“Protect? From what? Would there be one amongst the logizkal who would dare to attack the crizia?”
“Not that we know of,” shrugged Skillotz. “But there are prophecies surrounding the princess, and that is why Faris-Romil himself, before his election as pontiff, was commissioned to build a city where Inimois could not only rule, but be protected.”
“Probably because of its proximity to the Forbidden Lands,” concluded Moruzio. “We never know when the monsters may reappear and resume their ravaging.”
“Or most likely, the guards are there just to keep the order,” Skillotz said, for he wanted her attention to be focused on the beauty of what was to come, not on threats from old tales. “There are thousands of pilgrims visiting Ophir each year. Without the guard all would fall into disarray.”
“Thousands… of pilgrims?”
So it was. As they were talking, they had reached the gate. Dozens of giants gathered there and were funneled into a single row. The gate opened several feet above the ground. To reach it, the giants had raised an earthen ramp, ending on a drawbridge. The gate itself was flanked by two towers.
The tower to the left was taller, an imposing presence above the wall, casting its shadow over the plains. Embedded on its walls was a strange carving. The top of the tower appeared sculpted in the likeness of a bizarre being, with the body of a lion, the wings of an eagle, and the face of a woman. It had not one face, but four, looking out to the four winds. In its right hand it held a pike, as if it stood on guard. The statue was hewn of the same rock composing the walls; but the eyes on each face shone red, like unto rubies. This gave it an intimidating gaze that seemed to follow all those who dared to enter, scrutinizing them.
As for the tower to the right of the gate, it was lower but sturdier. That tower too had a similar creature sculpted on its apex. This one had not four faces, but one only, facing outward. Its eyes were not made of rubies—nor of any other precious stone. These eyes had neither irises nor pupils, but were simply carved on the stone. And instead of a pike, the creature had a sword in its right hand, and a weighing scale on the left.
“What are those creatures?” asked Nod, more horrified than amazed.
“Those, my dear Nod,” replied Skillotz, “are sphinxes. Namely, the Sphinx of the Lance, and the Sphinx of the Sword. They stand guard to Ophir’s main gate.”
“What a terrifying sight! Are they so that they may ward off the threat to the princess, prophesied to come?”
“Indeed, oh star. It is said that Faris-Romil imbued a powerful magic in these sculptures. The Sphinx of the Lance can see many miles in every direction, and into each giant’s heart. According to legend, if one crosses the gate with ill-intentions, the Sphinx of the Lance will lift up the drawbridge and lower the portcullises, barring the way. Then, the Sphinx of the Lance will utter a great cry, and awake the blind Sphinx of the Sword. And woe betide those who stand in the way of the Sphinx of the Sword that day, for its eyes will be healed, and its blade set ablaze, and its mouth vomit terrible flames, and fire consume anyone whose heart has been found wanting by its sister of the lance.”
Nod kept looking at the sphinxes, astonished by their might. Only then did Skillotz restrain his tongue. So enthused was he by the sphinxes’ magnificence, he did not pay heed as to how that magnificence was, in fact, frightening. And lest fear would surpass wonder, and doom his wager, Skillotz hurried to reassure the sylphid:
“Do not be afraid. No giant I know, no matter how advanced in age, has ever seen these sphinxes move an inch during their lifetime. It is all a tale, I daresay, meant to scare the credulous, or to warn the wise of the might of Ophir. Furthermore, no one here has ill intentions.”
“Quite so,” replied Nod, regaining her usual lightness. “Shall we proceed?”
They dived into the crowd. The multitude rubbed elbows and shoulders, eager to cross the gate. So distracted were they, the logizkal did not even become aware of the glow of the star in their midst. Or so it was for the pilgrims; yet the Crizian Guard noted the sylphid’s presence.
Skillotz, Nod, and Moruzio went up the ramp and through the bridge, through the portcullises, through the gate—and stood bewildered. A fresh caress blew in their faces, as a blessing from above and beyond. A delicate breeze came from a lake far off to greet them, and welcome them into Ophir. For the city had been built at the lake’s margins, wedged between the waters and the walls—much like the crowd, crammed inside the streets as the waters of a river are pressed by its banks. Not that the streets were narrow, quite the contrary—they were much, much wider than the ones at Enoch. Yet they were barely wide enough to contain the mass of travelers. As for the houses, they were visible above the heads of the giants, towering over the pilgrims. Yet the outer wall’s shadows towered even over the houses.
