The Nameless One in Pochanto

From the balcony in his upper audience hall, the Priest-Lord of Pochanto watched the approach of the emissary. Despite this hot summer day in Dubach, L’chye Heronath failed to suppress a chill. Who was this ambassador? He claimed to come from the distant land of Kuvera; what his purpose was, L’chye could not imagine. He was not sure why he even agreed to see this man. . .except that he somehow feared to refuse. He should be resting; he was tired of the Lankan war and weary of bad news.

Flanked by his bodyguard of four stoic Changramai warriors, the emissary walked in unhurried strides down the Avenue of Ancestors to the palace gates. The hood of his long, flowing robe revealed nothing about his appearance. The Priest-Lord took his throne, adjusting his yellow silk robe.

The massive bronze doors of the audience hall swung open; pastel banners hanging from the high vaulted ceiling rippled in the breeze. Twenty palace guards in bronze armor marched in two columns to take their places along the colonnaded aisle.

Then he strode in. He didn’t even look as his guards were stopped at the door. He came to within 15 feet of the throne and bowed. The man’s voice was muffled in the hood as he intoned the correct address.

“Greetings, Lord of the Pochanti, son of the god I-chaal, protector of the people of the Golden Plain. I am honored by your attention.”

L’chye Heronath nodded in assent to the greeting. “And now, whom do I have the privilege of addressing?

The emissary pulled back his hood, and inside was the face of a young man no more than twenty! Not an Elf, but a man, with dark skin and hair blacker than coal. He spoke then with a clear voice that echoed high into the arched heights of that audience hall. “I am the Nameless One.”