The Fifth City

by Liz Delton

  The Fifth City

  Liz Delton

  THE FIFTH CITY

  by Liz Delton

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 Liz Delton

  All rights reserved.

  Edited by Caroline Smith

  Cover art and maps by Liz Delton

  Seals for the Four Cities by Christopher Creed

  Thanks

  Just as Sylvia’s family and friends help keep her safe and sane, I, too rely on mine. Enormous thanks to Jo Anderson and Sam Gati-Tisi for seeing what I could not. Thank you to Christopher for uniting the Four Cities by creating their iconic seals. And thank you to my husband Jeff—this series might still be sitting in a figurative drawer somewhere, without your help.

  Success is not final,

  failure is not fatal:

  it is the courage to

  continue that counts.

  - Unknown

  Prologue

  Sylvia reached up to grab another handhold on the cliff face, but just as she did, the rock under her foot crumbled, and she slipped—left dangling only by the fingertips of one hand.

  She fumbled to find another place to grab, and seized the ledge in front of her face, gasping as pain shot up through her fingers and she willed them to hold.

  Her fingers strained with all her weight, white as death upon the stone. Waves crashed in the moonlight beneath her as she swung her right leg back up, and wedged her foot back into another crevice.

  She could hear the others below, their shouts echoing over the wind, but they didn’t matter, not right now.

  Shifting her weight to her leg, she raised her body, and searched for the next handhold. But there weren’t any.

  The cliff was a flat wall above and beside her. It was a dead end.

  She closed her eyes and tried to focus, but she couldn’t. She sunk back down, sliding her hand into the crevice with her foot, lowering herself back the way she had come.

  There had to be another way to the top.

  The night-dark cliff towered over her. She needed to make it to the top fast, before her muscles began to fatigue; before the waves crashing into the rocks below would be the last thing she saw as she fell.

  One

  As she gazed down into the solid darkness, Sylvia could feel the cold earth pressing in around her already. She stood at the edge of a set of ancient stone stairs, the first person to set foot on them in a thousand years, for all she knew.

  Having already said goodbye to her family hours ago, she was now waiting on Ven, who had said he needed to give her something before she left.

  Sylvia took a deep breath of stale air to retain her composure. The journey ahead of her had ruled her thoughts for weeks now. She shivered from something more than the chill.

  Governor Gero was crammed in here with her, in the cramped chamber that held the dark stairwell. They were in the Citizen’s Hall, behind a ridiculously narrow door, tucked several levels down in a forgotten basement corner. It was a place no one would ever find, unless they knew exactly where it was. Gero hadn’t told her anything more about the hidden stairwell. He had only said that he knew of a way she could leave the city undetected.

  She thought it lucky that the Governor had lost a bit of weight over the winter; otherwise he might not have even fit into the secret chamber, missing out on the historical event. The strain of the war had made lines around the Governor’s eyes, and the grey at his temples had spread like a weed through his dark hair.

  Sylvia shrugged her padded jacket around her shoulders and tugged her knit cowl higher up her neck. Her breath was nearly visible in the cold underground chamber.

  Midwinter’s icy grip had only recently lifted. At the first sign of the snows receding, Sylvia had gone to see Gero, ready to take on the mission they had agreed upon during the months spent entrenched inside the snow-laden city. The Scouts prowling the wilds outside the city wouldn’t be able to track her as easily now that footprints in the snow wouldn’t give her away.

  Fast footsteps approached from behind the narrow door, and Gero and Sylvia turned to see Ven edge his way through the doorway with a small package in hand. He grinned at Sylvia, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

  Now with three of them in the chamber, Sylvia took a step down onto the first stair to make some room, and she felt the cold darkness press at her from below.

  Ven looked past her down the dark stairs, and muttered, not for the first time, “Wish I could go with you.”

  Sylvia’s insides squirmed, but she shook her head. Ven knew he couldn’t go with her. He was busy at all hours of the day helping to train Meadowcity’s new guard—the Defenders—in weapons handling and practice. She was sure he was even missing practice right now.

  When she finally met his eyes, she could see him looking at her hair again, with a small smile on his lips.

  The newly-dark locks framed her vision, their length now reaching her shoulders. Since it was paramount that Sylvia not be recognized where she was going, she had done what she could to change her appearance. While hemmed in through the winter, she had let her short, sandy hair grow out and this morning had darkened it to a deep shade of brown with a concoction her mother had made. It would last perhaps a month.

  Hopefully it would be enough time to complete her mission.

  Getting recognized had ruined their escape from Riftcity, jeopardizing her, Ven, Flint and Ember on their last journey. Her burned leg—now healed—twinged at the memory of the fiery explosion that had separated the group, when Ven and Flint had been taken by the Scouts.

  Flint’s aunt Rekha had managed to convince a Scout to release them, ultimately saving Meadowcity from the fate that still gripped Riftcity.

  The city on the rift was still under the firm hand of Governor Greyling: still mining and processing their stone into the compounds that made Skycity’s bombs, which were powerful enough to rip apart any of the Four Cities in seconds.

