The City of Dreams

by Hailey Griffiths

  Hailey Griffiths

  The City of Dreams

  A Vale of Stars Novella

  First published by Hailey Griffiths in 2018

  Copyright © Hailey Griffiths, 2018

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

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  Contents

  Dedication

  Banished

  Unexpected Friends

  The Gardens

  The Night Market

  A Different Kind of Magic

  The Messenger

  A Bigger Battle

  Coming Soon

  Enjoyed the Story?

  Dedication

  To Mary,

  For being my home

  1

  Banished

  The itch wouldn’t go away.

  It clung to the back of her neck, right between her shoulder blades; the feeling of unseen eyes was so strong Ariella couldn’t help but look behind her. Again.

  Nothing. There had been nothing every time she looked, but the blasted, wide-open grey skies made her feel exposed and vulnerable. She was a child of the forest, but here on the Plains, trees were sparse and stunted, kept small and feathery by the relentless winter winds. It was hard to believe that this land, so different from the Everwood, was part of her realm.

  Shuddering slightly, she turned back to the reason she was here.

  Pyscoria, City of Dreams, was the only feature in these desolate plains. Her mother had said it was time she was fostered, but Ariella knew Ellentyre had really meant that she was to be punished—banished to this soulless city for her disobedience.

  The city floated before her, glittering in the growing dusk. It was a great sprawling mass of dead buildings, stretched across hundreds of islands in the icy, tumultuous waters of the Crystalline River. Tall stone bridges arched high into the air, connecting the islands in a delicately carved web.

  She ran the toe of her slipper across the smooth white stone of the bridge before her. The thin stone thing had sides that were so finely carved into swoops and swirls it was practically transparent—and did absolutely nothing at all the hide the sight of masses of angry water crashing its way downriver. Taking a deep breath, and trying not to look down, Ariella started to cross. Fine droplets clung to her hair and coated her thick travelling cloak. The season hadn’t fully turned yet, the last warmth of autumn clung to the air, but the river was already wild, the constant noise of it deafening.

  She clutched her small leather bag tightly against her chest. She could replace the clothes in the other, but this one—

  “Oi. You there. You the small Gracelet?”

  Ariella started at the sound, jumping towards the bridge’s balustrade in surprise. The river splashed against the side of the bridge, soaking her shoes. She couldn’t help her squeak at the cold wetness, and hurried quickly back to the centre of the bridge.

  A short, wide man was striding towards her, a thin striped scarf fluttering behind him. He closed the distance between them before Ariella could answer, then gave her a quick, dispassionate evaluation that ended in a grunt at her hair. The long copper strands marked her inescapably as the Grace-in-Waiting.

  “Well, welcome to Pyscoria. No doubt it’s the only welcome you’ll get, so don’t be surprised if folks are a little cold. I’m Oscar. The mayor’s out with the Clans right now, but I’m to fetch and deliver you anyway.” He flapped a hand expectantly at her. “Here, pass them over.”

  She slipped her larger bag off her back and handed it over to him. It looked laughably small against his shoulder, and he gestured again, pointing at her small leather bag. It was much heavier than the larger one, but Ariella shook her head fiercely.

  “Not a talker, eh? Well, that suits me just fine. A nice change from the wife and daughters. Well, come on then, rain’s expected later. You might not have much to say, but no doubt you’ll dislike having your hair rained on just about as much as my own gaggle of girls.”

  Ariella jogged behind him, having to lift her cloak and dress so she could keep up. For a short man, he walked extraordinarily fast, almost as fast as he talked. She blinked at his torrent of words—he was now complaining about the new ribbons his daughters had bought.

  “Need ’em for winter they said. Ribbons! Seasonal! See up there, you can see it rolling in.”

  She looked up, and sure enough, thick dark clouds were quickly replacing the dull grey of the sky.

  “Well, come on, don’t want to get caught in it to be sure. Even I don’t like getting my hair wet. Don’t tell the wife, though.” Her guide kept chattering cheerfully about winter fashion, and whether ribbons really were seasonal attire and Ariella jogged along behind him, battling to hear anything as the wind picked up. They hurried down cobbled streets, between tall, brightly coloured buildings, each festooned with window boxes. Whoever had painted the houses had done so with abandonment and no eye for colour. A pink house with orange shutters and a blue door was squeezed between a green house with blue shutters and a red one with lilac shutters. The effect was eye-wateringly bright, even in the gloom of the coming storm. An unlatched shutter, high up, banged in the wind, and the noise intensified the itchy feeling between her shoulders.

  But for once, no one was looking at her. The streets around them were emptying as people packed away, readying for the storm. Shopkeepers were hurriedly moving tables laden with everything from fabrics to produce back inside their stores. As they moved through the island’s centre and out again, the bustle dissipated, the island grew quieter and quieter. They hurried onward, over a bridge and onto the next island.

  Ariella kept one eye on the sky, but she couldn’t help gazing openmouthed around her. So many people, all living so squashed together. Gentle drops spattered on her forehead, and she tugged her hood further forward.

