by C. K. Rieke
“Good afternoon,” the rider said.
“Good afternoon to you, sir,” Zaan replied.
The rider had slowed down enough to say this, and began to speed up again.
“Good sir!” Zaan yelled at the back of the man, who was dressed in plain cotton garb with a straw hat. He had a gray pony tail reaching halfway down his back.
“Yes, young man, anything the matter?”
“No, everything is all right. Are you coming from Auracity by chance?” Zaan asked.
“Yes, I am traveling southeast. I have stayed in Auracity,” the stranger replied.
“Is there anything you can tell me about the city? I have never been there, and I’m looking to find work,” he said.
“Young man, Auracity is a big, industrial city. All there is is jobs. Everybody—well, almost everybody—works in the manufacturing center. That’s all Auracity is—a big goddamn machine that’ll eat you up and spit you out if you ain’t careful.” The rider’s eyebrows squinted down. “If you ain’t looking for a hard living, turn around.”
“I’ll work hard. I’ve no problem with that,” Zaan replied. “I guess I’m more referring to, do you have any friends who are looking for a good worker? I’m skilled in literacy and scholarly aspects.”
“Good luck with that. Auracity’s name sounds elegant, but if you’re looking to work in a bookstore, you may be hard-pressed. It’s like every other place: It’s about who you know. May take a bit to move into a bookstore. A boy like you, you may start working the fires, and if you’re really unlucky, they send you to the mines. Don’t go to the mines.
“Auracity’s old, very old. It’s one of the first kingdoms, built even before the city of Barrier Cliff was destroyed before the Great Essillean War. King Hollon Livingston the Eighth is the ruling king now. He seems like a good king—he’s always pushing their manufacturing, mainly farming tools, wagons, and such. But the university is one of the best in the lands; maybe you should check there. Who knows? With any luck they may have something for you there. I hope that helps.”
“Thanks for the advice. You seem to know the city quite well,” he said to the man. “Don’t go into the mines, then. I won’t. Do you know of good, affordable lodgings in the city? Somewhere that has at the least fresh bread and a private bed?”
“Go uptown to Harrow. For the most part I’ve had good experiences there—anywhere there should be good. That part of town is safe and can be fun. Any other matters I can help you with?” the rider asked, itching to continue his ride.
“That’s it. Thank you, sir. Good travels,” Zaan said.
“Good travels,” the rider said as he pulled the reins to his right and clicked his heels on the steed. He disappeared into the distance quickly. Zaan was slow to start again; the thought of walking on his swollen feet in his thin leather shoes was not very attractive.
Instead of moving on he decided to sit on the side of the road, and he found a large, fallen elm to take a rest on. The road looked the same as it had the entire walk so far—dry and scattered with pebbles and large rocks. He looked toward the city. The huge plume of smoke was still there, and it cheered him up to look at it. He’d even started noticing smaller plumes around that one, so he was getting closer.
He was walking again shortly, slower now, but he was heading in the right direction, wishing he had a horse. Being able to make the journey in less than two days sounded quite appealing, and he began to daydream about hitching onto a cart being pulled to the city by a strong Elotterel steed, twice the size and strength of your common horse. He could sit there and relax, take his shoes off, and let them dangle in the cool air as it rushed under his feet. This would not be the case; he was at the mercy of his feet, tired and weathered now. The clouds began to gather.
***
Two hours later he was huddled underneath his cloak, soaked, sitting off the road under the thickest foliage he could find. The downpour had been going on for over a half hour straight, with minimal thunder. Fur-lol was in a part of the country where thunderstorms were regular, and he loved them, but there he’d always been able to shelter indoors, unlike now, where he was completely at the mercy of the storm.
He was shivering and couldn’t make a fire. All he could do was sit and take it. The large droplets bounced off him like they were hitting a lake. He felt extremely vulnerable, and he was wet, cold, and alone.