  The only reason Meadowcity remained independent—and intact—was their collection of pilfered firebombs that Ven and Flint had made off with when they escaped the Scouts. Their possession of the small but powerful orbs was enough to keep the Scouts at a distance—for a time at least.

  They hadn’t gone a week without spotting at least one of Skycity’s men outside their treewall, clad in fur and accompanied by their menacing beasts of the forest, now tame, and perhaps even more vicious.

  Who knew how many years Skycity had been training their wolves and mountain lions, and sending them prowling around the wilds, perhaps keeping the other city’s Riders in check? Maybe all of the wolves and mountain lions that roamed the wilds now belonged to Skycity. Maybe the rogue city was responsible for all of the Riders’ lives that the wilds had claimed over the recent years.

  Sylvia’s wolf Luna had grown to a gangly adolescent over the winter, far from the tiny white fur-ball that she and Ember had brought into Meadowcity in a backpack. But Luna couldn’t come with Sylvia on this journey, and Ember had promised to look after her.

  Despite her unease at leaving her family and friends behind in such dangerous times, her very blood ached for the promise of the open trail, after spending months pinned down in the city.

  But she knew life on the trail would never be the same, now that they were at war. She didn’t know what to expect of the wilds anymore.

  A gust of cold wind howled through the tunnel below her, snapping her back to the present.

  Governor Gero reached out and pulled Sylvia into an unexpected hug. It was time to go.

&
nbsp; Not meeting Ven’s eyes, she spoke to Gero, “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  The older man nodded, and ran a hand through his greying hair.

  “That’s what I like to hear,” he said with a small smile.

  He grasped her hand firmly in farewell, then edged past Ven to make for the exit.

  “Good luck,” the Governor said steadily, giving her one last nod; his thoughts already turning inward, Sylvia supposed, to what their fates held next.

  Now alone with Ven, Sylvia’s eyes trailed off toward the thick darkness into which she would descend in only a few moments.

  The air in the chamber was thick with words unsaid, and she wondered—with her stomach in a knot—if those words would finally surface.

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she repeated, still not looking at him. Why had he come? He was only making it harder.

  She finally looked up at him, and immediately recognized the pain in his eyes. Did he feel as bad as she? He stood rigidly, grasping the small parcel he had fetched, not moving any closer.

  She drew a shaky breath, but said nothing. Why was this so hard?

  “I know you can do this,” he said.

  He hadn’t told her not to go.

  She took the package from his outstretched hand and tucked it in her pack. She would look at it later when she was alone. Not now, when it was already hard enough to say goodbye.

  If only she could rush forward and pull him into an embrace that she knew would be warm, and solid, and comforting—but she couldn’t.

  She couldn’t do it.

  She was leaving, and she couldn’t make Ven suffer any more over her. She didn’t even know how he felt.

  Meadowcity needed her to go, to find some way to turn the war around. She was leaving them all behind, her mother and father, her little sister Sonia, Flint, Ember, and Ven.

  But she had told herself over and over that they would be safe. Skycity hadn’t dared touch them in fear of their own ghastly weapons. She needed to go. It was the first step in finding an end to the war.

  And she couldn’t leave Ven with promises of anything more. She had a job to do.

  With one last look into Ven’s eyes, her own becoming blurry, she lifted her orb lamp to peer down into the darkness.

  “Goodbye, Ven,” she whispered, every nerve in her body warring with the urge to reach out and touch him. He remained still, and she didn’t know what hurt more—the fact that she wanted him to reach out, or the fact that he didn’t.

  She turned toward the stairs before she did anything she might regret. She could figure it all out when she returned to Meadowcity, after they had figured everything out—when the war was over.

  “’Bye Sylvia,” Ven whispered.

  She shut her eyes briefly, and didn’t look back.

  The ancient stone pressed in around her as she descended, on her way to Lightcity.

  Two

  The door of the glassworks shop slammed shut as Neve stormed out into the empty street. The stone walk sent nothing but cold up through her soft leather house shoes that she hadn’t bothered to change.

  Uncle Harry was mad at her again, and he had a right to be; but she couldn’t stand another minute of him glaring at her across the villa—the evidence of her incompetence stacked by the door as a clear reminder. Three broken jars of cobalt coloring were thrown on top of the refuse bin in the corner, the ruined blue powder sifting out through the cracked glass.

  With a steadying breath of cool night air, she headed down the empty streets of Lightcity to find a place to cool her head. The anger that boiled through her veins was already subsiding, and she tugged her fur-lined cloak tighter around her arms.

  She was tired. Since Skycity had warned them of the threat to the Four Cities, Governor Estella had put the city on lock down. On top of that was the manufacturing contract Estella had signed to aid in the defense of the Four Cities.

