Lines in Stone
"Peace does not dwell in silence. It is carved into stone, and splits beneath the wind."
— Anonymous margin note, Annals under the White Banner, appended to The Northern Accord
---
The Accord of the Low Gate
It is recorded: The twin courts convened on the second day after White Frost, and concluded the accord in the Eastern Hall of the Low Gate.
Envoys of both realms stood in parallel, swore upon jade seal and stone, and the rite was fulfilled.
I. From this day forth, Arenthia and Lornar shall cease all acts of war. No land nor sea shall be violated.
II. From this day forth, the court of Arenthia shall address the sovereign of Lornar as "Elder King," and in decrees, state ledgers, and palace correspondence, the honorific shall not be omitted.
III. Arenthia shall tribute annually: one hundred thousand bars of silver, and two hundred thousand bolts of silk, to be delivered to Greypine Pass before Frostfall, to be received by an appointed official of Lornar.
IV. From the Coldroot River to the Fifth Stone Marker of Dust Hill, no fortifications shall be built, nor watch-posts manned, within the northern bounds.
V. Armies of both nations shall withdraw at once from contested lands, returning to agreed borders. No further claim shall be made.
VI. Past hostilities shall not be revisited. No reparations shall be sought. No monument shall be raised in grievance.
---
The stone stands four men tall, hewn from the eastern ridge beyond the Low Gate, its grey veins running deep, weathered like rings of time.
Its face was chiseled and smoothed by artisans of the Inner Court. The scribe who inked its lines had once transcribed The Fifty-Fold Ode for His Majesty's Longevity. He traced each character first in cinnabar, then overlaid it in soot, and at last wiped it with milk-soaked cloth. The rite was called "Sealing the Word into Stone."
Three ministers stood beside it, wordless in their stillness. One, seventy years of age, had once fought in the First Frost Rebellion. He murmured:
"Shall I strike the final mark?"
No answer came.
---
That night, the chief scribe recorded privately:
"The words are spent. The wind has stilled. The matter is done.
So it is written."
---
At the base of the stele lies a blank panel, meant for the names of both realms' envoys.
It remains uncarved to this day.
Between the Lines
The echo between lines rings louder than what is carved in stone.
---
Clause One of the Stone Accord:
"From this day, the two nations shall cease all acts of war. No land nor sea shall be trespassed."
At the Greypine Pass outpost, a sentry drew a line on the wall with charcoal and wrote:
"If they return tomorrow, where do we fall back to?"
He wiped it away and drew a new line, further south.
---
Clause Two of the Stone Accord:
"The court of Arenthia shall honor the ruler of Lornar as 'Elder King,' with proper address in all decrees and communications."
In the Imperial Scriptorium, a transcription clerk wrote 'enemy chieftain' by mistake, then hastily scratched it out, leaving a bloody fingerprint on the page.
The overseer whispered, "He is no longer enemy—but was he ever brother?"
The clerk said nothing, merely covered the stain with his sleeve.
---
Clause Three of the Stone Accord:
"An annual tribute of one hundred thousand bars of silver and two hundred thousand bolts of silk shall be delivered to Lornar before Frostfall."
In the port silkhouses, bolts piled to the rafters.
A laborer chuckled, "Fast this year. Last year, they said it was too little before they even finished counting."
An old weaver held a bolt of white silk and muttered, "This is mourning cloth. What do they want with it?"
No one answered. The wind made the silk rustle like paper.
---
Clause Four of the Stone Accord:
"From the Coldroot River northward, no forts shall be built, no garrisons posted, no monuments raised."
Somewhere near the northern line, grass grew from the rubble of an old watchtower. A few discharged soldiers squatted, eating cold porridge.
One pointed at a crumbling stone etched with 'Sworn to Hold the Border,' and asked, "Does that count as a monument?"
Another grunted, "Even stones fear the cold up north. They won't stay."
