Dram gestured apologetically with his bone white hands, “Considering your actions since your arrival here in Graben, the subject of your actual level of intelligence is thoroughly debatable Umaryn.”
“Hilarious,” she replied flatly.
“My humor is a redeeming quality. What say you? Work with me to gain your vengeance, and attain my personal goals in a mutually beneficial way? Or leave your friends and family without the satisfaction of revenge, and die here in this fetid meat shop?” All the humor had drained from his voice. This was the final test.
- Chapter Eight -
THE HOUSE OF NAMES
“I’ve never stood this close to the lifts. They’re massive,” Malwynn said, his voice full of wonder and awe. Umaryn had her head tilted upwards, the same as her brother. Her eyes pointed into the gentle falling snow to better examine the channel carved out of the cliff. It was remarkable in every way. Both wore their Amaranthine armor, and looked as if they belonged there.
Dram stood beside them a few dozen feet away from where the lifts heading downward would pick them up. “One of most inspiring feats of engineering in all of Elmoryn. Only the scope of the rail lines causes that project to be considered more impressive. Did you know the plateau of the High City is over fifteen hundred feet above us? And each lift in the channel is forty feet wide and fifty feet deep?”
“Do you need tickets?” Mal asked.
Dram shook his head, “No tickets are required. The lift operators can recognize authority figures and we may pass without question. You will need to provide them with proof of residence. I’ll have your official paperwork drafted by the end of the day today so you may come and go as needed.”
“What powers it? The Way?” Umaryn asked. She was visually unable to decipher the technology behind the massive chains and gears that powered the lifts up and down.
“You might think that, but no. The Queen contracts with the Artificer’s Guild to maintain a series of boilers inside the mountain. The steam engines power the gears, which operate the lifts, and so on. I don’t fully understand the technology. One day Umaryn, I hope you do.” Dram sounded sincere.
Umaryn nodded in appreciation, “Isn’t it a little… risky, to have just one way to the High City? What if enemies of the Queen were to destroy the lift?”
“Terrorism is a concern, and the lifts have been attacked before. Though there is ample reason to leave them be, despite what they represent, and what they do for the city,” Dram replied softly.
“What keeps the enemies of the Queen away from the lift?” Mal asked, interested.
“Most notably last on the list of reasons not to attack the lift is the wrath of the Queen herself. She’d spare no expense and effort to find anyone responsible for such a deed. What is far more a deterrent is the Artificer’s Guild itself,” Dram said.
Umaryn’s interest was now fully piqued, “Do the Artificers protect the lift? I see no Artificer guards.”
Dram shook his head as the massive lift platform descended lower, “No, they do not guard the lifts. They do however have a very clear line drawn in the sand. The lifts are sacrosanct to them. They represent a mammoth technological marvel. Many Artificers claim that the machinery of the lifts is so well made it is in fact an Artifact, imbued with The Way from the quality and majesty of its construction alone. To do damage to something so important to the Guild would mean terrible things for all of Varrland.”
“They’d stop running trains here, wouldn’t they?” Mal realized aloud.
“To say the least. The loss of imports to our lovely city would be a horrible blow, and not even the most bold enemies of the Queen dare risk the ire of the Artificers. I would venture to say that our beloved elevator is quite safe here.” Dram seemed supremely confident in his assertion.
“So you live in the High City?” Umaryn asked, already knowing the answer.
“Of course. And as of today… so do you two.”
The view from the lift platform as it ascended towards the High City was nothing short of breathtaking. All of the dirt and tarnish of the Low City flitted away as they rose higher and higher into the air, leaving only the snowy rooftops, smoking chimneys, and the tiny forms of the citizens moving about. Both twins were speechless as they absorbed the distant beauty of Graben’s Low City. Far off in the distance, an Artificer train was arriving at the Guild’s opulent and baroque rail station. The engine belched steam in a string of soft white puffs that drifted up as high as the clouds. It seemed strange to them that in just a few short months they’d come from that spot, so scared and alone, to where they were now, ascending to the highest levels of the society they’d despised so.
