Image by Shima Abedinzade from Pixabay

Biryani wrapped her scarf tighter around her hair. She walked the sands with ease, the shifting grains scattering beneath her sandals with each footfall. All around her, she heard the raucous call of the merchants, the chants of the priests, and the hum of the great security pylons that surrounded the trade outpost.

She was not interested in any of it. Her focus was a small structure buried deep within the hive of shops, grav pallets, and the mix of humans and Others. She reached it and pressed the button to alert the inhabitant that she was there.

The damaged security screen crackled to life and a hooded figure gazed out from within the structure at who had dared to approach them. Biryani waited and finally the person nodded once. The image disappeared and the door slid open. Biryani walked in.

The room was dimly lit, not by the usual phosphorescent panels but by actual flame-fueled paper lanterns painted in bright colors and vivid patterns. A faint scent of incense hung in the air, as if she were entering a temple sanctuary.

The heavily hooded figure approached. “You have the price?” The voice was feminine and sounded weary.

Biryani pulled a small case from the satchel she was carrying. If she’d been caught with this, it would have meant her life. But what she was seeking was, to her, worth it. She placed the case on the low table between them and opened it. Six tiny bottles, no bigger than a fist, glittered in the flickering light.

“Six bottles as promised,” Biryani told her softly. “All pure. All from the Valheim tree.”

The figure nodded and pulled back her hood. White hair was the only sign of the great age of the individual before her. Sharp black eyes and a face that was both ageless and yet held the wisdom of a lifetime of pain were plain now to see. “Sit then, and hear the tales of the Forefathers.”

Biryani sat down and listened as the woman, older some said than the planet itself, spoke. She heard tales no one else remembered. For three days Biryani did not leave the history weaver’s home. In the end, the woman pulled her robe and veil back over her face and Biryani left, a new sorrow in her heart.

They were a primitive society, for all they had a few bits of technology like the lights and the security pylons. The great workings of the past had been criminalized and made anathema after the Great Rift opened. She wondered why, and what exactly was the Great Rift. She knew of one other history weaver rumored to be as old if not older than the woman she had just spoken to. He may have the answer to that question.

She would have to travel even farther afield than she had to come to this outpost. But it would be worth it if she could answer all her questions. She set about hunting for his price, for it was even steeper than this woman’s had been. She began humming to herself. It would be a long journey, but worth it in the end.