---
Clause Five of the Stone Accord:
"Past disputes shall not be revisited. No grievances carved. No history relit."
In the study of a court historian, his brush hovered above the page deep into the night.
He stared at a page half-written, half-erased, where it read:
"In such-and-such year, in such-and-such battle, our forces withdrew fifty li. No contest."
He murmured, "Which year shall I place this in?"
He did not finish. He sealed the scroll and set it aside.
---
Clause Six of the Stone Accord:
"This accord shall be kept in stone. This accord shall be kept in ink."
Within the palace archives, a copy rests in Chamber Seven.
The seal reads: "Do not open. Unworthy of inquiry unless in crisis."
A junior scribe asked softly, "What if there is a real crisis?"
The keeper replied, "Then no one will check the paper."
---
Final Note:
From the historian's postscript:
"Peace on paper is like the melt of spring snow—
tasteless on the tongue, and only salty in tears."
Ink and Shadow
The ink will dry. The shadow won't.
---
The original accord was written in three copies.
The first was copied by a court scribe in the Hall of Deliberation, before the carving of the stone. Thirty-two pages, on yellow hemp paper, each page curled slightly at the bottom. The ink was from a three-year-aged block, steeped in jujube bark water—dark as dusk, edged with a faint blue sheen.
The title on the first line: "Two Realms Sworn to Peace."
The scribe's name was Li Jingzhou, one of the oldest hands in the Hanlin Academy. It was said he once followed the emperor on an eastern tour in his youth, had seen the sea, and could recall the sound of the first northern snowfall.
He paused at Clause Fourteen and said,
"Had this line been written ten years later, the name here would be different."
The sunlight was clear that day. His shadow fell long across the page—like a second self transcribing the lines.
---
The second copy was a translation, sent to Lornar.
The translator used four scripts: one learned from border merchants, another from the old translation office, a third of unknown origin—said to have been spoken by a fugitive painter from the edge of the realm.
When he reached the clause on tribute, he bit his fingertip and let a drop of blood fall into the ink, saying:
"Words like these mustn't feel too light."
That night, the chamber caught fire.
The courier salvaged three pages from the blaze. The rest had to be rewritten.
He fell ill that night, shivering as he rewrote, and two characters were missed.
Three days later, the envoy from Lornar declared:
"A vow with missing words is no vow at all."
So they added a page.
That page held only the missing two characters—
the ink pale as water.
---
The third copy was sealed in the historical archives. No one was permitted to view it.
The archive clerk, surname Xu, was young, and spoke with a provincial lilt. He had never seen the document himself—only knew it was sealed thrice, each ribbon signed by two witnesses. Still, he liked to say:
"It's the same as the one we copied here. Just with a few extra lines."
Someone once asked,
"What lines?"
He said:
"Only these: If the words on the page prove false, how then shall peace be kept?"
No one laughed.
It didn't sound like a clause.
It sounded like a curse.
---
That winter, the air in the palace grew thick with damp. The archives bloomed with mold. Dozens of scrolls were lost.
Only the three copies of the peace accord remained untouched.
No one dared touch them.
The Silent Pact
What they signed was not peace—
It was a page no one could read aloud.
---
On the day of the signing, the wind was still.
Even the banners beyond the North Gate hung stiff,
as if they had been ordered not to move.
The court chose the Oath Pavilion beside the old Zhaode Hall,
a place once used for lectures three reigns ago.
Its tiles had long since been replaced,
its stone pillars blotched and worn.
Fresh gold silk wrapped the corners,
but the seams were rushed—several threads still hung loose.
The envoys of Arenthia and Lornar stood opposite each other,
as ritual dictated.
They bowed,
and said nothing.
The oathbearer, a clerk of the imperial pen, held the document.
It was bound in fragrant nanwood,
lettered in silver thread,
heavy as stone.
By rite, each side was to read a portion aloud.
Yet no lips moved.
