by Paul Smith
streets linking them, like the spreading ripples on a pond,” and he gestured to the sides, where the first of said streets crossed the avenue. They had, of course, already passed lesser thoroughfares dipping away from the main path; narrow walkways and gated passages that dove down into the earth beneath their feet, though the Wraethi informed him that most of the entrances to the city’s undercroft were via the House’s mansions, or through certain public buildings like the Archival. As they continued in towards the centre they passed a second, and then a third of these rings, though the third was narrower and roofed in shattered glass amidst a metal framework.
“The Starlight Arcade,” Galairel offered quietly. “One of my favourite places, in all my wanderings through time and space.” He shook his head sadly. “You’d have loved it, Rii. A glittering promenade, lit by the lamps of the stores lining it on either side, and the shining stars overhead. The glass roof meant you could walk out in any weather, regardless. Pavement cafés and gardens at both the ground level and first floor tier, so that you could stand and watch the world go by below, or walk the length of the upper level, with the starlight that little bit closer through the curve of the roof above.”
“Sounds a little like the Lanes, in Incarnate.”
Galairel shook his head. “A poor copy. Though I grant you they tried.”
As they passed through the Arcade ring, Rivan stared down its length, trying to conjure the wonderland the Wraethi had painted into being. Part of him imagined he could almost see it, the immortal aristocracy with their long coats and unearthly, pale skin, walking arm in arm with a favoured mortal, or gathered in groups to at a café front to sip blood laced sours, watching the world glide elegantly by. But reality kept intruding: the play of ringlight off a shattered dome, or the sound of tiny scurrying feet as something fled their approach.
“Come, we’re nearly there now.”
He glanced up and realised Galairel had gone on ahead, was gesturing him from the corner of one of the narrower side streets on the Arcade’s far side. Rivan followed, gaze rising to take in the architecture to either side. The buildings here seemed to reach higher than elsewhere in the city, almost as if the Arcade’s presence had encouraged height in its companions, so that it did not dominate the skyline quite so much from a distance. Forbidding warehouses in dark reds and blacks alternated with a number of tall spires that looked like they might have been watch towers elsewhere. They followed the alley for some way, pausing once to navigate round a dead fall that blocked their way, and slowing a second time to climb a pile of vine covered rubble that looked to be the result of the wall of the Arcade being blown outward, though it was difficult to tell after all this time. Galairel went first, picking a path carefully across the strewn brickwork, his hand held out solicitously as they descended the far side.
Finally, the far end of the street came into view, and Rivan picked up the pace, sensing from his guide that their goal lay almost in sight.
Stepping out at the far end, they found themselves at the edge of what must once have been one of the city’s greenswards, gone feral in the intervening years. It was covered in a riot of night flowers, their blooms lofted to attract the myriad silver moths that danced through the still, pollen thick night air. Silver and Gold leaf mingled, the later natives smaller than their mainland cousins. “Imported as part of the Houses' original plan,” Lair explained, laying a clawed hand on the pale bough of one of the foreigners. After the depression of the Arcade, it was heartening to see something that had flourished.
Galairel touched his arm gently, a smile touching his crimson lips. “Come, our House is situated on the far side.”
“…our House…?” he asked, as he allowed the Wraethi to lead the way through the park’s hinterland, following a loose path that Rivan suspected he’d used before.
His lover glanced over one shoulder, eyes gone sombre again. “Yes. House Koshael.”
Understanding dawned.
The house rose on the far side of the park. Visible for some distance through the sparse tree cover it was still only as they stepped out into the open once more that Rivan really began to take in the details of the place.
Rising on the far side of an open square whose mosaic tiles were now broken by scattered wild flowers, House Koshael stood like an elegant tramp whose finery hearkened back to better days. The structure itself was fairly unremarkable, mirroring the sort of classic lines you saw in many of the Manses littering Kharpal's Pleasure Quarter.
Except that this is the original, he reminded himself, glancing at his companion. Lair stood staring mutely the building, a look of curious uncertainty about his eyes and lips. He glanced at Rivan, offered a reassuring smile.
