by Ross Kitson
***
The jangle of the carriage’s iron shod wheels did little for Lord Talis Ebon-Farr’s headache as he trundled through the wet avenues of the upper city. The interior of the carriage had a grandeur more befitting a king than the noble head of Coonor’s garrison, yet Talis hardly noticed the plush velvets anymore.
He mused that perhaps his hangover should be savoured in some way. Such feasts were far fewer these days. They were the preserve of the young and fashionable in this magnificent city of cities. In the time of the Empire the revelry was nightly and Talis wondered how his ancestors ever had time to get out of bed for the troop inspection let alone conquer most of the known world. He had retired with Lady Heler at around midnight, shortly after the dour High Commander had taken his leave and just as Gulor Hinterton had made the seamless transition from raconteur to boor.
He squinted at the fine buildings as they flitted past. Rain bounced off the stone, creating a haze of spray. They were travelling towards the higher gate and the Avenue of Bilroth that would ascend towards the Citadel of Air. The colonnades and frescoes of the University bordered the wide street and he watched the academics taking shelter under the huge arches, engaging in discussions about politics and law. Talis felt disappointed as they passed without seeing Karak, his eldest son, who was no doubt hidden in a cave of tomes and legal scrolls in the library.
The gilded carriage had reached the higher gate and passed onto the avenue, which climbed towards the Citadel. Statues flanked the first five hundred yards regarding his passage. Rain ran like tears down their impassive faces.
Their names were legend: Alkar the Great, first king of Eeria, unifier of the three primary tribes in the Era of Heroes; Bilroth IX, the king who died in the War of Mages; Tilmoth I, the chancellor made king, who expelled the Air-mages for two hundred years before the first Emperor allowed them to return.
The lower lands of Eeria stretched to the horizon like a patchwork blanket. The oppressive sky loomed over the landscape, the mighty River of Stars but a blue thread that snaked northwest to the Northern Ocean. The grey of the famous Imperial roads slit the green and gold of the fading fields as autumn slid inexorably towards winter. Those ancient roads, the arteries of the First Empire, were its greatest legacy, except perhaps for the Imperial language: the common tongue of traders and diplomats the continents over.
He turned his attention to the scrolls and papers that he had on the seat next to him, fiddling with the key that hung on a chain around his neck. More strife from the council to navigate through, he scowled. He flicked through a ream of yellowed minutes. In the eastern Cloudtip Mountains there was trouble yet again with the Mountain giants and the Netreptans. Shkris, envoy for the birdmen on the council, had petitioned for assistance but local problems were going to have to take priority. Informers from within the miners had warned of some unrest amongst the masses. A cave in had killed a Galvorian, forty miners and a dozen slaves. Annoyingly the slaves—imported from the Sapphire Isles—had been children, used for their ability to slip down the potholes in the mines. By all accounts some agitators were demanding anyone below their twelfth year be excused from pot holing.
Talis shook his head at such radical notions. His attention returned once more to the precipitous road ahead. The Avenue emerged onto a plateau bisected by a wide chasm. It was crossed by a stone bridge, worn smooth by two thousand years of traffic. Two enormous stone griffins flanked its near side and a small guard station was situated by the edge of the road as it crossed the small plateau. Eight knights stood alert in the driving rain, rivulets of water cascading down their plate armour. They saluted as the carriage passed.
Born and raised in the peaks of Coonor, the City Of Mists, Talis was generally de-conditioned to heights. However he could not help but shudder as he glanced over the edge of the Great Bridge and saw the eight hundred foot drop.
Five hundred feet from the far edge of the bridge the Citadel loomed above the rocky base on which it stood. Talis marvelled at its imposing nature. The bulk of the Citadel was carved deep into the rock of the mountain, although an exterior courtyard enclosed by three high walls provided space for stables and a forge.
The carriage passed through a gatehouse, under its two raised portcullises and into the courtyard. Knights trained and skirmished despite the weather and to his right Talis could see the griffon stables.
The main barbican of the Citadel stood before him, six stories high and topped with battlements. It protruded perhaps only seventy feet from the rock face, like the tip of an iceberg. A deep dry moat had been carved into the hard stone of the plateau and ran the length of the barbican, traversed by the drawbridge.
His carriage drew to a halt and he eased himself out onto the courtyard’s stones, ignoring the rain and wind. His footman descended from the high seat and assisted him as he stretched his stiff legs. A wound sustained as a youth still troubled him on such damp days.
A knight, dressed in a black and silver padded longshirt and black yarkel-wool tights, ran from the barbican’s gatehouse flanked by two armoured knights. His cloak billowed in the gusts that whistled through the courtyard.