  Day in and day out, the glassworkers produced the orbs for Skycity’s army. Neve’s hands ached from turning and turning the metal rods that she used to blow glass. She sighed long and loud. Earlier in the evening, she had turned too fast while transferring a rod from the cooling bin to the rack, and knocked the jars of cobalt clean off the shelf. Her uncle had shouted at her the entire time she cleaned up, his face bright red from the effort.

  The shops she passed were all closed, but their windows were lit by cheerfully glowing lamps. After a few turns she saw the warm lights of the Broken Bellows, a small pub tucked into a dead-end alley.

  As she approached, a tall Scout came out of the pub, clutching his friend and shuffling down the alley. They ignored her, and she them. But perhaps Falcon is here, she thought, and a small dart of anticipation jabbed her nerves.

  She had already forgotten about the cobalt by the time she passed through the heavy stone threshold and descended the few steps into the warm pub. Delicious scents from the kitchen wafted her way as she scanned the half-empty room, looking for Falcon.

  A group of Scouts lounged around several tables that had been crammed together. Each surface was littered with food and glasses of ale, cups and plates ranging between full and empty. With no sign of Falcon’s shining copper hair, she edged through the chairs and tables to an empty seat in the corner.

  She sat and leaned back into the shadows, trying not to draw attention to herself as she looked over the faces of everyone in the pub. The Scouts had claimed the center of the moderately-sized room, but Lightcitizens made up the rest of the pub’s patrons tonight.

  Scouts often frequented the Broken Bellows, but they were uncommonly wild tonight. She pushed them out of her mind as Gemma came striding to her table, and the woman’s tired face cracked into a smile once she recognized Neve in the shadows.

  “Evening, m’dear; what’ll it be?” Gemma smoothed her worn but clean apron and stuck her hands in its pockets. The barkeep’s mousy brown hair struggled to escape the bun at the back of her head.

  Neve glanced at the Scouts and said, “Some honey-wine would be nice.”

  Gemma nodded before weaving through the forest of tables and chairs, and disappeared behind the bar.

  It was getting on the late side of the night, and Neve supposed there was a slim chance she would encounter Falcon, since he wasn’t here already. She let out a long sigh as she remembered why she had stormed out of her villa in the first place.

  She knew her uncle was frustrated with her, but there wasn’t anything she could do about her clumsiness. She was constantly breaking things at the shop; though she did her best to hide it and replace or fix things before her uncle noticed.

  But the incident last year… She cringed and gritted her teeth.

  She had been working in the shop alone at the time, experimenting with color pigments to try and impress her uncle. She was the worst glassworking apprentice he had ever seen—or so he told her—so she was trying to come up with something that would make him change his mind.

  There were several jars of minerals and compounds out on the workbench. She was readying to add the composite she had mixed to produce a swirling black effect. But her heel had caught on the stone floor, and she tripped—of course—and the mixture flew out of her hand toward the bench, where she had left a few jars open.

  The workbench promptly exploded.

  Out flew flames that stretched until they reached any surface they could burn. Thrown to the floor, she narrowly missed the anvil, a hands-breadth from her head. The yellow and white flames reached out for her, their hot fingers clawing at her heels as she scrabbled away to the hall, already choking on the smoke.

  The entire room was on fire. Even the stone walls. She stood transfixed for a split-second, mouth wide, then lunged for the water hose as she heard her uncle’s footsteps boom down the hallway. Turning the knob, she released a massive stream of water over the room, soaking every surface until the fires had gone, but the damage had been done. And it had been monumental.

  Utter humiliation. Her uncle did
n’t speak to her for days, except for a terse order to clean out the small workspace in the back of the shop, which she did without complaint, in just as equal silence.

  She would never be a good enough glassworker, she thought over and over again. It just didn’t run in her blood.

  Her father had been a Rider, but he had disappeared one day in the winter on a courier trip when she was little. Only a few months later, her mother had left her too—taken fatally ill. Her father’s brother was the only other family she had, and he had taken her in when she was only five.

  Harry did love her, just as he might his own daughter—if he had ever married—but he had a short temper, and Neve just wasn’t cut out for her uncle’s trade. But she didn’t have the heart to suggest she try another profession and break family tradition.

  She wasn’t cut out to do much of anything, it seemed—until the day a few weeks after she had blown up the shop.

  Her uncle had been in the workshop, which stood next to the villa, though unattached for well-reasoned safety concerns. A loud knock came at the villa door. Neve sauntered over to answer it, assuming someone just chose the wrong building, and was looking for her uncle.

  A man from Skycity stood towering over the doorway. A scraggly beard hid most of his face, and one of his stubby fingers was missing from the hand that rested on a knife at his hip. He wore a leather vest lined with fur, the type Skycitizens seemed to favor, and Neve noticed several holes in his boots that were in desperate need of patching.

  She had to tilt her head up to meet his eyes, and she forced a polite smile to her face.

  “Are you looking for Stoughton glass? My uncle’s shop is next door,” she leaned out of the doorway and pointed to the right.

  The man cleared his throat and growled, “Thanks,” and walked away, taking only four great steps to reach the glass shop.