At that moment, Nod understood why Ophir was called “The Gilded City.” The houses, built of the finest wood, were layered with gold-leaf, giving them a majestic demeanor like unto the statue of Horeb, back at Enoch. And the wood of the walls, and roofs, and balconies, was carved with intricate designs, celebrating all kinds of life. Leaves and vines, flowers and fruits, branches and withies, birds and hares: All of these forms bedecked the spiral columns and the wide friezes which gave these houses their structure and shape. As for the lake, its surface shimmered with golden wavelets, which seemed to reflect more of the glow of the city than of the sun itself.
“What do you say to all of this?” asked Skillotz, as he glanced towards Nod’s face to measure her emotions. “Why… why have you veiled your beautiful hair and face?” For the sylphid had covered herself with the brim of her translucent gown.
“Oh, my lord, dost thou not know? Amongst the sylphs, ‘tis a sign of respect to cover ourselves before meeting a star of higher rank. I am currently in a princess’ domain, and ‘twould be rude of me to overshadow her own luster with mine.”
“No need for those formalities, dearest Nod. Inimois is a princess, not a star. And the giants do not wear veils like yourself, so your sign of respect will lose its meaning and be received as nothing more than strangeness.”
“A thousand apologies, my lord. I did not know. I will remove my veil at once,” Nod did so, and now Skillotz could read her response to the beauty around her. And he smiled. For the first time, Nod’s face seemed propitious to his side of the wager. Even Moruzio seemed impressed, though he tried to hide it. Nary a place below the heavens, after all, could boast of such fine craftsmanship. The giants were known for being crude: their skills brutish, their ways uncouth. How could they have built such a city, even under Faris-Romil’s guidance? The sages say, indeed, that the city was not erected by logizkal hands alone, but sculpted with the aid of aerial sylphs.
“So? What do you think?”
“It hath taken away my breath, my lord,” replied the sylphid. But Skillotz felt disappointed: Her voice did not seem as enthused as he wished, or as he thought the city warranted. Yet she sounded eager enough to worry Moruzio.
“The best is yet to come. Let us proceed to the lake.”
At that moment, a swan flew over their heads. So absorbed were Nod and her companions they did not even notice. But if they had, and looked closer, they would have seen a roll of parchment tied to the swan’s leg. And had they unrolled the letter, they would have beheld the seal of the Crizian Guard on it.
***
The city ended where the lake began. Or not quite: There was still a sandbank betwixt them. Skillotz felt the caress of the lake breeze on his face once more. And he noted in his nostrils the caress of a pleasant and almost scentless lacustrine odour, for this was a freshwater lake. And their feet felt the caress of the sand, sprawling around the lake in an alabaster, chalky strip. On these dunes, one could lie down and admire the Sym-Bolon Mountain at the distance, or contemplate the lake shimmering as a blue meadow of sparkling flowers.
“The fire from heaven which fell here long ago,” said Skillotz, “when it swept the rock from the gro
und and piled it on the outer walls, as you saw, it also dug a colossal hole. Later, this hole filled with water, becoming the lake you see before you. But the scribes say the hole was so deep, it opened a wound on the surface of the earth, whence gushed forth scorching blood from the depths, as we still see in some mountains that smoke even to this day. This blood, moreover, hurled massive bursts of liquid rock high into the skies. Then did it clot in the form of the mountain you see there, at the distance, the Sym-Bolon Mountain.”
But even while they contemplated this view, the crowd of pilgrims did not linger there, drawn to something even more beautiful. And even though Nod seemed to be enjoying the sandbank, Skillotz took her hand and guided her to the place where all the other giants were converging.
It was a bridge. A stone bridge, rising slightly above the water level on the shoulders of semicircular arches. It extended in a one-mile path over the lake, from the beach to the foot of the Sym-Bolon mountain. Toward that bridge the stream of pilgrims flowed on inexorably.
