by John Marco
"Is it always like this, Rian?" he asked.
"Like what, my lord?"
Alazrian shrugged. "I don't know. So . . . smelly?"
The servant laughed. "You'll get used to it, my lord. I can close the balcony doors if you like. If you'll just step off for a moment . . ."
"Oh, no," said Alazrian. "No, I want to stay out here. I want to see everything."
It was like he was afloat on the wind, and Alazrian suppressed a giddy laugh. It had been a terrible voyage from Talistan with Leth, aboard a merchant ship his father had chartered for the trip. Alazrian had vomited almost daily. But now, in the face of this spellbinding city, it all seemed worth it.
"Rian," he asked. "Where was the cathedral? Can you show me?"
Rian hesitated. "Master Leth, the cathedral is gone."
"Yes, I know. I know that your lord Biagio destroyed the cathedral. I just want to know where it stood. My mother loved the cathedral, you see. She's dead now, and, well . . . Tell me where it was, won't you?"
Rian stepped onto the balcony, looked around for a moment, then pointed a finger toward a wide avenue off in the distance.
"There, near High Street," he said. "The cathedral was by the riverbank."
Alazrian nodded, squinting to see. He studied the winding river, but he was far away from the site and could see very little, only an empty space where something colossal should have been.
"Was it very beautiful?" he asked.
"Young master, it's not proper for me to discuss these things with you, or to discuss the cathedral. The minister doesn't care for talk about those days."
The days when Herrith ruled Nar, thought Alazrian. Before Biagio stole it from him.
"There's so much I'd like to know about this place. I have many questions. Perhaps you can help me."
"I'm here to serve you, my lord. But questions really aren't my purview." The slave smiled, then quickly changed subjects. "You must be tired, yes?"
Now that he thought about it, Alazrian realized he was exhausted. It had been a month since he'd left Aramoor, and the sea journey had soured his stomach and turned his brain to porridge.
"Yes, very tired," he admitted.
"I've moved your things into the bedchamber," said Rian. He pointed toward a white-painted door on the other side of the room. It had a half-moon curve to its top and alabaster carvings along its length. It was beautiful, like everything in Alazrian's chamber. "You can get some rest now if you like. Or I can bring you some food, perhaps?"
"No, nothing yet," replied Alazrian. "I'll sleep a bit. But first . . ." He leaned out over the railing. "Let me look at the city."
"As you say, my lord," said Rian, then left the balcony, retreating from the apartment and closing the door behind him. A blast from a far-off smokestack sent up a shuddering flame. The sky glowed a ghostly bronze, and Alazrian watched it in awe as though it were a shooting star to wish upon.
"God in heaven," he whispered. "What is this place?"
The Tower of Truth might be a cage for him, but it was gilded with gold and barred with silver, and Alazrian didn't feel like a prisoner at all. He felt like a prince. More, he loved that he had a room of his own again. He loved being away from his father and feeling like a man. For a moment he forgot his fears of Dakel and the Protectorate. Tomorrow he might face the Inquisitor with his father, but today he was free.
Tonight, if he could escape his father, he would investigate the city. He didn't know how long he would be in Nar or when he would have another opportunity to look around, and he had, after all, come here with a mission. He craned his neck over the railing, looking for something, anything, that might be a library or a house of scholars. The Black City had schools, surely. His mother had said so. As his mother had advised, he had even brought money with him.
"Oh, Mother," sighed Alazrian. He closed his eyes and summoned a picture of her. She had been beautiful. He supposed it was why Elrad Leth had agreed to marry her--that and her proximity to the king. Now she was gone. Alazrian flexed his hand, remembering his last, astonishing moments with her, and hating himself for letting her die.
But she had wanted that. She had wanted to die and leave behind her brutal life. It had been a month now and the pain of her death was as ripe as ever, ripe as the bruises Leth gifted them both with. Alazrian rubbed his cheek. How many times had Leth struck him on the voyage here? A dozen? More? Alazrian had lost count. Hatred swam in him. Tomorrow Elrad Leth would face Dakel, and Alazrian would see his father squirm at last.