“Lord Ebon-Farr, I hope the winds find you well. This is an unexpected surprise, sir. Will it be the Lord Commander you wish to be seeing? I am unsure if he has other engagements but I am certain a visitor of your standing…”
Talis smiled politely and shook his head. “No thank you, Sir Helminth. I would not presume to trouble Commander Taros without prior appointment. I was simply visiting to see my niece. Is she available?”
“Lady Orla will be delighted by your impromptu visit, she had just returned from a rather blustery patrol. Am I to assume it is about young Uthor?”
“In the main. Shall we enter? I fear this gale is sent from Torik to remind me why I command only the garrisons of the city and not your more resilient airborne comrades!”
Helminth laughed and pivoted on his heel, escorting Lord Talis across the drawbridge. The dry moat was a good eighty feet deep and sheer walled, its bottom mottled with greyish lichen. He had always thought it an unnecessary precaution, for the exterior walls of the Citadel were surely such that none may ever get this far. Nonetheless, secure castles make secure lords and none were more secure than the great buildings of Coonor.
They emerged into a vast hall, two hundred feet square and three stories tall. Its ceiling was shrouded in darkness as the main light for the hall came from a hundred sputtering torches, sited in sconces at the peripheries. The hall was decorated with tapestries of enormous proportions, their once vibrant colours dulled by time but their heroic scenes no less for the passage of the years. Talis smiled to himself as Sir Helminth paused to allow him to view the grand sight. Imperial pride was personified in the Knights of the Air whose glories had been magnificent in that halcyon era.
The pair shook the water from their cloaks and Talis’s footman remained in the entrance, dripping onto the cold stone floor. Sir Helminth bore a right and strolled with Lord Talis to a spiral staircase that ascended within a tower to each of the six stories of the barbican. A brass handrail was fitted and Talis considered using it but his pride before his niece’s sergeant precluded him doing so. Progress up the stairs was slow. Ever courteous, Helminth stepped idly, stopping periodically to illustrate a point in his dialogue and by way of this allowing Talis a rest.
Lady Orla’s office was on the fourth floor, up amongst the rooms of the other captains and officers. A single knight, a rider of the sixth lance Gold Wing, guarded the landing. He saluted Sir Helminth and the pair continued through the stone corridors deep into the mountainside. They passed several oaken doors, a small hall, another two staircases and a tiny chapel to Torik before they finally reached Orla’s rooms. Talis suppressed a shudder of claustrophobia.
Lady Orla’s office was sombre. There were few frills or niceties to it, unlike some of the chambers of her fellow officers whom had ornate furniture from Toscorian craftsmen or rich carpets
from Mirioth. The room was frugal and contained a large wooden desk, a half-dozen chairs, a cursory cabinet of guest wine and a tall cupboard with meticulously ordered scrolls. The walls were decorated with dozens of maps, mainly of Eeria. Her sole frivolity was a large leather bound tome titled The Philosophy of War by the famous Imperial High Commander Lord Jonty Bedik, which sat neatly on the shelf.
Orla sat behind her desk studying one of the maps. She glanced up at the pair with some irritation until she saw her uncle and then she rose swiftly.
“Uncle Talis, you honour me with your visit. My apologies, if I had known to expect you I would have attended the courtyard myself.”
“Trouble yourself not, my girl. I was well cared for by Sir Helminth here and treated to a briefing on the current state of play with the preparations for the spring tourney.”
Helminth flushed slightly and stood stiff to attention before Orla. She glanced at him and said, “At ease, Sergeant. Thank you for your escort. Did you require anything else?”
“No, Captain. By your leave?”
Orla waved her hand and Helminth inclined his head at Talis then strode from the room. Lady Orla indicated for Talis to sit; she was not one for hugs.
“How does Windstide find you, Uncle? Are the ministrations of the council keeping you as busy as ever and far from my aunt’s shopping trips?”
“Ha! Your aunt direly needs my presence to moderate her expenses now that Erica is almost of an age. But, by Torik’s grace, it is easier to bury myself in the mountain of council work and the moans of the garrison with regards the Festival.”
“I am certain. I had the pleasure of strolling through the upper city to the Enclave to watch Jular undergo the Choosing. I am happy to report his success.”
“Yes, so I hear. Wonderful news, though I am not surprised. The lad is bright.”
“Word had reached the officers that there was a strange murder of two city guards in the slums on that same day. Dark magic, it would seem?”
