by David Estes
He blinked away the memories, refocusing on the city. Beneath the spires were buildings with arched roofs—also white—an abrupt change to the blocky beige sandstone structures of Calypso with which Roan was so familiar. And then, set between the spires, an impossibly large dome of glass, catching the sun along its edge as it curved into a perfect hemisphere.
“The Citadellian Archives,” Roan said, his voice taking on a note of awe.
“Aye,” Goggin said. “Also known as A Whole Bunch of Parchment.”
Roan glanced at the man, guessing he’d never opened a book in his entire life. “You aren’t interested in history?”
“My history, yes. The history of a bunch of dead people? Not so much.”
And this, Roan thought, is the crux of the problem. Those responsible for leading, for commanding armies, for ruling, had no interest in studying the mistakes of their ancestors. The scholars, on the other hand, had their noses stuck so far into their books that they barely noticed the passage of time. The world could be crumbling around them, and they would merely flip to the next page.
I must change that, Roan said. I must be the bridge between the scholars and the leaders. Only then would things change. Again, he was surprised at his own convictions—not his ideals, which were long-held, but his belief that he could change things. Somewhere between leaving Calypso and returning, he’d gone from being a jaded skeptic to a believer. A believer in what, he wasn’t certain. But he was determined to find out.
They entered the city just as the sun began its long descent toward evening. Roan immediately noticed how different the city felt. There was still a sense of hustle and bustle, aye, but it was muted. People scurried hither and thither, many of them clutching crumpled scrolls to their chests or bags bursting with parchment. Most of them were dark-skinned Calypsians, but Roan also spied several gray-skinned, broad-foreheaded Dreadnoughters, as well as a red-skinned Teran. Some stopped to purchase sustenance from vendors, but they placed their orders with whispers rather than shouts. There was no haggling, only a brief handover of the required number of silver dragons, and then they were on their way.
Roan was shocked that this city was part of the Calypsian Empire. He might’ve been in a foreign land, for it held none of the familiarity from his childhood.
“Can’t even find a decent watering hole,” Goggin muttered.
“I’m not thirsty,” Roan said. “Nor hungry.”
“Nor fun,” Goggin said. “Our stay here is going to be dismal indeed.”
Roan frowned, tugging his gaze away from the exquisite white buildings long enough to consider Goggin’s choice of words. Our stay. “You’re, um, staying in Citadel? Don’t you have training or battles to plan?”
“If only!” the man bellowed, drawing stares from several passersby. “I’m stuck with you for the foreseeable future. Truth be told, I’d rather be pitfighting in Zune!”
Roan looked away. This complicated things. He felt a fool for not realizing that the empress would never allow a western prince the luxury of wandering the archives unchaperoned. But Goggin?
“Do you know the way to the archives?” Roan asked. Now that they were in the city, the rounded buildings and tall spires blocked all view of the massive dome they’d seen from a distance.
Goggin gestured blandly at the people scurrying well clear of their vicious steeds. “Follow the book-heads,” he said.
Roan nodded, just noticing that, other than the merchants, everyone was on the move, and all heading in the same direction. No one stopped to eat the food they bought, which all seemed to come attached to long wooden twigs—ideal for snacking on the move. In Calypso, such behavior would be the equivalent of sacrilege—food was meant to be enjoyed over the course of several hours, accompanied by simpre and good conversation.
Also unlike the Calypsian capital city, the roads of Citadel weren’t laid out in even blocks, and they weren’t sprinkled with dust. Instead, they were white stone blocks that somehow stayed clean, long curving roads occasionally intersected by straight narrow pathways that all seemed to angle in the same general direction. When they reached the first such alley, a bottleneck of pedestrians clogged the entrance, funneling from both directions.
“We’ll never get the guanik through there,” Goggin said. “At least not without someone losing a limb or two. Har!”
“We can go on foot,” Roan suggested hopefully.
