They emerged into a vast hall, two hundred feet square and three stories tall. Its ceiling was shrouded in darkness as the main light for the hall came from a hundred sputtering torches, sited in sconces at the peripheries. The hall was decorated with tapestries of enormous proportions, their once vibrant colours dulled by time but their heroic scenes no less for the passage of the years. Talis smiled to himself as Sir Helminth paused to allow him to view the grand sight. Imperial pride was personified in the Knights of the Air whose glories had been magnificent in that halcyon era.
The pair shook the water from their cloaks and Talis’s footman remained in the entrance, dripping onto the cold stone floor. Sir Helminth bore a right and strolled with Lord Talis to a spiral staircase that ascended within a tower to each of the six stories of the barbican. A brass handrail was fitted and Talis considered using it but his pride before his niece’s sergeant precluded him doing so. Progress up the stairs was slow. Ever courteous, Helminth stepped idly, stopping periodically to illustrate a point in his dialogue and by way of this allowing Talis a rest.
Lady Orla’s office was on the fourth floor, up amongst the rooms of the other captains and officers. A single knight, a rider of the sixth lance Gold Wing, guarded the landing. He saluted Sir Helminth and the pair continued through the stone corridors deep into the mountainside. They passed several oaken doors, a small hall, another two staircases and a tiny chapel to Torik before they finally reached Orla’s rooms. Talis suppressed a shudder of claustrophobia.
Lady Orla’s office was sombre. There were few frills or niceties to it, unlike some of the chambers of her fellow officers whom had ornate furniture from Toscorian craftsmen or rich carpets from Mirioth. The room was frugal and contained a large wooden desk, a half-dozen chairs, a cursory cabinet of guest wine and a tall cupboard with meticulously ordered scrolls. The walls were decorated with dozens of maps, mainly of Eeria. Her sole frivolity was a large leather bound tome titled The Philosophy of War by the famous Imperial High Commander Lord Jonty Bedik, which sat neatly on the shelf.
Orla sat behind her desk studying one of the maps. She glanced up at the pair with some irritation until she saw her uncle and then she rose swiftly.
“Uncle Talis, you honour me with your visit. My apologies, if I had known to expect you I would have attended the courtyard myself.”
“Trouble yourself not, my girl. I was well cared for by Sir Helminth here and treated to a briefing on the current state of play with the preparations for the spring tourney.”
Helminth flushed slightly and stood stiff to attention before Orla. She glanced at him and said, “At ease, sergeant. Thank you for your escort. Did you require anything else?”
“No, captain. By your leave?”
Orla waved her hand and Helminth inclined his head at Talis then strode from the room. Lady Orla indicated for Talis to sit; she was not one for hugs.
“How does Windstide find you, Uncle? Are the ministrations of the council keeping you as busy as ever and far from my aunt’s shopping trips?”
“Ha! Your aunt direly needs my presence to moderate her expenses now that Erica is almost of an age. But, by Torik’s grace, it is easier to bury myself in the mountain of council work and the moans of the garrison with regards the Festival.”
“I am certain. I had the pleasure of strolling through the upper city to the Enclave to watch Jular undergo the Choosing. I am happy to report his success.”
“Yes, so I hear. Wonderful news, though I am not surprised. The lad is bright.”
“Word had reached the officers that there was a strange murder of two city guards in the slums on that same day. Dark magic, it would seem?”
“I shall be honest, Orla,” Talis said with a shrug. “I have been too busy to give it much thought, what with various agenda items. Nothing down there should surprise me. Cheapside has long been in need of a good purge—it really lets the city down. How any true Coonorian can accept to live in such squalor escapes me. They really should take more pride in themselves.”
