The City of Dreams

by Hailey Griffiths

  She pushed the surprising thought away, and focused on the leaf Yora was handing her.

  “Spring sage,” she said. “Good for roasts, but also a key ingredient in healing compresses. Rub it between your fingers. Smell that slight sweetness?”

  The morning passed in a blur of green smells, and by the time Prell arrived with sandwiches and flasks of hot chocolate for lunch, her head was swimming with knowledge. Yora had told her not to bother to write it down, that the best knowledge was the kind that sank into your bones, so Ariella had listened and smelled and gently weeded around the delicate herbs.

  Prell rolled his eyes at her as he handed her a sandwich fat with sliced beef. “Aaah no, you’ve got that look in your eye. She’s sold you on this stuff hasn’t she?”

  Ariella laughed and punched him gently in the shoulder. “How can you not love this?” she asked, opening her arms wide and taking a deep breath of the thickly scented air.

  Prell’s smile softened as he looked at her, a touch of colour appearing in his cheeks. “I—”

  But Yora returned. “Where’s that hot chocolate? I’m famished! And I hope you brought some tarts.”

  Ariella pulled her gaze from Prell’s and felt her own cheeks colour. She kept her eyes on her sandwich, but she could feel Prell’s gaze on her. She liked the way it felt.

  Yora kept up a steady stream on conversation during their break, Prell oddly silent for once. She chatted about the women in the council, and their obsession with the fashions coming out of Ystellia—not just in clothing, but also mannerisms and activities. Tea parties were all the rage, with every kind of food miniaturised.

  Prell rolled his eyes. “Be glad Mum’s kept them away from you. You can’t have more than a few bites of anything. Barely enough to fill a loren. More like torture parties.”

  “Well if you’ve found your voice,” said Yora, “then I think you’re able for a few more hours. Weed the squash please, and pick the ripest you can find too. I’m planning a pie.”

  Prell knuckled the bottom of his back and groaned.

  “The sooner you finish, the sooner you’ll get to the market.”

  He was up and pulling the wax paper from their hands, regardless of whether they’d finished their sandwiches. He flapped his hands at them, and Ariella found herself laughing at his sudden change in attitude.

  “Is the market really that good?” she asked Yora, after he’d gone.

  Yora yanked up a fistful of clover from the yewdrops, and dropped it on the ground with a shrug. “It is and it isn’t. You can get the same things any day of the week—food, clothing, jewellery and trinkets—but people go for the festivities. For a chance to mingle and dance. And in winter, it can get really special because the Cythian tribes migrate down from the cliffs, and come to trade. If the Cythians are there, you can be sure the market will be a good one.”

  The mention of the cliff-dwelling tribes was enough to spark Ariella’s interest. Legends of the ancient, fallen city of Cythia, the hereditary home of the Graces, was her favourite topic. She devoured every book on it she could find, but by now most of the stories were so old, they were legend, and barely believable ones at that. But she could imagine that any Cythian’s stall would be crowded by people hoping for a whiff of old magic. Everyone hoped to find an Artefact.

  The afternoon passed in a blur, Ariella’s musings broken by Yora’s gentle lessons and quizzes, and her head was spinning by the time Prell came to claim his coins. Yora pressed some into her own palm and she turned them over, wonderingly. She’d never been allowed her own money before.

  Yora straightened her headscarf for her, tucking a few escaped copper waves back under the silky fabric. “Have fun,” she said to them with a wink. And then Prell had her by the hand and was tugging her out the greenhouse.

  4

  The Night Market

  Dusk was setting in outside the gleaming greenhouses. The island city was beginning to sparkle against the coming evening, lights appearing in windows as the short winter day drew to an end.

  Ariella lifted her head to sniff the warm wind rolling across the river. It smelled like sand and warm grass, oddly summery for a winter wind. Prell was watching her, his eyes unusually intense. Goosebumps broke out on her skin, and she shivered but grinned, enjoying the strange juxtaposition of warm wind cutting through cool winter air.

  Prell grinned back, and leaned closer. Heat wafted off his skin, laden with the rich smell of the dirt and plants he’d been working with all day. Another shiver of goosebumps travelled down her arms, but not from the cold. She ached to lean further in to him, but she didn’t dare.

