by Mok, DK
“I think mobs tend to happen to people who believe that.”
Elhan shrugged.
“Even when I tried the quiet life, mobs happened to me anyway.” Her thoughts seemed distant for a moment. “It doesn’t matter what I do; the curse’ll do its thing.”
“Is that why you use del Gavir?”
It hadn’t escaped Seris’s attention that day, the sticky red letters glistening across the parchment. Elhan del Gavir, of the free state Gavir—except Gavir no longer existed. It, along with Seris’s own homeland and countless other small, distant realms, had been conquered in Delmar’s Tide. The use of traditional suffixes was now banned throughout the empire, and Seris wasn’t even sure what his own had been.
Elhan’s gaze snapped to a slender white spire in the city’s western district.
“Hey, I bet that’s her tower.”
Elhan slipped through the crowd, and Seris scrambled to follow. It was like swimming through a soup of human activity, the scent of spices clashing with the odour of livestock and the fragrance of exotic timbers. Horizon’s Gate was another world, exploding with colour and extravagance.
“How much do you know about this sorcerer?” said Seris.
“She’s the only one who lives in a city. She’s supposed to be sociable, for a sorcerer. Even though they’re all bound these days, most still prefer barren wastelands or impenetrable jungles.”
“What about Olrios?”
Seris had the sudden sensation of a wave passing over him, and it snatched his breath for a moment. Elhan gave no indication of having noticed, although she seemed a little stonier.
“I don’t know where he is.”
She pulled away through the crowd, and Seris was left scooting after her through the bustling streets. As he drew nearer to the tower, he could see that the walls were seamless, as though cut from a single block of luminous white stone. Intricately carved scenes covered its surface, like milky reliefs rising from ivory. Delicate, flowering vines wound their way around the walls, with multicoloured blossoms drifting down like early snow. The conical roof was sapphire-blue slate, and in each of the arched windows, blue curtains fluttered lightly.
A high white wall surrounded the base of the tower, with a neat gatehouse set at the front. The entire building rested upon a large circle of white paving, which extended about twenty feet beyond the wall. As Seris approached, he saw Elhan standing at the very edge of the glittering paved circle, eyeing the picturesque gatehouse with open dislike. Seris’s knowledge of sorcerers was derived almost entirely from stories told by the locals, which suggested that “friendly sorcerer” was actually a contradiction.
“Maybe we should have brought a gift,” said Seris.
“I guess we should have kept that sack of beetles.”
Seris took a deep breath, then steered himself towards the little white gatehouse, with its window box of bluebells. It was only when he’d walked halfway across the paving that he realised Elhan wasn’t with him. She’d remained at the edge of the white tiles, watching his progress intently.
“Is there something I should know?” said Seris.
Elhan eyed the paving warily, then took a tentative step forward.
The effect was instantaneous.
The stones turned glossy black, fanning out rapidly from Elhan’s foot, like ink spilling through a dish of water. Within a heartbeat, the entire circle of paving was charcoal black, and for Seris, it was like suddenly standing over a void. Elhan retreated quickly back onto the plain cobbles. After a beat, the paving faded to white, the spot touched by her foot the last to restore. Seris stared at the ground beneath him as it bled back to ivory white.
“Maybe it detects immorality,” said Seris.
“Maybe it detects coolness,” snapped Elhan.
Or maybe it’s some kind of warning system, thought Seris.
He turned back towards the tower, and the eerie tinkling of wind chimes drifted on the breeze. A string of coloured glass baubles dangled from the eaves of the gatehouse, and Seris wondered whether all the homey touches were supposed to make the tower seem less sinister, or more.
Seris peered warily into the cosy compartment of the gatehouse, where a slim young man stood partly in shadow. His crisp blue-and-white uniform was reminiscent of a doorman’s. His dark hair was slicked back, and his cornflower-blue eyes followed Seris in a disconcerting manner.
“Hello?” said Seris.
“Kaligara is not taking any visitors,” said the gatekeeper evenly.