“And leave our guanik here? The bookish folk of the City of Wisdom are unaccustomed to handling these leathery monsters. There will be carnage.” He paused thoughtfully, as if warming up to the idea because it involved destruction. “Nay. Empress Raven will have my hide.”
Roan blew out in frustration. “Then how do we get to the city center?”
“We wait.”
As they waited, Goggin procured several bottles of simpre—“Enough to pass a day of boredom,” he said, tucking them away in his pouch—and enough food to feed an army. There were fried peppers (on wooden sticks, of course), chunks of braised meat and various grilled vegetables (also on sticks). There were loaves of spicy-sweet bread, a rice dish spiced with mixa and cinnamon, and a variety of nuts roasted with honey. The rice and nuts were the only items not speared by sticks; rather, they came in easy-to-carry paper funnels that could be tipped directly into one’s mouth.
Despite his impatience, Roan enjoyed everything, feeling fuller than he had in a long time. To his surprise, Goggin didn’t even offer him the simpre, knocking back two bottles on his own. Apparently, he’d finally given up on Roan as a drinking companion.
When they finished, the alleyway had nearly emptied out, like a thin river drying up after the sun comes out.
Goggin grunted. “Single file.” He led, entering the road on his massive guanik’s back, its sides a hairsbreadth from scraping against the walls. Roan’s steed had more room to spare; but still, if anyone tried to pass in the other direction, the logistics would be impossible to manage. True to form, however, traffic seemed to flow only one way this time of day, and they cleared the passage quickly, spilling into a large circular courtyard. From other similar alleys around the edge, more pedestrians trickled forth, each aimed directly at the huge structure in the center.
The Citadellian Archives was a circular building constructed of enormous white stones mortared together. A shaded area ringed the structure, the overhang supported by smooth broad pillars. Above the overhanging stonework was the dome, rising like a giant eye, reaching a point higher than all other buildings in the area, save for the white spires piercing the clear, blue sky.
“Nothing for it,” Goggin said, eyeing the archives with the wariness one might exhibit upon seeing an old enemy. His remaining simpre bottles clinked as he steered his guanik toward one of the many entrances. Rather than dismounting at the large, arched entrance, like Roan had expected, Goggin drove his steed inside, nearly trampling a squat, bald man as he skittered out of the way.
Roan, having no other choice—he still didn’t truly know how to steer his guanik—fell in behind him.
Inside, wood-paneled walls blocked further entry. One of them slid closed behind the bald man as he slipped past. Sitting before the panels was another man, this one at a desk cluttered with numerous unrolled scrolls of parchment held down at their corners by smooth white stones.
He stood, looking deeply perturbed by the presence of two very large animals in his atrium. His dark head was ringed by a layer of gray hair.
“No beasts allowed,” he said sternly, pushing a pair of spectacles down his nose to glare at them. He pointed at a sign, which, sure enough, echoed his sentiments. Roan wondered how often ignorant guanero rode their guanik inside the archives.
“I’m here on urgent business from the empress herself,” Goggin said. He yawned, looking bored.
“I do not answer to the empress, but to her aunt.”
“Aye. Windy,” Goggin said. “Go get her.”
“Excuse me?” The man removed his spectacles and waved
them at the guanero commander. “There is protocol for such things. Appointments to be made, rooms to be prepared, preparations to be...”—he seemed to search for a word, coming up with nothing—“…prepared.
“Or you could just get her before Monster gets hungry.” Hearing its name, the guanik licked its lips with its thin snake-like tongue.
The man’s righteous anger shuddered away. “I cannot leave my post. I shall send her a message, though tracking Windy down is sometimes more difficult than lassoing the stars.”
With that, he sat back down, replacing his glasses on his nose, peering at a paper with a complex-looking map with strange markings. He reached for one of the panels, opening it to reveal a mess of cords, each designated by a different letter and number. Searching through them, he found the one he was looking for, giving it a slight tug. Nothing happened, but he offered them a satisfied smirk, closed the panel, and then opened a book.