He was just about to retire to the bedchamber when a knock came at the door. Alazrian paused, sure that it was Leth.
"Come in," he called.
But Elrad Leth didn't appear. Instead, there was a tall man with shining black hair like the mane of a stallion and long dark robes hanging loosely about his body. Even from across the room Alazrian could see the dazzling brilliance of his eyes. The man peeked over the threshold and smiled when he sighted Alazrian.
"Young Alazrian?" he said musically.
"Yes?"
"Greetings, young master." The man stepped inside and closed the door, and the rings on his fingers sparkled when he stretched out his hands. "I'm pleased to meet you. Welcome to my home."
Not the emperor, Alazrian realized suddenly. Dakel.
"Minister Dakel," he stammered, bowing. "This is an honor. I didn't expect you."
"Forgive the intrusion, please," said Dakel, gliding closer. "Most likely my sudden appearance is surprising to you. But I didn't come to alarm you." He gave the boy a disarming grin.
"I'm not alarmed," said Alazrian. "As I said, it's an honor."
"You're very kind, young Leth," said Dakel. "And I did so want to meet you before the tribunal tomorrow. The theater isn't the best place to meet my guests, you understand."
Dakel laughed as if he'd made a joke. Alazrian joined in, chuckling nervously.
"You've met my father, then?" Alazrian asked.
The Inquisitor's face immediately darkened. "Your father? No. That would be improper, I think. And I doubt your father cares to meet me. To be honest, I thought you would be more agreeable to a visit than him. But I hope you will extend my good graces to your father when you see him later. He is my guest. I want you both to feel welcome."
"Oh, we will," said Alazrian. "Lord Minister, this apartment is beautiful. Really, I hadn't expected this kind of treatment. To be honest, it relieves me."
"Does it?" Dakel seemed wounded. "I'm sorry to hear that. My Protectorate has a very bad reputation. All that we seek is the truth, for the good of the Empire. You have nothing to fear." Then he nodded, adding, "But you fear for your father, of course."
Not really, thought Alazrian. But he said, "Of course."
"It's an investigation, young Leth, nothing more. Oh, but I talk too much, and you're tired." Dakel reached out and touched Alazrian's shoulder. Alazrian could feel the chill even through his cloak. The Inquisitor stared at him curiously.
"Minister?" probed Alazrian. "Is something wrong?"
"Forgive me," said Dakel. "I was lost in thought for a moment. You don't look very much like your father, do you? I saw him from the tower when you arrived. He's much darker than you, isn't he?"
Alazrian ran his hand through his platinum hair. "I'm more like my mother, actually."
"Oh? I had heard the Lady Calida had hair like a raven."
"Well, yes." Alazrian cleared his throat. "I suppose."
"You're not big like your father, either. He's like a tree, that one. But you--" He shrugged. "You must be still growing."
All the old anxieties came flooding back. What was Dakel doing? Alazrian hurried to change the subject.
"Thank you so much for coming to see me, Lord Minister. Perhaps you can tell me of some interesting things to see while I'm in the city. I had hoped to do some exploring. Maybe this evening."
"Certainly," said Dakel. "I can have a carriage take you anywhere you wish. You can tour the city."
"I'm fond o
f books. Are there any libraries here? It's such a grand city. I imagine you must have scholar halls."
This made the Inquisitor's eyes narrow. "Of course we have books. What type of books are you looking for?"
Alazrian played the little boy. "Oh, anything! We don't have many books back home, and I do so love to read. History books on the Black City would be wonderful. Or fictions. Yes, I like those very much. Maybe your driver can take me?"
"Whatever you wish, young Leth." Dakel still had suspicion in his eyes, but Alazrian pretended not to notice. "Call for Rian whenever you want to go. He will arrange the carriage for you. But I do advise you to get some rest. The tribunal starts early."
"I understand, Lord Minister. Thank you again for coming to greet me, and for the marvelous rooms."
"You are welcome," said Dakel. "The emperor and I want your stay to be comfortable."
"The emperor?" asked Alazrian. "Will I be meeting him as well?"
Dakel shrugged. "Perhaps, young Leth," he said vaguely. "Perhaps."