“We’re on official business.” Seris pulled out the scroll Falon had given them.
“Kaligara has an urgent engagement tonight.”
“We can come back tomorr—”
“The Kali-Adelsa is not welcome here.” The gatekeeper’s voice remained perfectly neutral.
I guess it doesn’t measure coolness, thought Seris.
“Look, we just have a few questions—”
“Flee.”
Seris paused, looking at the gatekeeper’s calm expression.
“Excuse me?” said Seris.
“I said, the Kali-Adelsa is not welcome here. Kaligara will not see you.”
Seris wondered how long you could stand in front of someone’s house before you were considered a public nuisance or a stalker. Back at the Temple of Eliantora, no one was turned away—sometimes there was little you could do, but Petr was adamant that you saw everyone who came. Even the old man who turned up regularly, crying that his organs had been replaced by screaming creatures from beyond the stars. Petr always believed that one of the worst things in life was someone begging for help and finding a closed door. Helplessness and frustration led to dangerous things. Seris was thinking of a few of them right now as he glowered at the pale tower.
He turned back to the unblinking gatekeeper. The bluebells swung lightly in the breeze.
“Please inform Kaligara that I will see her,” said Seris. “If she chooses, she can come find me. Otherwise, I’ll find her.”
He strode back to Elhan, who was bouncing on her heels at the edge of the paved circle.
“Your reputation precedes you,” said Seris.
Elhan shrugged.
“By dawn, it won’t matter,” she said. “Don’t bother asking. You’ll see.”
This wasn’t a crowd. On a good day, Seris’s idea of a crowd was four people. If pressed, he could suffer through a public announcement in the forecourt. But this…this was like drowning in a gigantic vat of people.
The city centre had turned into a mass of excited civilians, all pushing and shoving for a spot by the main thoroughfare. As trumpets flourished and cheering erupted, the ground rumbled, as though a massive drum were reverberating beneath the streets.
The crowd surged as the thrumming grew louder, and Seris craned over the giddy tide of people. And then he saw them—a massive column of soldiers in Talgaran red and black, marching in tight formation down the boulevard. Regiment after regiment, infantry followed by cavalry, all bearing the insignia of Horizon’s Gate. There must have been thousands of them, an endless stream wending its way through the hysterical crowd.
Seris leaned down to an elderly woman who was clutching a large, goggle-eyed fish.
“Excuse me. What’s the event?”
The woman squinted at Seris.
“Duke Riordan’s back early from cleaning up the borderlands.”
“Any excuse for a party,” said a young woman carrying a basket of blinking crabs. “You should see what Penwyvern Manor’s been buying up for tonight’s festivities. You’d think the nobles hadn’t eaten in weeks.”
The screaming from the crowd reached deafening levels as an impressive man in brightly polished armour rode past, flanked by several dozen men and women wearing the crests of noble houses. Their glossy horses trotted past in time with the marching, swords and bows gleaming in the sunlight.
“Did you say ‘party’?” said Seris.
“A party is cake and ale. Duke Riordan’s welcome-back
ball is what we non-bluebloods would call an extravaganza,” said the young woman. “Even Kaligara’s been summoned to attend.”
“Tonight, you say,” said Seris, his mind already fizzing with unhealthy possibilities.
He pushed his way back through the crowd and into a side street, already deep in thought. A few moments later, Elhan caught up to him, holding a confused crab in one hand and a velvet jewellery box in the other.
“Do you want the box? Because I think I’ll keep the crab,” she said.
“Penwyvern Manor—that would be the huge estate we passed in the middle of the city.”
A white dove suddenly flew into Seris, flapping madly about his face before launching into the sky. He waved the feathers away and saw Elhan holding an open velvet box, a crab perched on her head.
“I don’t know if you want the box anymore,” said Elhan. “But I think the dove is happier now.”
Elhan snapped the box shut and looked for something to throw it at.
“We have to get into that ball,” said Seris. “Maybe if we forged invitations…”
“If we set the manor on fire, everybody will just come out.”
Seris stared at Elhan.
