The Sunday service in the beautiful gothic cathedral at the end of Providence Street is extremely popular - not because of the service, which is actually quite unremarkable, but because of the music. To be more precise, because of the organist: he is not a professional musician, but rather the owner of a quaint used book store on Providence Street, which is a continuation of Providence Boulevard accessible to those who venture past the alley behind the cathedral.

The organist is an interesting character - tall, thin, with a long and well kept white hair, always dressed in black. He plays the organ beautifully and passionately, but what really draws large crowds is not the music played during the service, which follows your standard prayer book, but rather the pieces the organist composed himself - and, of course, the majestic organ that has been around for centuries. He plays his pieces for quite some time after the service, and cynical people say that the only reason he plays during the service is for the opportunity to play his compositions on that beautiful organ.

If you ventured to follow him to his bookstore, you would find yourself surrounded by old and rare books, one of which is particularly interesting. It is said that it’s the only copy of its kind, and if the old man likes you for whatever reason, he will let you read a chapter he will select for you, with “The Prodigal Daughter” being one of them.

Before you start reading, the old man will explain to you that the stories from that book are “the real, original ones”, and books like the Bible, the Koran or the Vedas are simply misconstrued versions of what actually happened, bent and distorted to server the purpose of priests that have but a small fraction of the power the elder ones could wield.

He will also tell you that the story of the prodigal son is a bastardization of the real story, which was about the prodigal daughter instead, and that patriarchal societies changed the original story beyond recognition. You will then be one of the few people fortunate enough to read that chapter from the book.

There was once a priest of Marduk, who was very powerful. He was married to a priestess of the house of Ishtar. She died giving birth to twins, but not identical twins - a son and a daughter instead. Long the priest lamented the passing of his wife, whom he loved dearly; after years of mourning, he finally started to turn his attention to his son and daughter, and did something that no father should ever do: conjured Enki to learn about the future of his children.

Enki showed him two paths; one that ended with his children faithfully standing next to him, after having lived a long and prosperous life, as his spirit was ready to start its final journey to the underworld sea of fresh water. The other, however, was terrifying: his own daughter killing him with a display of magic so powerful that, even though Enki was a powerful god, greatly disturbed him. Enki also told the priest that the path that was going to materialize was entirely under the priest’s control - his decisions would ultimately define the final outcome, but Enki was not allowed to give him any advice on the matter.

The priest was much agitated by what he had seen, and retreated to meditate about what he should do. His children were old enough to start their training and ready to be introduced to minor forms of magic, as they were already able to move small objects with their minds, conjure fire and mist, and somewhat bend light to their desire. Like little children, they used their newfound powers to play with each other - after all, children will be children, and they play with whatever they have at hand. Of great concern to the priest, however, was the fact that his daughter seemed to be much more powerful than his son: while observing their plays, it was clear that she was putting boundaries to her powers, and his son was to a great extent less talented than her. Not that his son was weak - quite the contrary; he was also powerful in his magic for a boy of his age, just not remotely as powerful as his daughter.

After much pondering, the priest made his decision: he would not teach his daughter how to control and increase her power, only his son. Not only that, he would do everything in his power to stop her from growing her power.

And so he did, and so he sealed his fate.

Despite not teaching her anything, her power continued to increase over the years, and she seemed to be always ahead of his son. Consumed with fear, he isolated her, and started to treat her as an enemy, not as his own blood and flesh. Increasingly terrified and paranoid, he finally decided to lock her up. Dark thoughts started to cross his mind, thoughts of even killing his own daughter. Unbeknownst to him, his daughter had already developed the ability to read other people’s minds, and she then decided that it was time for her to leave. Doors could no longer contain her, not even doors locked with her father’s spells. On a quiet and balmy summer night she left and made her way into the desert.

At this point the old man will interrupt your reading and explain to you that this is what a patriarchal society does to a story - depict the father as a good man, willing to give his son half of his inheritance, and letting him go out in the world to seek his own fortune. The distorted story also tells how the prodigal son squandered his fortune and ended up living as a servant before deciding to go back home and ask for his father’s forgiveness. Also, as many people think, the son who stayed with the father got the short stick of the deal, not only faithfully working and serving his father, but also apparently never having received any sign of gratitude in exchange. No matter how much you try to explain it, in the end the whole thing makes no sense, and the reason is because there is so much you can bend a story.

As the real story goes, the daughter left with her part of her inheritance, not because of her father’s generosity, but because her powers continue to grow despite her father’s attempts to curb them. She went into the desert, and legend says that she eventually came across the worshipers of Ki, the primordial female principle. This was a secretive group, composed only of females, who occasionally stole other female babies or kidnapped a few men to copulate and ensure the group’s continuity. Female babies were raised to learn the elemental principles and grow in power; male babies did not have such luck, as they were sacrificed to Ki. If you think this has some sort of sembrance with the Greek legend of the Amazon warriors, you are not far off. Each culture shapes their stories based on history, changing them to conform to their way of life.

At any rate, unlike the prodigal son story, the daughter did not squander her inheritance, but rather increased it many times. She was introduced to the mysteries of Ki, and learned how to bend her power to her will. She was taken under the oldest sorceress protection, who personally trained her. After the sorceress death, despite her young age, the daughter was elevated to the category of eldest, thus becoming the leader of the group.

Right before her passing, the oldest sorceress told the daughter that she had to complete one important task: face her father. By refusing to teach her, the father had broken the balance established by the gods, and it was her duty to confront him to reestablish that balance.

And so the daughter did.

There are no good accounts of what exactly happened, since anyone who was close enough perished and couldn’t tell the story. Sorcerers can summon shields to protect them from other sorcerers, and just like a regular warrior can see another warrior’s shield, so can a sorcerer see another’s. It is said that the daughter powers were great, and that she could summon a shield that was invisible to other sorcerers, and she was wearing one when she approached her father. It is also said that he pretended to ask for forgiveness and make amends to put her off guard, and she almost believed him, but at some point he used all his powers to kill her, an attempt that failed miserably because she never let her invisible shield down.

All that's left of her rage that followed are ruins of what once used to be a beautiful palace.