Orla met his gaze and he thought transiently how the last few years had changed his niece. Orla was the middle child of three and had been serious even as a child, with a superior air that irritated the other children. Always one to be commanding the others and always derisory of their childish games she had presumably had a lonely time of it, unlike her affable younger brother Jular who had just joined the Air-mages. Her mother, the first Lady Farvous, had died with complications of childbirth and her father had married again when Orla was young. Most unusually, Orla had chosen the rigorous path of knighthood and Talis had long suspected some curious secret amongst his wife’s family had driven the girl along it.
“Indeed, Uncle, I share your dismay. Dare I ask what items command your attention beyond the death of two soldiers?”
“Well, obviously that is a great concern,” Talis said. “But since you ask, there is a great problem arising with the Mountain Giants in the eastern edge of the Cloudtips. The Netreptans are asking for our aid. Unfortunately this has coincided with a request for assistance from the Mâlkar of Arunstân in Mirioth.”
“Against the lizardmen in Ssinthor?”
“I’m afraid so. This is a bit of a tricky position to be in. I mean the birdmen are our neighbours and allies but the Coalition of Mirioth is wealthy with the monies of its enormous trade empire.”
“Surely we owe the allegiance to the Netreptan problem?”
“Of course and we shall assist them in some way. But with the gold seams somewhat sparse at present the boost to the treasury would be desirable also. After all the Miroth were part of our Empire once and we were involved in the Fall of Kevor and thus the creation of the sunken land.”
“I know my history, Uncle,” Orla said. “Strategically we have more to fear from the giants. No matter. I am sure a mere soldier such as myself is ill placed to comment on such matters. I assume your welcome visit wasn’t purely to debate council matters?”
Talis observed Orla as he replied. She was a tall and handsome girl, nearing thirty years in age and with the characteristic grey hair of the Eerian nobility. She had escaped the distinct Eerian nose however and in its wake had a pale face with piercing grey eyes. She did nothing to highlight her attractiveness, having tied her hair in a severe bun and wearing none of the eye shade or blusher that the noble girls so loved. Her uniform hid her femininity particularly well: a padded black long shirt and wool tights with knee length leather boots, buffed to a gleam.
“My apologies for distracting you in such a manner, my niece. Your aunt and I missed you at Uthor’s feast last night.”
“You had my apologies, Uncle Talis. Regrettably I had agreed to command the night patrols and as the weather was turning I thought it best if I did that personally. I am sure you understand.”
“I understand, Orla, that you have never enjoyed such occasions. This was a family affair, however, and your elder brother Hulgor was able to attend. It is after all your cousin that you will be welcoming into the Knighthood under your patronage.”
“Were I to be able to forget this fact with the continual missives from father about him. You are well aware of my reservations about all of this. The Knighthood is no playground for Uthor’s little tantrums. It is the sole fact that he is family that I am even considering his application.”
“With all due respect, the High Commander is happy with the decision.”
“With all due respect, Uncle, the Commander is not above enjoying being owed a favour in this city of politics,” she said. “Orders are orders, however. I am sure cousin Uthor will learn that fact very swiftly in his year as a squire.”
“His wilder side will be brought into line I am sure, by the reputation of the Silver Wing’s training if nothing else.”
“Can the eagle ever walk as well as it flies? I wonder, Uncle, what training can change Uthor’s drinking and merrymaking?”
Talis felt his indignation rise within him at Orla’s disrespect. A captain sh
e may be in the knights but she was still his kin, albeit by marriage.
“Captain Orla Farvous! That is enough. Uthor is your cousin and you his patron. You of all people should recognise that at times even the best of us act rashly.”
The colour drained from Orla’s face as if Talis had drawn every blood cell in her body out in an instant. Her manner became instantly formal and she replied crisply.
“Forgive my rudeness, Lord Ebon-Farr, I forgot my place. Will Uthor be attending the Citadel in four days time as arranged?”
“He will indeed,” Talis said, with a sigh. “I trust you will be available to meet him? The requisite uniform will be arranged prior to the day. Excuse me now, I must return to the Keep. May I trouble you to escort me to the gatehouse?”