“It wasn't here we were sealed in. That occurred elsewhere in the city. But this was where I made my escape again into the world above.”
Rivan nodded, gesturing that the other man should lead the way. Snippets of half remembered conversations and accounts he'd read were starting to line up in his mind, offering a hint of what they might be here to see. He was unique, he suspected, in holding all the pieces. Only someone with direct access to the Wraethi himself could have an idea of what waited below.
As they crossed the square Rivan gazed up at the columns to either side of the building's massive entrance. They were carved as figures, and it was only as they neared that he realised he recognised them. Obvious really, when he thought about it. He looked at the man walking beside him, gaze moving from him to the western lintel where his likeness rose four stories high. Chin lowered, eyes closed. An unshattered moon clasped in his cupped palms. The figure's twin rose up the opposite lintel, back to his twin, his palms cradling the burning orb of the sun. His brow seemed far more at ease than his night time brother, Rivan realised, looking back and forth between the two of them. It was subtle but there, for those that knew that face well.
It helped probably that he'd been starring at an approximation of it in the mirror for nearly thirty years now.
“You ok?”
Rivan glanced at his companion. Smiled reassurance. “It's a little odd, but I think I'll live.”
“Kel thought they might freak you out.”
Rivan grinned. “She's been here?”
Galairel smiled, nodding. “She was the first.”
“Who else?”
Galairel gave the matter some thought as they passed beneath the lintel, into the building's shadowy interior. A broad entrance hall led straight through to a central courtyard where a willow rose amidst more wild flowers. The Efljos gestured them down a side corridor, pausing before a stout door that still stood in its frame. The figures from the entranceway were reproduced again on the coat of arms carved at its centre, though they now stood back to back with free hand clasped at their side.
“Grifarne.”
Rivan nodded, murmuring thanks as the Wraethi ushered him through into the gloom beyond. A torch was lit (he missed the slight of hand involved) and from this the Wraethi kindled a pair of lanterns, offering one to his companion. He led the way towards the room's far end, where a stairway descended into darkness.
“Deliana,” Lair continued, glancing over his shoulder to check Rivan was okay. Noted the raised eyebrow the former Consort offered him and shrugged. “It was stipulated as part of the bargain when I originally bartered an accord with them.”
“I don't remember it from the negotiations.”
“This was before the Winter Solstice, when I believe you were otherwise engaged...”
Rivan let that one hang, unsure just how many levels of meaning he was supposed to read into it. Sometimes it was difficult to tell with the man in front of him.
They reached the bottom of the stairs and Lair gestured them on down a broad, airy corridor that curved away in both directions. There was a breeze here, suggesting connection to a wider network. The walls were dusty but well made, suggesting a level of craftsmanship equal if not superior to the building above. Which made sense, given this was likely where th
e inhabitants of this place had spent the majority of their time.
“Lyse is the last,” Galairel offered, as they moved out into a crossroads with a larger subterranean avenue, taking a right. The ceiling here was curved, so that the space would be shaped like an enormous bell in cross section. The whole thing was a good two stories high at least, with sconces set in the walls that would once have contained lighting of some sort.
Feeling the Wraethi's eyes on him he recalled himself to their conversation. Nodded to the other man's questioning look. “I suspect she's the sort who would have snuck over here on her own if you hadn't.”
“Quite so.”
“And obviously it must be nice for you having someone closer to your own age truly on side.”
He watched the other man's eyebrow rise at that. Kept his expression carefully schooled for as long as he could before the giggles bubbled up.
“Less of the cheek young man, or I might have to leave you down here without a light...”
“Oh yes? And who'd warm your bed for you then...?”
“I'm sure I'd have little trouble finding a replacement.”
“Well I...?!?” Rivan rounded on the other man, dropping his lantern as he launched a barrage of slaps which glanced ineffectually off the immortal's suddenly hunched shoulders.
“Enough, enough!” Galairel grabbed one of his wrists, the pair of