The awkward trio stood shoulder to shoulder at the very front of the largely empty lift. Only a small gate made of brass that lifted from the surface of the floor kept them from plunging off the edge. The closest passenger was a small stagecoach parked at the very rear. Both twins had been a little amazed as the coach driver steered his vehicle in a near-complete circle on the platform. The enormity of the moveable surface area was proven yet again. They had no idea who might be the passengers inside the dark blue coach. The lack of purple made them wonder of the possible significance of the royal blue.
As the lift reached its pinnacle, and the view of the Low City began to lose some of its detail and grandeur, they watched as the surface of the High City appeared above. Twelve heavily armored guards, garbed in luxurious purple finery and sporting halberds of epic craftsmanship, stood spread out along the three edges of the lift chasm. They watched through polished steel helms as the platform slowed, and gently stopped flush with the ground they stood on.
Dram, Umaryn and Malwynn turned and watched as the brass gates sank back into the surface, and the driver of the dark blue got his horses in motion. Judging from the slight urgency the man on the coach had, the twins felt as if getting off the lift quickly was a good idea. They both took off at a walk behind the coach, but Dram took his time. Umaryn and Malwynn slowed their gate, eventually letting the tall Inquisitor take the lead.
Surrounding them on all sides was opulence they never could have imagined. From far below in the Low City, so much of the spectacle of the High City was invisible. But here, high above with it surrounding them, the majesty of the Queen’s world was all around them. The two worlds never seemed more separate, more different.
Two roads of grey bricks dyed purple ran in each direction along the hundred yard wide plateau of the High City. On each side of the intricate path, framing the edges, were carved stone planters filled with all manner of hardy yet beautiful greenery. Despite the snow on them, their resilience and beauty shone through. Bright green bushes expertly sculpted into the shapes of men and women, carefully trimmed trees with branches full of ripe and succulent fruit, and most precious of all, the Queen’s very flower; the purple Amaranth.
The Amaranth grew only in the upper elevations of the Snake Ridge Mountains, and was reputed to live forever once it had bloomed the first time. The long petals of the delicate flower were a vibrant purple, and the leaves a shimmering green. They seemed perfectly comfortable blooming in the snow and cold air. To pick or disturb an Amaranth here in the Empire was one of the most illegal of all crimes, heinous beyond belief, and was punishable by immediate execution. Umaryn wondered how many people Dram had sent to the guillotine over the small flowers.
On the cliff side of the purple roads were more gardens, and lower stone structures that were clearly built so as to not obscure the view of the larger structures from below. These looked to be buildings for the guards, or stables for the mounts of the wealthy homes. They were scattered in a randomness that was too beautiful to be accidental. A grand design was hidden in the irregular.
To the rear of the plateau were the homes of the Graben elite. Nestled behind even more ostentatious and elaborate gardens, walls, and pathways were free standing structures that were jaw dropping. Pillars, statues and columns rose from the ground to hold up tiled and slate
covered roofs. Walls of marble, granite, and even obsidian were everywhere, many of which were covered in sculptures and carvings so beautiful and ornate they were physically and emotionally painful to behold.
What was even more impressive and imposing though, were the edifices carved straight into the stone surfaces of the ever rising mountain. The Snake Ridge summits rose thousands of feet higher than the level of the High City, and etched into that stone were homes that sank deep into the mountain rock themselves. Rather than walls to hold them upright, the rooms and chambers were instead carved deep into the ascending granite and limestone. More carvings, these impossibly large and statuesque, outlined the borders of where one home ended, and another began. Set deep into a cleft directly behind the lift’s chasm was the most impressive of them all; the Queen’s Palace.
Black iron erupted from the stone of the plateau into a fence twice the height of a standing man. Interlaced into the strong metal were vines carefully tended to sprout thousands of the purple Amaranth flowers. Hidden behind the gates and the scores of ornate guards standing watch could be seen water fountains that threw jets of white, foamy water into the air without joy. Instead of inspiring and calming, they seemed out of place. Cold, antiseptic, placed for the sake of distraction, and not decoration or inspiration.