He tried to distract himself with thoughts of girls or bars or anything. He dreamt of a warm bed and a fire, cider to heat him from the inside, but there was no escaping this constant rain.
Hours later the rain slowed and then stopped. He wrung out his socks, removed his shirt, and got a fire going. He was exhausted. Not only did his body shiver and shake for hours, but he knew he had missed out on half a day’s walking.
His magnificent fire danced back and forth, the coals in the center growing and shrinking as if the fire were breathing. The smell of the smoke filled his nostrils and made his eyes water. Zaan felt it harder to focus on the fire or watch the smoke rising into the now-clear sky. He laid his head back onto a smooth stone and watched the tips of the fire rise and disappear, then reappear, until they became a blur. His eyes closed and he felt the warmth on his face, and his toes began to regain their color.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
HE awoke slowly and saw his fire had gone low; only gasping coals that glowed bright and then died down again remained. Zaan lay and watched this for what felt like twenty minutes. The coals seemed to be breathing with him, and he was tired, half asleep. He couldn’t tell if this was a dream, but it was a perfect feeling. He would fill his lungs with warm air, and the fire would dwindle and darken, making his eyes water; then he would exhale and the fire would glow bright and hot.
The forest quieted down. All Zaan noticed was the fire in front of his eyes as he lay back. The noise of the insects and animals faded; the sound of the wind in the trees crept in louder. The leaves in the trees overhead began to circle, but the air around him remained calm.
He didn’t notice it at first, but there was a light on the road, distant and faint.
Zaan sat up slowly, then removed his knife from his pocket and clutched it in his hand. Looking at the size of it in his palm, he wished it were bigger. The light began to grow in the distance. It began to get bigger quickly; it was approaching fast. He had a strong urge to get up, and as he stirred to stand, the wind picked up.
His fire roared with giant plumes of fire and smoke, blinding in the deep twilight of night. Then it was gone. His fire had been extinguished; he thought the wind had killed it. He had never seen anything like that happen, but it was the only rational explanation he could think of.
The light on the horizon was blurry and still and had a hue of gold. With how fast it was approaching, he assumed it was a rider on horseback. With his fire now gone, Zaan took the opportunity presented to hide in the dark, standing behind a tree the width of his shoulders. His knuckles whitened, his grip tightening around the knife.
Pudup, pudup, pudup. The rider came closer, the horse in full sprint. This was a fast horse, moving at great speed. Pudup, pudup, pudup. Zaan’s heart was racing. He turned his back to the tree and looked up at the starlit sky with the wind whipping the leaves above him. He took a deep breath to calm his nerves. He turned to look again at the rider, and his eyes grew. The rider was still. The horse had stopped on the road a mere four yards from him, and the rider was staring into Zaan’s eyes despite the dark.
She had bright blue piercing eyes. This must be the color of the ice in the north, he thought. She was beautiful, with silky auburn skin, long golden hair that lay upon the back of the horse. She wore dark, elegant robes that blended into the night.
Her eyes. They were magnificent; he could stare into them forever. They excited him, reminded him of things he’d never done, made him think of things he’d never thought possible, of gods and demons.
Then came the rumble of horses’ hooves hit
ting dirt. Pudup, pudup, pudup. This time messy and many. There was no light this time. They were coming toward him and the woman.
She stayed, staring into Zaan’s eyes.
Pudup, pudup, pudup. Louder and louder. The horses were coming in closer. The terror returned to Zaan. He took in deep breaths as he looked into the golden-haired woman’s eyes.
Her lips stirred, and she closed her eyes, muttering something to herself. She then opened her iceberg-blue eyes. “The true power lies within us, and it lies above,” she whispered to Zaan. Her voice rang perfectly in his ears. “The name must ring again, ring aloud. The ages are growing darker. The name must sound from the mountains and caverns aloud.
“Halen, Ojiin, the One, our Father.” She brought her hand up slowly, holding it straight out at him.
