of ideal justice, ideal virtue, ideal love. Not all of Túzyn’s contemporaries subscribed to the Theory of Ideals, but few cared to see a world in which the counter-theory had absolute sway.

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The only possible response was to keep it a secret. It was fortunate that the Guild of Arcane Lore had just matured to the point where keeping such a secret from the non-arcane, ‘kvikîr’ community was possible. The Sávè-K’nôran church quickly shrouded the secret in mystic terms, giving its preservation a patina of religious justification. The Guild and Church had new missions - to preserve the social order by preventing the spread of dangerous ideas.

For this mission the Sávè-K’nôrans had to strengthen their institutions and become a true Church. Lorists generally do not accept authority easily, and the early Sávè-K’nôran faith was very decentralized. But the new mission required a strong central authority, and the leader of the faith in the Ázeryàn city of Sháras, the Rión Íshar, assumed control. Two clerical orders that were formed for very different purposes were rededicated to the new task. The Rydequélyn was originally organised to present an appealing public face to the faith. It now became the means by which the general public would be monitored and manipulated. The Shéa-al-Aécôr was founded to train the clerical elite. It kept this role, and added the job of cataloging dangerous ideas and directing the resources of the Church to maintaining their secrets.

Secrets can’t exist in isolation for long. Every path towards Túzyn’s discovery had to be blocked, and the nature of the conspiracy itself had to be hidden. It was the task of the Guild of Arcane Lore to block the general public - as well as the uninitiated within the lorist community - from those paths and realisations. To this end the Guild evolved new proscriptions regarding the relationships between their members and the general public. Arcane Lore of all kinds had to be protected from the prying eyes and enquiring minds of the kvikîr. The Guild became more formal, disciplined, and insular, and also more obedient to the Church of Sávè-K’nôr.

It hardly mattered whether their fears were well founded. Once took on their new missions it developed a momentum far out of proportion to the initial impetus, and deviating from that mission became unthinkable. Within the two organisations, secrets got buried beneath more secrets, and only the privileged few at the top knew enough to judge the merits of the mission. The specific knowledge being sequestered eventually became irrelevant. Access to secret information became the sign of power, though the information itself was often useless. Lorists are usually mystically minded, and their organisations easily took on the traits of secret societies.

Unfortunately, secrecy is anathema to growth and learning, and the intellectual accomplishments of the era were few. The pendulum swung to the conservative side. Adherence to ancient authority became more important than new discovery. Dubious ideas thrived in an atmosphere of secrecy - it’s hard to refute what isn’t openly explained. Even banal ideas were dressed in mystic verbiage and treated as hidden knowledge. With the East largely cut off from exchange, all things Eastern became very fashionable. ‘Eastern’, and especially ‘Molkûran’, became synonymous with ancient secrets, and an Eastern provenance was sought for every art and idea. Little of merit came from the West.

Recession

There were material reasons for the decline, as well. The loss of eastern markets caused a recession in Western Venârivè, and the urban population stagnated. Emélrenè fought a bloody war against their Táneri neighbours (tr82-tr108), weakening the most stable state in the region. The Ázeryàn Peninsula was almost continuously aflame, with dark consequences which we will analyse next. Piracy became rampant again, and commerce shrivelled.

The loss of wealth and commerce hit the intellectual world hard. Not just arcane lore, but all art and architecture receded. Artists and craftsmen receded into conservatism. Emulation of ancient models was preferred to innovation. Large-scale projects were rare. Some crafts visibly declined in quality - masonry, silk and cotton weaving, glass and porcelain - largely because of a lack of demand.

Only along the southern coast of Venârivè was there growth. Refugees and colonists seeking to escape the Târgan wars planted themselves in Býria, Thónia, and Hèpekéria. The sought more than just escape from war - they were looking for trade routes to Anzelôria. There, far south of Venârivè, the Antezian Empire had just finished uniting the greater part of the region and was entering into a golden age. For the moment it was the leading light of the world, and traders flocked to it like moths.

Azéri Wars

Nowhere was the crisis of the age more apparent than on the Ázeryàn Peninsula. Just a few years after the eastern nomads had destroyed the Târgan Empire, an alliance of tribes began a thirty-year campaign that set off a chain reaction throughout the Ázeryàn peninsula. The combination of Heléni and Valéni destroyed many of the prosperous Zerani states of the western peninsula, including the leading cities of Gârenis (now Válen) and Barýna (now Ómrium) in tr16 and tr11.

Wars, major and minor, spread through the region. Some were religious in nature, such as the internecine Àgríkan conflict between Lysâra and Árgareth (tr33-tr37) or the Varánian/Môrgáthan war between Mîremal and its allies and Meókara (now Meókolis) (tr59-tr62). A trade dispute boiled over into war between Tázach and Gótha (tr61-tr63). A comprehensive list would have to include over a hundred conflicts between tr1 and tr75, plus thousands of acts of piracy and raiding.

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In the century after tr75 the number of conflicts lessened as the stakes grew higher. Chronicles reveal an increasing intensity - more cities sacked, more kingdoms destroyed - as armies became more professional and states organised themselves explicitly to wage war. Piracy decreased and trade slowly recovered - in this, the peninsula was a microcosm of Venârivè.

Azéri Wars

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From this cauldron of conflict eventually emerged the greatest empire in the history of Venârivè. To understand the Ázeryàn Empire, then, it seems vital to understand the milieu from which it was born. But to try to find the complex causes and effects by tracing fortunes of all the cities and polities of the region would obfuscate as much as illuminate. Instead we will trace a single city though this period and observe the interplay of the economic, cultural, and military elements within it. For our study, the city of Eón will do well.

The Tale of Îrkárgai

The ruins of Îrkárgai lie near the centre of the Ázeryàn Peninsula. The city sits where the Shûros River emerges from the central highlands into an alluvial belt blessed with fertile loamy soil. Îrkárgai was blessed both by agricultural abundance and its location on two important trade routes - one that followed the alluvial belt through some of the peninsula’s most prosperous agricultural producers, and the Shûros River, which linked the important inland states of Lótra and Shomîro with the sea. The city also had a substantial cotton industry. As of tr1, Îrkárgai ruled over a twenty-league stretch of the river, and land roughly twenty leagues to each side - and roughly 250,000 souls. Three smaller cities lived in Îrkárgai’s shadow - rivals conquered in the Third Century bt. The city itself held about 15,000 people within its unimposing walls.

Îrkárgai was governed by an autarch elected from one of a small number of noble clans for an eightyear term. His rule was theoretically absolute, but was constrained both by the limited term and the physical presence of the representative assembly. In theory the assembly existed merely to inform and advise, but in practice it served as a prototypical senate. In the decades before tr1 there had been six consecutive transfers of power to new autarchs without incident, and there was little reason to expect any future instability.

The religious milieu in the city was typical for the region. The noble class was split between worship of Varáni and Hâriak - a local sorcerer/warrior god credited with founding the city. Ágrik had a modest following among the soldiers, while the farmers (free and slave) worshipped Eóni and Hâriak’s angelic wife, Frélla. A Sávè-K’nôran temple was adjacent to a modest chantry noted for its astrologers. Many of the urban merchants and craftsmen embraced Navéh’s stoicism. In the Third Century bt the city had been proselytised by Lekéthan’s Môrgáthan followers, and the city’s largest festival was an annual pageant intended to mollify the death god and remind the population of their mortality. An ancient gravesite two leagues away was identified as the Tomb of Ûrbrath, the place where Lekéthan received his epiphany. Only a couple hundred men worshipped Môrgath as their patron, and these were mostly members of the lower class that enjoyed organising the festival and being lords of the city for a few days each year.

But the stability of Îrkárgai was about to prove to be an illusion, and the state would quickly collapse as the result of a succession of blows. The first was economic. Processing the wispy bolls of Venârivan cotton is a labour-intensive industry, and the final product is closer in price to silk than to linen or woollen cloth. The collapse of the Târgan Empire created an economic depression in all the markets of the region, and Îrkárgai was not spared. Hundreds were put out of work, and peasants who counted on the extra income from cleaning cotton and spinning yarn were impoverished.

The peasants’ troubles were doubled by a series of wet springs that spoiled many of the crops, especially wheat. Some historians conjecture that the wet springs in the Ázeryàn Peninsula were linked to drought conditions in the margins of the Béshakan Desert and Péchalâr that triggered the invasions of the Târgan Empire. Ironically, the problems caused by the wet conditions were exacerbated by the assiduousness with which the farmers manured their fields with the night waste from the city and other sources. Over time the added nitrogen leached the copper from the already deficient soil, reducing the resistance of the wheat to the ergot fungus. The wheat harvest of tr1 was the sixth bad harvest in a row, and was also shot through with ergot.

In past years of bad harvests the city could afford to import grain from other regions with the proceeds of their cotton industry. But the wealth of the city was thoroughly depleted, and the citizens were forced to eat what they would normally have thrown away. Unfortunately the ergot fungus produces poisonous alkaloids. Those chemicals cause blood vessels to constrict to the point of creating ‘dry gangrene’, or tissue death. They cause convulsions and seizures. And they cause delusions, manias, hallucinations, and psychoses. Poisoning is often fatal - although no records exist from Îrkárgai, a similar outbreak in Mohm in tr72 killed four hundred people.

The simple fact that hundreds were dying in painful convulsions, their flesh literally rotting off, would have likely inspired a Môrgáthan revival in any city. But in addition to these deaths, hundreds more victims experienced the hallucinatory effects and manias. While the Eónians vainly tried to palliate the victims - who were mostly poor - the Môrgáthans found meaning in the delusions. They were interpreted as visions of Dûrakhar, and they preached that the visions were a sign that they should increase their veneration for Môrgath.

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The final blow came late in the year. An earthquake struck the city while an assembly was being held in the capitol building. The building collapsed, killing over a hundred men. Among them were the autarch and most of the noble class, as well as dozens of priests and other leaders. The power structure of the city was decimated, and the government thrown into chaos.

Control quickly passed to the commander of the city guard. Absolute power would remain with that office for most of the next century. The autarchy would never be re-established. But the office lacked the legitimacy and backing from the larger population. It was unstable - commanders who lost a single battle rarely kept their position - or their head - and the smallest discontent within the army ranks could lead to a coup. And the army was busy. The subject cities immediately revolted, starting a perpetual campaign in which Îrkárgai fought to restore its authority.

Most of our knowledge of the next century comes from the annals of the subject towns, and of course they paint Îrkárgai in an unflattering way. We will attempt to look past the propaganda as we trace the events of the era. We know that once the crisis had passed, the city was dominated by two factions. The army was firmly Àgríkan, and the Varánian noble class was exiled or exterminated. The bulk of the urban population was dedicated to Môrgath, while Eóni was still revered in the countryside. The old civic religion was obliterated, as were the Varánian and Sávè-K’nôran temples (and Arcane Lore chantry.) The small Navéhan community was the only alternative to the new powers.

The characterisation of Môrgáthanism as an evil or depraved religion was unfair - at least, at first. The principle message of the early faith was simply to venerate Môrgath now in hopes of obtaining a less miserable afterlife. There was a hedonistic aspect as well - enjoy life while you can. Over time the religion in Îrkárgai acquired a harder edge as it contended against the Àgríkans for power within the state. It became more organised and more formal in its rituals and dogma. It proselytised actively, spreading the faith through the region and sometimes bringing it into conflict with other faiths. And, sometime around the middle of the century it began experimenting with the Búkrai in a serious manner.

No one is truly sure just when and how the Môrgáthans developed the rituals with which they summon and manipulate the Búkrai. The issue is muddied by the fact that the Búkrai is a phenomenon independent of Môrgath’s spiritual power, and that the Môrgáthans do not have a monopoly on its study and use. For reasons we shall see later, most Môrgáthan texts and rituals date no further back than the Sixth Century tr, and very few are older than the Third Century tr. While the faithful claim than Lekéthan and his followers had extraordinary power over the Búkrai, the independent evidence for this is scant, at best. It is possible that the Môrgáthans of Îrkárgai learned their rituals from a completely different source. One possibility is that they learned from refugees of the Târgan Empire - either priests of Orgûrl or necromancers from another tradition. Perhaps the answer lies in the ruins of Îrkárgai for an intrepid researcher to discover.

Regardless, documents from Shomîro and elsewhere prove that by tr70 the Môrgáthans were engaging in Búkrai rituals. By this time the city’s fortunes were reviving. The population had bottomed out (at about half the peak population) and was starting to grow again. The neighbouring cities had been decisively defeated in tr62, and a tense peace was established with the rival states in the area. This peace was interrupted by an inconclusive war with Shomîro in tr70. In the last battle of that short war, Îrkárgai priests staved off defeat by summoning the Búkrai.

This was probably not the first time the Búkrai was invoked in battle. There are many stories from the East that describe such necromantic magics, and a few, less straightforward, accounts exist in Venârivan history. However, it was the first and most blatant use of battle magic since the rise of the Guild of Arcane Lore and Sávè-K’nôran Church, and the adoption of their imperative to protect their arcane secrets. The Sávè-K’nôrans, at least, considered the Îrkárgai rituals to be a dangerous demonstration of arcane power, and thus a violation of their code of secrecy. The Rión Íshar could not tolerate such a display so close to his home in Sháras.

But the Rión Íshar had little real power to punish Îrkárgai. His propaganda campaign was relentless, and though he was unable to raise Sháras to action, eventually he was able to goad Îrkárgai into war. The delay was fatal - Îrkárgai had continued to recover and was at the peak of its power when it finally attacked in tr92. It had doubled its territory, controlling fifty leagues of the Shûros River, and the conquest of Sháras would give it an outlet to the sea. Everywhere in the Peninsula states were growing, and thanks to a two-decade long string of victories Îrkárgai was now among the most powerful. Sháras was doomed.

To its credit, aided by its seaport, the city held out for two years. It may have been able to last longer - it was reported that the city was lost only because a minor gate was handed over to the besiegers. The sacking of the city was particularly brutal, even allowing for exaggeration. The Grand Temple of Sávè-K’nôr was defiled with the Búkrai, and its priests sacrificed to Môrgath. As was typical, the general population was decimated and mostly enslaved.

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In a bitter aftershock, a storm wiped out a flotilla of refugees, including most of the lorists attempting to escape with their sacred and arcane texts.

With this Îrkárgai reached its zenith. Whether motivated by the shock of seeing a major cultural asset - the Grand Temple - defiled so completely, or simply the strategic consequences of the aggressive Îrkárgai state now controlling the entire Shûros Plain and a major port, the other powers of the region were spurred into action. In addition to the states of Shomîro, Jándîr and Énaleth and some smaller polities, the campaign attracted a number of volunteers claiming religious motivations. In tr96 the coalition inflicted a crippling defeat on the Îrkárgai army. The next year it attacked and overwhelmed Îrkárgai itself, destroying the Môrgáthan power and leaving the city an empty ruin.