Orla nodded and stood, rolling up her map before striding to the door. Talis followed her pulling his fine yarkel-wool cloak tight and bracing himself for the winds once more. The politics of families were as intricate as the politics of the city, he ruminated, as the pair exited into the dingy corridor.
***
It took Emelia another hour to finish cleaning the Great Hall and by the end of it her back was screaming with pain. She wiped the sweat with the hem of her dress, streaking grime on her forehead. The bucket she had used was filthy, with rotting food particles bobbing on its scummy surface like gulls on the sea. She placed the brushes and cloths in a small bag and went to leave the room. The rain still battered the stained-glass windows and dust danced like drunken revellers in the amber pools of the torches .
Emelia emerged into the long corridor that interjected between the Great Hall and Lord Talis’s chambers. She paused at her favourite tapestry, the one adjacent to Talis’s day room and with a pang of guilt she recalled her eavesdropping that day when the Arch-mage had visited. It seemed an age ago, as if it happened in a dream long faded.
But it did happen and you are leaving Emelia, Emebaka reminded her.
It might be for the best, though my soul is wracked with trepidation at the idea. I mean Inkas-Tarr will protect me and in six years time maybe things will have changed.
This man of darkness will never forget Emelia. Tell me, what did you see that day? Emebaka asked.
I...I am not sure. He was doing something in the grave. Oh Emebaka, how has this happened to me? What’s going on?
Something is coming Emelia, I can feel it. Something dreadful. Something dark. A storm is looming that will shake your world apart and you will need strength to make those choices.
Help me. Help me make them.
I can not—they are yours to endure.
Emelia clutched the wall, a surge of consternation coming upon her. Her breathing was rapid and shallow and with effort she reined it in.
Could she truly have run off that night in Cheapside? Was that her god-given chance to avoid the trip to the macabre world of the Air-mages? It felt at times as if her life was the dream and the imaginings of the night her true existence.
How had she escaped on that night? She’d pushed the thoughts to the rear of her mind, afraid to question the surreal events in Cheapside. But the apprehension of moving to the Enclave was dragging it kicking and screaming back to her consciousness.
It just doesn’t make any sense, Emebaka. I am certain that I was destined to die that night.
You can clearly change your destiny then, Emebaka replied.
But how did it happen? It seems all hazy and vague, like my recall is shrouded in mist. Perhaps it was some sadistic trick by the sorcerer, chasing me down only to let me live a little longer. So he could feed off my terror.
That doesn’t make sense.
What does though? I could fantasise that I am so interesting to the Arch-mage that he put some glamour on me, to protect me. But who am I but some curio for his collection? Am I just looking for some fantastical explanation? Maybe there was a crack in the wall that I fell through?
But it didn’t feel like that did it?
It’s all so...distant now. Did I dream it? Is it my imagination impinging into reality like in my dream the other night?
There was no reply from Emebaka and Emelia rubbed her eyes. Her head ached with all this introspection. She longed for a quieter time when all was simple and the biggest challenge of the day was lighting the fires in the morning before your fingers went numb.
She shuffled down the corridor, the heavy bucket straining her arm. At the corridor’s far end were the stairs that would take her back into the Keep’s depths and back to the frostiness that now pervaded her days in the kitchens.
Something was odd about the archway to the stairs. Something was missing, she thought, as she neared it. It came to her: there was no guard on the stairs today. Presumably when Lord Ebon-Farr was not in residence they didn’t have to post one at the entrance to the corridor.
A sound of clattering boots echoed down the stairs as she approached them. The pace was fast, as if someone was running full tilt down the spiral staircase from above. She hesitated and then a strange feeling came into her, like a waking dream. In her mind’s eye she could see a barking wild dog, all matted fur and sinew, its teeth bared. A sense of unease twisted in her belly. She turned and went back into the corridor, looking around urgently for a place to conceal herself. The noise of the footsteps was coming towards her quickly.
