I haven’t imagined these eyes, at least.
We have come to the city of walls and whispers.
The city of spies.
*
THICKGREYRAMPARTSshield the city, a single gateway and string of arrow slits the only apertures. The only adornment: gibbet cages wrought from bone hanging from the battlements. Whether animal or human, I can’t tell from this range. Rough manners and old ways, indeed.
I lift my chin towards the empty cages. The others follow my gaze.
‘Orthriel tells me Galtair’s warden – the Arx Magnum – will appear welcoming, but we must tread with caution. There’s little love lost between the Highlanders and my family.’ I swallow and draw my cowl lower. ‘Whatever the reception, we remain cordial. We can’t give them any reason to refuse us help.’ I look at Blayze. His nostrils flare and his jaw tightens, but he nods along with the others.
I take a breath, stride to the gate, rap against it. There’s a scuffing of boots, then the heavy scrape of rusted bolts.
The gatekeeper’s skin is grey like the city walls and similarly weathered. Broader than most Meissans, he has quartz-white hair, worn long and braided. His mouth twists as he registers the Outrealmers. He stares into my Starborn eyes, careful to maintain his distance, holding out his mace, its flanged head formed like a starburst, to keep us at arm’s length.
‘State your business.’
‘We travel under the King’s banners.’ I force as much authority into my voice as I can and reach inside my reticule for the Kingswrit, the permit allowing us to breach the plague laws and cross regional lines.
The gatekeeper’s eyes narrow as he studies it.
The temperature dips. Along with the faint scent of lilies, it’s the only warning before opal flames announce my Guardian’s presence. It’s a relief to see them materialise, though their semblance of a body is wavering more than usual. The altitude and tainted air must be affecting Orthriel too.
‘The Arx Magnum is expecting us.’
The gatekeeper starts back at the sight of the cielsylph and their mention of the warden’s name.
‘Wait here.’ He shuts the gate. Behind it, there’s a jagged exchange in Peaktois I can’t follow. Moments later, the bugle of a horn: three long, low notes.
‘What’s going on?’ Blayze asks.
‘They’re calling curfew,’ Astrophel whispers. ‘Worried we bring fever to their door.’
After several minutes, the gate creaks open and we’re admitted to the Last City.
Once we’ve submitted to examinations and been declared free from plague, the gatekeeper instructs a younger sentinel to lead us to the Stone Keep – the Arx Magnum’s seat of power. He shepherds us through a tangle of cobbled streets and castellated towers, all eerily deserted. Delphine is able to walk again, supported by Astrophel and Blayze. We pass abandoned market stalls, steam still rising over cauldrons of mulled honeywine, flies buzzing around skewers of salted meat.
Our footsteps echo as we make our way towards the fortress that crowns the city and boasts its highest tower. My ankle throbs, and I can’t shake the wrongness tugging at my gut. But I force myself to ignore it. It’s just the disturbed thoughts of an anxious mind. Last night proved that.
Every so often we pass a plague house, smirched with its sinister red flame. Blayze glowers at each and every cypher, and a shadow flickers over Astrophel’s face like he’s seen a ghost. And then it hits me. He has. This is where his father contracted the fever; each of these houses is a slap in his face, a reminder of the man he never had the chance to know properly – the life stolen from him.
Tansy tugs my elbow.
‘Look up,’ she whispers.
A silent audience stares from the shadowed recesses of half-shuttered windows, their eyes anything but friendly. I reach under my cloak. It’s becoming habitual, using the crystalline pulse of the starstone to steady my own.
We turn a sharp corner, and a circular forum fans before us. The Stone Keep, directly opposite, presides over the space. After Galtair’s shaded tapering streets, this feels too wide, too open. Too exposed.
The keep flies the flag of the twelve-pointed Wishing Star. Loyal to the mountain then, not the Throne. A treasonable offence back in Meissa.
‘You’re sure the Arx Magnum welcomes this visit?’I ask Orthriel.
‘He couldn’t have made it plainer. Seemed grateful for the opportunity to mend bridges.’
‘He has a funny way of showing it…’
