by Ross Kitson
Chapter 1The Air Mage
Harvestide 1920
Nine years later
The first glow of dawn shone off the knight’s armour as he banked towards the Citadel. Far below Emelia peered up at him through the slit-like window of her dormitory. To her, it was as if the knight and his griffon were cast from molten gold.
She saw them sweep down out of the sky and come to perch atop the Citadel of Air, on Coonor’s highest plateau. Emelia stared longingly at the tiny glinting figure and then stepped down from the window and back into the shadows of chamber that she shared with the other servants.
The other girls, seven in number, were still sleeping. The morning light was not yet intense enough to break their slumber. Emelia had been awake an hour already, watching the evolution of dark to light in the tiny chamber. Mother Gresham always teased that she should have been born with her eyes on stalks because of the amount of time she spent peering through the windows of the Keep.
Yet, what a view it commanded. The world seemed to roll effortlessly away from the eye. The Keep perched on the edge of Coonor, City of the Mists, and had been the residence to the House of Ebon-Farr for a millennium. Emelia fancied that the mountains fell away from the precipitous city like the billowing skirts of some Eerian lady, rippling as they became hills and settling finally on the smooth farmlands that edged to the horizon. Somewhere beyond was the sea, and across the sea the island of her birth.
Her bare feet curled away from the cold flags of the dormitory as she crossed the room towards the bowl in the corner. She allowed herself a moment of fantasy as she imagined the sensation of diving, of slipping unclothed into the warm sea of her early childhood, the taste of brine nipping her throat. How would it feel to twist and spin without ground beneath her, to swim in water like the knights flew on their griffons through the air?
The cold water sliced through the daydream as she washed away the night sweat. Emelia’s nights were tempestuous and laden with vivid dreams. Whilst her fellow maids shivered under the rough yarkel-wool blankets, she would sweat the night through, abruptly wakening into the dense blackness.
Only fragments of her dream now remained, like the smell of a pipe after the smoke has cleared. Emelia was certain that she had been some kind of animal, perhaps a lamb or sheep. She recalled wandering through the higher corridors, squinting at faded tapestries and dusty shields. The focus of her mind’s eye had swirled like draining water in a bath. Then she had been on top of the Keep. Fear had risen within her as she looked to either side. The world dropped away from the ancient edges of the roof. On one side she could plummet without ever hitting the bottom. On the other she could see the cobbled streets that ran from the gatehouse; the invitation of a quicker death.
She dried her face with a threadbare towel and slipped quickly from her night shirt, goose flesh appearing in an instant. She tugged on a brown yarkel-wool tunic and skirt. Emelia felt the reassuring presence of her shell pendant, the only remnant of a distant childhood.
The next detail of the dream was vague. There had been a wolf or a wild dog on the roof with her. Had she seen him or heard him? Or had she felt him? Had she sensed his fur pressing close to her woolly side and his hot breath on her neck?
Her feet had skittered underneath her and then she had that curious appreciation of weightlessness and the cobbles rushed towards her. She always woke up as she fell. A shudder slid up her body.
Several moans arose in the cramped dormitory as the other girls began to stir. Emelia began tidying her curly blonde hair. She dipped a wooden comb into a pot of grease and ash and scraped it through her tresses, wincing in discomfort. Fingers still numb from the frigid air of the dormitory, she secured it in a bun before washing her grey hands. The Ebon-Farrs preferred a traditional appearance for their house staff. She returned to her bed to straighten her sheets. Her cot was situated between those of Sandila and Abila—friends as close as sisters.
Emelia smiled as Abila tumbled from bed and scurried to the bowl. Abila was small and chubby, her body carrying puppy fat that was yet to dwindle with maturity. Like Emelia she was a Scattered Islander. They shared the same blonde hair and pale skin of the Islanders yet in height and build they were poles apart.
Sandila rolled in bed and yanked the covers over her head. She was the night to Abila’s day. Sandila, an Azaguntan, enjoyed big hips and big bosoms and had a brashness that made Emelia blush almost perpetually. Her impudent smile and flashing eyes acted like a sprite’s song to the men of the garrison stationed above them. A small part of Emelia’s mind emulated Sandila, a little voice that spoke inside her head when embarrassment threatened to paralyse her. Emelia had named her Emebaka: it meant the ‘light of dreams’ in the Island dialect.
“How are you always first to the bowl, Emelia?” Abila asked, shivering as she slipped on her skirt.
“You get the best views of the patrol at this time. Well you do if you’re a foot taller than I am.”
Sandila’s muffled voice was griping. “More like little Miss Star Eyes wants to get the warmest milk from big Momma Gresham’s teat.”
The room erupted in laughter at this and Emelia kicked playfully at Sandila’s covered form. The copper haired girl sat up chuckling. The colour drained from her face as she came upright. Emelia instinctively stepped back as Sandila coughed and then vomited over the pale stone floor.
The acrid stench assailed the slave girls’ nostrils and they all began whining and yelling. Emelia side-stepped past the pool of vomit then moved towards Sandila. An unexpected hush came upon the room as Sandila lay back down, wiping her mouth.
Annre and Abila had clambered out of their beds, bleary-eyed, their hair emulating haystacks. The two exchanged looks and then sprinted for the bowl. The room erupted into frenzied activity as they all realised that the last one in the dormitory with Sandila would be the one Mother Gresham would make clear it up.