A bright blue flash grew all around Zaan. His eyes winced in pain, and he felt the blues and golds inside him, burning. It was in his head. He could taste it, and it filled his mouth and coated his tongue. It was in his nose, and his eyes watered with iceberg blue and hot king’s gold. His head flew back in unrelenting agony—a whiplash that sent him to the ground. With all his strength, he opened his eyes to slits and saw the woman rider with her hand still raised—though it now glowed a dull blue hue. She stared at him a moment, then lowered her hand, turned her head back to the road, kicked the great midnight steed, and took off faster than seemed possible.
Almost immediately behind her large, brutish horses followed. They went by in a flash, but they were mostly dirty and covered in black leather armor. Spit was foaming at their mouths and flying in streams as they rushed by. The riders were savage as well—they wore dirty clothes and unkempt beards, had short hair or wore dirty wool caps. They breathed heavily and did not speak. They only rode, using no torches to light their path. With Zaan’s pain diminishing, the thunderclap of the irregular hooves was startling to his half-aware consciousness. They did not seem to notice him lying in the mud, right off the side of the road, in plain sight, if it had been lit. He whispered to himself, “Please, don’t let them see me. Don’t let them see me.”
He could make out the sounds of their hooves for another five minutes or so. An overwhelming fatigue came over him once he was satisfied the dark riders were at least out of hearing range. He couldn’t concern himself with the woman rider and her iceberg eyes, or the dark marauders. All he could think of was closing his eyes and giving in to whatever his body was telling him. Rest, sleep, and relax. He slept there, in the mud by the side of the road, halfway to Auracity. No fire, no light, no warmth, only the cold mud.
CHAPTER TWELVE
IT took more strength than usual to open his eyes. One eye was covered in drying mud, which he scraped off. It was early morning, and the sun had been up probably a little over an hour. The first thing Zaan thought about was . . . coffee.
He took his time getting a fire going, collecting kindling, setting the spark and collecting fresh water from the stream. He hadn’t brought much coffee, as he knew he would get some more in Auracity. He simmered and filtered out the remaining coarse coffee beans and drank. His head was foggy, and all he could think about was the hot liquid warming him all over.
Pulling the mug down from his lips, he gave a laugh, thinking of the night prior. “I’m losing it.” He paused, shuffling through the vague images he had in his head. “Why did the fire go out? Hmm . . .” He took another sip, then poured fresh coffee into his mug. He thought about what he thought he saw and remembered. Iceberg eyes. He looked at his arms and hands, splattered with mud. They didn’t have any marks on them, but he wondered why they were as sore as they felt. His body and fingers ached. Probably from shaking all night, he thought.
“Was that a dream?” he whispered to himself.
After taking his time to regain his strength and consume some wet jerky and toasted bread, he was ready to get along on the road. He felt a pit in his stomach as he took his first step. It felt as if his instincts were telling him not to.
He swallowed hard when he noticed the massive hoofprints of large horses. They were deep prints, angled back, and they were far apart. Some of what he had seen last night may have been real. That pain from the blue and gold lights couldn’t have been imagined, could it?
The day seemed to drag on, and Zaan didn’t make much progress. He was slow, taking breaks often, and scratching his head thinking about the night before. He felt dehydrated and hungrier than usual. He stopped and made a fire early. He was close enough to Auracity now that the night fires and burning industry ushered a warm glow over the city and illuminated the smokestacks. Lying back against a large tree, he stared at the smoke stream in the distance. He would probably be there in two days, if he picked up the pace.
Living alone in his home back in Fur-lol, he at least had Oscar to keep him company. Now, for the first time in his life, he found himself lonely. He wanted someone to talk to. If Oscar had been years younger, he would have brought him along, and what good times they would have had together. Oscar would have slept next to him, them keeping each other warm. What would be better, though, was a woman next to him now. He stared at the smoke and fire in the distance and thought of a woman lying there, both of them covered in a blanket and nothing else.