  “Ooof.” She collided with her guide’s broad back. A warm brown hand reached out to steady her, drawing back as soon as she righted herself. A dark-haired boy, who looked around her own age, grinned at her before scampering back around her guide to stand next to the only other person on the street.

  She’d been so involved with that endless sky, that she hadn’t noticed they weren’t alone any longer. A woman stood with her hands on her hips, blocking the narrow alleyway. There were streaks of grey in her long dark hair, but it only highlighted her tight, glowing skin. Ariella marvelled at her lack of cosmetics—and the woman was wearing pants. She edged around her guide to stare openly at the woman and the boy, who looked enough like her, that he must be her son.

  “Hello Oscar,” said the woman, inclining her head to Ariella’s guide. “We’ll take the Grace from here.”

  “Aaaah Yora. Don’t be giving me trouble today, you can see that the storm’s on the way.”

  The corner of the woman’s mouth turned up, “So it is,” she said softly, her voice light with humour. She didn’t look up at the sky. The drizzle didn’t seem to bother her at all, unlike Oscar who had wrapped his long scarf around his head several times

  Oscar grumbled and said, “I’ve got orders.”

  Yora tsked. “The mayor’s gone to Cythia. He won’t be back for a measure at least. The girl will be alone.”

  The woman looked directly at her and smiled, before cutting her gaze back to Oscar. “And even if he was there, do you really think that house is the best place for a young girl?”

  Oscar looked at Arie
lla out of the corner of his eye, and Ariella saw a flash of sympathy there.

  “I’m not taking the blame though,” he said gruffly, his cheeks reddening. “My Maisie’s getting married in spring, and Stars knows that boy’s family won’t be paying for anything.”

  Yora’s half smile became a full grin. Her eyes crinkled and smile lines appeared, transforming that kind face from merely beautiful to radiant. Ariella couldn’t help smiling in response. These were the kind of wrinkles Ellentyre was so afraid of?

  “You know the mayor will believe just about anything of me,” said Yora, seemingly unconcerned by this fact.

  “Well, that’s true enough,” grumbled Oscar. He was silent for a moment, the longest since Ariella had met him. He turned to her and asked, “Well, Gracelet, what do you say? Yora’s right about the mayor being away at least, and it’s a big, lonely house you’d be going to. Will you go with her and Prell there rather?”

  Ariella swallowed. She could feel their eyes on her, but was surprised to find that she wasn’t afraid. Somehow, she understood these people would respect whatever she decided. It gave her a rare thrill to be asked what she wanted.

  Words escaped her, but she found herself nodding.

  “Well then, Prell, grab this bag from me. No, don’t worry about the other one, she’s got a death grip on that.” Oscar shoved his hands in his pockets and looked up at sky again. The drizzle had turned into a light rain. He gave her one long last look then nodded to himself. “Go well then, Gracelet. I’ll be seeing you soon enough.” Even though he said it lightly, it sounded like a threat. He turned and ran back the way they’d come, covering the ground faster than Ariella would have thought possible. He must have been going at a crawl earlier to accommodate her.

  She’d bet there was more than a touch Cythian warrior blood in his veins.

  A gentle hand touched her shoulder, and Ariella turned to face Yora. She felt warmer just being near the woman.

  “We’ll need to run if we want to get home before the storm hits. Ready?” Yora said.

  Ariella nodded, and they took off, the cobbles smooth, but strangely sure under her feet.

  Prell grinned over his shoulder at her, moving faster than her, even laden with her large, unwieldy bag. “They’re spelled. Apparently the town healers got tired of setting broken bones every winter, so they convinced the hearth witches to make the cobbles more grippy. You don’t have to worry about falling.”

  Ariella grinned back, a warmth rising in her chest and face despite the cool waves of rain on her skin.

  2

  Unexpected Friends

  It was still raining. The thundering downpour of fat, incessant drops provided the perfect background for Yora’s warm, bright lounge. Ariella sat snuggled up on the couch, lamps glowing merrily throughout the room against the gloom of the day. Only the insistent growls from her stomach gave any indication that it was lunchtime. The downpour had continued overnight, and the smell of rain was wafting through the cracks and chinks of the tall stone house.

  It felt strange to be in a dead house—and perhaps stone did have a life of its own, but it was nothing like the quirky, living hearthomes of Ystellia. Despite all the lights, and the roaring fire, the house felt quiet somehow, no shifting creaks of a tree moving and growing around her. She felt properly alone, but, probably for the first time in her life, not lonely.

  She shoved another of Prell’s small but nut-laden cookies in her mouth and open one of the journals from the stack next to her.

  Journal 34 (again)

  My journal has disappeared itself. Again. Ronit cannot find it anywhere in the Whisperers, or in her own hearthome, so I must consider it lost. I won’t bother to rewrite the previous journal and all its unimportant ramblings, not when the atmosphere in the Vale grows more tense by the day.

  The Cythians grow bold in their advances across the plain, although they have not reached Pyscoria yet. I had always wondered what the warring families could do if they joined, and what was once a terrifying theory has grown all too real.

