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As Delivered by Master Ratta, Dean of Maginetics, to the Gathering of the Witnesses, ~200 years after the Second Great Conjucture
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To any student, tinker, or unfortunate reader who’s stumbled into my ramblings: wipe your hands, pour yourself something strong, and let’s think a little about beginnings. Not the sort marked by feast days and dusty statues, but the real start of things: every date you scribble, every festival banner fluttering in Sebaka’s breeze, down to the repair slip for your poor, smoking skytram, all track back to a single, cosmic prank: Year 0.
Now, let’s clear something up: this isn’t about a king’s birthday, nor the day some bright soul cobbled together the first clockwork pigeon (though, if you find the tail to mine, do return it). Our account starts when the universe decided, by some mischief or miracle, to set the bar too high for anniversaries ever since. Four of Ditoro’s most stubborn planets, ever bickering over their eccentric orbits and tilted dances, clustered in a graceful arc across the sky, a loose but marvelous gathering rather than a perfect queue, as if the heavens had draped a celestial crescent over the world. Their shadows lined up, one after another, a string of cosmic pearls, each passing its glimmer backward through the parade. Even Beacon, remote, punctual as a cat when it wants to be late, peered through for the finale, smug as can be.
There were no bells nor royal decrees. Suddenly, all across Sebaka: bakers, arcanists, alley cats, the lot, everyone simply stopped, blinked twice, and agreed without argument: start from here. We all stood in awe, wide-eyed, brooms and spells forgotten, and let the alignment press the “reset” on every well-worn calendar, account book, and regret. It was the universe not speaking in riddles for once, but in a pageant of planets that leveled the proudest potentates and uplifted the humblest sweepers. The sky performed its ballet, and, for a breath, every soul understood that this; this was a beginning.
“If the world offers you a riddle and a hammer, use both.”
Now, you might suspect the magic faded when the sky released its planets and let them scuttle back to squabbling, but you’d be mistaken. The residue of that night resides in every hinge of Gearia’s libraries, every flour-dusted rafter of Port Uyana’s bakeries. Since that night, our years have ticked forward with the inadvertent rhythm of a wandering sunbeam, full of mischief, ready for reinvention, and utterly worthy of a cat’s curiosity.
Our reckoning of time rests on Viridis. Her rise, blaze, and fall chart the months, each lasting twenty-seven days. Within that span, the shift of her glow divides the month into three weeks of nine days apiece: at the month’s beginning she shines clearly on the horizon, then her light dulls and grows uncertain, before brightening once more as the days turn toward their end. Spectris, the ringed giant, holds the longer measure: its shifting colors and slow-tilted orbit mark the passing of seasons and the greater spans of the year. Whenever my apprentice (may his eyes grow keener) forgets the count of days, I tell him: “Look to Viridis, her fading, and return will set you right.” He rarely does, of course, and so drifts behind, blind to the very sky that keeps its own careful tally.
Then there’s the Gathering of Witnesses: for about 10-15 days every year, not a true alignment but a proud parade: all Ditoro’s planets lined up shoulder to shoulder, as if planning a group portrait. During this time, much of Sebaka slows; people rest from all but the most essential labors like food preparation and vital services. The event is a proud celebration: the planets of Ditoro arrayed across the sky in a grand spectacle; more a parade than a precise alignment. Locals trace intricate zigzags in chalk on the streets, bakers craft their signature four-layered Second Shadow cakes for luck, and the planet Beacon makes its solemn appearance as a wise observer. Children quarrel over which planet would win in an imaginary wrestling match, and aged mages sing boisterous “Alignment Ballads,” the melody stirring even the distant constellations to join in with deep, resonant hums.
But only once every 2,454 or so years do the orbits stack behind each other in a cosmic game of duck-duck-goose, eclipsing the light in a chain so long you’d mistake it for infinity. That alignment, Year 0, and not so long ago, Year 2454 changed everything. The last time, the city held a “Gathering of Witnesses” for two months straight. It is said the pigeons brought their own bread.
“A calendar is never just an account of the past. It’s a wager with the future.”
And yet, all those grand spectacles left their mark not just in ledgers and song, but in a new, more democratic magic.
When I was a kitten, spellcraft required three separate dialects and the patience of a snoring rock. Each charm was hidden behind riddles steeper than my rooftop leaps, ensorcelled for secrecy, guarded by scholars, archivists, traditionalists, and those paranoid about evil. If you managed to invent a biscuit-ward, you’d encode it in twelve syllables, a half-turn of a dance, and, just for spite, an untimely sneeze to confound the competition. Communication was never simple speech but posturing: rituals, bows, flourishes of hand and sleeve, rare materials offered or withheld, keys hidden (sometimes literally) beneath seven locks.
But then the sky shamed us. When the cosmos placed every world in perfect order; visible to king, cook, and stray cat. Who could pretend magic was only for the few? Even the Mogul’s gaze, iron and calculating, couldn’t wish away the pattern. “Why shouldn’t every child cast a warmth-charm, if the planets themselves can line up without wrestling?” I wondered. The notion stuck. A quiet rebellion in my own curious soul.
I set about untangling arcane notation from its elitist knots, bending it into shapes that would survive tea stains, cold hands, and clumsy translation to pastry recipes. Spells could be written crisp, messy, and universal; three fingers or less, if you were dexterous, and more likely to stick if you sang them while baking. This system, which I built, well, call it by its proper name: freehand spellcraft, spread first in academic corners, then fevered through the city’s veins: universities, schools, workshops, bakeries, trams, and finally into the soul of Sebaka itself. Yes, even the youngest apprentice, or the sleepiest street cat, could sketch or hum a safe charm.