The Legend of the Gateforger
The fire crackled low as a boy pulled an old, weathered book from a shelf near the hearth of the small cottage where he lived with his grandfather. He opened it, its pages worn from long use, flipping pages randomly until he stopped on a page showing a symbol - a dark void contained within a circle with twelve lines radiating outwards from this void. “Grandfather,” the boy said, “what is this?”
From his place before the hearth, the old man took a puff on his pipe before leaning forward to peer at the image. He blew a perfect ring of smoke, sending a second, smaller ring into it, and then said, “That, my boy, is the Eye of the Infinite Road.” As he spoke, he gestured with his pipe, “Once it was the sigil of Varaxis the Gateforger, and then of his god Koryphaios, but now it is mostly forgotten by those who grace this world.”
The child traced a small finger along the delicate lines of the symbol, “Do you know the legend of Varaxis the Gateforger?” he asked.
“Aye,” his grandfather replied cheerily, “Indeed I do.
“Varaxis the Gateforger is said to be the first and only man to bind the far corners of the world with silver rings that could carry you from one land to another in the blink of an eye. He lived in a time so long ago that we have nary even a name for it, but his name, and that of his god Koryphaios the Whispering Lattice survive. Varaxis spoke of Koryphaios as the Voice in the Gates and he claimed the god knew every road ever walked. It was by binding Koryphaios that the Gateforger walked the skies, carved doors through mountains, even set paths across the void between stars.
“Now,” the old man said, leaning back as he settled into his tale, “in those days, the lands were ruled by seven monarchs, and as Varaxis grew in power, the Seven Crowns grew fearful. They raised a great army and marched against the Gateforger who scoffed at them, for no wall nor army could bar his step. But on that day, when Varaxis sought to use his gates against them, the Voice betrayed him. They watched as he flickered in and out of existence, each jump aging him, until at last he fell dead before them.
“They called it the Day of Seven Thunders. Some say the sky itself roared with joy at his fall. Whether that’s true or tale matters not, but did you know that we still celebrate this victory?”
“We do?” the boy asked, incredulous.
“Indeed!” the old man said triumphantly, waving his pipe about in the air, “We remember it as Seven’s Day, when we give thanks to the unheard voices of protection.”
Pleased that the boy was suitably impressed by his tale, the old man went on, “When the Day of Seven Thunders ended, the Crowns controlled the gates and with those gates their influence would stretch out across the face of the world.” The old man sat back with a contented sigh, his story concluded.
The boy, however, was not finished, “But Grandfather,” he asked, his tone questioning, “why do we not use these gates still?”
“Well,” the wizened old man replied, taking his pipe from between his teeth and pointing at the air as he did, “it’s said that over time, the gates became unreliable. Most who walked their paths returned safely, but some did not. These few were… changed, their eyes catching strange constellations, their dreams filled with voices not their own.” The old man paused in his telling to look down at the lad, “Have you ever heard the saying, ‘Never trust a road whose voice you cannot see?’” he asked. “Well,” he continued cheerily after the boy nodded affirmation, “this is where that saying came. You see, the Voice you’re looking for is that of Koryphaios, who the Crowns came to fear as much as they feared Varaxis.”
“And so the chambers of the gates were closed and the magic of the gates sealed away. Over time, as one age gave way to another, even the location of these places was lost. Some say that the rulers of our time know of them but this is a truth I think we shall never know.” The old man bit down on his pipe and reached a wrinkled hand out to ruffle the boy’s hair, “Now,” he said, a tone of finality in his voice, “it is late, and you must to bed.”
The child groaned but offered no resistance as he closed up the book and scampered off to sleep. But as the boy slept, the Eye of the Infinite Road stared at him from the pages of the closed book. And somewhere far below the earth, a whisper stirred - the voice of a road no one should ever trust.
Ref: Koryphaios