Modern historians rely overmuch on chronicles written by the enemies of the Îrkárgai regime, and the story has become heavily laden with propaganda and religious dogma. But once the story is stripped down to its essence, Îrkárgai’s arc parallels many states throughout the region. The century ended with fewer states, each more powerful than those that existed at the beginning of the century. Armies were more professional and fortifications were more effective. Yet at the same time the region was poorer - the economy was recovering, but not yet to its former level. Religious tensions were considerably greater. The old native religions were dying out, as was Navéhanism. Môrgáthanism was growing, and while it was generally considered benign a malignant strain was starting to grow in power. All these trends were evident in Îrkárgai, and almost everywhere else in the region.

Chóamitic Philosophy

Despite - or perhaps, because of - the economic and political retrogression of the era, there was one area of profound advancement. Political philosophy came of age in the Ázeryàn Peninsula during the depths of this era. The cradle was the city of Chóam, in the foothills of the Tonátris Mountains in the Azéri north, a city known for its philosophers and theologians. There, inspired by the needs of the Peónian Church, three generations of philosophers developed the ideas that would make possible new institutions, including the Ázeryàn Empire.

The Chóamitic School was the product of the court of the Eónian bishop Mâremides. Mâremides (b.tr96) was concerned with how to govern a huge church, one with its clergy thinly spread over vast rural territories. The church had problems with corruption, incompetence, disobedience, and heresy, and no structure seemed capable to address these. Mâremides’ answer was to place authority not in an office, but in a set of principles. His disciples fleshed out the philosophy and began proselytizing the idea of a constitutional organisation.

The idea that an organisation can exist in obedience to something other than a king or pontiff was radical, and required a considerable philosophical apparatus to be constructed. It took three generations to construct the philosophical framework. Foremost is the idea of The Rule of Law, which in turn leads to new definitions of justice, supremacy, and legitimacy. The Peónian church proved to be an excellent proving ground for the new school of thought. Peónian institutions such as monasteries were quick to adopt constitutional forms. They experimented with different charters and the results led to more thinking and writing on the subject.

The influence of the Chóamites expanded dramatically in tr190, when merchants of Gedálpria asked one to write a constitution for a new alliance of states. What was produced was a constitution for a monarchy called the Kingdom of the Azéri. The document itself quickly failed due to its own flaws, but, perhaps more importantly, the bureaucracy of the new kingdom was filled with men familiar with the legal and political concepts developed in Chóam. Eventually, of course, the legal forms of the kingdom would become those of the greatest empire in Venârivè’s history. In this way the vocabulary of law in the Venârivan world was written in this otherwise lawless age.

Chronology (TR1-TR150)

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INSERT TABLE

tr1 Rekâri tribes push into northeast Quârphor; alliance between the Heléni and Valéni tribes of northwestern Zêrhanor; sixth poor grain harvest at Îrkárgai, earthquake destroys the Îrkárgai Capitol building; killing most of the ruling class

tr1-194 Azéri Wars; conflict on the Àzeryán Peninsula

tr7 Târgan Genocide, involving at least six invading armies of Bésha, Péch and other origins, an internal rebellion and at least two palace coups

tr8 Târgan refugees feel to various locations, including the Anzelôrian city of Sérianè

tr10 Taugári Cult established on Hèpekéria

tr11 sack of Barýna (now Ómrium) by Heléni and Valéni

tr16 (official) foundation of Empire of Dalkésh; sack of Gârenis (now Válen) by Valéni

tr20-30 Valéni tribes raid upper Énaras river valley region (Ázeryàn)

c. tr30 significant number of followers of Eóni relocated from the Énaras river valley to Chóam, establishing a new ‘Eónian’ accommodation with the local rulers

tr33-37 Lysâra-Árgareth War (Ázeryàn)

tr47 Dálken conquest of lower valley kingdoms

tr59-62 Mîremal-Meókara War (Ázeryàn)

tr61-63 Tázach-Gótha War (Ázeryàn)

c. tr62 Îrkárgai has regained control of its ‘client’ towns

tr70 inconclusive Îrkárgai-Shomîro War; Môrgáthian priests use Búkrai in battle; Rión Íshar begins propaganda campaign against Îrkárgai

tr75-76 1st Mîremal-Gedálpria War (Ázeryàn); Réshan conquest of southern Ménakra; sack of Médalan (Ázeryàn)

tr77 foundation of Réshan city of Reshâna (Ázeryàn)

tr79-85 Dalkésh-Chogôro War (Mafán)

tr79-89 Sérianè-League of Suntó War (Mafán)

tr80-82 Lysâra-Púrimal War (Ázeryàn)

tr82-83 Hébos-Misóna War (Ázeryàn)

tr82-108 Second Emélan-Táneri war (Thánema)

tr84-85 Lysâra-Sházharyn War; sack of Sházharyn

tr86 conflict between Dalkésh and Zerúla

tr89 foundation of the Shénti League of Sérianàpi

tr93-147 Dálken conquest of coastal regions

tr94 destruction of Sávè-K’nôran great temple at Sháras by forces of Îrkárgai (Ázeryàn)

tr96 Sávè-K’nôran Pontificate removed to Beréma

tr97 destruction of city of Îrkárgai (Ázeryàn); foundation of town of Silgôra (Hèpekéria)

tr97-99 1st Lótra-Árega War

c. tr100 harbour of city of Férez silts up (Dalkésh)

tr100 Lóthôr – tyranny of Lóthrim begins on Hârn

tr101-103 Énaleth-Púrimal-Lysâra War (Ázeryàn)

tr102 Dálken conquest of Chenósolis

tr102-104 2nd Mîremal-Gedálpria War (Ázeryàn)

tr110-112 Mohm-Ûrden War (Ázeryàn)

tr117-129 War of the Princes (Mokôra, Mafán)

tr120 fall of Lóthôr

tr128 town of Tashál founded on Hârn

tr129 Battle of Onîra, Mafán; end of Principality of Mokôra

tr129-131 Congress of the Leagues (Mokôra, Bolâra, Âfror, Chifâr)

tr130 Túzyn Reckoning (calendar) devised

c. tr130 Túzyn discovers the Parallax Paradox

tr130-135 Dálken Conquest of Gálamonìa

tr131 formation of League of Boliâfra (Mafán)

tr132 Ailét-Shomîro War (Ázeryàn)

tr143-147 Dálken conquest of Bélonu and Gýlecha

tr144 unification of Grand Principality of Hácherdad

The Imperial Age

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For the subjects of Kéreshna I, the Glorious Emperor of Dalkésh, it was a demonstrable truth that the world centred on the palace of the ‘Everliving’ monarch. By tr150 he had already ruled for twenty-two years - he would rule for sixteen more before dying in his sleep - and under his rule the Empire had already conquered Gálamonìa, Pélona, and Gílech, and now exceeded the lost Târgan Empire in every measure. Mánquideh had fully recovered and was easily the greatest centre in Venârivè, with busy canals, thriving industries, and a population near a hundred thousand. And dominating Mánquideh was the Fiery Palace of the Lékha Emperor, which stood atop a man-made hill created from the rubble of Târgan buildings.

Kéreshna ruled all this with absolute authority, earning a reputation both as a master of military strategy and as a sorcerer. His seal could bind the strongest spirits, and it was rumored that he had three - some say six - powerful elemental spirits at his command. His military acumen was a demonstrable fact. He was a careful commander - his armies were always well prepared, never taken by surprise, and relentless. His dynasty was not insular by nature, but decades of incessant war with the Kàruían and Hácherim states on his borders created an atmosphere of suspicion and resentment that would linger for centuries.

The Ah’Riha-Asha

Visitors fortunate enough to be allowed past the towering walls of the palace, through the columned courtyard and into the vaulted court itself report that behind the sequined throne was the greatest wonder of the age. A series of metal disks connected by intricately arranged gears and levers towered over the throne. The elabourate mechanism was powered by water flowing through lapis basins into a tiled pool. The disks slowly floated above the Emperor, duplicating the positions of every celestial body with extraordinary precision. It was the Ah’Riha-Asha, the legendary Water Clock of Na’Araza.

The inventor was a Ketâric sage who arrived in Dalkésh about tr140. Whereas the Ketâri were once feared as the scourge of civilization, by this time many Ketâri had abandoned their horses in favour of enjoying the pleasures of the civilizations they had conquered. Na’Araza was born into a governing family in Diramóa, was educated in the Diramoan Imperial system, and served in the Diramoan court as an astrologer. But his family was exiled for political reasons, and Na’Araza wandered over most of Lýthia searching for a patron who would allow him to build his masterpiece. No better place existed in Venârivè for the Ah’Riha-Asha than the palace of the Dálken Emperor.

The Emperor, of course, needed no clock to provide a horoscope. That task could be done with a few tables and a finger in the sand. But the clock symbolised the order of the universe - the forces of destiny that even the gods were subject to. In his throne the Emperor sat with Fate at his back, as though he was chosen by the heavens themselves to sit between the gods and man. It was a powerful allegory - so powerful, in fact, that some later, lesser emperors were driven mad by the burden of it. By all accounts, Keresha reveled in it.

Only the emperor of a great state could consider constructing such a wonder. The entire enormous assemblage disappeared mysteriously in tr671, and we can only guess at how it was designed and built. The precision of the works indicates a high degree of artisanal skill, and it obviously required a considerable number of craftsmen. Simply the fact that the materials - Hèpekérian lapis, Anzelôrian gold, Ûmélrian lead - could be collected shows the rebound of trade and wealth in the region. Na’Araza’s masterpiece could not have been built any time in the previous century and a half. Therefore it is an appropriate marker for the start of a new era in Venârivè.

The Foundations of Empire

A variety of developments preceded the building of the Ah’Riha-Asha. In tr129 a decades-long war in Mafán ended at the Battle of Onîra. The warring princes died on the battlefield, and the exhausted remnants of their states fell back to diplomacy. The resulting League of Boliâfra managed to keep a relative peace for roughly a century, allowing the trade route between Dalkésh and the East to recover.

The Dálken Empire was as hostile to pirates as they were to the Kàruían states that bothered their borders. In general, they considered the two groups to be one and the same - and their assumption was not unreasonable. The Dalkésh were joined in their anti-piracy campaigns by the growing Azéri states, while in the west Mèlderýn and Emélrenè were active in protecting their waters. Maritime trade grew to new heights everywhere - even in the war-ravaged Kàruían states.

It was due to the difficulties of engaging in trade during war that the Kàruíans began developing new ways to manage their trading enterprises. Until this time, trade missions were organised by clans - often the royal clan of a city, but also by lesser families. The clan was the only institution that could aggregate enough capital to provision a ship and cargo and also had the permanence necessary to establish profitable long-term relationships with parties in distant ports. But constant war with Dalkésh - and especially the consequences of defeat - destroyed the royal clans and decimated the capital of the merchant clans. In response the Kàruíans devised new means of collecting capital.

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The most direct was to simply borrow from the Hácherim. Hácherdad was relatively safe from the Dálken threat, and their experience managing caravans and contact with the economically advanced East made them the bankers of the region. Their reputation as usurers was already deserved - the Prince of Hácherdad loaned Dúrien a hundred talents in tr105 to finance the construction of new city walls (which would fall in tr157 to the army of Emperor Kéreshna). Now the Hácherim branched out into sea loans - loans for a specific trade mission, secured by the cargo itself. The enterprising Kàruíans would eventually adapt the concept and stretch the term of the loan to cover multiple voyages.

Meanwhile, the Kàruíans also adapted an institution with roots in the Azéri city of Gótha. This relatively isolated city developed a form of partnership, the Cómarera, in which multiple clans pooled their resources to engage in trade. In its original form, the Cómarera lasted indefinitely and put no limit on the liability of each partner. As the practice spread through the Àzeryáni Peninsula it became common practice to give each Cómarera an expiration date at which time the assets of the partnership are divided. Among the Kàruíans the partnership began looking more like a sea loan, but where the investment is rewarded by a percentage of the profits rather than a fixed interest rate. This became the Larún contract, which has several forms and remains the most common means of financing trade today.

It must be emphasised that the real invention of the era was not the idea of a loan or investment. It was the infrastructure of laws and courts that made the enforcement of such contracts reliable. It requires a state with some egalitarian sensibility, respect for law and limit on corruption to successfully enforce contracts between parties of unequal power. These conditions were rare before this era, and even in Karéjia and the Ázeryàn Peninsula the conditions were hardly ideal at this time. But once the concepts took root and the benefits were realised by the Kàruíans and Azéri, they flourished. We will see a little later how the rise of these trading practices affected legal and political philosophy throughout Venârivè.

A Widened View

The Ah’Riha-Asha required materials from every corner of Venârivè, and from Anzelôria and the East as well. But equally importantly, it required ideas: techniques for building gears, pipes, and screws; for handling metal in sheets and castings; for blowing glass and glazing ceramics; for managing temperature and humidity. No one knows for sure today just how much - if any - magical energy was expended in the creation or operation of the clock. And while the accuracy of the clock is proverbial, the technique by which it obtained this accuracy is a matter for conjecture. If a method of escaping the flaws of mechanical clocks existed today it would revolutionise timekeeping, but as of yet no solution has been found to the fundamental problem of maintaining a constant motion despite variations in the driving force. Na’Araza himself never divulged the secret.

That all these techniques and ideas were available in Mánquideh in tr150 is proof that Venârivè was once again interested in the lands beyond, and especially in the East. This was especially apparent in the popularity of the writings of the Kàruían merchant-adventurer, Lánukros el Hroánes. Lánukros spent a considerable time in Eastern Lýthia, making it as far as the islands of the Shoju Empire, farther east than even Diramóa. He was a careful diarist, and when he finally retired to his home in Tázach c.tr230 he wrote a series a books about his exploits. These books quickly became one of the most popular publications of all time. They fed the region’s insatiable appetite for all things Eastern - a fascination that has never faded. Countless explorers have been inspired by the wonders they describe, and their popularity is still strong today.

One such man was the Àzeryáni explorer Hlárakor el Téldranèsen, who wrote about his discoveries in Shôrkýnè and other northern regions in tr325. His goal was to trace the northern route to the East in hopes of circumventing the power of the Hácherim and Dalkéshi, but he failed to penetrate the network of trade connections that controlled that route. But the memoirs of his adventure were the first thorough portrait of the Shôrka. He was the first writer to describe the Áltic peoples in any detail, and he was the first to realize that the Rekâri tribes were the same people described as the Arek Ketâri in Lánukros’ works.

Not all travelers were intent on trade. Arcanists once again took to the roads and seaways in the pursuit of knowledge. In every region they found chantries belonging to the Guild of Arcane Lore. The Guild’s monopoly was now unchallenged, and it engaged in a concerted effort to spread into every significant realm. By tr300 almost every major city hosted a chantry. But success brought a new problem. Kings and states could not easily abide the presence of an organisation that claimed a monopoly on an important segment of society. And were the full extent of the Guild’s disciplinary procedures publicly known it would have made it intolerable. The Guild and its chantries struggled to maintain cordial relations with the secular lords while maintaining independence. It sometimes failed. Occasionally chantries were closed down by suspicious rulers, and in a few cases the Guild deliberately withdrew from states rather than allow the state to take control of the chantries. A general solution to the problem would not be found until tr526.

