Dharuta on the Bridge

A Tale of the Fortress Eternal
From the Golden Age

So Dharuta left the court of King Jharugatha and went from Rashur along the road to Maratha, bearing with her only her staff and bowl. She came then to the great bridge spanning the Grey Straits, its carved battlements telling the saga of the Asuras to the pilgrims who walked their road. As Dharuta trod the pilgrim's path a crowd gathered, beseeching her to speak.
In those days, the governor of that land lived in a high fort built around the central span of the bridge. This man's name was Karakatha and, seeing the crowd from his tower, he asked his soldiers why they gathered. "They hope to hear Dharuta's teaching", they said. "She comes to Maratha by our road." At once the governor ordered his horse made ready and rode out to meet the sage.
Now Karakatha was not a foolish man, and his fathers had kept that bridge all their days, but in his dreams he was tormented and sorrow would overtake him as he stood atop his home gazing down at the great river far below him. So it was that he sought Dharuta on the Asura's Road, the hooves of his horse grinding the smooth-worn stones that had known the tread of a thousand holy men.
He came upon the sage when the sun stood at its height, surrounded by a vast crowd. Desparate to speak with her, Karakatha drew his sword and moved with force to Dharuta. Her followers gathered close but she bade them sit to the side, saying that she would turn away none who wished to hear her.
Humbled, Karakatha sheathed his sword and dismounted. Before the teacher he stood clad in shining mail and silk, and there he knelt and begged her to answer his question. Dharuta consented, and when Karakatha spoke his voice was dry. "Through all the days of my fathers", he said, "the Empire has stood strong and peace has reigned. The cities are places of wonder, our marvels have tamed all the world, and the wisdom and compassion of our leaders is unmatched. Is this order, then, not the will of the gods? Must not this perfect world endure?"
This is the story Dharuta told.

Once there was a city unlike any other. This city was as a perfect jewel and the delight of her King who, like any doting father, lavished all his riches upon her. Scholars came from distant kingdoms to dwell near the libraries which held the wisdom of the ages. Soldiers, tired of war and all its hollow glory, came to sit by the whispering fountains. Even kings rode to that city to behold the magnificence of the jewelled gates and the glory of the golden towers. Every tower, every street, and every dwelling, from the grandest temple to the merest stable, was a work of art worthy of a place of honour in any Rajah's capital. All through the years of men would the city be renowned, and yet her king was sad.
"Look", he said one day as he walked, "and see how the golden dome of the Tower of the Morning Sun no longer shines so brightly as it once did."
"No matter, Majesty", counselled his viziers and his seers, "our coffers are full. It can easily be replaced. The gleaming spire will once more be a true reflection of your glory."
So it was repaired, yet still the king was sad.
His generals could not console him. "The glory you have won shall ever be remembered", they said. "Your triumphs have gained you eternal renown."
But the king cared not for triumph in battle, nor for the renown he had won through bloodshed, and so his generals took their leave.
His scholars could not console him. "Your Majesty's greatness has brought all the wisdom of men to his great city", they said. "The thoughts and dreams of this generation will shake the world, and shape it evermore." But the king cared not for their laboured wisdom, nor for shaping the minds of those who would come after him, and so his scholars took their leave.
Even his wives could not console him. "My husband, no city has ever stood that can approach the beauty of our home", they said. "All who behold its wonder are enthralled, and weep with joy the first time they walk its streets." Yet the king feared that beauty would fade, and wonders would be forgotten, and so his wives took their leave.
So it was that one day a magician came before the king. "What then," said the king, "do you counsel me, sorcerer? What cold posterities do you offer me as blankets about my fear?" The magician shook his head. "I offer you no such comforts, O King," she spoke, "for it is known that they bring you no joy. I would not have come before you but that I could offer you that which you seek."
The king took the sorcerer then to a high tower and looked out upon his perfect city. "Can you cheat time, then? Can you see to it that the sands of age never wear away the empty stones that will lie tumbled here long after men have left this place?"
The magician stood there in the winds high above the city, and she thought. "Three forces govern the world, O King", she said, "and they stand all in balance. All is created, all things endure for a time, and all things must end. Even the merest of mages know this, and can craft a carpet that feet will not wear away, a shield that blades will not pierce or crack, or a blade that will bring ruin to all it cuts. Yet the balance is maintained, for every magic has its price."
The magician paused here, and the king grew impatient. None had before offered him hope before, yet here stood a mage who did not realise that gold held no allure for the king and for his city he would pay any price.
When the king told the magician such, she laughed. "The price, great one, is not mine but the spell's to decide, but it will and it must be paid." Thinking he understood the king volunteered his life for a price, pausing for not even a heartbeat's space. The magician only shook her head. "The price will be nothing so trivial", she said, and the king felt fear. Yet he agreed for the magic to be worked.
So it was that for one day the Magician walked in the darkness beneath the city among the great stones that shouldered the burden of that wondrous place. She walked for one day in the light, and laid her hands on the holy altars of the city's temples. All through those days she worked her spell and the people looked on her with curiosity. While they slept on the second day, the Magician completed her work and the spell fell across the face of that city like a mourner's veil.
The King had his wish, as he was promised; but the price was steep, as he was warned. As the long days of that perfect city unfolded, the king saw that no traveller came from afar to look in awe at its perfect streets. No person dwelling in that perfect city ever perished, for there the natural order of life was defied and there it was rejected. No murals were washed away by the Sun's light, but the great artists made nothing new. Sometimes, when looking out from his high tower, the king found the surrounding lands strange and unfamiliar. One day, after a span of years beyond the counting of men, the king found he could not even remember his city's name.
So it was that the Shining City passed from the minds of men and lived forever. None remembered her golden towers, and none praised her great libraries. None marvelled at her sanctuaries and temples, and no voice gave honour to her wise king.

Karakatha heard these words and, laying down his blade and mail, walked in Dharuta's footsteps all his days.