  The journal was old. There was no indication of which Grace had written it, but from the thin yellow paper, Ariella knew that it had to be a many-times great-grandmother. She had never heard of a Cythian-Pyscoria conflict, and surely, if something so momentous had happened, it would be a history that was well known.

  She turned the fragile pages carefully. These journals—the contents of her small, heavy bag—were the greatest treasures she had. Even more so now that they were the reason she’d been banished here. Ellentyre claimed she was here to foster, to be introduced to Pyscorian society, but Ariella knew her mother. This was because she wouldn’t share her secrets.

  Yora didn’t seem to share her mother’s obsession with sending her out to ‘make alliances’. She’d told Ariella to make herself at home and had then gone off for her day a work. Prell had tried to prod her into coming out exploring with him. He had a day off, he’d said, and wanted to spend some the coin he earned as an apprentice.

  She had simply shook her head shyly. When Prell’s face had fallen, a little ache had started in her chest, but the thought of having to mingle with strangers was more terrible than having possibly hurt his feelings.

  She glanced out the window again, guilt making her anxious. He’d said he’d bring lunch for her, but her stomach was telling her it was well past lunchtime. She paged blindly through the journal, but it was similar to the one she’d just read—the same day-to-day details of an ancient Grace’s life, with all the nuances of a political scene long dead.

  There was none of what she was looking for—nothing on how to become the Grace in truth, and not just in name. The guilt curled into something uglier, something fuelled by the nagging sense that maybe her mother was right. Maybe she was a failure, never to claim her magic, and with it, never able to fully serve the Vale she’d been born to protect.

  She couldn’t understand why Prell wanted to be her friend—she was nothing. Not yet, whispered a tiny voice in her, but she wasn’t sure she believed it anymore. None of the other children had ever wanted to be her friend. Whenever she’d accompanied her mother on official business to the tree city of Ystellia, the capital of the Vale, she’d been pushed into spending time with Tainn and Saskia, but they were simply polite to her. They tolerated her because of their own proximity to the Synod of Light, the council that served the Grace, since they might very well end up serving her one day.

  But Prell—he’d joked with her as if they were already friends. She glanced out the window again.

  Nothing but grey, endless rain.

  She sighed and tried to focus on the journals. They had to hold what she was seeking. They were her last hope.

  She got caught up in Jurith’s story—it seemed as if trouble with the Synod was nothing new for Graces—when a small pop of sound made her jump. A little white cat had appeared out of thin air and now sat at her feet, looking at her expectantly.

  She gave a small squeal of delight and leant forward to swoop it up in her arms. It allowed the undignified treatment for a minute, even giving her a small lick before wriggling its way of out of her arms to settle down next to her hip.

  The loren gave a small, but insistent meow.

  She shrugged, “I don’t have anything with me. I can only find almond cookies. They’re delicious, but not very filling.”

  The small cat sniffed the cookie she put in front of it, before turning its eyes back to hers. She’d finally found the thing the loren wouldn’t eat.

  “I’m sorry I don’t have anything for you, but I’m so glad you’re all right. When she kicked you…” Ariella stroked the scraggly white fur along the cat’s back. “I’m sorry I couldn’t stop her,” she ended on a whisper. Yet the strange, magical cat continued to purr under her hand. It didn’t seem to hold Ellentyre’s violence against her. The knot of ugly feelings in her chest loosened.

  The scratch of the latch on the front door made her sit up straight. She glanced at the lore
n and held up the corner of her blanket. She didn’t want a repeat of the last time someone had seen him. The little white cat crept under the blanket and snuggled next to her hip. She leaned a pillow against the warm lump just as Prell tumbled into the lounge and out the rain.

  His face split into a grin, and he held up a small bag. The smell made Ariella’s mouth water.

  “Sorry I’m late,” said Prell as he slumped onto the end of her couch, narrowly missing her feet. “The baker where I apprentice was behind on his orders, so I stayed to help him out. The good news is that I have been richly rewarded.” He held two golden pastry parcels towards her. “Rabbit and juneberry or star-spiced chicken?”

  Ariella chose the chicken, and closed her eyes as the warm pie melted in her mouth. She’d never tasted anything so delicious.

  “What’s in here?” she mumbled through a mouth of saucy crumbs. “Magic?”

  Prell laughed. “Well, if anyone would know, it’s you.” He grinned at her.

  She was a fraud, a terrible, terrible fraud. It had been easier to hide when she was younger, but now that she was sixteen, her lack of magic was becoming a far larger problem. She would need to do the solstice dance next summer and—

  Prell placed his hand softly on her foot. “Elle. Ariella— Did I say something wrong?”

  She shook her head to rid herself of the gloom that always threatened to overtake her, but she couldn’t lose the feeling that she was running out of time.

  Prell was watching her, uncertain. “I’m sorry I pushed you to go out exploring this morning. Everyone I met today asked about you—they all wanted to make appointments for tea with you. I didn’t realise.”

  Ariella shrugged. “It’s the same in Ystellia. Everyone thinks they can get to my mother by going through me. Everyone has something they need help with.” She sighed. “That sounds terrible, doesn’t it? Like I don’t want to help?”