Goggin and Roan stared at him in silence for a moment. Is something supposed to happen? Roan wondered. A scholarly-looking woman entered behind them, flinched when she saw the guanik, and, thinking better of it, retreated. Casually, Goggin extracted a bottle of simpre from his pack, popping the cork out. The man looked up from his book.
“No food or drink in the archives,” he said.
Goggin ignored him, taking a swig, smacking his lips in satisfaction. He plugged the cap back in the bottle and returned it to his supply.
“I don’t know who you think you are—”
“Tired of waiting,” Goggin said, slinging himself off his mount, landing with a heavy thud. “Did I ever tell you about my first wife?” Roan couldn’t tell whether he was talking to him or the gatekeeper, so he didn’t respond.
The man stood again, blocking Goggin’s path. “You can’t go in there without a pass.”
In one swift motion, Goggin yanked two creased sheets of parchment from his pouch, handing them to the man. From a distance, Roan could just make out sentences formed in stiff lettering and an official-looking hand-drawn symbol—the red sun rising over a dragon.
While the man perused the passes, Goggin slung open one of the wooden panels, which slid to the side to reveal a narrow staircase.
“Protocols!” the man screamed, his face darkening in anger. “You can’t go in there until I have cleared your arrival and entered your names on the official register…”
He trailed off as footsteps announced the arrival of at least two newcomers from the stairway. Goggin stepped back to let them pass. They halted on the landing. A boy and a girl. There was something familiar about them…
“We’re here to escort the commander and his guest to Second Daughter Windy,” the girl said, seemingly unruffled by the beasts staring at her.
Roan’s eyes narrowed as he tried to place her in his memory. She was taller than the boy, whose appearance was similar enough to hers that he had to be her brother, or at least a close relation. Her dark eyes were intense, steely, and her long arms emerging from her white tunic looked strong.
A flesh of memory, there and gone. A game played on a dusty field. A girl, faster than the others, kicking the sack toward the goal. Knocked over by a taller, bigger boy.
Oh gods.
Her broken leg.
I healed her.
But no. This is impossible. Impossible impossible impossible…
His guardian, Markin Swansea, had punished him. Had punished them.
Roan remembered the smell like it was yesterday, bile creeping up the back of his throat. He remembered the bones, set in a pit of ash.
For, standing before him in this most unexpected of places was the dead girl and her dead brother. The ghosts that had haunted him for years.
Seventy
The Southern Empire, approaching Pirate’s Peril
Grey Arris
Kyla aimed her kiss for his lips, but he turned his head, taking it on the cheek.
The ship was at anchor, bobbing slightly on a calm sea, the sails lowered and hanging limp. The sight of land was now visible without the spyglass, a large wall of rock cliffs flanked by a smaller rock isle beside it. As they stood beside each other against the railing, the sun dipped into the horizon, a perfect egg yolk about to be cracked.
A raucous laugh burst from the other end of the deck, likely because of some jape either the captain or Shae had made. The atmosphere was that of a carnival, as if they were about to drink and make merry, and not serve themselves up to a ruthless band of pirates.
“This is madness,” Grey muttered.
Kyla grabbed his chin with a strong hand, turning his face toward her. This time her aim was true, and his defenses crumbled as he fell into it. Gods she tasted so good, of mint tea and rosewater. Grey could drink her in for the rest of his life and still be thirsty.
“You don’t fight fair,” he said, when they finally broke away, leaving him breathless.
“Would you rather I did?” Her lips curled seductively and he felt a stirring in his loins. Sometimes he hated how easy it was for her to manipulate him. Other times he loved it, relished it even.
“I just wish you’d discussed it with me first,” he said. He tried not to look at her lips for fear that any resolve he had left would melt into a puddle.
“I didn’t know until today, I swear it, Grey. The old man came up with the idea all on his own. Even got the sailors on board without my knowing.”
He loved her earnestness, the way her words slipped out like gentle exhalations.
“This smells of Shae,” he said.