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Zhâtran Kálgi was typical of the increasingly peripatetic arcanist community. Born in tr370 on the volcanic island of Patân in the Gulf of Mafán, she is known to have studied in Mokôra and had collaborators in Beréma, Chérafîr, Lysâra, and Thúbeliz. It isn’t clear whether she actually visited all of these chantries - some of her collaborators may have met her elsewhere. But in no earlier era do we find a single person directly impacting arcane activity in so many centres at once. Zhâtran eventually founded her own chantry on a volcanic island off the Býrian coast. Soon after she did so, her mystic ideas fell out of favour and today her works are rarely studied. Yet this too is illustrative. In earlier eras, poorly constructed theories could often survive in isolated chantries for centuries. But as scholars travelled and shared ideas more, weak systems of thought were more likely to be winnowed out.

The Spread of Empire

In Na’Araza’s lifetime, the only city where the combination of patronage, skills and materials existed to build a wonder like the Ah’Riha-Asha was Mánquideh. But a hundred years later Mánquideh’s position was no longer as distinct. In Hácherdad a century of unity had brought a new level of prosperity to an already well-endowed city. Phanósia had grown to be the leading city in Karéjia, benefiting from being a peaceful centre surrounded by warring states. The city’s slave markets were flooded by booty from wars on the Ázeryàn Peninsula and between Dalkésh and the rest of Karéjia. It would remain Karéjia’s greatest city until the entire region was conquered by the Ázeryàn Empire. On the Ázeryàn Peninsula, Hébos and Lysâra reached similar heights before falling to a superior foe.

These cities all grew to their zenith due to economic and political factors largely beyond their control. Only one city had the power to drive and define both the economic and the political sphere. Meókolis began as the the compromise capital for a loose coalition of Azéri city-states. But its military success transformed it into the greatest force in history. Almost every aspect of economics and culture in nearly every corner of Venârivè was affected by the ambitions of this one city.

The Rise of Ázeryàn

Meókara was an unexceptional city, notable only for its influential temples, in north-central Ázeryàn when it was chosen in tr194 as the headquarters of the Azéri alliance. The alliance itself seemed unremarkable at first. Similar alliances had formed and dissolved all over the peninsula before. But this alliance gained cohesiveness in a 27-year long war with the powerhouse trading realm of the era, the Republic of Skôraz. The decisive sacking of Hébos left Meókolis, as it was renamed, as the new centre of the region. The next year the victorious ‘Year-King’, Môrdovanes, was acclaimed the first Emperor of the Azéri.

It required just 23 more years for Môrdovanes to conquer the rest of the peninsula, and when he died in tr251 the conquest of the Karéjian Islands had already begun. His heir, Mithrýnas, completed that task by the time of his death in tr263, including the reduction of Phanósia. Livélis surrendered peacefully in tr264 and became the staging point for the Ázeryàn attack on Dalkésh. The speed at which the Àzeryáni legions captured Dalkésh’s northern provinces was shocking. Campaigns in Inkârium and Ûmélria pushed the Empire’s borders to the northernmost edge of the civilized world. Not until tr292 did a Àzeryáni army or navy meet a significant defeat. By then Meókolis ruled the largest empire in the history of Venârivè, with a population exceeding thirty million people. Dalkésh and Hácherdad were the only significant polities within its reach but outside its rule, and the latter maintained its independence only through adroit and expensive diplomacy. In the West, the several states stretching along the Zonâra coast between the Ázeryàn Peninsula and Emélrenè were annexed in a six-year campaign ending in the Peace of Beréma in tr303.

From that time forward conquests became increasingly difficult to achieve. While the Empire continued to expand until tr474, the cost of victory increased incessantly while the rewards diminished in similar measure. Dalkésh proved to be beyond the Empire’s grasp. In tr303 Dalkésh advanced so far as to capture Livélis. They lost it shortly after, but captured several islands in turn. In tr307, tr317, and tr327 Dalkésh earned major victories, but then the balance shifted decisively towards the Àzeryáni. An entente was reached in tr398, and it lasted nearly a century. The Àzeryáni used that time to conquer most of the southern coasts of the Venârian Sea and a few more inland provinces in the north. But the era of rapid expansion was over.

Meókolis became the greatest city that Venârivè would ever see. Its population exceeded a quarter-million - at least double that of Mánquideh, its only plausible rival. Its palaces and temples are still among the most impressive edifices in Venârivè. But its rapid growth made for a squalid, crowded, dirty city, in embarrassing contrast to well-drained Mánquideh. The Empire aggrandised its capital to the exclusion of all other cities. The provincial centres were usually well fortified, but the Imperium refused to invest in them in any other way. The palaces of governors and other officials were modest, and the organs of state were often separated to keep power diffused. Imperial policies were inimical to the creation of large cities. Probably only Livélis exceeded 40,000 in population, and that city’s size was due to its position as the terminus of the Hácherim trade route, not Imperial investment.

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But at the height of this period, even these modest conurbations had wealth and sophistication on a par with the Mánquideh in the time of Kéreshna the Glorious. All the ingredients that were required to build the Ah’Riha-Asha were available almost everywhere. Materials from every corner of the world were traded in market squares everywhere. Craftsmen moved easily from province to province. And ideas travelled faster then ever - transported by peripatetic scholars and commercially reproduced manuscripts, and accelerated by the existence of a common language. All that it lacked was the genius of a Na’Araza.

Imperial Commerce

The growth of the Ázeryàn Empire transformed the economy of the entire region. That there was a qualitative change in the nature of commerce is clear from an analysis of the commodities exchanged. In even the most economically crabbed times luxury goods get traded for the benefit of the ruling elite. During the Classical Summer (bt300-tr1) trade expanded to include products that appealed to a broader class - for example, ceramic tableware and cotton textiles. These durable items were produced in the first manufactories - workshops that sometimes employed hundreds of craftsmen and provided the economic backbone of many cities. This trade crashed in the chaos of the following era - with disastrous consequences for cities such as Irkugai. But in the Imperial Age not only did this trade recover, but new commodities found their way into ship holds. For the first time, comestibles such as wine and consumables such as whale oil and papyrus were traded on a large scale for the benefit of the growing middle class. The list of durable goods expanded as well to include such things as new fabrics, books, and buttons - the latter using new techniques devised for minting coins.

This last item was an Imperial innovation of considerable importance. As the size of the Empire increased, the need for Goldsmith and Silversmith guilds to maintain standards for weight and purity of metals for trade across frontiers diminished. Inevitably, the Imperium took control of the task and the minting of coins became the sole privilege of the Emperor - though the work itself was hired out to the same smiths as before.

The Empire quickly realised the advantage of controlling the currency. Almost immediately they dispensed with the gold mark in favour of the silver dram (penny). By eliminating the alternative gold currency they gained the ability to debase the coinage with near impunity, and of course they did. The first Imperial drams appear in the reign of Mithrýnas I in tr260 and are roughly ninety percent pure silver. (Mithrýnas may have also minted some gold marks, although the specimen in the collection of the Mèlderýni Mángai Hall may be a forgery.) By tr272 the drams of Bârendánis I are just seventy percent. The debasement grew worse as the Empire began minting coins at the provincial level. Some governors were forced to stretch their silver bullion due to unrealistic demands from the capital, others debased the coinage out of simple greed. At least eight times over the next two centuries the currency was recalled in a response to public outcry over inflation, and there were countless edicts issued attacking the practice. Yet purity reached as low as thirty percent at times. During Late Imperial times the purity reached as low as four percent.

The ability to manipulate the coinage increased the power of the state, and especially its ability to move capital and resources around the Empire. But the incessant debasement led to a counter-development that eventually eroded the economic power of the Imperium. Mercantylers began using promissory notes in Karéjia c.tr160 as a necessary adaptation to the war being fought with Dalkésh. The practice expanded afterwards, and then exploded as problems with debasement became apparent. Promissory notes and their derivative, the Bill of Exchange, provided merchants with the means both to protect themselves from debasement and also to profit from its arbitrage. These tools also helped spur the establishment of the Mángai, as we shall soon investigate.

Economic growth led to advances in surprising areas. As wine became a widely traded commodity, the lore of viticulture and enology dramatically expanded. The leader was an arcanist of Shomîro, Alúmos el Pâsen, who in the late Third Century tr abandoned her Odívshè researches and began studying winemaking. She and her students learned to clarify wine - that is, remove the sediments that cloud it - and discovered how to induce a second fermentation to produce carbonation. To preserve the bubbles she started the practice of using corks to stopper the bottles. (Unfortunately, the corkscrew would not be invented for four more centuries.) The sparkling wines of Shomîro were extremely popular for the next two centuries, but their quality and popularity would eventually wane.

Alúmos el Pâsen’s work was indicative of a new attitude of progress unique to the age. Previous generations took for granted that the greatest achievements of man lay in the past. Future generations considered the Imperial Age as the high water mark for human achievement. But in this era craftsmen and lorists of all kinds believed that their generation could exceed the ancients. The barriers of tradition were broken in almost every field.

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Ironically, the exception was Arcane Lore, which visibly stagnated as the most curious and inventive minds found outlets in other areas. Alúmos was merely one of the most visible examples of scholars who either abandoned their arcane studies or eschewed studying the arcane altogether in favour of more technical pursuits. Manuals were published on such topics as mining, smelting, horticulture, animal husbandry, ballistics, hydraulics, and forestry. This activity all fell outside the purview of the Guild of Arcane Lore. In comparison to all this the mystic, aura-fueled methods of the Guild were impractical and idiosyncratic. The Guild’s allure to the intellectually gifted waned. The best minds sought more commercial outlets.

In the Dálken Empire this pattern was reversed. The Empire of Dalkésh was contemptuous of its neighbours when it was the dominant power. Now, after the long series of defeats of the Fourth Century and its relegation to second-rate status, the river kingdom became sullen and insular. Mysticism dominated the religious and intellectual life and arcanists flocked to the chantries of Nátha, Mánquideh, and especially Zerúla. Commercial activity was cramped in comparison, and Dalkésh produced few technicians of any note.

But if commerce was stagnant in Dalkésh, in the Ázeryàn Empire it was one of the driving forces of imperial expansion. Merchants usually preceded the navies and armies, and sometimes all but directed their conquests. Xêrium was founded by an Àzeryáni merchant, Geránth el Hyéndi, in tr401. The Àzeryáni navy immediately began using it as a supply port for its pirate-fighting fleets. A small legion force was posted there after Búqdin raiders looted the city in tr420, but the city kept its own pentarchy until tr446. The pattern was repeated in many other places. Just as Imperial growth fed the economic expansion, the growth of commerce fueled the expansion of the Empire.

Governing an Empire

An empire requires more than just legions and ships. It requires tax-collectors and auditors, judges and litigants, governors and clerks. We noted briefly above that for merchants to be able to profit from more sophisticated business forms they required both a fair set of laws to govern their transactions and also a court system to consistently enforce those laws. Early in its development the Àzeryáni state created the legal scaffolding their merchants required - concepts of security, bankruptcy, joint ownership, limited liability - all expressed and enforced in consistent terms.

While the impetus for this development came from Azéri - and later, Kàruían - merchants, the work was done largely in the capital itself. The edicts that formed the basis of Àzeryáni commercial law were all issued under the name the Emperor, but of course were written by the scholars who gathered around his court. These mostly anonymous men were students of the Chóamitic school of philosophy and raised on the rigorous logic of Mâremides. These men interpreted commercial ideas such as contracts and the comerara in the light of their experience with Peónian institutions. By this time the Peónians had considerable experience with organising collectives such as abbeys and temples under the terms of a written constitution or contract. The Peónians had already discovered many of the defects that such arrangements often contain - fraud, compulsion, special dealings - and understood how to identify and deal with most of them. They applied their expertise to the cases being brought to them by the merchants with remarkable efficacy.

Criminal law was never as complex, and its development lagged well behind. The Empire made some effort to standardise criminal justice, but the basis of criminal law was simply the traditions of the original Azéri tribes. There was little attempt to give them the logical underpinnings that the commercial law required. This distinction between criminal and civil law was eventually made explicit, and the distinction would endure and even become sharper in later centuries.

Navigating these new legal waters required a new class of educated experts, and the Litigants Guild soon emerged as the source of training and certification for these new men. The Guild began as the Domestedios, a school of Chóamitic philosophers founded in Meókolis in about tr200, but by tr250 it had shifted its focus from philosophy to law. Governors throughout the Empire recruited domestadas to advise them, and these advisers founded new schools in the provincial cities. Wherever the Empire went, the litigants followed right behind the vanguard.

The litigants were just one piece of the enormous machine that was the Imperial administration. Governing the enormous Àzeryáni state required countless bureaucrats and functionaries. Tax collection required better means of accounting and auditing. In tr411 work was begun on a land registry. It was never completed, but it spurred the development of better methods of surveying and more sophisticated laws governing real estate. It also employed thousands of surveyors and recorders. Simply managing the navy, with its half-dozen arsenals, dozens of supply ports and hundreds of ships, required thousands of clerks.

The magnitude of the bureaucracy was measurable in more than just manpower. It was also apparent in the formalisation of methods and the persistence of the administration regardless of who was ruling at the top. Not only was official writing standardised on the Ayâran script and Àzeryáni language, but even the grammar was formalised, based largely on the literary examples provided by Mâremides and his Chóamitic disciples. By tr400 there were professional grammarians to teach civil servants how to communicate properly. Civil servants evolved into a distinct social class, with their own set of power structures that were not always apparent to the putative rulers. The bureaucracy gained a permanence that governors could only envy.

The Mángai

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Where Commerce and State came into contact there emerged a new institution, the Mángai. We have seen that the first guilds - the lorists and their cousins, the silver and gold smiths - evolved in the Late Classical Age. Even at that early date the latter guilds were working on securing control of their raw materials, and by tr1 most silver and gold mines were under their control. Of course, most ores provide more than one metal, and when the silver plays out in a lode there is often still plenty of profit to be earned in copper or other metals. So these guilds soon found themselves engaged in a variety of mining operations. Miners are natural guildsmen - the work sites are isolated from the rest of society and the work requires specific expertise, making miners a special class that easily organise on occupational lines. The first Miners Guilds appeared before tr1, and were widespread by tr150.

Supplying the mines and distributing their production fell to another new guild, the Mercantylers. The first Mercantyler Guilds were dependents of the Miners and Smiths - men to whom was delegated the complex but apparently secondary tasks of moving goods to and from the mines and forges. Only a small minority of all merchants belonged, and their sphere of operations was limited. When the first Mángai charter was drawn up in tr243 the merchants were the least of the four participating guild (Goldsmith, Silversmith, Miners, and Mercantylers).

