Floor by floor, Arienne constructed this building that she had never seen in her life but somehow recalled with perfect clarity. On the eaves of each floor, she hung countless wind chimes of colored glass bells and beads on leather strings. She’d always liked them. Or had she? Arienne couldn’t remember the last time she’d noticed them anywhere. Her head ached slightly, but she concentrated hard. It was a beautiful, tall building. Focusing on the smell of unfamiliar wood, Arienne made walls, fitted corridors, and furnished rooms.
“How does it look?” Arienne asked.
They were standing on the roof of the building. The sky in her mind was as gray as the one over the real Mersia, and Noam stood with the baby Tychon in his arms. Arienne went to the ledge and peered down.
Noam stared around them. “Whatisthis building?”
“I don’t know.”
“How did you create awhole buildingyou don’t know?”
“I… don’t know.”
It was extraordinary. She kept recalling the details within, but the one thing she could not recall was ever having seen the place.
“Noam, you don’t know of this place either?”
Noam glanced around and answered, “No, not from the rooftop, anyway. But a building this size, and with native, non-Imperial architecture, and those wind chimes… could be the Feast Hall from before the Empire. I heard they took it down and replaced it with the prefect’s office, some years into the annexation.”
The ghosts of Mersia. This building came from another memory they had left behind.
“There should be a sounding horn here,” she murmured. A large horn appeared where she pointed, an instrument she had never seen in her life. She couldn’t even tell what animal the horn had come from. But the engravings of stars and curlicues of wind were as familiar to her as if she’d played with the horn since she was a child. She walked up to the horn as if enchanted, touching the mouthpiece. She turned to Noam. He could only stare at her.
Arienne put her lips to the mouthpiece and blew. A loud, clear sound. As if a veil had been lifted, the sky turned blue-black and thousands of stars appeared. A gust of wind rustled her hair. She heard chimes, ringing and rattling in the wind, from the eaves below. The stars were moving quickly toward somewhere, flowing like the rush of a waterfall. Arienne could not take her eyes off the sight.
Soon, the stars had all flowed away save for one—the polestarthat pointed north. Then other stars returned, first a handful, then a whole river of them, swirling around the polestar. Arienne looked at Noam, who was gaping at the sky. He caught her eye.
“I’ve never seen anything like this in my life. I’ve neverheardof anything like this. What kind of a sorcerer are you?”
“… I really don’t know.”
Maybe the inside of this Feast Hall would offer more insight. She took her eyes off the sky and made her way to the staircase that coiled along the outside of the building. The stars were the only light, but she knew where each stair was supposed to be. Noam followed, still carrying Tychon. They got to a landing, where she pointed to a door and said, “You can go in here. There’s a bed inside. Get some rest.”
Noam said nothing as he opened the door. As he stepped inside, Arienne grabbed his shoulder.
“I’ll take Tychon.”
She lifted him from Noam’s arms, and the baby nuzzled into her embrace. The air did seem a little chilly. She continued farther down until there was another door. She knew what was inside—a spacious room, a comfortable bed, a closet, pegs to hang hats, a stove, and a saddle rest.
Also, a rocking cradle.
Arienne stepped inside. The stove cozily lit the room, and she felt its warmth. Arienne carefully laid the baby down in the cradle, which was just a few steps away from the stove. Then, she read aloud the roughly engraved words on the head of the cradle.
“‘Tychon, firstborn of Lysandros and Yuma.’”
30
YUMA
They had boarded over the windows of the first floor of the Feast Hall. Through the little gaps in those boards, Yuma observed Lysandros in his head-to-toe metal armor as he fought Garamund. The sun had already set outside, but Fractica’s blue light illuminated the square.
Lysandros’s armor looked bulky, but his movements were swift and precise. Fractica’s blue glow swirled with the violet vapor of Lysandros’s armor, making his every movement an arresting sight, as if he were a dancer performing for them. From the floor above, she could hear snatches of the Host’s continuing song.
Lysandros had taken that armor out from Fractica’s body. It was so large, he didn’t so much put it on as lower himself into it. And yet he moved effortlessly, as nimble as a cat. Yuma guessed that Lysandros’s armor moved under the same principle as his iron frame.
The Grim King’s general Garamund was so large that evenLysandros in his full armor looked like a child next to him, though the Imperial emissary was clearly not weaker. He withstood Garamund’s swinging mace, which otherwise could have taken down a house, without much strain. Every time the mace made contact with him, it made a dull ringing sound like a bell, and Yuma grimaced as if she had been hit herself.
Lysandros had no weapons in his hands, but he sliced and stabbed with the long blades fitted onto his armored forearms with expert skill. One of the blades split Garamund’s chest, but the inhuman giant didn’t even flinch, and the wound closed immediately into a long scar.