  “This is a strange wind,” she said, to take her mind off the closeness of his body to hers.

  “It’ll rain again tomorrow,” he said. “This wind is coming off the Cliffs, and it always brings rain.”

  Ariella nodded dumbly, her eyes on his wide mouth. She was struggling to form thoughts. She couldn’t seem to break away her gaze, which she knew was rude, but it was as if she’d never fully realised how interesting mouths could be.

  He’d moved closer to her, and she had to tilt her head back. He was tall, she’d hadn’t really realised how tall. A bang made her jump, and she hit her head on his chin. He was laughing and rubbing his face, and he pointed to the next island, where a shutter was bumping itself against a rock wall.

  Ariella laughed with him. “Sorry. Are you all right?”

  “Never better,” he said with a soft smile, and tightened his hand around hers. “Although that’s one hard head you’ve got there, Elle.”

  She punched him gently on the arm and, still laughing, he caught her hand and dropped a brief kiss on it. The movement seemed to surprise him as much as it did her, and he dropped her hand and coughed.

  “We should get to the market. We don’t want to miss the good food.”

  The town was quiet as they made their way from the outer islands towards the centre. Light from the houses spilled over into the streets, and every few houses, stood a tall lamp. These were topped with open glass globes, all filled with flowers and sugar, to attract flame moths. It was a clever way of lighting the streets, the flame moths’ fluttering wings spreading gentle waves of light everywhere.

  The air felt charged as they walked inward, towards one of the three central isles in the Rose Quarter. Cheerfully coloured houses, like rainbow barnacles, began to give way to wider, paler buildings, although here and there a bright blue roof or shiny yellow door was still visible. The hanging flower baskets and window boxes, all glowing gently as night fell, also became more orderly, almost as if the rich citizens in the central isles measured the distances between their plants. It was still beautiful, but Ariella missed the sheer exuberance of the outer islands.

  She shot Prell a glance, and understood now why he was so bitter about the Blood, clustered here in their huge houses in the centre of town.

  “So the mayor lives in this quarter?”

  Prell nodded, his shoulders tight. “Yes, although his house is past the market, but I can take you past if you like?”

  Ariella shuddered. “No. These houses are creepy. They all look exactly the same. They could learn a few things from the Poet’s Quarter.”

  Prell grinned at her. “Oh no, everyone here is too important for that. Bright colours are for the lower classes, didn’t you know?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Sometimes I forget how important they all think they are. As if there’s any difference at all between someone Blooded and someone who isn’t.” She didn’t mention how she’d thought the same for a long time. There might be time for a discussion like that later, but now, Prell was beaming at her, his stance loose and confident again.

  The market certainly didn’t seem as if it belonged among its pale neighbours. Ariella heard it before she saw it, loud music echoing to them to across the river. Cheerful, scratchy string instruments were set against the deep bangs of drums that made her grin in anticipation. There were markets in the Everwoo
d every solstice, but her mother had always sneered at the idea of a Grace wandering among the townsfolk.

  But today, with her hair tucked away, and a stranger to everyone, she was just a girl, out at a market with a boy.

  Prell inhaled dramatically. “Smell that?”

  Her mouth was already watering, and she was fairly certain that anything could be stuffed into a fried pastry pocket, and it would become instantly delicious. Grinning widely, Prell tugged her over the final bridge and straight down into the tangle of awnings, tents and ramshackle wooden stalls. Up close, the sound and smell was overwhelming, every stall a blur as Prell wended a way through the crowds for them. The blush of dusk had disappeared from the skies, and lanterns full of flame moths hung from every stall, delicate as stars against the dark of the night. Bunting was strung higgledy-piggledy between the stalls, and spelled to glow. It fluttered in the breeze, setting a shifting light over the crowds that bumped their way between the stalls.

  Prell stopped behind a mob at a stall selling pies. Hand-drawn illustrations hung from the top pole, advertising various filling combinations. A tall boy behind the counter caught Prell’s eye and grinned. Prell held up two fingers and darted between the crowd to grab a packet. Ariella braced for shouts, but no one seemed to mind his jumping the queue, just good-naturedly jostling him. She understood—it was hard to be angry at that grin.