That first formal charter was motivated by fear - Karéjia was caught in a vice between two expansionary empires, and in the chaos the guilds looked to each other for security. The charter itself had little practical meaning - it merely reaffirmed the intention of the guilds to maintain their collective monopoly on the trade in precious metals. Most states paid little attention, but the charter helped solidify the guilds. It’s author, the Livélis merchant Héros el Nálamenes, spent the next two decades tirelessly recruiting (and strong-arming) new members. One of the benefits of membership that Héros promoted was the ability to trade promissory notes more securely. Since the Mángai had a monopoly on the trade in precious metals, it also monopolised money-changing. Merchants who failed to honour their notes not only lost their ability to pass notes but also to trade in hard currency in any quantity. Notes from Mángai members were viewed as far more secure than those from non-members, which made membership all but mandatory for any merchant of substance.

Héros did not live long enough to see his new organisation face the first test of its unity. In tr250 the Ázeryàn Empire began a campaign to conquer Karéjia, and not surprisingly they came to see the Mángai as a Karéjian conspiracy. In tr256 the Imperium issued an edict banning the Mángai and assuming control over the minting and certification of silver and gold. Simple logistics doomed the edict from the beginning - the Imperial bureaucracy had no one in place to replace the smiths, nor the supply chain to provide the bullion they needed. The treasury soon lacked the silver to pay the legions and supply the navy, and deflation set in throughout the Empire. The Empire began making payments in barter - cotton, mostly - and were soon plagued with shortages. It seemed as though the unity of the Mángai was bringing the Empire to its economic knees. In truth, it was merely a demonstration of economic law. By creating a shortage of guild-certified silver, the Empire deflated that currency. Silver and gold were suddenly overvalued, causing people to hold them preferentially. Less money was in circulation, forcing the use of alternative means of exchange. Mángai members could use notes amongst themselves, but everyone else - including the state - had to resort to commodity currencies.

Fortunately for the Mángai, the Imperium had little understanding of economics. After four years the Empire capitulated, and the silversmiths were hired to produce the new Imperial coins. The new arrangement gave the Empire control over the quantity and quality of the currency, but preserved the guild monopoly on the trade and craft. For the smiths it was only a partial victory. They lost the lucrative business of assaying and exchanging bullion, and their trademarks were replaced by the Emperor’s image. Minting became less of their business, and most smiths turned to producing jewellery for their living. But for the Mángai as a whole it was a resounding victory. The Empire rescinding the anti-guild edicts, and the Mángai survived even as their homeland, Karéjia, was conquered.

Even before this time other crafts were organising themselves into guilds. Once the anti-guild edicts were rescinded the Mángai began drawing these nascent guilds into their organisation, and also started organising new guilds. It was a scattered process, with far more false starts than successes, but it led to rapid growth. The Imperium distrusted this new power structure within its borders, and In response it issued new anti-guild edicts in tr297, tr304, tr306, tr307, and tr316 - but with little apparent effect. In tr321, the Imperium again rescinded these edicts and a permanent charter was negotiated.

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Within a decade Emélrenè adopted an almost identical charter, and other states followed suit. They were drawn in by the desire for access to Imperial manufactures and the large Imperial market - access which the Mángai controlled. Much of the growth was due to ambitious Ázeryàn guildmasters who expanded their operations to other realms. But some regions developed guilds independently of the Imperial Mángai. These would-be rivals were slowly brought into the fold as the commercial reach of the Empire expanded. The last was the Court of Pentacles in Hârn, which joined the Mángai in tr493.

The Mángai penetrated even rural regions as remote from the Imperial centre as Quârphor. To accomplish this the Mángai would negotiate with local rulers to allow them to build a market area, usually well away from any existing village. The guild would run a trading fair, usually two to four times each year. The local prince would have the monopoly on supplying the fair with food, drink, and shoes - potentially a lucrative licence, and the somewhat remote location was intended to make this monopoly easier to enforce. Many of these markets failed, but some survived and grew. Beldîra in Huriséa was founded in tr348 as just such a market, as were many other towns in all parts of Venârivè.

Not all guilds survived. Some were too small or localised to endure. Some simply could not enforce their monopoly. Unskilled trades are difficult to guild, as the barriers to entry are too low. Rural workshops are difficult to organise into guilds, both because it is difficult to coordinate activity within a diffuse rural population, and the powerful landlords generally considered such activity as a threat to their power and profits. Where rural craftsman competed against the urban, such as in leatherwork and spinning, the Mángai was weak.

Even with the imperial charter in hand, the Mángai was not nearly as powerful as it would eventually become. The Empire had little interest in assisting the Mángai in enforcing its putative monopolies. The Mángai was far from universal - it was strongest in the ports of the Eastern Venârian Sea, and weakest in the interior West and North. Many crafts were guilded only in limited areas, the purview of the guilds often overlapped, and conflicts between guilds were common. Politically, the Mángai usually found itself opposed by the powerful landlord class and distrusted by the military. While the size and wealth of the Mángai grew continuously, its cohesiveness and influence fluctuated with the political tides.

The most difficult region for the Mángai to penetrate was Dalkésh. The Dalkéshi were antipathetic to what they saw as an Ázeryàn enterprise, and the guild system threatened their slave-based social system. At the start of this period only the gold and silversmith guilds were recognised in Dalkésh, and in that realm they still controlled the cash supply. But by the time of the Third Ázeryàn-Dalkésh War (tr486), economic isolation became an untenable policy. With the acceptance of the Mángai into Dalkésh, the Dalkéshi were finally able to tap into the merchant credit system, which immediately enhanced their military power.

In tr526 the Guild of Arcane Lore formalised their charter under the aegis of the Mángai. The Arcanists were late to join, but even the stubborn scholars eventually realised the advantages of having access to Mángai capital and political suasion. Mángai membership legitimised the Guild’s long-standing monopoly on arcane activities, although formal recognition was rarely extended to the disciplinary White Hand orders.

Expansion and Formation

Economic growth was not at all limited to the Ázeryàn Empire. In fact, rapid economic and cultural growth was the norm, even in the most remote places. On Hârn, the Coráni Empire conquered roughly half of the island, building its first great cities and creating the greatest state in that island’s history. The history of the Coráni paralleled the Azéri remarkably closely. The Coráni state first appears in history about tr300, by tr380 it had conquered most of its immediate neighbours, and it reached its peak roughly a century later - just as the Àzeryáni Empire also crested. The Coráni Empire echoed the larger realm in the forms of its laws and bureaucracy, and historians debate the degree to which this was due to conscious emulation or merely parallel evolution. The debate is fueled by the existence of institutions such as the Court of Pentacles - the Coráni college of guilds. Whereas the Court of Pentacles and Mángai were similar enough organisations to allow the two organisations to merge in tr493, the Coráni organisation had a very different origin from the continental group. The Court of Pentacles began as a litigants guild, and its charter gave it an advisory role on commercial matters and some power to mediate commercial disputes. As guilds began to develop in the new Coráni cities the Court evolved to become an umbrella organisation over the new associations, making it effectively indistinguishable from the Mángai despite its very different origins. The same is seen in many other examples. While there is no question that there was contact between the two empires, there are few unambiguous cases in which the Coráni directly copied the Àzeryáni. For the most part, the Coráni derived their culture from within.

Meanwhile, much of Eastern Hârn coalesced around the city of Tashál as the Kingdom of Káldôr (tr188). Mèlderýn reached its greatest territorial extent from tr409 until tr475. Less is known about the Járin of Northern Hârn, but it may be significant that the Ilvîrans under Áslynn al Jáksyn were able to reestablish the Order of the Ochre Womb in remote Ochrýnn in tr361 - a task that required both ambition and significant resources.

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In Mafán, vigourous new realms emerged. Almost every existing Mafáni state was founded in this era: Boliâfra (tr131), Chifâr (tr220), Génjes (tr327), Lútra (tr390), Ámvâr (tr367, tr435), and Delúma (tr434). Only the Shénti state of Sérianàpi (tr89) is older, and none are younger. In absolute terms the region prospered. Dalkésh, which had repeatedly attacked Chogôro in the First Century tr, was quiescent until it invaded Áshengar in tr470. Internecine wars were only minor hindrances to the commercial growth of the region. But in relative terms the region fell behind the lands touched by the Ázeryàn Empire. Cultural exchange with the Empire was hindered by distance and the insularity of Dalkésh in between. The Mafáni chantries had already been decimated in the aftermath of the War of the Mokoran Princes (tr117-tr129), and they fell further behind those of the Empire and Emélrenè. From this era forward, few advances in any art ever emerged from Mafán.

Most of the Ivínian realms also have their roots in this era. Séldenbàal (tr215), Járenmark (tr290), Menglána (tr344), Lókemheim (tr365), Gílbenmark (tr372) and Íbanvaal (tr382) all were founded in this era. The growth of the Ivínian states was a concern to the Kúzhai, and Hârhakeim and Kóndasgel closed their gates to the Ivínians in tr428. For the time being the energies of the Ivínians were directed within. Only towards the end of the period did the Ivínians begin the large-scale raiding that would eventually redraw the map of Western Venârivè.

Of course, change and growth was greatest in those regions directly touched by the Empire. Hèpekéria was completely transformed. Almost all of the littoral was annexed by the Empire. The ports the Àzeryáni found were improved and new ports were built for the benefit of the Imperial traders and military. Inland, the Empire fortified the hill country and dramatically increased the agricultural output of the region, introducing new crops for export to the rest of the Empire. The Empire had little success expanding into the desert and grasslands beyond the mountains - in tr447 a legion crossed the Gâramànt Mountains west of Xêrium and disappeared, and in tr462 an amphibious campaign targeting the Bay of Dusts was defeated by the Númec tribes. But even the areas beyond the Imperial grasp benefited from the increase in trade and the Imperial example. The semi-nomadic Faláni became increasingly settled. Thúbeliz was founded in tr402, and although Bothísa is certainly older than this, the first historical mention of the city is in tr463, when refugees from Dalkésh’s civil disorder arrive. The Faláni copied many of the Imperial agricultural methods, allowing their cities to grow far beyond their previous limits. The brick walls of Silgôra, built c.tr200, enclose an area of just three acres. It held fewer than a thousand people, and perhaps twice that many lived outside the walls. The stone walls built c.tr500 cover eighty acres and held ten to twenty thousand people, not including the suburbs. On the other side of Hèpekéria, the Kôrlic peoples also flourished. Isýnen has no walls to help us trace its population, but Àzeryáni accounts suggest it was at least as large as Silgôra. The Kingdom of Kôrlúa is dotted with the ruins of towns that flourished in this era, only to be abandoned in the troubles of the next century.

In Northwest Venârivè the changes are harder to trace, but there is no question that the Empire brought new growth and sophistication to the region. In Lánkor and Zonâra the changes were due to the direct action of the Empire. Cities were founded to house the legions and bureaucrats. It isn’t clear whether there were changes in agriculture, and the region never was a major exporter of agricultural commodities, but mining and other industries were aggressively developed. Just beyond the border, among the Tríerzi and Shôrka, we have already seen how the Mángai spurred the urbanisation of these regions, albeit on a smaller scale than elsewhere. The cultural connections were diverse - in addition to the commercial connections, Tríerzi men served as auxiliaries in the Ázeryàn legions and Tríerzi and Shôrka priests trained in Imperial abbeys. But the scale of commerce and urbanisation was far below that of the Imperial core, or even that of Emélrenè and Hârn. Probably no city in the region outside the boundaries of the Empire exceeded 10,000 in population. Within the Empire, cities like Lankôrium, Janôra, and Berónè probably held twice that number. Certainly the 18,000 or so souls that dwell in Lankôrium today hardly crowd the Imperium-built walls.

Azeryanised Arts

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Economic and political expansion did not translate into much advancement in the arts. To the contrary, the growth of the Ázeryàn Empire led to an unfortunate homogenisation of most art forms. The Azéri were fairly accomplished painters, sculptors and masons, having assimilated even before their Imperial Era a variety of styles and techniques. But they found little to like among the artists of the states they conquered. Not only did Àzeryáni emigrants - merchants, warriors, and officials - demand art in the Àzeryáni style as a cure for homesickness, but local tastemakers generally tried to demonstrate their loyalty to the Empire through their own aesthetic choices. Everywhere, artists learned the Imperial styles. Local styles were extinguished.

As a result, some art forms flourished while others declined. Painting and mosaic were in the first category, as Àzeryáni walls were usually plastered and colorfully painted or tiled. Tapestry, carpet weaving and most textile arts fared poorly. Sculpture and masonry thrived. Woodworking did not. Glass was favoured over porcelain, enamels and cameos over gemstones. Gold and silver were used profusely in embroidery - gowns could contain as much metal as they did cotton or silk - less so as jewellery. Weapons were rarely adorned, but mouths were often filled with gold. Styles changed often, and a trained eye can date most Imperial artwork to within a couple decades.

Of the crafts, perhaps the one that advanced the most was shipbuilding. The demands of the Empire stimulated the development of larger and faster ships for trade and war. The war galleys of the previous age were not expected to fight more than a short distance from their home port, but the Empire needed to field a fleet that could reach anywhere in the Venârian Sea. For this they invented the Larú, a ship seaworthy enough to be used to patrol as well as to fight. The larumar was already in use in Karéjia before tr1, but under the Empire they roughly doubled in length. And outside the Empire, the Ivínians began building large oared niviks - designs that would evolve into the dragonships that would soon terrorize the sea.

Of all arts, architecture was held in the highest esteem. The Àzeryáni built on a monumental scale, and although their works are decidedly practical they are also generally graceful and attractive. The standard was set by Órcharan el Lanádes, who was responsible for reconstruction of Livélis in the decades after the Empire recaptured it after three years of Dalkéshi rule (tr306). Órcharan had a rare opportunity and took maximum advantage. Emperor Xériates wanted Livélis to stand as a bulwark against his Dalkéshi rival, not just militarily, but culturally and commercially. The Empire invested heavily in the city, and Órcharan had both a clean slate in the war-ravaged city and the vast resources of the Empire to work with. The result was a city that is still praised for its beauty, despite its size.