So the clerk read the first line himself,
his voice hoarse, like a bell struck behind a wall.
By the third clause, the sky dimmed.
A shadow crossed the pavilion—
just a wild crow returning to the woods—
but it, too, made no sound.
The envoy of Lornar produced a gilded box.
Inside was their pledge:
a bone carving inlaid with gold,
inscribed with two characters:
Elder King.
It was their reply—
a vow that carried no voice.
The envoy of Arenthia offered a codex in return,
carved from pinewood,
its seal pressed with blades from an older dynasty.
The plate was worn,
the characters faint—
only the word for peace remained clear,
its top corner cracked like a tear.
They exchanged the tokens.
No fingers touched.
No sleeves brushed.
Not a word passed between them.
---
No drums. No music.
From the onlookers,
a child with a kite wandered too close
and was gently scolded by a guard.
He turned to his mother and asked:
"Are they arguing?"
She shook her head.
"They're making peace."
"Then why aren't they smiling?"
She gave no answer.
---
The oath document was returned to the palace,
placed in Archive Chamber Six,
sealed in a sunken chest
stamped:
"To remain unopened, forever."
—
That night, the moon was so bright
it cast a shadow of the pavilion
deeper than the pavilion itself.
—
Days later, someone scrawled a line on the wall of the old quarter:
"From this day on, there is nothing left to say between us."
By morning, it had been painted over.
But the whitewash had not dried.
The words could still be read.
Alternate Verses
What truly endured was not in stone, nor on paper—
but in the mouth.
---
I. Street Print, known in the capital as "The Friendly Union of Two Realms"
Printed hastily overnight by a stall-runner in the Wamarket; sold out by morning.
The paper was coarse, the ink blurred, but the lines read roughly:
Two realms now kiss, oh kiss again,
A scarf of silk and silver to bind the chain.
And who holds power in the tented court?
She who whispers behind the curtain door.
A margin note read:
"Rumor says it was not the king but the Queen-Mother who held court in Lornar."
A vendor scribbled beneath:
"Not a woman, truly—just her purse."
---
II. Soldiers' Song, heard in the old garrison near Greypine Pass
Sung in rhythm while washing armor; tune steady, with a lift at the end.
A bolt of silk, trades for a thaw,
A hundred bars, makes him your pa.
Coldroot's edge, we seed the moss—
And raise dead towns where no one's boss.
At the final line, the soldiers would always fall silent.
A deputy once tried to forbid the song—he was reassigned the next morning.
---
III. Broken Children's Rhyme, recorded in the South Market schoolground
Collected by students from the Historical Bureau:
Little paper boat sails the northern stream,
Meets a great fish, dares not scream.
Teacher says the realms made peace—
But the fish still bares its teeth.
Children would sing this while splashing in puddles, folding boats from old account ledgers—some still stamped with "Tribute Inbound: Silk."
---
IV. Tavern Saying of the "Fifteenth Clause" (Borderfolk version)
"Fourteen clauses signed—who recalls the fifteenth?"
"You forgot. I remember—"
Clause Fifteen:
If next year brings the blade again,
Burn this scroll and march as ten.
This line spread fast.
Some inns carved it on the bottom of their wine bowls—
"Only seen when you drink it dry."
---
V. Nightwall Poem (Author unknown)
One night, someone scrawled the following with charred wood on a brick wall:
Silver bars and woven thread,
In black on white, for a year well-fed.
But when the storm splits sky from sun,
The stone-cut words are the first to run.
Three days later, the city guard painted over it—
but the soot beneath still spoke.
Decay at the Gates
Stone may bear names,
but paper holds no oath.
---
Page thirty-seven of the treaty duplicate bore the word borderlands skewed into the bottom corner, the seal faint, the upper edge crumpled, the butter-wax binding cracked.
It was meant for archive.
But with festival rites approaching and the Office of Rites overburdened, it was hung—temporarily—on the facing wall just outside the North Gate, awaiting formal retrieval.