The palace itself rose innumerable stories high, engraved more intensely and with far more dedication than any other home on the plateau. The twins both felt that any High City edifice that challenged the beauty and overpowering majesty of the Queen’s home would be struck down. To assault the palace’s grandeur in such a way seemed foolish.
As they walked to the edge of the platform and onto the High City itself, Dram spoke, “It is imposing from below, but ever so beautiful up close. It took four hundred stone workers, gifted smiths in fact, fifty years to complete. None of the four hundred were permitted to live after their tenures, of course. They took the task of building the palace as an eternity-long commitment. Many continue to serve the throne inside as undead. Quite beautiful really. Poetic.”
“It’s a bit horrifying Dram. I can’t lie,” Malwynn said with a bitter taste on his tongue. So much death and destruction were here, despite the relative beauty of the High City. It seemed that everything in the Amaranth Empire came at a high cost.
Dram stopped and turned to Malwynn, his posture indicating displeasure. “Watch your tongue boy. You are in the High City now, and in my good graces. You’d do well to mind your location, and your good fortune.”
Mal felt a rush of defiance come on, but he bit his tongue, “Sorry Dram. I’m just having a hard time adjusting to Graben’s sensibilities. It’s a very different world here.”
Dram took a second to consider Mal’s explanation, even taking a moment to turn slightly towards Umaryn to see if she would add anything to the conversation. When she was silent, he turned and muttered softly, “This much is true.”
No more words were spoken until they reached Dram’s personal residence.
“This manor was established over two hundred years ago by an ancestor of mine, though he has not transitioned to the afterlife as your Church of Souls would have wished. The home was originally meant to be for just him and his family, but it has expanded deeper into the mountain over successive generations. It has become one of the largest homes in all of Graben, and is a source of tremendous pride for me,” Dram said as they stood outside the massive gate of his home.
Umaryn leaned in close to the hulking gate and turned to Dram after inspecting it for a bit, “Why such a large gate Dram? This must be twelve feet tall and made of solid iron bars. It’s much larger than most if not all the gates here.”
Dram nodded in appreciation, “Being an Inquisitor is not the most popular of positions. I am also a fairly senior-level Inquisitor, and thus I have many people above and below me who would be tempted to do things of an unseemly nature to either me, or my possessions. This home is a ripe target, and this fence is an excellent way to announce the dangers to anyone who might be foolish enough to attempt to enter.”
Unlike many of the homes they passed, Dram’s gardens were not nearly as well kept, and the disparity was strange to say the least. Some plants were lush, full of life and beauty, and others rotten, grayed to the root and deeper, and looked as dead as the purple clad zombies wandering the city. It seemed off-putting to have some plants thrive, while others no more than a foot away wither, and rot.
“Dram do you maintain all of these plants? Some of them look a little worse for wear,” Mal said humorously.
“You clearly know nothing. Do you have a small bag you do not care for? Something disposable?” Dram asked, amused at himself.
Mal reached around his waist and produced a small bag for coins. He emptied his pocket change out and tossed the orange velvet bag to Dram. The delicate white fingers of the necromancer snatched it out of the air with spiderlike grace. He inclined his head in thanks, and faced the imposing gate.
“Watch carefully. I think you’ll be impressed by this,” he said in a serious way. Dram flicked his wrist and sent the tiny bag sailing between two of the black iron bars. It reached no more than ten feet into the narrow paved path before the dead plants and trees erupted at it. Rather than the desiccated and dead plants they appeared to be, they were in fact angry, undead plants. Gray vines and crooked branches whipped outward into the path, smashing the small bag to the flagstones. They continued to punish the inanimate object, Umaryn wincing all the while, until the mindless guardians were satisfied that it posed no threat. The bag had been torn to shreds.
“What the hell just happened?” Mal asked. They had never seen anything even remotely similar in New Picknell.