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Venârivè tr474

Chronology (TR150-TR450)

INSERT TABLE

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c. tr150 Thánemi and Zonâran states established; Ivínians begin raiding Hârbáal; Miners Guilds are widespread

tr157 Dálken-Kàruían War and Occupation (to tr180)

c. tr160 merchants in Karéjia begin using promissory notes.

tr162 conquest and sack of Livélis by Dalkésh; destruction of the chantry of Damókra el Abdêra

tr163 2nd Lótra-Árega War; sack of Árega (Ázeryàn)

tr165-167 Hébos-Gedálpria War (Ázeryàn)

tr178 Laránian fighting order takes over ancient citadel at Álantra, which later evolves into Álantra Abbey

tr179-181 Kiléma-Réshana War (Ázeryàn)

tr180 Kàruían Rebellion against Dalkésh; Dálken Empire looses its Kàruían territories (Livélis, Shélon, Dúrien, Pélona, Ádesh and Gílech)

c.tr180 growth of the Lìa-Kaváir in the wake of the Karéjian Pogrom of Navéhans, under the auspices of crime-lord Hlégos el Phánoras

tr182-184 Ailét-Mohm-Ûrden War (Ázeryàn)

tr187 end of First (Lékha) Dynasty of Dalkésh

tr188 Kingdom of Káldôr proclaimed (Hârn)

tr190 creation of the Republic of Skôraz: Hébos, Kiléma and Mohm, allied with Misóna, Ûrden and Jándîr (Ázeryàn)

tr194 Kingdom of the Azéri founded: Ázaras, Lymm, Chóam, Reshâna, Mîremal and Gedálpria; establishment of Azéri Capital at Meókara - renamed Meókolis; Azéri-Skôraz War (to tr221)

c. tr200 Ivínians begin to settle in Hârbáal; Quârphic resurgence pushes back Rekâri tribes; first walls of Silgôra built; ‘Târgan steel’ ore sources in the Sóbranah Mountains are exhausted; foundation of the Doméstedios Chóamitic school in Meókolis

tr201 reign of Bashwâr I the Terrible (Dalkésh, to tr227)

tr202 First Númec Confederation established (to tr270)

tr205 foundation of Union of Chawúnik (Árlanto, to tr242)

c. tr210 travels of Lánukros el Hroánes to eastern Lýthia (to trc. 240)

tr215 Kingdom of Séldenbàal founded (Ivínia)

tr220 Chifâr secedes from the League of Boliâfra

tr221 declaration of the Empire of Ázeryàn

tr222 Azéri Empire War (to tr235)

tr224 Dálken reconquest of Pélona

tr227 Laránian pontificate established, Zonâra

tr234 Azéri Central Peninsula War (to tr239)

tr239 Azéri Alám campaigns (to tr242)

tr241 reign of Patrám the Abhorrent of Dalkésh

tr242 Ázeryàn Empire completes conquest of Ázeryàn Peninsula; Dínibôr, Témian and Calamísa defeat Ivínian raiders; collapse of union of Chawúnik (Árlanto)

tr243 foundation of the Mángai in Karéjia, with a charter drafted by Héros el Nálamenes; Azéri southern Inkârium campaign (to tr249)

tr248 Gílech falls to Dalkésh

tr250-252 Dúrien-Dálken border conflict

tr250 Ázeryàn conquest of Karéjian islands (to tr263)

c.tr250 Doméstedios ‘college’ at Meókolis shifts its focus from philosophy to law

tr256 first Àzeryáni Imperial edict banning the Mángai

tr257 Azéri northern Inkârium campaign (to tr264)

tr260 first Àzeryáni Imperial drams (silver coins) minted in reign of Emperor Mithrýnas I; Mángai silversmiths are hired to carry out the minting

tr264 First Ázeryàn-Dalkésh War (to tr270); First Númec Confederation splinters

tr272 Àzeryáni drams of Emperor Bârendánis I minted at 70% purity.

tr273 Azéri conquest of Ûmélria (to tr290)

tr284 First Azéri Kálin Campaign (to tr286)

tr290 foundation of Kingdom of Járenmark

tr292 Second Dalkésh-Ázeryàn War (to tr399) – Century War

tr294 greatest extent of Ázeryàn in the east

tr297 Àzeryáni conquest of Zonâra (to tr303); second Àzeryáni anti-Mángai edict (followed by further edicts in tr304, 306, 307, and 316)

tr298 Siege of Livélis by Dalkésh (to tr303)

c. tr300 Gôrémzator al Ûrvaèn establishes the primacy of Lysâra within the Azéri Àgríkan church

tr301 Côranan / Coráni Kingdom founded (Hârn)

tr303 Ázeryàn signs Beréma Accord with Emélrenè; fall of Livélis to Dalkésh

tr305 foundation of Kingdom of Géltheim, Hârbáal

tr306 recapture of Livélis by Ázeryàn

tr307 conciliation of Xêradyn, Hârbáal; Sea War between Dalkésh and Ázeryàn (to tr310); reconstruction of Livélis, including the building of the Xériates Wall and the Larúnda (to tr320) led by famous Àzeryáni architect Órcharan el Lanádes

tr312 foundation of Neólis by Azéri traders (Hârbáal)

tr313 destruction of Vúldenâr by Ivínians (Chel)

tr315 Àzeryáni treaty of protection with Menêma

tr316 last Àzeryáni edict against the Mángai

tr317 Àzeryáni attack on Zerúla repulsed (Dalkésh)

tr321 Empire of Ázeryàn grants Imperial Charter to the Mángai (following negotiations led by Gârkhis el Vólnakar)

tr322 fall of Lýthwys (Lyth) to Ivínians (Hârbáal)

tr325 Hlárakor el Téldranèsen’s expedition to the north, eventually to Shôrkýnè

tr327 foundation of Principality of Génjes (Mafán); Dálken re-capture of Hepénolis

tr337 Àzeryáni conquest of Lánkor; Sea Battle of Rykál (Dalkésh-Ázeryàn); combined forces of Dínibôr, Calamísa, and Shátrah destroy Ivínian raiding fleet

tr340 Àzeryáni Great Plains campaign (conquest of southern Quârphor to tr344)

tr344 Kingdom of Menglána founded (Ivínia)

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tr345-349 Dalkésh pushed out of Gílech

tr348 foundation of Beldîra, Huriséa (Mángai project)

tr350 Azéri establish fortifications along Tîrga River, including at Ékenon

tr350-357 Dalkésh pushed back in northern Pélona

tr351 ill-fated expedition of Àzeryáni explorer and trader Nókralis el Hrâzen to northern Quârphor

tr359 Àzeryáni crush Dálken navy at Battle of Ámowa Bay

tr360 Azéri Erazýn campaign (to tr368)

tr362 Kàldôric civil war (Hârn, to tr377); Dalkésh abandons Hepénolis to Azéri

tr363 capture of Ífanè, foundation of Ávastran (Hârbáal)

tr365 foundation of Kingdom of Lókemheim (Ivínia)

tr367 foundation of Principality of Ámvâr (Mafán)

tr372 foundation of Kingdom of Gílbenmark (Ivínia)

tr372-374 siege and fall of Dálken Pélona to Azéri

tr374 foundation of Árlanto trading post (Hèpekéria)

tr378-383 siege of Chenósolis by Àzeryáni (Dalkésh)

tr380 Málian declares the Coráni Empire (Hârn)

tr382 foundation of Íbanvaal (Ivínia)

tr388 city of Mêrethos (Golótha) founded (Hârn)

tr390 foundation of Kingdom of Lútra (Mafán)

tr396 Àzeryáni conquest of Chenósolis (Dalkésh)

tr398 Battle of Anínis Hills; Àzeryáni advance halted

tr401 foundation of Xêrium by Geránth el Hyéndi (Hèpekéria)

tr402 foundation of Thúbeliz (Falânia)

tr409 Kingdom of Mèlderýn’s greatest territorial extent (to tr475)

tr410 compilation of Codex Mithrýnas, basis of Àzeryáni law, begins

tr411 work begins on Àzeryáni land registry

tr417 Kymárian campaign (Árlanto, to tr421)

tr420 Xêrian Pentarchy convened (Hèpekéria); small legion force stationed at Xêrium

tr421 Court of Pentacles established within the Coráni Empire on Hârn; foundation of Àzeryáni province of Kymária

tr427 Yellow Plague strikes southern Zonâra

tr428 Kúzhan cities in Ivínia seal their gates to Ivínians

tr433 Azéri Xêrian Shore campaign (Hèpekéria)

tr434 Union of Delúma (Mafán)

tr435 Býrios colony of Ínri founded by Ázeryàn; annexation of Menêma by Ázeryàn; Principality of Ámvâr becomes a kingdom (Mafán)

tr443 Àzeryáni province of Býria established

tr444 Yellow Plague once again devastates southern Zonâra

tr446 annexation of Xêrium by Ázeryàn

tr447 Àzeryáni Ámsas II legion disappears in Hèpekérian desert

tr448 re-formation of Númec Hèpekérian Confederation

c.tr450 groups of Tríerzi migrants are settled by the Àzeryáni in southern Zonâra in areas depopulated by the Yellow Plague

The Imperial Cults

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In the Imperial Age, a visitor to the Dálken Emperor who looked beyond the resplendent throne - a little higher and to the left - could observe one of the more remarkable features of the Ah’Riha-Asha. The Peacock Mage was a human figure crafted of silver and colored glass. He was seated, looking down benevolently at the throne, and in his lap was a star chart. Within the chart, gemstones representing the planets continuously moved in accordance with their actual positions in the heavens. Around the Mage, symbols of the elements rose and fell according to their strength, as indicated by the planetary positions. Symbols representing Fate and Will rose and fell as well, indicating the status of the balance between the two fundamental forces of Destiny. From the Mage’s mouth issued a stream of water, the strength of which indicated whether the specific moment was propitious for important decisions. The eyes, mouth, arms, and hands of the Mage all moved with complex articulations, leading many observers to conclude that it the Mage was in fact possessed by an arcane spirit.

Though it was neither the largest nor the most complex feature of Na’Araza’s masterpiece, it is the Peacock Mage that attracted the most attention from chroniclers, scholars and especially philosophers. Its construction and uncanny motions suggested parallels with the human body. Observers made the connection between the water that powered the Mage and the blood in human veins, and between its gearing and the human skeleton. Even more fascinating was the fact that such complex and consistently surprising motions could be generated by a rigidly mechanical system. Every movement was driven by strict necessity, yet the Mage moved with playful latitude.

The Peacock Mage soon became a springboard for philosophical speculation on determinism, fate, and free will. For the Navéhans, worshippers of the Night Sky, the question was a serious one. If the Peacock Mage was a valid analogy for human motivation, then free will was simply an illusion created by the complexity of the human mechanism. The validity of astrology - and of Navéh’s pre-eminence among the gods - also rested on the idea of a clockwork destiny. But Navéhans also believed in the importance of self-discipline and the application of willpower to overcome obstacles. More than any other group, they believed both that Fate was inescapable and Will indomitable.

The reconciliation of this contradiction became a central mystery of the Navéhan faith - particularly in the Dálken Empire. In religion, a mystery is not a puzzle to be solved, but a question that can only be answered through participation in the faith. A mystery might be deeply intellectual or objectively ridiculous, but though gallons of ink might be spilled in their analysis, ultimately they are immune to proof. They can be divided into two categories - secret and profound. Secret mysteries are those that are withheld from the common adherent - and sometimes from all but the highest clergy. Knowledge of these mysteries are often a badge of honour or source of prestige within the church. We have already seen how one faith - Sávè-K’nôranism - was shaped by the revelation of a powerful secret mystery. We will investigate that faith in further detail, and also see how other faiths came to share similar mysteries.

Mysteries and Faith

The profound mysteries are the central elements in a faith, the knowledge that is most critical in understanding it. These are usually common knowledge, although often the laity’s understanding of them is imprecise or even wrong. For the Navéhans, the Peacock Mage inspired such a mystery - the Yoking of the Bull of Heaven. One horn of the celestial Bull is Fate: as God of the Night, Navéh moves the planets and directs the fates of all things. The Bull’s second horn is Will: as God of Discipline, Navéh grants to his favoured followers the power to direct their own destiny. Navéh alone yokes the Bull and reconciles both Fate and Will. Most faiths have many such mysteries, not all of which are so philosophically deep. Many mysteries address the eschaton, the end-times of the world.

Most faiths have at least a few eschatological mysteries, and some are millenarian - that is, they believe that the world will end or be profoundly reshaped in some sort of final war or disaster. Another common mystery is the Eternal Battle - that the fortunate soul is reborn to battle forever on the behalf of the deity. Often, a mysteri is intertwined with the stories of the founding of the church, and with myths and demigods.

One important set of mysteries are the sacraments of the faith. A sacrament is much more than a ritual. It is a direct manifestation of the deity itself in the mundane world - a time and place where the divine is literally present. Some religions have few or no sacraments, some have many. Some believe that a priest is required for a sacrament, others have no such restrictions. Some sacramentalise aspects of ordinary life, such as marriage and coming of age. Others do not. What each church considers holy has a tremendous impact on how that religion is experienced by its adherents.

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The ethnic faiths of the Classical Age generally celebrated sacraments for the propitiation of sin - usually through sacrifice. As we have seen, this was the central feature of most faiths, and the majority of modern faiths retain some form of sacramental propitiation. But beyond that, these faiths varied considerably in their sacramental practices. The Ilvîran faith of some Járind communities apparently had no sacraments at all, save for the pilgrimage to Ilvîr’s home at Aráka- Kalái. On the other hand, some hedonistic cults found sacramental meaning in every orgasm.

It should be noted that most churches do not consider the ritual spells cast by its priests to be sacraments. While the will of the deity is obviously present in the ritual, the deity itself is not considered manifest. There are two lines of argument used to prove this point. First, if the deity were truly present in the ritual, any priest - or possible any layman - could attempt the ritual regardless of training. And secondly, the ritual spell could not possibly fail. There are a wide range of theological explanations for the efficacy of ritual spells, but most theories fall well short of direct divine intervention.

Most churches also define sacred vocations, which are positions where the mortal human becomes the manifestation of the deity for a specific purpose. The concept is somewhat weaker than a sacrament, since it is generally understood that the manifestation is limited by the mortal’s capabilities and to a specific purpose. But a sacred vocation is still much more than a mere office or position. In matters appropriate to the vocation, the adherent is literally a living extension of the deity.

Many - but not all - religions consider the priesthood to be a sacred vocation. For some, only the highest levels, or even just the pontiff, is so honored. But some faiths have a broad idea of vocation, and apply the concept to such roles as fatherhood. In such cases, it is stressed that the holy aspects apply only to the specific role defined.

Foundation Myths

We have already discussed the importance of myth in defining a faith - broadly speaking, a religion is simply a group that shares common myths and rituals. In Imperial times, new sets of myths gained importance: not the myths of the gods, but of the human founders of the churches. We have already mentioned some of these in passing - in particular, the cycle of stories of the Môrgáthan missionary, Lekéthan. Virtually every church has such a set of stories.

The foundational myths almost always attempt to root the faith in antiquity. Lekéthan, for example, is said to have obtained his knowledge of Môrgath in an epiphany he had while visiting the Tomb of Ûrbrath. A description from a Sávè-K’nôran source describes the site only as the “catacombs outside the city”, but in Môrgáthan lore Ûrbrath becomes the capital of a proto-Ázeryàn empire from a thousand years in the past. By connecting the religion to an ancient source, the myth-makers transformed Lekéthan from an overimaginative upstart to the chosen heir of an ancient tradition.