He was tired, but it wasn’t easy to get to sleep this night. Too many things were running through his mind, and he couldn’t quiet them. He was nervous, scared even, but also excited. What was the city going to be like?
The next day he awoke early, at sunup, and then made his way, determined to make good time. It wasn’t long before he met someone. The postman approached cheerfully with his horse and wagon. He wore a shiny black cap that was tilted down, and he had a large curled mustache.
“Morning, young man,” he said to Zaan.
“Good morning, sir. Where are you headed?” Zaan asked.
“South. I’m heading south, then east. About a week, it should take me. Pardon my intrusion, but how long have you been on the road? You look a bit worse for wear.”
“A couple of days. Four, I think. Seems like a month. I’m traveling to Auracity from Fur-lol. The road has not been kind.”
“Four days, eh? Well, the good news is you are almost there. You could make it early tomorrow if you really try.” The postman reached in his pouch and pulled out some taffy and threw it down to Zaan. “Good luck in the city. Try not to work in the mines if you don’t have to,” he said as he started again on his way.
Zaan popped the taffy into his mouth. It was good and tasted like sweet apples. His pace picked up, and he started running. The feeling of the wind rushing past him felt exhilarating, and the large singular smokestack was getting closer, and he ran faster.
He slept easy that night. He was anxious about his first day in Auracity; it reminded him of his first day in school. Would he make friends? How would the people treat him? It would feel good to be closer to people, and that comforted him, as did his dip in the stream that cleaned some of the mud off his skin.
The next morning, he came to a grand crossing in the road. Auracity was straight ahead. He quickly thought about where the other two roads led. Where would he end up if he took either of them? He knew he was too tired, with too little food to take either one. He started forward again, the city entrance in front of him, the rushing of wagons, horses, and people soon all around him.
The walls surrounding the city were composed of enormous round stones, with many smaller round stones around them. He couldn’t even imagine how old the walls were. On either side of the front gate were two guard towers, both manned by a couple of armed guards with crossbows looking down at the people bustling in and out of the gates.
There were many walls around the entrance, jutting in different directions, probably to confuse or deter invaders. People sat all along the walls with merchandise on rugs, offering all manner of items. The commotion was loud and disorienting. He looked down as he walked by, seeing all kinds of food, clothing, and collectables. Th
e vendors didn’t pay much attention to him, probably thinking he was a poor vagabond. Maybe he was now, he laughed to himself.
He looked around for signs on where he was and where to go. He turned a corner to find a larger market area and glanced at the wares as he walked down the strip toward what must be the palace. It had what looked like twelve tiers made of millions of stones, and high preliminary walls, with torches burning bright. At the top was an elegant, sleek white tower like illustrations he’d seen of lighthouses. It had a gold coned roof on the top lined with windows, and people moved about inside, looking down at the citizens of Auracity.
He walked down the marketplace he learned was called Grumblane and was an unremarkable area. Aside from the deafening noise of the merchants, Grumblane was devoid of color, aside from what was for sale. In fact, as Zaan looked around at the city he soon realized how depressing it felt. Stone and mortar composed the city; there was very little wood structuring anywhere. It was indeed a very old city.
At the end of Grumblane marketplace he found signs pointing to different parts of the city. The palace, Fordenreign, was straight ahead, but he would not be heading there. To the left was an arrow pointing to Harrow, and he headed that way. He climbed a set of a few dozen stairs and took the road of Hardway Lane for ten or so streets and reached the cross street of Harrow Way. The street itself was smoothly paved of gray mortar and slick shiny stones. Straight ahead was a restaurant that had an intoxicating smell of roast ham and cabbage. He went to the front door and peered in the window at two nicely dressed couples. He looked down at his own clothes. He decided to find lodging and clean up before eating here this evening.
He took a left and came to a tavern called the Raven’s Roost. He entered, and the thick odor of sweat and malt beer filled the air. He sat and contributed to the smell. He drank a couple beers, let out a loud belch, and asked the barkeep, “Any rooms available?”