Kyla laughed. “She’s a clever one. Probably planted the thought in Da’s head and made him think he came up with it on his own.” More laughs from the men, accompanied by the clinking of bottles. He saw two of the seamen lift Shae onto their shoulders, parading her around as she giggled. Seeing her like this she looked so innocent, child-like. She was a girl caught between reality and dream, the simple pleasures of life and a destiny so mysterious Grey regularly pinched himself to ensure he was awake.
“She’s too clever by half,” he muttered. “I just want to keep her safe. I told you about the promise I made my parents. And this quest is the opposite of safe.”
“Even a mama bird must eventually push her babies out of the nest.”
“I’m not a bird nor a mother,” Grey said.
Ignoring his negativity, Kyla said, “Besides, we have a plan, Grey.”
His eyes darted to hers. “We do?”
“Of course. This time it was my idea.” She kissed him on the cheek, her lips as warm as sunshine on his skin. “We’re not going to be the lamb wandering into the lion’s den.”
“We’re not?”
A laugh, like music. “No, Grey. We’re going to be the lion.”
The disguises were ridiculous. And yet, Grey thought, they might just work.
Faded belt buckles had been polished to a shine, stained britches and shirts had been cleaned and pressed, several eye patches had even been created from bits of old leather boots, tied with twine around the volunteering men’s heads. Smithers’s crew was also so weathered and hard-looking that they could easily pass for pirates, criminals. “Bailed most of ’em outta the stocks, I did,” the captain had admitted to Grey.
The captain himself was an impressive sight, bearing a large patch over his left eye, his floppy cap replaced with a broad, tall captain’s hat, his white shirt spotless, his silver buckles shining on his black belt, and his boots spit-polished. And, of course, he already had the bravado of a captain, the growled orders, the barked commands. “Man the decks, ye witless dogs!” he shouted, stomping about the decks to laughter. “Earn yer keep, ye lazy lubbards!”
Kyla hadn’t been overlooked, though Grey was less comfortable with her attire. Her clothing had been altered, her blouse stretched to sit near the top of each arm, revealing her brown, glowing shoulders. The neckline had been cut, dipping precariously low. Her skirt had been shortened to display long, slender legs. Even her hair was remade, forced to obey
a comb and brush, hanging lazily over her ears and eyes rather than springing out in all directions. Grey wasn’t uncomfortable with her garb because it showed off her beauty—he could look at her all day—but because he feared what a lusty gang of pirates might do when they saw her.
Shae, on the other hand, was dressed differently, much to Grey’s relief. Though she was fast becoming a woman, she donned a shapeless white frock (Kyla’s purity dress for when they docked in major western cities, like Knight’s End, where it was required) and pinned her hair chastely to her scalp. Grey figured she could pass for a maiden eleven name days old if she was a day. That suited him just fine.
“We don’t have any weapons,” Grey said, when all other preparations had been made.
“Course we do,” Smithers growled, still fully immersed in his role as pirate captain. “We’re bloodthirsty pirates.”
As two men were sent below to retrieve whatever weapons he was referring to, Kyla explained. “Part of our trade route rounds the southern tip of Phanes. From there we make our way to the Spear so we can access several of the eastern villages along its banks. The risk of interest from pirates is small, but still possible, so we are prepared.”
Grey soon saw what she meant, as the men returned lugging an enormous chest. They were breathing heavily and their faces were red. Smithers said, “There we are,” and opened it. Inside were a dozen longswords, at least that many smaller blades, and even a long, curving scimitar, which the captain picked up. He was no longer using his stick, which seemed more of a beating rod than an aid to help him walk. He brandished the sword toward Grey, threateningly. “Cross me and I’ll chop ye to bits an’ feed ye to me sharks!”
Grey carefully arced his way around the captain; he was certain the man had never used such a weapon in his life and he was likely to lose his other hand if he got too close. The other men were raiding the chest, choosing their own weapons. Kyla found a small but sharp knife, which she sheathed and tucked away into her low-cut corset, which almost made Grey faint with desire. Shae found a shortsword and lifted the hem of her long dress to strap it to her calf.