But the main beneficiary of such myth-making is not the faith, but the central authority. The foundational myths of every faith invariably address the origins and legitimacy of the central authority, usually a pontificate. Almost always this authority arose well after the religion already existed. Even where the founder of a religion is well-documented, finding any independent evidence of the line of descent from the founder to the modern central authority is always problematic. Almost all foundational myths address this gap by positing that the founder appointed a small group of disciples, who in turn passed on their authority in a continuous line to the modern pontificate. Sometimes the mythologizing is transparent - the Sávè-K’nôran account of the founding of the three holy orders is taught as allegory, not history. But more often the myths are accepted as literal truth, and they are intended to make the traditions and institutions of the church unchallengeable.

Generally, the weaker the structure of the church the more important the provenance of the central authority becomes. Not only can the Môrgáthan Vynkhádur (pontiff) recite the list of his predecessors all the way to Éldeùris, ‘Lekéthan’s Appointed’, but every Gúrim (primate) can do as much. The Àgríkan Amànasûrif traces his office to the first prophet, Ilpýlen, through his chosen disciple, Móralin, in a myth that firmly plants the origins of the church in Lysâra. This serves a double purpose - anchoring not just the authority of the office but the city itself. As we shall see, the establishment of Lysâra as a pilgrimage site has been crucial to the development of what began as Venârivè’s most diffuse church. In contrast, the Laránian Sebráth is content to trace his office only to the well-established character of Saint Perelýnè (tr227). Of Saint Ambráthas, not even the location of Alámirè is known. The pontiffs of Sávè- K’nôr and Haléa are similarly self-confident.

As we study the origins of the modern churches, we will set aside the foundational myths and look only at the verifiable historical facts. What quickly becomes clear is that all the churches acquired their structure and power largely to satisfy the needs of the rising Ázeryàn Empire.

Imperial Pantheon

The challenge the Empire faced was apparent from the very beginning. There were temples to many gods on the Ázeryàn Peninsula, but no pantheon united them. Instead the priests contended vigorously - even violently - for the devotion of the populace. The sack of Sháras and the subsequent destruction of Îrkárgai showed early on the extremes to which their rivalries could be pressed. For the expanding Empire, internal strife on such a scale could not be tolerated.

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The problem did not lay with any one faith. As bitter as the hatred between the Laránians and the Àgríkans could be, it was probably less acute than the rivalry between the orderly Laránians and the self-disciplined Navéhans. The conflict between Môrgath and Sávè- K’nôr did not end at Îrkárgai. Even the humble Peónians clashed, mostly with the many local cults that survived this late. The problem was exacerbated by the fact that no church - save the Sávè-K’nôrans - was at all united within its faith. Even when two faiths would come to an understanding in one city or region, the peace rarely spread any farther. On the contrary, having no higher authority to restrain them, dissenters among the parties could easily sabotage such local accords.

In fact, arguably there was more conflict within faiths than between them. Not only were the Àgríkans hopelessly splintered - some say the 888 cairns of Àgríkan legend are merely a metaphor for the seemingly infinite number of sects within the faith - but so too were all the others. Rifts between sects could be brutal. Laránians in Reshâna came to blows in tr222 over issues of obedience to the Àgríkan-dominated Imperial Court. Over a hundred men were killed and two temples were destroyed, devastating the church. The Navéhans were even more plagued by internecine violence. That faith struggled more than any other to adapt to Imperial rule, and many of their subsequent troubles have their roots in their inability to settle their internal disagreements peacefully.

Imperial Religious Activism

The Empire did not stand by passively as these conflicts raged. Almost everywhere within its borders the Imperial administration sought out religious leaders who could rein in the violent members of their faiths. The governors knew better than to make martyrs of the violent - troublemakers were usually exiled rather than executed. Those leaders who were amenable were graced with favours and saw their power increased. Governors gave these leaders new legitimacy by addressing their communities exclusively through them. The Imperial Court was the most assiduous in using this technique. They promoted the centralisation of the churches, not as a premeditated programme, but through the consistent application of a simple political strategy.

The Imperial Court did not rely only on political means to tame the faiths. It also applied a theological approach. The court began patronising Préthiostic scholars as early as the late Third Century, and Imperial favour helped spread and entrench the mystic system throughout Venârivè. The philosophy of Préthios Rhetíka describes divinity in terms of ten eternal principles, or aspects. The goal of most Préthiostic scholars is to gain personal power through secret knowledge of the divine. This goal was certainly attractive to many Emperors and members of the Court, which alone is enough to explain the popularity of the philosophy in Meókolis. But the Court’s interest in the Préthios had another motivation. It allowed the integration of a panoply of faiths into a manageable few.

Integration was an imperative if the Empire was to avoid being pulled apart by religious friction. It is conservatively estimated that within the territory of the Ázeryàn Empire at its height there had been at least a hundred distinct ethnic cults. Many were closely related and could be aggregated together into regional pantheons such as the Kàruían, but most defied easy integration. A census of Ailét, in the central peninsula, conducted in tr312 listed 27 different religious communities. Fourteen had dedicated temples, and apparently the rest were practiced in private. Seven faiths represented over eighty percent of the population, but even a few dozen zealous practitioners of a minor faith could create an intolerable amount of discord. The Préthios offered a way to calm the chaos.

In the Préthios Rhetíka, the gods are described as manifestation of various immutable aspects. Since there are just ten (some Préthiostic systems differ regarding this number) different aspects, there are really only ten different deities. The differences among deities are explained as being cultural. Therefore, if two deities from different cultures have similar attributes, the Préthios assumes that in fact they are the same deity.

By this line of argument, the panoply of small cults were encouraged to identify themselves with one of the larger and better endowed faiths. Five churches were determined to be worthy of Imperial sponsorship - those of Ágrik, Varáni, Eóni, Sávè-K’nôr and Môrgath - and the remainder were slowly rolled up into these. It took centuries - as late as tr517 the temple to the hawkheaded Felgurna was still conducting rituals in the city of Ágôrat. But the process was inexorable. Local faiths could not compete either materially or philosophically with the organised, state-sponsored churches.

It is one of the great puzzles of history - how and why the Préthios Rhetíka appeared just as the Empire needed it. Préthiostic scholars claim extremely ancient origins for their esoterica, usually citing legendary Molkûra as its birthplace. But skeptics find no mention of the Préthios in non-Préthiostic literature before it appears in the Imperial annals. Many point to the Mèlderýni scholar Nála al Uróh, who disappeared on Hârn in tr138 after completing his Libram of the Pantheon. Like the Préthios Rhetíka - and completely

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unlike the unstructured cosmologies common at the time - Nála al Uróh had room for only ten deities in his system. Debate continues on the relationship between Nála al Uróh and the Préthios. It is possible that the Libram was the seed from which the Préthios sprouted, but it is also possible that the Hârnic scholar was familiar with the Préthios or that both traditions drew from a third source. Regardless, the Préthios appeared at a fortunate time for the expanding Empire.

Àgríkanism

It was the Àgríkan church that most clearly benefited from the Imperial strategies. At the beginning of the Empire, the Àgríkan faith was the most fractured of all religions. Àgríkan theology, often violent and individualistic, encouraged schism, and in the millennium or more that passed between the revelations of the prophet Ilpýlen and the founding of the Empire the faith divided into innumerable sects. It was potentially the faith most dangerous to the power of the State, as well. It was popular in the legions, and sectarian disputes often affected the morale and readiness of the military.

This was especially apparent during the conquest of Lysâra in tr241-242. Lysâra was an Àgríkan templestate and the site of the most popular Pàmesáni Games on the peninsula. This affected legion morale to the extent that the Priest-King, Kôralenas el Bêlakúnora, was able to negotiate very favourable terms for its surrender to Emperor Môrdovanes. The temple was left largely in control of the city, though subservient to the Empire. Kôralenas was rewarded for his deft diplomacy by being castigated for weakness and then murdered in a riot.

His successor was more successful in popularising accommodation with the Empire. As soon as he had consolidated his power, Kôrliamator el Gârynas began currying the favour of Emperor Môrdovanes. He declared the Octennial Games of tr248 as the first ‘Imperial Ukhíla’. More importantly, he pronounced widely and often that the loyalty of Àgríkans in the legion belonged exclusively to the Emperor Môrdovanes, the ‘Most Mighty Terâhni’.

Of course, these actions were merely those of a single Viriâhn of a single temple. But the Emperor rewarded Kôrliamator and his temple with various favours that increased his influence. The first Imperial Ukhíla was attended by several of the Emperor’s relatives. The Imperial Court received emissaries from Lysâra with considerable pomp, and always listed the Lysâra Viriâhn first in any correspondence with the Àgríkan temples. The Viriâhn who followed Kôrliamator continued his policies, and the position of Lysâra grew inexorably.

But Lysâra had other rivals that followed similar policies, and its position was far from assured when, in tr283, the position of Viriâhn became vacant. In a bold attempt to cement its relationship with the Imperium and its preeminence among Àgríkan temples, the Aperâni of the Lysâra temple recruited the Emperor’s cousin and respected Àgríkan, Gôrémzator al Ûrvaèn, to lead it. The gesture was successful - by the end of the century every major temple in the Empire acknowledged the supremacy of Lysâra.

The accession of Gôrémzator was proclaimed with a new liturgy which connected the Viriâhn of Lysâra with the prophet Ilpýlen through a long line of apostolic successors. The city now claimed to have been once ruled by Móralin the Wanderer, the purported author of the Balefire Chronicles and foremost of Ilpýlen’s disciples. Móralin was now the first of eighty-eight Viriâhn to have ruled Lysâra, forming a continuous succession ending in Gôrémzator. The plausibility of such a line of succession surviving over a millennium, through countless conflicts, was barely relevant. Lysâra was accepted as the city where the Balefire Chronicles were written and the church founded. It was not just the leading temple in the Empire - it was the centre of the church through all of time.

This identification was crucial for the expansion of central power beyond the Empire. By the bloody ascension of Mámaka el Târgenak in tr325 the power of Lysâra was secure within the Empire. For Mámaka - who was born in Hèpekéria - the challenge was to extend his power beyond the Imperial boundaries. Mámaka embarked on a building programme, dramatically expanding the Octennial Games and constructing what was at the time the largest temple in Venârivè. Emissaries sent all over Venârivè preached that the faithful were obligated to pilgrimage to Lysâra at least once in their lifetime. Mámaka himself travelled on occasion, even to Hèpekéria, to preach this message. But Mámaka did not rely on the pilgrims’ sense of obligation - he made Lysâra into an attraction that the faithful would throng to.

This programme made Lysâra into the acknowledged centre of Àgríkanism, but it did little to strengthen the church at the local level. In theory, the Viriâhn of Lysâra had tremendous personal authority, but he could only wield it on a broad scale. Lysâra hadn’t the means to address to problems that plagued the faith in every city. The Viriâhn could make broad theological statements, but he couldn’t address the specific heresies and grievances at the root of the countless sectarian conflicts. He could place obligations on other groups, but he had no machinery with which to enforce them. On the occasions when he attempted to address a particular local conflict, his actions often caused a reaction in another locale. The power of Lysâra was undisputed in large part because, without an apparatus to apply it locally, it was barely relevant.

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The last Viriâhn of the Fourth Century tr understood his limitations and sought a way to overcome them. Kêremydes el Shonâràen was a legion officer who was not ordained until the day he claimed the position of Viriâhn. He had little interest in theology, yet he soon earned the epithet ‘The Bane of Heresy’. Kêremydes’ true interest was in extending the power of the Lysâra temple down to the local level. His model was the Laránian Church, and his strategy included copying many of the rival church’s institutions and methods. He appointed Kemélras - bishops - in imitation of the Laránian Rekéla, and used his influence in the Imperial Court to ensure that they were accepted. He dealt ruthlessly with those that opposed the development of a new bureaucracy. His predecessors had already established the tradition that the Viriâhn of Lysâra was the arbiter of orthodoxy, but they had made pronouncements only rarely, and generally very broadly. Kêremydes used this power to bludgeon his opponents - declaring them to be heretics, and empowering their rivals to destroy them. The strategy was brutally effective in the short term. But after his death the programme began to fail.

Kêremydes’ successors were neither as politically competent nor as far-sighted as the soldier-priest. They allowed the Kemélras to become the pawns of local interests and neglected to appoint Ulânkh priests to watch them. Stronger leaders might have built a bureaucracy to institutionalise Lysâra’s power, but instead the position of Kemélras became little more than an honorific for the most powerful Viriâhn in a district.

It took another ruthless politician, Víshanelas al Áshrankeles, to complete Kêremydes’ programme. Víshanelas came to power in tr443 and, after spending two years purging Lysâra of potential rivals, began planning the fulfilment of Kêremydes’ vision. In tr450 he summoned an assembly that included church leaders from throughout the Empire and the realms just beyond. The assembly included the bishops that were theoretically appointed by Lysâra, the grandmasters of many important fighting orders, many respected priests and teachers, and the local dignitaries, or Curcûno. From this point on, the term Curcûno would apply not just to the leading men of the Lysâra organisation, but to the broader assembly that was assumed to represent the entire faith.

The Curcûno of tr450 accomplished several feats. It acknowledged Víshanelas as the Amànasûrif, the supreme leader of the faith. It reaffirmed the right of the Amànasûrif to appoint the Kemélras and Apalânkh (regional primates), as well as the wandering Ulânkh priests. It appointed a High Curcûno to be the permanent representative of the church body within Lysâra, and gave the Curcûno the sole right to appoint the Amànasûrif. This last point was critical. The leader of the faith was no longer the product only of Lysaran politics, but was chosen by the entire body of the faithful. In subsequent centuries the practical distinction would disappear, as the Curcûno would be co-opted by Lysaran interests, but the theological importance remains.

The Àgríkan church never would build bureaucratic machinery to match the Laránians. But from this point on the basic structures of a true church were in place, and strong leaders could exert their power on any level even well beyond the boundaries of the Empire. But the stronger the church became, the more guarded was the Imperial attitude towards it. While the Imperial Court was pleased with the fall in sectarian violence, it bristled at the increase in the Amànasûrif’s power. This contradiction has been central to court politics in Meókolis since the foundation of the Empire.

Laránianism

The Laránian (Varánian) Church provided a very different challenge for the Imperial Court. The Laránians could be a valuable counterbalance to the Àgríkans at times. But the church was already developing an effective organisation even before the Empire was founded, and that organisation owed few favours to the Imperium. At times it was even in the church’s interest to affect some diffidence to the Imperial Court.

The Laránian Church traditionally dates its origin to tr227, when a church council met in Tengéla and elected Prelýnè of Tengéla as the first Sebráth. But the mere fact that such a council could be summoned implies that some amount of organisation already existed. The title of Rekéla appears in the accounts of the council - about a third of the attendees are listed with the title. The position had some authority over the faithful in a particular district or polity, and in the feudal realms of Western Venârivè it was usually a royal appointment. The position’s power therefore rested mainly on the depth of the relationship between the crown and church. It was not uniform, nor did it usually possess enough bureaucratic machinery to be serve as much more than a figurehead.