It remained there seven full days.
No one came for it.
—
Day One: Clear skies.
Market vendors mistook it for a tax notice.
Day Two: A passerby stopped to read, frowned, and walked on.
Witnesses said he murmured a line:
"If the words on paper fail, who bears the cold of peace?"
Day Three: Night rain.
The lower-left corner bloomed with damp, edges rippling like breath about to tear.
Day Four:
A streak of mildew crept from the upper right—
not touching a single character,
yet seeming to slash the entire page.
Day Five:
Pigeons gathered, left claw-marks across the sheet.
A man clapped to shoo them.
A feather fell—landing on the line about "tribute".
Day Six:
Children at play passed by.
One jabbed at the page with a bamboo stick, lifting a flap of paper with a crackling sound.
Someone scolded him.
He laughed:
"Old paper. Not worth much."
Day Seven:
The morning brought wind.
A passerby saw that half the page had curled up.
The wall beneath had yellowed.
Nails had loosened.
The whole sheet swayed, barely clinging.
An hour later, the paper tore an inch wide,
caught the wind,
spun down the street,
and disappeared into a gutter.
—
No record shows who was assigned to retrieve the document.
The wall still stands—
bearing four rusted nail-holes and a long black trace of mold.
—
Ten days later,
the Ministry of Revenue filed a report: the original was lost.
They advised rewriting it.
The Historical Bureau replied:
"Simply copy from the initial draft."
No one went to check the draft.
—
That autumn,
an old soldier returning home passed by the North Gate.
He paused before the wall, its lime faded and cracked.
"I remember something was posted here," he said.
His companion replied:
"You're mistaken."
The old soldier was silent, then softly agreed:
"Yes. I must be."
As he turned,
the wind lifted the edge of his cloak—
like a page being peeled away.
Footnote to Fate
If none of them remember—
Let the paper remember.
---
Old registry, Historical Bureau; marginalia on lower corner, written in the smallest script—visible only under raked light:
"This accord sets neither boundary nor bond; it is parchment pleading for pause.
Yet those who pause forget to press forward; those who retreat forget to halt.
From that year on, the winds of the northern frontier never turned again."
—
Kaelen once dreamed of a torn sheet.
It floated on water, the surface glinting, edges curled like an old letter.
The ink was smudged. Only two characters remained: "Not to be verified."
He reached to grasp it—
But found no water beneath, only sand.
Black sand.
Churning like ash in reverse.
He woke.
No wind stirred. The lamp still burned.
Manuscripts from past dynasties lay stacked beside him.
He opened one at random—
The handwriting matched his dream.
And on that page: a torn corner, missing.
—
Thirty years later, a border map copy went missing:
North of Greypine Pass, no lines marked.
Coldroot River—absent.
Boundary stones—blurred.
In the margin, the cartographer had scrawled:
"Not sure when the lines began to fade."
—
From paper-pickers in the city:
In a deserted market corner, someone found a page.
They folded it into a paper bird.
Unfolded, the center line read:
"If the words upon this page hold no truth,
Who bears the cold of the realm?"
They burned the page.
But the ash did not fully vanish.
A fragment drifted into a gutter, still warm.
—
After the Chief Historian's death, apprentices sorting his papers found one unmarked document. The title:
"Memo: The Forgotten Fifteenth Clause"
The body was blank—
Except one line at the bottom:
"Someone forgot.
The paper did not."
—
That winter came early.
Frost cracked the outer memorial wall.
Ink seeped from the stone—
shaped vaguely like letters.
None dared approach.
Some said:
The vow carved years ago had soaked too deep.
Now, it was climbing back out.
—
Closing Pseudo-Annotation:
No definitive version of this chapter exists. The quoted lines and cited accounts are from lost archives, transcribed by later hands. Authenticity unverified.
Yet even the forsaken page may hum with echo. Let the believer discern.