“A necromantic spell. The Way. I’ve enchanted many of these plants to serve me in death as a manner of sentry. Anyone who attempts to approach my home through the gardens will die at their hands. It is impossible to pass through my lovely vegetation without sacrificing too much of your life’s blood to finish the journey,” Dram sounded so incredibly satisfied with himself.
“We’re going to live in there with you? How in the world are we going to make our way through the gardens to get inside without a tree beating us to death?” Umaryn asked.
“So paranoid, little Umaryn with-no-name. I’ve merely to ask them to let you pass for you to do so. Permission my dear. It all boils down to permission, and whether or not I’ve given it,” the gaunt Inquisitor said, lifting a hand to shoulder height. He twisted his fingers in a delicate pattern, tracing invisible sigils into the cold Graben air. Umaryn and Malwynn felt something stir in the air, and inside the energy of the world around them. There was a slight ripple just below the surface of reality, a minor adjustment to the flow of the natural order. With a grating clank, the lock holding Dram’s massive gates turned, and they swung outward gently on their own, shuddering through a layer of rust and vibrating the twins’ ribcages.
“I bid you welcome to Sorber Manor. May your stay here see all of our goals fulfilled,” their host graciously extended one of his alabaster hands and beckoned them to enter the garden, and move onward into the home set into the very stone of Graben.
The interior of the home had only slightly more life and warmth than the cold, half dead gardens surrounding it. It seemed to the twins that all of the color had been leeched away, save for the omnipresent purple of the Queen. Dram's loyalty to his Monarch was physically evident in every direction in the home. Umaryn wondered if the purple drapes, tapestries, and vases were strictly for show. Sorber seemed like the kind of personality that had little room for loyalty to anything but his own desires.
The light in the home came from multiple sources arrayed about. Two large candelabras hung suspended from a lower portion of the high ceiling, and there were sconces every ten feet or so that held aloft more lit tapers. For a room with no natural light, it was well illuminated. A thick purple carpeted stone staircase dominated the center of the main foyer, rising up twenty feet before splitting left and r
ight and disappearing into halls carved into the stone of the mountain. The ceiling reached forty or fifty feet high, culminating in an arch that was impossibly beautiful and ornate. Carvings of all manner of creatures and battle scenes touched every surface, and the presence of the undead was undeniable in more ways than one.
Flanking the staircase, standing as still as statues were two of the iron adorned undead Dram had brought out the night of the red moon. The night he'd confronted them at the butcher's shop. As the twins looked around, they saw intricate and ancient suits of full battle armor mounted on pedestals, but a close look at the eye slits showed inside each set of the priceless armor were the dead eyes of a zombie in wait. Anyone foolish enough to successfully pass through the garden would find themselves surrounded by a platoon of heavily armed and armored undead.
"As you can see, I've taken much of my work home with me," Dram said with another cloak-hidden smile. "I'll be back momentarily. Please be so kind as to wait patiently here in the foyer while I inform my staff that you are indeed welcome here in the Manor."
Umaryn and Malwynn nodded nervously. They felt like a worm on a hook dangled above water filled with hungry fish. Danger stared at them from wherever they looked. When Dram walked under the stairwell and disappeared deeper into his home, Umaryn turned to her brother and spoke.
"I'm not sure I can live here Mal. This place creeps me the fuck out." She looked around at the half dozen massive portraits of Dram's ancestors. They were all tall, with thin, wispy hair, and sunken features. She couldn't decide if the portraits were painted when the person was alive, or dead.
Mal nodded, knowing exactly how she felt, "I know, but we've little choice in the matter. Plus, it is safe here. So long as we work with Dram, we couldn't be any safer."
"What if his magic fails? What if someone kills him while we're here alone, and all these undead are suddenly set free on us? We've no chance of surviving this house let alone the damn garden to escape. I get the sick sense that we could be standing in our tomb right now," Umaryn said exasperated.
The Wrath of the Orphans (The Kinless Trilogy Book 1) Page 16