“Yes, but then the manor is on fire.”
“You think too much.” Elhan held the clacking crab like a sandwich, staring at its round, black eyes.
“What are you going to do with the crab?” said Seris uneasily.
“It has a lot of legs,” she said simply.
There was a pause, and then she set it on the ground. The crab raced away down an alley, scuttling towards the scent of salt water.
“So what’s this about infiltrating a grand ball?” said Elhan, straightening up.
Improbable plots and half-imagined stories danced through Seris’s mind.
“How do you feel about wearing a ballgown? Or dressing as a pageboy?”
“Are these still work-related questions?” said Elhan dubiously.
Seris eyed Elhan’s messily hacked hair.
“I guess it’ll have to be a pageboy.” Seris rummaged through his bag and pulled out a pair of sewing scissors. “But we’d have to tidy it—”
“Whoa.” Elhan raised her hands. “You’re not coming near my hair with those.”
“I can hardly make it worse.”
“Hey! I usually have really good hair. But just recently, I was running away from this mob and had to sleep in this paddock. And when I woke up, there was this llama—”
“You’re not going to pass for nobility,” said Seris. “You barely pass for human—”
He stopped in horror as he realised what he’d just said.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t—” said Seris.
Elhan was looking at him with an oddly dispassionate expression, like an elephant watching a very small bug crawling past its foot. She slid casually backwards as Seris took a step forward.
“I wasn’t—” he said.
There was a blur of movement, and Elhan vanished down a side alley. Not even the sound of footsteps echoed back.
Seris exhaled sharply, squeezing the back of his neck. He had no idea why he’d said that. He’d thought it, and it had just come out of his mouth. He hadn’t even meant it like that, not really. At least she hadn’t ripped his head off, but he didn’t feel much better for it.
He ran his fingers through his hair, trying to figure out what he was supposed to do now. Elhan might come back, but he couldn’t wait for her—tonight could be his only chance to see Kaligara, and she was his best lead.
The streets were still busy with late-afternoon trade as the sun began its slow descent. At least he still had a few hours to come up with a plan.
He had no plan. Seris stood across the street from Penwyvern Manor, in the shadows of the tree-lined boulevard. A steady procession of ornate carriages drew up at the wrought-iron gates, each one checked by the guards before being waved through. An expanse of garden stretched towards the sprawling manor, and a fine spray from the ornamental fountain misted across the lawns. Whereas Algaris Castle hung against the sky like a mountain crag, Penwyvern Manor glittered like an elaborate lantern, the gorgeous stone mouldings dramatically illuminated.
Earlier that evening, Seris had stalked around the estate, trying to find a weakness in the walls, or a poorly guarded servants’ gate. Ultimately, he’d decided his best bet was to introduce himself, wave Falon’s scroll around, and hope he didn’t get kicked to the ground.
As he stood in the shadow of the poplar trees, Seris became aware of something very cold and very sharp pressed against his neck.
“You wouldn’t be thinking of doing something illegal, now, would you?” came a low voice from behind him.
“Uh, no, not really.”
“Oh,” said the voice. “Should I return this stuff, then?”
Seris turned slowly to see a young page wearing a plum-coloured uniform, a pelican crest embroidered across the chest. The page’s face was shadowed beneath a feathered velvet cap.
“Elhan?” said Seris.
“Actually, tonight I’m Flavius, Page of Count Phaera of the House of Boros,” said Elhan.
A bundle hit Seris in the chest. Unravelling the fabric, he found a formal tunic, trousers, cape and gloves, all embroidered with the same pelican crest.
“You’re Count Phaera,” said Elhan. “I think that’s what he said, but he was kind of babbling incoherently before he passed out.”
Seris looked at Elhan with mild alarm.
“He’s fine! I think he was drunk,” said Elhan. “And the page volunteered his clothes—practically ripped them off. I think he might have torn the jacket.”
Elhan inspected a seam on her shoulder, plucking at a loose thread. Seris looked at the green silk tunic in his hands, the fabric rippling like water.