And then he was gone as quickly as he'd come, disappearing like a wraith through the door, his long robes trailing behind him. Alazrian stood and stared at the door, puzzled by what had transpired. Despite Dakel's claim of innocence, he didn't trust the Inquisitor at all. And that mention of the emperor had unnerved Alazrian, reminding him that it was Biagio who had summoned him here to Nar City.
"But why?" Alazrian wondered aloud.
There was no reply from the opulent room.
That night, after a painfully awkward dinner with his father, Alazrian escaped into the city. The sun had gone down behind the surrounding hills and Nar's black wings enveloped him, swallowing him in its crowded streets. As Dakel had promised, there had been a carriage and driver for him, a luxurious vehicle fit for royalty with two twin geldings and gold-gilded rails shaped like sea serpents. Alazrian sat on the edge of the ruby cushions as he stared out the window, his nose pressed to the glass. He was on an avenue thick with people and horses and shadowed by tall towers with gargoyles and buttresses, a thousand candles blinking in their windows. The unmistakable, metallic stink of the city soured his tongue and made him clear his throat while overhead played an orchestra of fire, the dazzling blue-orange flares of the smokestacks. Beggars and prostitutes mingled on the streets shouldering up to Naren lords walking manicured dogs, and children cried and ran through the avenues, some as filthy as rats, others as pampered as their regal parents. Alazrian watched it all with dumb amazement. Suddenly, Aramoor and Talistan seemed very far away.
Lady Calida had been right; surely there was no place on earth like the Black City. The Naren capital seemed taller than a mountain and wider than an ocean, and it had a dream-like quality that was almost more nightmare than lullaby.
He was on his way to the Library of the Black Renaissance. According to Rian, it housed the largest collection of manuscripts in the city and had been commissioned by the late Emperor Arkus. Apparently, Arkus had a penchant for knowledge, and had named the library for his revolution. It was an odd name, but Alazrian liked it because it suited this mechanized city. If it was as grand as Rian claimed, then certainly it would have books about Lucel-Lor.
And maybe magic.
Alazrian lifted his hands and inspected them, turning them in the grey light. There was something inexplicable in his touch. This city, which had a magic of its own, might just have answers for him.
The carriage stopped at a cross-street, letting a parade of people and horses pass. Alazrian glanced out the window and saw a woman approaching him, gesturing suggestively. She flashed him a smile. Alazrian looked her up and down, knowing in an instant that she was a prostitute.
"My God." He stared at her through the glass. She approached the carriage, ignoring the driver who threatened her with his crop, and tapped at the window. When she winked, Alazrian's breath caught.
"Oh, you're beautiful," he said, not sure if she could hear him. She was young and tight-skinned, not like the other harlots he had seen, and her eyes were bright and inviting. She seemed to sense his interest and tossed back her hair. Alazrian laughed, remembering the coins he had brought along. He doubted that this was what his mother had in mind.
"I'm sorry," he said loudly, shaking his head. "I can't."
She heard him plain enough, gave a suggestive shrug, then turned and strode away. Alazrian stared at her as she departed, admiring her walk. And then a darker thought came to him. He looked down at his hands again and flexed his fingers. Could he be with a woman? he wondered. He was at an age now when such things mattered to him. The changes that had wrought manhood in him had also delivered his strange gift, and the correlation vexed him. Could he harm as well as heal?
The carriage moved off, bearing him far from the pretty prostitute. He wanted to believe that his mother had been right about things, that his powers had a purpose beyond making him different.
It wasn't much longer before an ivory building greeted him, a broad structure with white columns and sculptured depictions of scholars across its roof. Alazrian read the chiseled greeting over its wide threshold, each letter as tall as a man. The words were in High Naren, but Alazrian had learned the language as part of his upbringing.
"To learn is to walk with God," he read aloud. The notion made him smile. He wasn't a god, just a boy looking for answers.
The carriage came to a stop outside a flight of alabaster steps. Alazrian wasted no time. He tossed open the carriage doors and dropped down onto the street, staring up at the monstrous building.
"This is it, Master Leth," said the driver, another of Dakel's countless slaves. "The Library of the Black Renaissance."