One would not normally expect such men to set aside their ethnic and political differences to create a central power, nor then to submit humbly to that power. They were motivated by entreaties from temples in the Ázeryàn Peninsula, who were concerned by the growing power of the Empire. The Republic of Skôraz had fallen in tr221, and Môrdovanes was acclaimed as the first Emperor shortly after. The Laránians on the peninsula were in constant conflict with the Àgríkans and Navéhans, and often the Môrgáthans as well. To survive against so many foes, the peninsular Laránians called for help from their western brothers. The Council of Tengéla was convened to decide how that assistance might be given.

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The Council failed in its primary mission - while some individual fighting orders and missionaries did head to the peninsula on their own initiative, no coordinated action came out of the Council. Instead the Council was sidetracked by the question of how the mooted aid could be organised, and it settled on the idea of creating a pontificate. The first Sebráth proved to be a brilliant politician and administrator, and quickly established all the elements of the modern church. At first the pontiff had no authority to appoint the Rekéla. Prelýnè responded by creating the new position of Lîrrath above the Rekéla. Later, when the church gained the official support of the Empire, the lîrrath gained the power of investiture over all the offices in their province. From the beginning Prelýnè assumed the sole authority over matters of dogma - a power that the Council had certainly not intended to bestow. The power was confirmed in tr268, when the third Sebráth, Egénis, founded the Ethelánca to help enforce standards of morality, probity and orthodoxy among the clergy.

The Imperial Court was fully aware that the Tengéla pontificate was created largely as a reaction to their rising power. At times the Empire flirted with the idea of banning the church, but they were dissuaded for two reasons. First, the Laránians were a notably loyal and well-behaved sect within the Empire, and a useful counterpoise to the more powerful but chaotic Àgríkans. And second, the Sebráth energetically engaged the Imperial Court in diplomacy. The church maintained a well-funded diplomatic mission at all times in Meókolis, and offered constant assurances of its neutrality in matters of foreign policy. This policy was frequently tested during the Empire’s campaigns in the largely Laránian states of the North and West. Àgríkan factions routinely accused the Laránians of sedition, and violence between the two faiths was common. But despite the difficulties, not only did the Sebráth manage to preserve the church’s credibility, the prestige of the office itself was enhanced by the circumstances. Within the faith, the pontificate was seen as a potent protector of the church. Temples, abbeys and fighting orders within the Empire learned that their survival depended on their willingness to follow the Sebráth’s lead. The Imperial Court appreciated the pontificate’s ability to rein in their adherents, and foreign kings used the pontifical court for back door diplomacy with the Empire. Since this era, Tengéla has been Venârivè’s most important diplomatic nexus.

Tengéla’s position changed only slightly after the region was annexed into the Empire. For a short time after the fall of Tengéla the pontificate’s authority over the church outside the Empire suffered, but strenuous diplomacy soon restored the supremacy of the Sebráth almost everywhere. As the political situation stabilised, the church was able to dedicate itself to consolidating its position and building its institutional machinery. Within the Imperial borders this was abetted by Meókolis. Outside the Empire the pontificate had no such advantage, but the growth of the central power continued regardless. The bishops, abbots and other leaders in remote regions such as Býria and Hârn could easily perceive the advantages of being tied to Tengéla. They gained support against rival faiths, higher standards for their clergy, and even access to some of Venârivè’s finest architects. By tr400, the church was effectively universal, and, largely as a consequence, virtually independent from secular control.

While the busy pontificate was working to secure the faith from its enemies and to build the machinery of a international institution, it was also addressing crucial matters of faith. Laránian theologians wrote profusely, reconciling the Western Laránianism - which was deeply entwined with feudal social structures and ideals - and Eastern Varánianism, a more urban faith which associated the goddess with civic order. The attempt required considerably more philosophical sophistication than the church really possessed, and in general the results were unsatisfactory. As we shall see, centuries later a number of controversies would flare up - sometimes violently - due largely to the failures of the men of this age to provide an entirely satisfactory understanding of their goddess and their faith.

Some other programs were more successful. Rituals were standardised, as were the requirements for ordination and rules for conduct of priests and officials. The education of priests improved considerably, and while the theologians of the Fourth and Fifth Centuries may have lacked the insight to reconstruct the faith perfectly, they at least started a tradition of theological investigation and education that would eventually produce philosophers who were more up to the task. The most visible mark of the era, though, was in church architecture. Techniques from Emélrenè were applied to the Imperial style pioneered by Órcharan el Lanádes to give their already massive forms even more grandeur. Even small temples could seem imposing due to illusions of height and mass obtained through clever geometry. The architects had ample practice - over two thousand significant temples and other religious buildings were built across Venârivè between tr300 and tr500. Almost all are still standing, many are still admired, and some even inspire the faithful to pilgrimage.

Môrgáthanism

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The worship of Môrgath presented yet another set of problems to the Imperium. The faith survived the destruction of Îrkárgai in tr97 - the desire to appease Death is too common to be stamped out in a single battle - but the event made the church suspect. Many temples were destroyed; others went underground. Those that survived protected themselves through secrecy. They added masks and concealing robes to their public rituals, and priests traded their names for anonymous titles. The church refined the use of fear as a weapon against their many enemies.

In this era the faith had two main constituencies. The faith gave the urban poor the satisfaction of believing that the forces of oppression were rendered powerless by Death, and the hope for redress of their grievances in Dûrakhar. And for some of the rich, the faith justified a macabre hedonism. Some temples curried the favour of the powerful by holding out the promise of immortality through the Búkrai and performing rituals on their behalf. In rural areas the veneration of Death was nearly wiped out after Îrkárgai , though it would eventually revive.

As circumscribed as their activities were in the Second Century, the temples still managed to maintain some organisation. Each temple was independent, but they were tied to their neighbours by bonds such as clan connections and shared saints. The most important bond was that between an established temple and the daughter temples founded by its missionaries. These networks usually shared a common theology, rituals, and traditions - important touchstones during an era when the faith was being splintered by secrecy and politics. There were several such networks, the two most powerful being the foundations of Réshan and Meókara. Réshan was noted for its restrained policies, and its daughter temples were generally well accepted in their communities. The temple of Meókara was considerably more energetic. Meókara was a small Môrgáthan temple-state, known as the burial place of Azéri kings, before it was sacked in tr61. The temple survived the conquest and, like Îrkárgai, began dabbling with the Búkrai in an attempt to reclaim its former power. It never did regain control over the city, and it was well behind Réshan in overall influence. But after the Imperial Court was moved to Meókara in tr194 it grew rapidly. The population of the city boomed, and the ranks of the working poor were swollen with immigrants who were sundered from their roots and receptive to the Môrgáthan message. The Emperor had chosen Meókara for his capital because of its connection with Azéri history, its central location and its neutral religious composition. But within twenty years the city was dominated by the Môrgáthans.

His power over the urban masses allowed the High Priest of Meókolis to declare himself Vynkhádur, and in tr225 to force the Emperor to publicly acknowledge him as the supreme leader of the Môrgáthan faith. Môrgáthanism became the first church to be officially recognised by the Empire, and the Vynkhádur was the first recognised pontiff. But the honour was empty. It was won through crude coercion, and meant little to the Khidarmur of other temples. Even in Meókolis there were two rival temples that flouted the Vynkhádur’s will - one of which still survives today.

This unusual impasse proved quite durable. Beyond the capital, a relatively tame form of the religion operated in most of the cities of the Empire. Most of these temples were more loyal to conservative Réshan than aggressive Meókolis. As long as the demands of the Vynkhádur were light, they would appease the Empire and acknowledge the authority of the Vynkhádur. In turn, the quiescence of the temples allowed the Imperial Court to justify avoiding an all-out confrontation with the Vynkhádur. There were occasional disturbances to the delicate relationships, but the system prevailed for over three centuries without significant change.

Navéhanism

For the Navéhans, the rise of the Ázeryàn Empire was a disaster. The faith had always been too demanding to appeal to the broad population. Even where it prospered it never accounted for more than a tenth of a city’s population, and it had almost no rural adherents. Since the Navéhans rarely built temples we can’t be sure of the exact extent of the faith, but most cities around the Eastern Sea had a Navéhan community. In some places it was well respected for the temperance that its members displayed. But this same quality also engendered jealousy within a certain group.

For while the Navéhans claimed that their god had ordered the cosmos, another faith insisted that their deity brought order to mankind. In Western Venârivè, Laráni was worshipped as the source of the feudal order - the natural order for the manorial region. In Eastern Venârivè, Varáni was the upholder of the civic order - the source of law and justice. Both visions of Laráni challenged Navéh’s position as the god of Order. Her clergy contested with the Navéhans for the hearts and souls of the civic-minded, and it was the nature of the faith that it could not accept second place. The Laránians battled the Navéhans aggressively - though, at least at first, not violently.

The Laránians did not need to resort to violence - their faith had a number of advantages already. Whereas Laránianism does demand its adherents live a moral life and respect civic and feudal virtues, the Navéhanism of the pre-Imperial period was far more severe and difficult for its members. Laránianism

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allowed its members to take satisfaction in their upright conduct while still indulging in drinking and other behaviors anathema to the Navéhans. The Laránians built impressive temples, whereas the Navéhans met in homes. Even before the Council of Tengéla, the Laránians had regional organisations that local churches could get support from, while every Navéhan group stood alone. And Laránian theology was fresh and still adaptable, unlike the old and ossified Navéhan philosophy.

By tr100 Laránianism had driven Navéhanism into obscurity almost everywhere. But the faith was too stubborn to perish completely. As the weaker members fell away, the remaining core grew more determined to keep their ancient faith. The turn to violence began in Zonâra, where the waxing Laránians first attempted to ban outright the Navéhan faith. In tr103 a Navéhan zealot assassinated the Regent of Rindîro, then three other leaders of the small kingdom, and managed to avoid capture. The kingdom was thrown into chaos and the ban was forgotten for over a century. Navéhans throughout Venârivè absorbed the lesson, and the faith started down its violent path.

In most cases it followed a similar pattern. A polity, either due to pressure from the Laránians or due to concerns about the emerging violence, would ban or otherwise circumscribe the Navéhan faith. Some cities forced Navéhans to wear a mark on their clothing or even carry a bell. Others tried to exile them, and when they refused to leave, kill them. Some cities succeeded in purging themselves of the Navéhans. Others merely forced them into hiding.

Libellous accusations - of poisoned wells, stolen babies, and dark sacrifices - were heard and believed almost everywhere. Many of the libels originated in Livélis while the city was rebelling against Dálken rule. The Navéhans were closely associated with Dalkésh, and they were one of the few factions in the city loyal to the foreign empire. When, in tr180, Livélis managed to expel the Dalkéshi, the citizens immediately began taking their revenge on the Navéhans. The purge spread to all the territories that Dalkésh had controlled - that is, most of modern Karéjia. It was led by an opportunistic crimelord - Hlégos el Phánoras - who took advantage of the pogrom to establish his network throughout the islands, creating what many believe to be the predecessor of the Lia-Kaváir.

The Karéjian Pogrom was a disaster for the Navéhans, but refugees from the region reinforced the populations in other regions. They brought with them an appreciation for the danger the faith was in, and their stories reinforced the wisdom of covert violent resistance. So in most cities the Navéhans bought themselves some breathing room by threatening the city leaders. Once their reputation was established relatively few actual assassinations were required for the Navéhans to cow their oppressors.

Thus the faith survived, but it was inexorably transformed into something almost its mirror image. The self-discipline that once was directed towards building an orderly and virtuous society was now perverted towards attacking authority. Whereas once the adherents were expected to be living exemplars of a disciplined lifestyle, now they kept themselves hidden. What had been an open religion directed towards public life became insular and intensely anti-social.

Over time the individual temples were forced to descend ever deeper into degeneracy. When recruiting new members became too difficult, some groups began stealing babies. This task required more organisation, and most Navéhan temples began as nurseries. Some groups learned to raise money by hiring themselves out as assassins, and some developed links with crime organisations. All this was in reaction to their generally desperate situation.

Navéhan theology degenerated as well. The message of self-discipline remained, but the attitude towards outsiders changed completely. Rituals such as the Dezenaka evolved, and myths such as the Haléan Cycle were circulated. Today the allegory is generally lost, but that set of myths emerged after the Karéjian Pogrom - Haléa represents the venal and foolish Kàruíans. Communication among Navéhan groups was poor, and their religious education suffered. The subtle philosophy that had once revolutionised religious thought eroded away, and what remained was a knot of paranoid screeds, exhortations to self-flagellation, and rationalisations for violence and evil.

In the background throughout this evolution was the Nagára, the High Priest of Mánquideh. In Dalkésh the church had none of the reversals it faced elsewhere. Navéh was a respected member of the pantheon - his temple stood across from that of the Goddess of Luck, Álneha, and he was openly revered as the God of Fate. For the Dálken Empire, supporting the hidden Navéhans was a way to covertly strike at their Àzeryáni enemies. The Nagára consistently supported his brothers throughout Venârivè with money, information, and even manpower. In return the Navéhans served as spies and sometimes assassins for the benefit of Dalkésh. The arrangement survives even today, though with less intensity, and it seems unlikely that the faith could have survived in Western Venârivè without the ongoing support from Mánquideh.

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A Navéhan Priest

Peónianism

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On the other end of the spectrum was the Peónian (Eónian) faith. Even in the first years of the Empire, the Imperial Court realised that it had the potential to be a unifying force for the increasingly disparate peoples of the Empire. In addition, the Peónians were the best positioned to help the Empire build the legal and bureaucratic apparatus it needed to govern a large state. As we have noted, the Peónians had already faced many of the challenges the Empire was beginning to encounter. They developed the fundamentals of a proper legal system - constitutions, adversarial trials, enumerated powers - which was crucial to an orderly public life in a diverse empire. Their administrative skills, developed in abbeys whose lands could stretch five leagues across and house a thousand families, were also significantly more advanced than those of any other institution outside Dalkésh. For most of the Empire’s history the majority of Imperial clerks have been educated in Peónian abbeys.

As the Empire absorbed new territories it encouraged local temples to align themselves with one of the official cults. The Préthios provided the theological justification for merging faiths. The political benefit came from the fact that only an approved faith could use the public spaces or build new temples in the Empire’s cities. Few faiths could find enough common ground to merge with the Àgríkans, Laránians, or Sávè-K’nôrans. The many death cults easily assimilated with the loosely organised Môrgáthans. (Haléa would not be officially recognised until the end of the Fourth Century, well after most faiths had been integrated.) Some faiths stood outside Imperial favour, sometimes for centuries, but inevitably they dwindled in strength.

