Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

In time, the kingdom was forgotten and its people dispersed or driven off. Through it all, the Weeping King remained on his throne–unable to leave, unable to die.

The rich waters surrounding the kingdom became a vast and arid sea, littered with the hulks of sunken or abandoned ships preserved by the hot, dry air. No rain ever falls there, and the many leagues of sand lack even a single oasis. All who have sought to cross it have run out of water and been forced to turn back…or died among the dunes.

At the center of the sandsea lie the only water, deep carved moats that are the only remnants of the great city that once flourished on the island. These pools of sorrow are said to be fed from the Weeping King’s tears, and many hold that a wanderer who somehow crossed the arid sea would find themselves replenished thereby.

The pools ring a vast and ruined keep, long forgotten even by its builders. This forgotten keep was once the dwelling place of the Weeping King, and is as an oasis, overrun with life that has been stained by the dark sins of an entire people. It’s said one risks being torn to pieces by horrors only dimly reminiscent of the royal garden and menagerie from whence they sprung.

Beneath it all..the magnificent sepulcher prepared by the Weeping King himself, before death no longer held dominion over his mortal life. Scholars hold that he rests in his tomb to this day, ever living, and ever watchful for intruders.

“Philistia, Light of the Navigators, the crown jewel of the Eastern Sea.” It was difficult to see the khan’s face from where Jel was crouched, but the tone of his voice was loving, even grandfatherly, as he recited from Ypsion’s poetry. “He who would master it must first master himself.”

The generals crowded around the map table exchanged uneasy glances.

“Poetry, my friends, from the great Philistian poet of this or any age. You would do well to read it.”

“Great khan, about our assault…” one of the generals stretched out his hand, indicating a point on the map. Probably the Gate of Thorns, where there had been rumors of heavy fighting.

The khan unsheathed a dagger and drove it into the map–through his general’s intervening hand. “You would do well to read it!” he snarled, his voice taking on the tenor one might expect from a ravisher of empires. “Philistia is the key to the Eastern Sea, and without it our campaign stops at the shore!”

Whimpering, the general made no reply. Jel had to restrain a shocked gasp.

“But the coordination of our attacks has faltered. We’ve fallen victim to sortie after sortie. Spies infiltrate our lines at every point and the countryside welcomes us not as liberators but as conquerors. Until we have overcome these problems–mastered ourselves–we will never take the city. We must, if our empire is to grow and our message is to spread.”