“I shall be honest, Orla,” Talis said with a shrug. “I have been too busy to give it much thought, what with various agenda items. Nothing down there should surprise me. Cheapside has long been in need of a good purge—it really lets the city down. How any true Coonorian can accept to live in such squalor escapes me. They really should take more pride in themselves.”
Orla met his gaze and he thought transiently how the last few years had changed his niece. Orla was the middle child of three and had been serious even as a child, with a superior air that irritated the other children. Always one to be commanding the others and always derisory of their childish games she had presumably had a lonely time of it, unlike her affable younger brother Jular who had just joined the Air-mages. Her mother, the first Lady Farvous, had died with complications of childbirth and her father had married again when Orla was young. Most unusually, Orla had chosen the rigorous path of knighthood and Talis had long suspected some curious secret amongst his wife’s family had driven the girl along it.
“Indeed, Uncle, I share your dismay. Dare I ask what items command your attention beyond the death of two soldiers?”
“Well, obviously that is a great concern,” Talis said. “But since you ask, there is a great problem arising with the Mountain Giants in the eastern edge of the Cloudtips. The Netreptans are asking for our aid. Unfortunately this has coincided with a request for assistance from the Mâlkar of Uvistân in Mirioth.”
“Against the lizardmen in Ssinthor?”
“I’m afraid so. This is a bit of a tricky position to be in. I mean the birdmen are our neighbours and allies but the Coalition of Mirioth is wealthy with the monies of its enormous trade empire.”
“Surely we owe the allegiance to the Netreptan problem?”
“Of course and we shall assist them in some way. But with the gold seams somewhat sparse at present the boost to the treasury would be desirable also. After all the Miroth were part of our Empire once and we were involved in the Fall of Kevor, and thus the creation of the sunken land.”
“I know my history, Uncle,” Orla said. “Strategically we have more to fear from the giants. No matter. I am sure a mere soldier such as myself is ill placed to comment on such matters. I assume your welcome visit wasn’t purely to debate council matters?”
Talis observed Orla as he replied. She was a tall and handsome girl, nearing thirty years in age and with the characteristic grey hair of the Eerian nobility. She had escaped the distinct Eerian nose however and in its wake had a pale face with piercing grey eyes. She did nothing to highlight her attractiveness, having tied her hair in a severe bun and wearing none of the eye shade or blusher that the noble girls so loved. Her uniform hid her femininity particularly well: a padded black long shirt and wool tights with knee length leather boots, buffed to a gleam.
“My apologies for distracting you in such a manner. Your aunt and I missed you at Uthor’s feast last night.”
“You had my apologies, Uncle Talis. Regrettably I had agreed to command the night patrols and as the weather was turning I thought it best if I did that personally. I am sure you understand.”
“I understand, Orla, that you have never enjoyed such occasions. This was a family affair, however, and your elder brother Hulgor was able to attend. It is after all your cousin that you will be welcoming into the Knighthood under your patronage.”
“Were I to be able to forget this fact with the continual missives from Father about him. You are well aware of my reservations about all of this. The Knighthood is no playground for Uthor’s little tantrums. It is the sole fact that he is family that I am even considering his application.”
“With all due respect, the High Commander is happy with the decision.”
“With all due respect, Uncle, the Commander is not above enjoying being owed a favour in this city of politics,” she said. “Orders are orders, however. I am sure cousin Uthor will learn that fact very swiftly in his year as a squire.”
“His wilder side will be brought into line I am sure, by the reputation of the Silver Wing’s training if nothing else.”
“Can the eagle ever walk as well as it flies? I wonder, Uncle, what training can change Uthor’s drinking and merrymaking?”
Talis felt his indignation rise within him at Orla’s disrespect. A captain she may be in the knights but she was still his kin, albeit by marriage.
“Captain Orla Farvous! That is enough. Uthor is your cousin and you his patron. You of all people should recognise that at times even the best of us act rashly.”
The colour drained from Orla’s face as if Talis had drawn every blood cell in her body out in an instant. Her manner became instantly formal and she replied crisply.
“Forgive my rudeness, Lord Ebon-Farr, I forgot my place. Will Uthor be attending the Citadel in four days’ time as arranged?”
“He will indeed,” Talis said, with a sigh. “I trust you will be available to meet him? The requisite uniform will be arranged prior to the day. Excuse me now, I must return to the Keep. May I trouble you to escort me to the gatehouse?”
Orla nodded and stood, rolling up her map before striding to the door. Talis followed her, pulling his fine yarkel-wool cloak tight and bracing himself for the winds once more. The politics of families were as intricate as the politics of the city, he ruminated, as the pair exited into the dingy corridor.