"Amazing," said Alazrian. "Can I go inside? It's very late."
"Late? Oh, no, sir. The library never shuts its doors, and there are always scholars available to help. Just go inside and someone will find you."
"Will you wait for me? I don't know how long I'll be."
"I'll have to move the carriage," said the driver. "But I'll check back for you here on the hour." He pointed toward a tower in the distance. On its face was a huge illuminated clock. "Look to the Tower of Time when you need me. You'll hear when it strikes the hour."
"I'll listen for it," said Alazrian. "Thanks."
The driver snapped the reins and the carriage pulled off, leaving Alazrian on the stairs. He steeled himself with a breath, then began climbing the flawless steps. The library's doors were opened wide, and when he reached the top of the stairs, Alazrian peered inside to see a vast arena of wooden shelves, bookcases, and desks, all polished to a pristine luster and stretching out endlessly in corridors and alcoves. There was a bright glow from oil lamps and reading sconces, and the warm smell of oak and leather wafted over the threshold. Little men with hunched backs and beady eyes poured over texts, silently studying, and workers pushed carts of manuscripts through the halls, carefully categorizing them on the countless shelves. Alazrian stepped into the library, suddenly conscious of his own breathing. It was as if sound couldn't penetrate the thick walls; even the drone of the city's incinerators fell away behind him. His shoes scuffed soundlessly along the carpeted floor, and his head swivelled to survey his surroundings. The Library of the Black Renaissance was astonishing, just like the Tower of Truth and the Black Palace and the harlots in the streets.
"Young man?" came a voice. "May I help you?"
Turning, Alazrian discovered a woman behind him, studying him curiously. She wore a simple green gown belted with a scarlet sash, just like the workers pushing around the carts. She looked serene and peaceful and Alazrian liked her instantly.
"Hello," he offered, unsure what to say. "Uhm, my name is Alazrian Leth. I'm from Talistan. Well, Aramoor now."
"Yes?"
"I'm visiting the city," Alazrian explained. "I'm a guest of Minister Dakel."
The word "guest" made the woman frown. No one was really a guest of the minister's, despite his hospitality.
"I'm one of the librarians here," she
said. "What can I help you with, Alazrian Leth? Are you looking for something?"
"I don't really know what I'm looking for," Alazrian said. "I was wondering about Lucel-Lor, and thought you might have some manuscripts I could look at. Aramoor is very near Lucel-Lor, and I don't know much about it."
Again the librarian frowned. "No one really knows much about Lucel-Lor, I'm afraid. There aren't very many texts on it. Just some from the war."
"Yes, the war," chimed Alazrian. He knew the war texts might make mention of the magician Tharn, and that would be a start. "Where are these books, please?"
The woman had Alazrian follow her through a narrow corridor, past a collection of reading desks, and up a small flight of stairs to a landing overlooking the main chamber. Along the wall was a long bookcase crammed full of manuscripts and scrolls, some faded to yellow by years of decay. The librarian fingered through them, whispering to herself as she searched for the proper section. Finally she fished out a text bound in brown leather and embossed with the impressive title Lucel-Lor--Historical Facts and Notes. Alazrian's eyes widened when he saw it.
"What's that?" he asked eagerly. He reached out and took the book from the librarian, handling it as carefully as if it were an infant.
"There are some others but this is really the best," said the woman. "It was written about a year ago by an historian that lives here in the capital. Emperor Biagio himself had the book commissioned so that there would be some record of the events of the war. It's a very fine work. Conhorth, the historian, took care with it. He interviewed survivors of the war from Talistan and Ackle-Nye. I think it should help you."
Alazrian ran his hand over the tome. It was far too long to read in one night and he doubted he would be able to take it with him. He would have to get reading quickly.
"Thank you," he said. "Thank you very much. You've been a great help."
The librarian smiled and told Alazrian that she was at his service if he needed anything else, but he hardly heard her. He was already lost in the pages of the remarkable book, flipping through the leafs and studying the hand-drawn illustrations that jumped off the parchment. Whoever this Conhorth was, he had done an impressive job at the emperor's behest.