She pulled back the nearest tapestry. There was a recess behind the tapestry made for storage and she squeezed in amongst the upright, stacked benches. The heavy wood still had the odour of dried wine and bodies on it and she pressed her face in fear against the wood, hoping that the strength of the timber would stay her shaking.
The sound of boot steps indicated someone had emerged into the corridor. An almost animalistic panting and sobbing could be heard. She could smell fumes of drink seeping around the edge of the dusty tapestry. Her heart thudded in her ears, sounding as loud as a war drum in the eerie silence.
The boots clicked on the wooden floor of the corridor as their owner passed the tapestry then they stopped. With a wrench of horror Emelia realised she had left her bucket in the corridor.
Emelia held her breath and stood like a statue. The silence seemed to stretch endlessly, like the vastness of lower Eeria running to the horizon. She had no idea who was beyond the thick cloth of the tapestry save that every instinct told her they were dangerous. It struck her that perhaps it was the Dark-mage come to kill her, his black sorcery eating her face like the chill winds that had gnawed over the ages at the stones of Coonor.
Emelia’s breath was about to explode from her chest when the person in the corridor laughed bitterly and kicked the bucket over. Foul brown liquid sloshed under the tapestry and onto Emelia’s worn leather shoes, soaking the chapped material with debris and dirt. She held down the nausea as the stench struck her and the owner of the boots cursed again.
“Blasted servants! Buckets lying around, damn them. Is this some sick joke? Oh Torik, what have I done?”
Emelia stifled a gasp; the voice was Uthor’s sneering patter.
Uthor stomped off down the corridor and Emelia chanced a quick look as his footsteps faded. He was dressed in a green velvet doublet and dark orange tights, the former hanging open as if it had been ripped. His normally flushed face was pale and wan, his hair a dishevelled mess. The young lord turned and entered his rooms at the far end of the corridor and slammed the door.
Emelia stooped to pick up the tipped bucket and looked in dismay at the large pool of grime soaking into the wooden floor. She would need more water to clean it all up, which meant a descent to the kitchens and a trip back up with aching arms. What was wrong with Uthor and why had her dream appeared to her so vividly?
She left the corridor and descended the staircase towards the garrison level. For the second time that day she heard the sound of boots on the stairs but in this instance it was perhaps a dozen of them running from the first floor to the ground level accompanied by yells and shouts. Curiosity came upon her and she came down the staircase o
n the tail end of eight soldiers. They ran along the lower corridor to the inner courtyard and the gates of the Keep.
Emelia followed them through with a sense of foreboding, her slender form unnoticed in the panic. She passed through the inner courtyard and through the gates of the Keep and into the square that lay in front of the tall building. The rain pattered around the gathering crowd and in the distance the peal of thunder echoed along the bleak avenues. Two-dozen people were in a circle around something on the cobbles and she could hear screaming. With a jolt she realised it was her friend Abila that was screaming, one of the soldiers holding her back as she yelled. She was red in the face with mucous and tears running like a torrent down onto her dress.
Sarik was in the crowd as Emelia pushed her way through, feet sliding on the wet cobbles, desperately needing to see what was there. Her mind raced as images of her dream came back: the rooftop, the wild dog, a jackal, the lamb, her friend.
“Don’t look Emelia, don’t look,” Sarik said, his face contorted in horror.
Crumpled on the cobblestones of the square, her body oddly angled, was Sandila. A dark pool of blood spread slowly and inexorably away from her dead body, mixing in with the puddles..
The lamb, she thought. Sandila was the lamb.
Chapter 6 Funerals and Forts.
Windstide 1920.
A dozen candles cast their dancing light over the walls of the shrine yet their amber glow did not warm the chill of the place. The heat of the gathered bodies faired no different nor did the small brazier that lit the far end of the room. Emelia felt as if she would never know the comfort of summer’s warmth again.
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