Guarding the entrance to the bridge were two columns, one to the right and one to the left, and on each another sphinx, facing the mountain. But these sphinxes differed from those at the outer wall. Whereas those were made of solid rock, these were sculpted from solid gold. One had a spyglass by her feet, with her face veiled and her sapphire eyes gazing heavenward. The other had an anchor resting next to her loins, and her emerald eyes looked forward, fixed on the distance.
“More sphinxes? How many are there?” wondered Nod with wide eyes.
“There are seven in all: four stone, and three golden. You have already seen two of the stone sphinxes, and here are two of the golden ones: the Sphinx of the Spyglass and the Sphinx of the Anchor. At the end of this bridge there lies another golden sphinx: the Sphinx of the Horn—or of the Heart as some call it. She is the greatest of all, and is carved thus: a horn with many delights by her side; her heart as if barging out of her chest, bursting into flame; and her ruby eyes gazing sweetly downward on to the bridge, welcoming the pilgrims.”
“Delightful! Do these also have a defensive role?”
“Legend says so, though no one knows how they would achieve it. When he enchanted the sphinxes with his magic, Faris-Romil told us what the Sphinxes of the Lance and Sword would do when attacked, but these ones here are shrouded in mystery. Nor do I know how they can safeguard anything, since they are unarmed, unlike their stony sisters.”
“I see.” Nod pondered a bit more, and then asked, “Thou speakest of seven sphinxes, yet only five didst thou name. Wilt thou show me the remaining two along the way?”
“I am afraid not, dear Nod. You see, the other two sphinxes are out of our way. A river named Ergon flows out of the lake from its southwestern portion and runs from thence: This creates a weak spot on the city’s defenses, and the Sphinx of the Club protects it. As for the seventh sphinx, no one knows what it is, or where it stands guard.”
***
They passed by the pillars of the two golden sphinxes, and through the length of the bridge, and past the Sphinx of the Heart. Then they followed the path spiraling upward around the Sym-Bolon Mountain, till they reached the summit: a plateau where one could lose oneself in the vastness of the horizon all around, from the northern forests to the southern wastelands. There, on the mountain’s height, lay Skillotz’s trump card: the Crizian Palace.
The palace’s walls gleamed golden, even more so than the houses away below. One could not tell at a glance whether these walls were of solid gold, or simple gold leaf. Be that as it may, the amount of gold needed for such walls was lessened by their disposition, for one could not quite call them walls. They were more like pillars, ascending and converging into pointed arches, with membranes of multicoloured stained glass in their midst. Of this stained glass, not of gold or stone, was the vast part of the exterior made. And Nod thought to herself: “Surely, this is more a work of sylphdom than giantkind!”
The pillars and the buttresses were hewn in such a way that they seemed a veritable living forest. Vines climbed the columns as if they were tree trunks; pinnacles shaped like pine canopies with hard stone leafs protruded outward on the rooftops. The stained glass between the arches depicted all kinds of life in Thebel, and myths of the heroic exploits of yore—as when the monsters were vanquished, and all plants were saved from their fiendish appetites, and all kinds of animals sprouted from their blood. And higher still, between the arches and the roofs, there were several stained glass rosettes, in whose veins were inscribed flowery patterns, or starry configurations, invoking blossoming life and the Higher Sylphs above.
But one of those rosettes stood out in size and majesty. Innumerable shards of rainbow glass melded into a kaleidoscopic sun-window, and on its centre was Ophir’s crest—a blazing heart.
Skillotz smiled, the taste of victory on his lips. Nod was stunned by the stained glass’ beauty. That burning heart bewitched the sylphid with the hypnotic dance of its flickering flames, even if the movement of the fire was but an illusion of the multicoloured glass sparkling in the sunlight. And Nod’s glow paled in the face of such splendour, whether the rosette’s light eclipsed her shine, or whether some weakness befell the star when she set her gaze on the window. Skillotz knew in his heart he had won the wager. Even Moruzio stood in admiration—prior to this, he had only visited the city down below and seen the palace at a distance.