But most native pantheons included a fertility goddess who could be identified with Peóni. Even if the mother-goddess was not the principle deity in the pantheon, it was not hard to rearrange the theology somewhat to make the identification. The Peónian pantheon had always included a large number of secondary deities, and there was room in Válon for more. Whereas Peónians on Hârn are familiar only with a few demigods such as Maérmal the Ox and Válamin, worshippers in Imperial lands learn the names of dozens of Peóni’s retinue. Gánja the Good Steward, the antlered archer Tréssa, the heralds of morning and evening Archôris and Ramáchis - all these were absorbed from native religions of conquered territories. Sometimes the details can be traced - we know, for example, that the civic religion of Berónè was headed by a horned sky god, Seráma (which some Préthiostic scholars have compared to Sárajìn), and an earth goddess, Péna. Berónè was conquered in tr297 - and in tr330 a homily written in nearby Kéthano uses Serámis as a name for Maérmal. Inevitably, most of these imported gods receded to the background. Catalogues have been written by Peónian monks listing almost two hundred demigods in Válon, almost all of whom probably were assimilated from local cults.

Obedience to central authority has never been terribly important to Peónians, and establishing a pontificate was never a priority. This frustrated the Imperial Court, which realised that a pontificate would make the valuable church easier to control. Throughout the Third Century the church resisted the Empire’s entreaties, and while the church held numerous councils to consider the idea, it never appointed a pontiff. But the independent-minded abbots and priests were caught flat-footed when Emperor Bârendánis II conquered the Zonâran city of Pêrna in tr300. Tradition held that Pêrna was the site where Saint Alamárel founded the church, and the locals kept alive the tradition that their temple stood in direct apostolic succession from Alamárel. In tr293 the high priest adopted the title Hápalan - an honorific that could not have had much practical meaning at the time. But Bârendánis gave it meaning when, after his conquest, he confirmed the title and gave the Pêrna priest authority over the entire church within the Empire.

With the Empire’s assistance the Hápalan quickly built up the machinery of a pontificate, generally hewing close to the Laránian model. The Peónian church was an important component of the Imperial social structure, as it was the primary source of welfare for the Empire’s poor. The Empire insisted that the Hápalan maintained a handle on the finances of the abbeys and temples within its borders. The financial collapse of the Mêrenos Abbey, near Válen, in tr333 triggered riots in the city, and as the Empire continued to urbanise such disruptions became increasingly dangerous. Ever since, church administration within the Empire has been focused on financial probity.

Sávè-K’noranism

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Ever since the Sack of Sháras in tr94, the seat of the Rión Íshar of the Sávè-K’nôran church was safely hidden away in Emélrenè. But for the cult to receive the favoured status it needed to operate, it had to offer the Empire a handle on its activities. To this end the modest archive of Meókolis was expanded and in tr288 its High Priest was elevated to the position of Grandmaster of the Hýn-Aelôri. The bureaucracy of the church was built there. Today, though the Rión Íshar in Emélrenè possesses supreme authority over the church, his court includes just a handful of clerks, barely noticeable among the mass of scholars housed in Íshranor, and much smaller than the staff of the Shéa-al-Aécôr the pontificate oversees. The archives of the church - records of appointments, audits, minutes, proclamations, transactions, diplomatic correspondence - all reside in Meókolis, cared for by a hundred-plus scribes and priests. The archive of arcana held in Meókolis is one of the largest in Venârivè, but requires only half as many to maintain.

Politically, the Sávè-K’nôran church was generally a quiet servant of the Imperial interest. It benefited from being one of the few official cults, and repaid the favour by providing advisers to the Imperial Court and serving as an effective unofficial diplomatic service. The church offered a conduit for communication with the courts of Emélrenè and sometimes Dalkésh that was open even when conventional diplomacy was difficult or impossible. These links became even more valuable as the Empire waned in power and Venârivè grew more unsettled.

Haléan Church

Throughout the Fourth Century just five faiths held favoured status. In addition to having exclusive access to public spaces for events and the right to build new temples, the favoured cults kept envoys in the Imperial Court, were regularly acknowledged in public proclamations, were given judicial authority over their clergy in many matters, and often even received direct subsidies. It was not mandatory to follow these faiths - local cults survived for centuries under Imperial rule - and other cults could sometimes receive some of these benefits, at least at a local level. But over time the disadvantages of being outside the Imperial favour eroded away the old religions. Yet there were exceptions.

The most remarkable was the cult of the Kàruían Goddess of Fortune, Haléa. She does not appear in the myths retold in the Lay of Léios (c. bt900), but becomes increasingly prominent in later poems. She rose in prominence along with her home city, Helás, which blossomed in the later Classical Age in step with the demand for its main export, a mastic gum. By the time the Empire conquered Karéjia (tr250-tr263) Haléa was a major deity, usually portrayed as the sister of Eóni. After the conquest she became the symbol of Kàruían culture. Whereas the other major Kàruían deities were co-opted by the Imperial cults, the Azéri had no direct equivalent for Haléa. In the worship of Haléa the Kàruíans found a way to maintain their culture without threatening the peace.

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The central figure in this transition was Merodýnè the Pale. In tr270 the province of Helás was still smouldering with rebellion, and the Temple of Haléa seemed to be at the centre of every conspiracy. The Imperial governor executed the High Priestess and installed the 21-year-old Merodýnè in her place, assuming the youth would be a pliable servant of the Empire. The appointment had the desired purpose, and the unrest slowly dwindled. But Merodýnè outlasted that governor – and many others, surviving for seventy years as the head of the Haléan Church. Far from being a pliable servant of the Empire, under her leadership the church became the touchstone of Karéjian culture. But to the Empire’s benefit, she encouraged her flock to direct their energies to commerce and industry instead of rebellion, and conducted church affairs accordingly.

Before Merodýnè the Haléan Church conducted its affairs like almost any other, collecting money and goods from its practitioners as tithes or as payment for rituals. But some time during Merodýnè’s reign the temple introduced an innovation appropriate to the Goddess of Luck. The Trakéza is an instalment savings programme which allows peasants to provide for the dowries of their daughters. The participants make a dozen annual payments – typically a shilling – on the behalf of the daughter, and she receives a pound for her dowry upon her marriage. The attractive interest rate is possible both because the money gets invested and also because not all daughters are destined to get married. The Trakéza quickly became popular, and a major source of revenue for the church.

The Trakéza made the church rich, but it also nearly destroyed it. Each temple managed their own Trakéza funds, and inevitably a few temples went bankrupt. In the first two cases, Merodýnè stepped in and bailed out the local temples, but a permanent solution was required. She organised the local temples into groups, and required each local temple to invest one penny from each shilling into the group fund, which was managed separately. This group fund was then used to bail out unlucky temples.

The system required that each temple group audit the bookkeeping of their members, and even to discipline or replace temple officials. Thus the church developed its own bureaucracy, in parallel with but independently of the developments in other churches. Just before her death in tr340 Merodýnè appointed her successor, Aurélia, naming her the first Hilénea. Like her predecessor, Aurélia proved to be long-lived. She ruled for forty-eight years, and oversaw several major changes for the faith.

First, Aurélia won for the church the official favour of the Empire. Soon after, construction began on the great Temple of Helás, which was completed in tr372 after twenty years of construction. Once complete, she required the Trakéza to invest a penny per shilling - in addition to the penny invested in the local group fund - into Helás’ fund, which quickly grew into the largest aggregation of capital in Venârivè, capable of financing the Empire’s more ambitious commercial endeavours. The visibility of her success gave Aurélia the confidence and power to deal with a troublesome priest, Kesér el Béria, who took advantage of the opacity of the pontificate’s activities to create dissension. Kesér was a conservative who still saw Haléa first as the goddess of the city-state. He saw the faith’s expansion abroad as being in conflict with its ancient role, and he was concerned with the diminishing role that men played within the clergy. In response to his insubordinate actions, in tr384 Aurélia issued the Temenésa Decree, which banned men from the priesthood and declared Kesér a heretic. Happily for the pontiff, Kesér apparently died of a wasting disease soon after. It should be noted, however, that there are a number of troubling contradictions in the official version of events. Even today, in some remote towns in Karéjia there are Haléan temples with male priests who aver that Kesér survived to tr400, when he was taken directly to paradise by Haléa’s seven handmaidens.

Once Imperial approval was won, the church’s rapid growth was almost inevitable. As fast as priestesses could be trained, temples were constructed. Trakéza profits fueled the growth and gave the church the incentive to expand into every city, whether a population of faithful existed or not. The popularity of the Trakéza helped ensure a welcome, despite the general contempt that other faiths usually had towards the libertine Haléans. Due to its origins as part of the Kàruían Pantheon, the Haléan Church had no imperative toward dominance. While Àgríkan theology demanded dominance as a sign of divine favour and Peónian and Laránian faiths promoted a social order that implied a homogenous religious regime, the Haléan faith adapted easily to a role as a minority religion. It soon became the most pervasive faith in the Empire.

Kelénosian

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One other faith managed to survive and occasionally thrive within the Empire despite not enjoying official favour. The Thónian deity Kelénos was introduced to the Empire through the legions. Auxiliaries recruited from Árlanto and elsewhere brought their warrior faith with them, and they converted a fair number of others. Because of its unofficial status and lack of a central authority, there are too few records or references to allow us to trace its growth. The best indicators of its growth are the records of Laránian and especially Àgríkan complaints to the Imperial Court demanding that the Legions be purged of the Kelénosians, presumably because of doubts of their loyalty. There is no evidence that these complaints had any effect on Imperial policy, though individual Àgríkan and Laránian commanders occasionally took some action on their own authority.

Sárajìnians

We also pause to note that in tr235 Djârni alrí Beldésa founded Molíma, in the Kingdom of Éldeskaal beneath the holy Mount Ilbengáad. This is as close to a pontificate as exists in the Sárajìnian faith. While some conjecture that the foundation of Molíma was spurred by contact with the well-organised Laránians, others believe that it was the inevitable result of population growth. For the first time Ivínia could support a temple complex like Molíma. If this is true, than Molíma might give us an example of how the temple-states of the Classical Age appeared.

Religious Chronology (TR1-TR450)

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tr7 Târgan genocide; end of old Târgan cults

tr10 Taugári Cult established on Hèpekéria

tr16 Mavráma khu Lékha rebuilds the Imperial Pantheon at Mánquideh

c. tr30 significant number of followers of Eóni settle in Chóam, paving the way for the development of Chóamitic philosophy

tr94 destruction of Sávè-K’nôran great temple at Sháras by forces of Îrkárgai (Ázeryàn)

tr96 Sávè-K’nôran pontificate removed to Beréma; birth of Eónian Chóamitic philosopher Mâremides

tr97 destruction of city of Îrkárgai (Ázeryàn)

tr103 Navéhan assassinations in Rindîro

tr138 disappearance of Nála al Uróh after completing the Libram of the Pantheon

tr180 Karéjian Pogrom of Navéhans (instigated by Hlégos el Phánoras)

tr190 Gedálpria commissions Eónian Chóamites to draft the constitution for the ‘Kingdom of the Azéri’

tr222 conflict in Reshâna between Laránian factions.

tr225 Môrgáthan Vynkhádur obtains imperial acknowledgement of leadership of the faith

tr227 Laránian pontificate established, Zonâra

tr235 foundation of Molíma beneath Mount Ilbengáad by Djârni alrí Beldésa (Éldeskaal, Ivínia)

tr241 reign of Patrám the Abhorrent of Dalkésh

tr242 Priest-king of Lysâra, Kôralenas el Bêlakúnora negotiates favourable terms of surrender

tr248 Kôrliamator el Gârynas dedicates the first Àgríkan Imperial Ukhíla at Lysâra

tr268 3rd Laránian pontiff, Egénis, establishes Ethelánca

tr270 Church of Haléa founded (Karéjia)

tr293 Peónian pontificate (Hápalan) at Pêrna

tr283 appointment of Gôrémzator al Ûrvaèn as Viriâhn of Lysâra

tr300 Emperor Bârendánis II confirms Peónian pontiff’s leadership of whole church

c. tr300 Gôrémzator el Ûrvaèn establishes the primacy of Lysâra within the Azéri Àgríkan church

tr312 census of Azéri city of Ailét documents 27 different religious communities

tr325 accession of Mámaka el Târgenak in Lysâra.

tr340 Aurélia appointed Hilénea of the Haléan church

tr361 reestablishment of Ilvîran Order of the Ochre Womb at Ochrýnn by Áslynn al Jáksyn (Hârn)

tr372 Haléan Trakéza now provides one penny per shilling to the Helás temple; completion of the Helás Temple

tr384 Haléan Temenésa Decree in response to Kesér el Béria

c. tr395 Kêremydes el Shonâràen establishes Àgríkan Kemélras (bishops)

tr333 financial collapse of Eónian Mêrenos Abbey

tr436 Haléan pontiffs are made governors of Helás

tr450 Víshanelas al Áshrankeles, ruler of Lysâra, acknowledged as Amànasûrif (pontiff) of the Àgríkan church

The Imperial Autumn

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Chronology (TR450-TR550)

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The Red Death

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The Modern Age

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Afterword: The Curse of Modernity

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Index / Gossary

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Chapters and Sections

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• Book Title: Albertus-Bold 96pt
  • Credits: AmasisMT,Bold 14pt
  • Chapter Title: Korinna-Bold 18pt (Header Title Name: Korinna-Bold 14pt/Header Section/Page#: Korinna-Bold 18pt)
    • Chapter subheading: Korinna-Bold 14pt
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          • Chapter Text: AmasisMT-Regular 10pt

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• Place these in layered bullets lists and add font to code, possibly even a template for each font making a wiki system for Styles (as in MS Word).
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Name & Dates List

Note: ADD a proper/seperate page for this all as a table. Once broken down into the Book Style like Kanday's split page style, can then add Category for each section part so that a complete list then gets made for all the pages for "said name". The once this is done, can then add this comprehensive list to "that" Index Section for "Category". In the end the aim is to create a complete "Name & Dates List/Index" so all the LINKS for names can then not only be categorised, but also interlinked between ALL articles and books, especially for DATES as this will be required to create a comprehensive Chronology Timeline and quick inter-referencing of the subject link(s).

Note: ADD links to each Name & Date within the Tabled Index, these should also include Eras & Periods for dates.

Note: INCLUDE all these into the Template (Sidebars & other data) Tables and so on.

Note: Example: Mercenary Companies would not only have a template for the Company, but be interlinked with that Type as a Category reflecting and showing Country, Shire, Hundred, Leader, Associated to/Sponsor, Location/Region and all other manner of data links within the design of the template and interact automatically with other templates, catergories, and index link lists.

Note: Example: A river would have a sidebar template that includes it's source length and so on, but also show not only the Catergories & Names, but be reflected within each of those Categories & Names Listed together. Basically internested Data, Links, Catergories, and so on to save redoing all links again with new pages or modifications, it automatically gets updated once interconnected correctly.

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