“Not likely,” Syrah grumbled, pulling the glove onto her right hand and flexing her fingers. It still fit. “The robes just tore when I was taken. I lost the shawl and veil completely.
The grin that passed between Carro and Jofrey then was so mischievous, one might have thought the two of them were nothing more than a pair of misbehaving children. At once, Raz had a suspicion of what was about to happen. Slowly, like a magician pulling a cloth out of some hidden pocket of his coat, Jofrey drew what looked like a length of yet more ivory silk from the folds of his sleeve, holding it up for her to see.
“Is that so?” he asked through a half-suppressed laugh.
It was a new shawl, dangling alongside what looked to be a thin, breathable white veil.
Syrah’s audible curse drew laughs from the entire crowd, this time.
Raz felt strange, stopping and turning one last time with Syrah to wave back at the mouth of the tunnel that was Cyurgi ‘Di’s outermost entrance. They stood, side-by-side between their horses, in the center of the wide plateau that acted as a sort of outer courtyard for the Citadel, a flattened space that hugged the mountain cliffs on one side and fell off into oblivion on the other. Looking back, Raz felt what could only be described as ironic disappointment overwhelm him, the sort of conflicted sadness that comes when one is leaving behind something they found themselves distinctly surprised to have enjoyed.
He recalled the first time he had laid eyes on the lumbering outline of the bastions that flanked the outer entrance, black-and-grey monoliths looming like living giants out of the endless snow of the winter storms. Raz had, in that moment, understood for the first time in his life the absolute truth of his insignificance in the greater existence that was the larger world. He’d felt small, powerless, even afraid. The stone had exuded a callous coldness to him, a lifeless quality he had feared, like the scaled skin of some dead titan fallen across the mountain’s face.
And yet now, taking in the outlines of the walls against the crisp blue of the cloudless summer morning, Raz could feel only the sudden absence of the Citadel’s warmth around him. It had taken him some weeks to forgo his distaste of enclosed spaces—particularly when said spaces were often half-a-mile below anywhere that saw the Sun—but in time he’d discovered himself coming to terms with, then even appreciating, the closeness of the stone around him, the kind heat of the tunnels and fresh breeze of the narrow windows.
Eventually, the place had started to feel almost like a home…
The others had followed them out, gathering around the mouth of the tunnel and raising their hands to return Raz and Syrah’s final goodbye. Jofrey stood close to Carro, their respective entourages on either side of them, the ranks of which had swollen significantly in the last quarter-hour. Raz brought his hand down over his eyes to peer against the Sun’s light, seeing some hundred other figures crowding the entranceway, many with their hands in the air, others watching them go with tight lips and narrowed eyes. There was the sound of laughter, and Raz looked up to the ramparts high above, seeing the children of the temple clambering onto the crenellations to wave. He smiled, chuckling as he returned the gesture.
He was just about to turn around again when Syrah inhaled sharply from beside him.
Raz looked at her, only to find the woman staring at something along the very edge of the large group standing outside the Citadel walls. He followed her eyes, and it only took him a moment to find what she had seen, the familiar visage jumping out at him from the throng.
Reyn Hartlet had not changed as much as Carro in the last months, but his was still a face far different than the youthful one Raz had known in the first days of his arrival at the mountain temple. Once clean-shaven and strong-chinned, the young Priest now bore a heavy beard which gave him the look of a man twice his age. His hair, half-a-year ago kept clean and kempt, hung long and lank, loose strands falling across his eyes. It was in those eyes that Raz had seen the greatest change. It had come on slowly at first, a measured build of mixed heartbreak and confusion, but as the weeks passed, so grew the anger. Blue irises, once bright with life, were now dark, filled with something heavy and boiling as they took in Raz and Syrah. Disappointment. Disgust.
Hatred.
Beside him, Syrah let out a rattling exhalation, and Raz reached out once more to take her by the shoulder. He felt her turn toward him, seeking the comfort of his gaze, but he couldn’t grant it to her just yet.
As Raz's hand had fallen on the cloth of her tunic, Hartlet’s darkened eyes had snapped to his, and the pair now waged their silent war.
For a long time they glared at each other, blue burning against amber-gold. There seemed no bottom to the depth of the revulsion that swam in the Priest’s face, itself an energy by which he appeared to sustain his will.
In the end, though, something seemed to break, and Reyn Hartlet finally looked away, ducking back into the crowd and disappearing for the last time.
Only then, after the man had vanished among the other white robes of the Laorin, did Raz turn his eyes down to Syrah and smile.
“Ready?” he asked her simply.
Without hesitation, she nodded, and together they made for the first steps that would lead them down into the woodlands below, horses plodding dutifully behind.