At this moment, their contemplation was broken by a weighty voice behind them:
“Come with me! You are expected!”
They turned and saw seven guards. The one at the front and center—the one who had spoken—was sturdier than the rest. From his helm arose a crest of red feathers. He was the captain of the Crizian Guard, Amizdel by name. That very day, he received a swan bearing a message from his sentinels at the outer wall: A sylphid had come to Ophir!
The guards forced a path through the waves of pilgrims to make way for Nod and her escort. They crossed seemingly endless aisles, frozen in an infinity of stained glass. Nod’s light was reflected and distorted in the glass, making it seem like Skillotz and Moruzio were changing colours as do the fabled chameleons. Their steps echoed through the halls just like Nod’s glow echoed on the glass. Rising above their heads were ranks and ranks of columns, similar to trunks of millenial trees branching out at the top in cross vaults, as the ribs of a colossal leaf. And everything seemed as vast inside as it was outside the palace.
At last, they arrived at an immense, round hall, as great in height as in width. At the centre of the hall, surrounded on all sides by pilgrims and ambassadors, there was a throne—the only one on the whole earth in those days. And this throne would have been directly beneath the luminous shadow of a giant rosette, were it not covered by a baldachin. Strangely, the throne was small, barely reaching the giants’ knees. For it was not meant for giant or sylph, but for a different kind of creature altogether: the crizia.
They looked down and beheld her as she sat. She was an ophalin, a human woman, the only one of her kind at the time. Her hair was fiery red, with curls in perfect harmony with the flames of Ophir’s coat of arms. Her skin was pale, yet freckled with many tawny spots. She seemed from her hair and freckles as if sculpted in clay, and her complexion painted white, with the paint now flaking on her cheeks. Her eyes were green, like unto the lush plains of Iperborea, filled with the innocence of someone who has never witnessed calamity.
Nod wondered if she should rush to the crizia and throw herself at her feet. Yet to the astonishment of everyone present, the opposite happened. For when she saw them, the crizia rose from her throne, and running to them, happily curtsied.
“Hail, oh star. I am the Princess of Ophir! Inimois is my name! A supreme pleasure it is to finally meet you!” Before Nod could even answer, Inimois stretched her arms upward to grab the sylphid’s hand, as Nod was much taller than her. “Come hither, come! So that everyone can see you and bask in your warmth!”
Inimois hauled Nod with the strength of her pa
ssion. Only when the sylphid was before the eyes of everyone, did the princess cease her pull. The giants could then see the disparity between Inimois and Nod. The princess’ garments, though more polished than any attire worn by the giants, were quite unremarkable when compared with Nod’s. Inimois’ white gown, girdled above her waist and falling down slightly above her ankles, was made of simple, pure linen; Nod’s tunic was made of a cloth known only to the stars, similar to the silk of today. Inimois bore no diadem around her head, as Nod did, but rather a collar made of flowers and feathers around her neck. The princess’ feet, unlike Nod’s, were bare of sandals. Yet she did flaunt the gilded wealth of her city by wearing a gold armlet in her right arm, as well as many rings, bracelets, and anklets.
The princess, however, did not seem to mind this disparity. She sat on her throne, as a child sits on the floor to hear a tale. In truth, it seemed like she, both princess and adult, would willingly dangle her joyful legs as a child if they had not grown enough to touch the ground.
“Speak to me, good star! Speak to me of the heavens, where your people dwell! Sing me of the celestial abode!”
Nod barely had time to regain her composure. After a deep breath, she looked up as if she could see the firmaments on the ceiling, or beyond it. Then she described the heavens with such detail, it was as if she could see them at that very moment. The hours flew, as if they were minutes. And Inimois and Skillotz flew with the sylphid’s words as their wings. Till the princess could no longer contain herself—she rose up from her throne and danced merrily, orbiting around the star, singing a melodious hymn which seemed to have been composed by the Higher Sylphs themselves.
Blessed you are, vaults of the world!
Wondrous are you, Dumah’s ceiling!
Where starlight is forever beaming,
Where the Song of Aigonz is unfurled!
How great, how vast are your halls!
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