“I’m sorry about before,” he said. “I didn’t mean it.”
Elhan adjusted her rapier, not seeming to hear him.
“I parked the carriage around the corner. There’s a bit of blood on the seat, but if you sit on it, they won’t notice.”
“Blood on—”
“I didn’t even touch the guy and his nose started bleeding! You can check on them later, but right now, we’ve got a party to crash.”
It was a glorious vision. Thousands of cut-crystal shards dangled from gigantic chandeliers, sparkling in the light of hanging silver lanterns. Gold filigree panelled the walls, and extravagant candelabra stood on long tables draped in white silk. All around the hall, giant silver platters were heaped with every kind of edible animal—roasted, glazed, gravied, and smoked.
The grand hall swished with elegant gowns, and swirled with lively waltzes. Seris slipped quickly into the eddies of guests, not giving the doorman a chance to announce his arrival.
“You look for Kaligara,” said Elhan. “I’m gonna hit the buffet.”
She slipped into the crowd, disappearing between swirls of satin and tulle. Seris glanced around the enormous ballroom, trying not to feel overwhelmed. The music, the shimmering lights, the rare perfumes—it was like stepping into another world. A world of hot baths and fragrant soaps, expensive clothes and jewelled adornments. Seris wondered how much they saw of the lives outside.
He turned his attention to the faces in the crowd. He’d hoped Kaligara would be easy to spot, but he wasn’t sure if he was looking for necklaces of skulls or an ethereal halo. His worst-case scenario was that she looked like any one of the bejewelled women mingling in the hall, and he’d have to spend the night asking awkwardly oblique questions.
However, Seris needn’t have worried. Without knowing what Kaligara looked like, he might have guessed that any of the women here was the sorcerer. But Kaligara herself could not be mistaken for anyone but Kaligara.
She stood a good head taller than most of the men in the room, and the topaz clasps holding her dark hair shimmered like tiny wisps of flame. She wore a long white gown belted with fine silver chain, and a sumptuous red robe was draped around her, de
licately embroidered with silver leaves. At first glance, she looked to be in her thirties, but there was an eerie sense that this was how Kaligara thought she’d look if she were in her thirties. Her skin was unnaturally flawless, and her features so sharply defined as to resemble an inked drawing.
She was currently engaged in conversation with a heavily powdered woman, who appeared to be wearing her body weight in jewellery. Seris edged his way discreetly towards the pair.
“…not at all, Lady Latricia,” said Kaligara. “I’m always at your service.”
“I just thought it might be an ill omen. I mean, the very day my husband returns—”
“I’m sure it has nothing to do with the Duke’s campaign. A remarkable number of seemingly supernatural events are often no more than human meddlings.”
“You don’t think there was sorcery involved?” said Lady Latricia. “I mean, all those beetles swarming my carriage…”
Kaligara paused.
“Not sorcery in the conventional sense. But I will look into it.”
Lady Latricia seemed sufficiently reassured to return to the buffet, and Seris forced his feet towards Kaligara. He paused behind her, his heart pounding.
“Lady Kaligara. I trust you received my message.”
Kaligara turned slowly, her dark brown eyes coming to rest on Seris. He swallowed.
“My name is Seris, cleric of Eliantora, and I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Kaligara’s gaze pulled through him like a sieve sweeping through water, scooping up secrets hidden in the murk.
“I was hoping you’d try to introduce yourself as Count Phaera. I had a whole list of entertaining things I was going to do to you,” said Kaligara.
Seris had no doubt that the most harmless of these involved calling for the manor guards, and the more “entertaining” end of the scale involved compound eyes and carapaces.
“I’ve heard it’s inadvisable to lie to a sorcerer,” said Seris.
“It’s also inadvisable to accost a sorcerer at a party. Give me a reason I shouldn’t demonstrate why.”
Seris tried unsuccessfully to dislodge the lump in his throat, wishing he’d spent more time honing his social skills. Unfortunately, a majority of his conversations at the temple involved repeating “Hold still” at varying volumes.