CHAPTER 2
“The roads between the realms of North and South are never so bustling as during the brief periods at the beginning and end of the summer season. It is in that time, taking advantage of the lack of the sundering heat of the Sun or the harsh cold of the freeze, that merchants and border traders ply the greatest labors of their professions, hauling in goods and crafts from one land to the other and sometimes back again. It is a generally pleasant thing to make the journey in this time. The roads, lonely and desolate for much of the year, become a hive of thriving, vibrant life, with all the sights and sounds of the Miropan markets, yet none of the oppressing heat or wrenching wails of those poor tormented souls left to the cruelties of the Cages.”
—A Study of Modern Economies, by Marret Vern
Cahna couldn’t help her little eyes from growing wide as her family made their way down the forest road, though she was careful to keep a tight hold of her mother’s skirt even as she stared around. They had been traveling for nearly a week now, their little three-wagon caravan grinding along southward, handling the mud and stone churned up by the storms that saw fit to pass overhead every other day or so. Despite this, Cahna still couldn’t help but marvel at how the world changed around her one evening after the other. As each day failed, the carts and merchants they traveled alongside or passed by going in the opposite direction would call a halt to their respective journeys, leading their draft horses to the side of the road before reining them to a halt. Once everyone was settled, somewhere along the path one family or another would haul flutes and drums out from where they were stowed, and before long the night sky would be alive with music and the flickering colors of camp and cooking fires. The smell of food and the sound of laughter grew heavy on the air, and after dinner the families would mingle, sharing news and bartering for goods they thought might sell well wherever it was they were traveling to.
Cahna, despite her shy nature—which she heard her mother often say was certainly to be expected at her age—often found that she enjoyed these nightly family excursions, meeting and visiting all manner of people on the road. There was always something new to discover, someone different to encounter. Most borderers were of some mixed blood or another, like Cahna and the rest of their family, but others made the trip at the beginning and end of summer just as well. There were true Southerners and Northerners, the former often boasting the tanned skin and grey eyes of their people, the latter seeming almost delicate in their paleness and fair-haired complexions. There were sometimes West Islers, narrowed eyes kind despite their rigid cultures, and Percian, black skin gleaming in the gentler sunlight of these cooler days. Others were dispersed between these, but Cahna had no sense of where they might have come
from, knowing little of the rest of the world. Of course, as young as she was, questions like “Where are they from?” and “Where are they going?” very infrequently came to mind compared to queries such as “Can I have a funny hat like that?” and “Why are some of her teeth made of gold?”
Needless to say, it was fortunate for Cahna’s parents that she was innately quiet around strangers.
“Eren! Eren! Here! Over here, man!”
Cahna’s father—leading her mother by the hand while Cahna herself trailed behind the pair of them—stopped at the sound of his name, braided, dirty-blond hair shifting over his shoulders as he looked around. Catching sight of a tall figure attempting to wave them down from within a group of people sitting around a fire along the east edge of the road, he smiled broadly, starting for them at once.
“It’s Naro!” Cahna heard her father say excitedly over his shoulder as they moved, dodging strangers and stepping over puddles that reflected the firelight around them. “I was wondering if we would pass him this year!”
As they got nearer, it took a few moments for Cahna to recognize the man still smiling at them, his hair—the same color of rusted straw as her father’s—cropped short around his ears. Her uncle Naro lived in the South, she knew, having met and married a woman there some time before Cahna's grandfather had passed away last year. She didn’t know Naro well, but as they got nearer she grew excited in the way only small children can upon seeing extended family, knowing it probably meant gifts of treats and toys before the night was through.
Sure enough, as a young couple shifted over from where they sat on a fallen trunk to let her and her family by, Cahna saw her uncle’s eyes drop to her, and his smile broadened immediately.
“Little Cahna!” the man bellowed jovially, dropping down to one knee and opening his arms to her. “Look at you, taller than a tree now! Come give your Uncle Naro a hug!”
Cahna hesitated, looking up at her mother, who smiled and nodded encouragingly. Gathering her courage, Cahna took several shy steps forward, allowing her uncle to sweep her up and spin her around. Unable to help herself, she giggled, then laughed in truth as the sound spurred the man to bounce her into the air before easing her back to the ground and looking her up and down.
“You’ve got more of your mother in you than your poor father, don’t you, girl?” Naro said with a chuckle, patting her hair and looking past her at her parents. “This one’s going to be tall as you, Myna.”
Cahna’s mother, who stood some two inches above her husband, laughed. “Taller, according to her grandmother. Apparently she’s half-again my height when I was her age.”
Uncle Naro whistled before looking back down at Cahna. “Growing girl! Do you know what helps growing girls, little Cahna?”
Cahna said nothing, but smiled and shook her head vigorously. In response, her uncle inched forward to cup her ear with a hand and whisper something to her.
“Lots and lots of sweets.”
Cahna’s smile only brightened as she felt the man press what felt like a large chunk of toffee into her little hand.
They spent a generally pleasant evening after that, or at least Cahna did. She met and took a liking to her aunt, Sammar, examining her tanned skin and bleached hair with childish curiosity while the woman told her stories of the South and its Cienbal desert and its infamous sarydâ. After that, she sat eating her candy while the adults spoke over the fire, their words mingling with the lively atmosphere of the night around Naro’s camp.
“How goes life below the border?” Cahna’s mother asked her uncle, warming her hands over the flames. “We’ve heard some unpleasant rumors, even through the freeze.”
“With good reason,” Naro responded, his face twisting into something of a scowl. “Unrest is growing, particularly in the northern fringe cities. After the Monster cut apart the Miropan šef last year, the society has seemed a lot less untouchable. Whether that’s for the better has yet to be seen, but the problem is the Mahsadën know they appear weak right now.”
“Which means what?” Cahna’s mother pressed.
“It means things are worse than ever,” the husband of the young couple on the log spoke up for the first time since their arrival. “There’s a new šef in Miropa, a man called Blaeth. Word is he was the right hand of Ergoin Sass himself before Raz i’Syul Arro butchered the man, and they say he’s even more ruthless than his former master.”
Naro nodded in agreement. “It’s been a hard year. Even in the other fringe cities the Mahsadën have grown vicious. The South has seen they aren’t invincible, and the šef are looking to make examples of anyone fool enough to think they can take advantage of that fact. In Karth they’ve taken to razing the slums every month or so, leaving the dwellers to the elements in an attempt to keep them from uniting. In Acrosia the rings have started publicly drowning smugglers and slave traders attempting to make use of the ports without paying the society’s dues.”
“And the Monster?” Cahna’s father asked, leaning in with excited eyes. “Did they ever find him? We heard nothing after word came from Azbar, looking for fighters to pit against him.”
“They call him ‘the Dragon’ now, I hear,” Aunt Sammar said with a frown, joining in. “And no, no news, which undoubtedly means they haven’t tracked him down.”
“Agreed,” the woman on the trunk now spoke up. “If they had, Blaeth would have had him flayed alive in the Miropan Cages for all to see.”
“Without a doubt,” Uncle Naro said with a dark chuckle. “That news would have traveled fast. And they can’t pretend to have caught him either, as he’s bound to show his face again the minute they do, just to prove them liars. It’s a no-win situation for the Mahsadën right now. Small wonder they’re doing everything they can to find him.”
It was as her uncle said these very words that something strange seemed to come over the night. Gradually, like a steadily rising tide, the mood of the evening changed around them. Cahna paused in her chewing, the sweet taste of the toffee dulling as she realized that the music had stopped in the camps to the south of them, and that this strange silence appeared to be nearing. Sure enough, as the adults around her noted the same stillness and turned their heads, the families closest to them quieted as well, the wash of apprehension passing along like a chill. By the time it reached their little fire, Cahna had made out what it was that had brought this emptiness to the festivities of the roadside camp.
A line of some twenty or so horses were making their way steadily through the cooking fires, plodding along with bobbing heads, the dull clop of their iron shoes against the muddy stone the only sound of their passing. The horses themselves were unimpressive, a motley mix of all breeds and colors and sizes, like the mounts had been hurriedly assembled, gathered in whatever order they became available.
Much more frightening, however, were the men astride their backs.
Had Cahna been a little older, she might have been more frightened of the figures, all of them little more than silhouettes despite the flickering light that washed over them as they moved by. She was afraid as it was, but her young eyes did not register the glint of the smoke-blackened sword-grips that protruded over most of the men’s saddles, nor the plethora of knives and smaller blades some had strapped about their chests, hips, and shoulders. Rather, what Cahna took in were the men themselves, and it would be many years before the memories she formed would fade away into oblivion.
Like shadows made solid, each of the riders was little more than a human-shaped blotch against the night. They were garbed in loose layers of dark cloth ranging from slate grey to pitch black. Every inch of them—down to the gloves that held the reins of their horses—was covered, hiding the men and anything that might have identified them. The only exposed part of their persons was a narrow slit above the bridge of their noses, barely extending ear to ear. Watching their faces as they passed, it wasn’t until half of them had gone by that Cahna caught even the faintest glint of eyes in that gap, assuaging her greater
fear that there might very well be nothing at all beneath the wrappings. Still, the fact that the men didn’t so much as turn their heads to examine the people they passed was unnerving, particularly when coupled with the absolute stillness of their forms, the calm, deathly demeanor with which they swayed only with the rhythm of their mounts, all other movement limited to the point where—after the men had come and gone—many of the adults would wonder aloud if the riders had been living things, and not perhaps twenty corpses strapped to their saddles as some horrifying joke.
The shadows made no motion to interact with anyone as they rode through the camp, the stillness they had brought with them bearing the distinct aura of danger they carried about them like a smothering cloak. One after another they passed, their single careful line bisecting the families as absolutely as a river. No one spoke while the men were within earshot, and even afterward no one dared do more than whisper until the back of the last figure had long vanished into the confusion of smoke and tents and overhangs.
After that, though, the hum of conversation that started up had a distinctly darker measure to it than the festive banter which had filled the night before the riders’ passings.
As Iron Falls Page 4