  He dropped a pie into her hand and pretended he couldn’t see the coin she held out to him, so she dropped it into his pocket as they walked away. The pie was filled with chicken, but it was like no chicken she’d eaten before, creamy and delicately spiced. She didn’t say no when Prell held out another one.

  “This is even better than Yora’s,” mumbled Ariella through a full mouth.

  Prell jabbed her in the ribs with an elbow. “I won’t tell her you said that, if you don’t tell her that I agree!”

  They wandered aimlessly through the market. There didn’t seem to be any order to the stalls—fabric merchants had set up next to booksellers and jewellers. Stacks of thick velvet rubbed up against the leather spines of books, and a stall that seemed to be overrun with kittens had a tiny tabby escapee who was now chewing the corner of large lavender tome, her tiny claws keeping her upright on the untidy stack of books.

  Ariella had no idea how much anything cost, but she wasn’t all that eager to spend the rest of her coins just yet. She was looking out for the Cythian stall, even though she likely wouldn’t be able to afford anything.

  “Oi Prell,” came a shout.

  Ariella jumped, nervously patting her scarf to make sure her hair was still covered. She inched closer to Prell as a group of three young men, all around Prell’s age, pushed through the crowds towards them. A tall, dark-skinned boy clapped Prell on the shoulder, and grinned at Ariella.

  “It’s Reena isn’t it?” he asked. “Prell’s told us all about you.”

  A short boy with curly brown hair rolled his eyes. “You must be a witch, because I’ve never seen Prell like this over—” He stopped, glowering at the tall boy, who’d stood on his foot, then seemed to realise what he’d said. “Uh— I mean— Prell’s been telling us about your apprenticing with old Tomkins. Nightmare isn’t he?” The last few words came out in a garble.

  She grinned up at Prell, delight bubbling up in her chest at the thought of him talking about her. And not just talking about her, but keeping her identity secret while he did it. Just an ordinary girl out with an ordinary boy.

  Prell’s cheeks darkened, and he shrugged, giving her a sheepish grin. It made her want to kiss him, right there.

  “Where’s the Grace-in-Waiting then?” The sharp question, coming from the last boy, punctured her warm glow, but the boy didn’t so much as glance at her. He was slender, with long dark hair that flopped onto his forehead. He pushed it back as he raised an eyebrow at Prell. She knew without having to be told that he was one of the Blood.

  Prell’s casual posture turned wary. He put his hand at the small of her back, and she leaned back into his touch.

  “She doesn’t like crowds,” he drawled, looking the boy up and down insolently.

  The dark-haired boy glanced around him and sneered, “Quite—but you can’t hide her away forever. You and that Blood traitor mother of yours will have to let someone in to see her eventually.”

  “Don’t call my mother that.”

  “Why not? It’s true. She’s a traitor, and nothing good ever comes from traitors. Just look at you.”

  “Shut your mouth,” snapped Ariella, stepping in front of Prell. “The Grace-in-Waiting isn’t here, and even if she were she wouldn’t want to talk to the likes of you.”

  The tall boy shook his head urgently at her. She’d crossed a line—or at least Reena, the baker’s apprentice, had. No one spoke to a Blood that way.

  “Do you know who I am?” the Blooded boy said to her.

  She let her disgust show on her face. “I might not know your name, but I know exactly who you are.”

  The shorter boy looked as delighted as the tall boy was horrified. His curly head whipped from Ariella to the Blooded boy and back, but the tall boy put his hand on the Blood’s shoulder, and said, “Let’s go Raef. The Grace-in-Waiting isn’t here, but I know where the Drestiana girl likes to eat dinner.”

  Raef’s lip curled as he looked at Ariella, “You might want to reconsider which side you’re on. He’s not worth anything.”

  Prell’s hands came around and grasped her by the shoulders, keeping her from leaping on him. Not for herself, she was so used to insults, they simply rolled off her back, but for the words he was directing against Prell.

  The Blooded boy spat at her feet, and Prell’s hands tightened further, pulling her back against his body. She could feel him shaking.

  The tall boy was already leading Raef away, eager to avoid a fight. The smaller curly-haired one grabbed her hand and shook it vigorously. He was grinning so widely that his little round cheeks nearly took over his face.

  “It’s an honour Reena, and absolute honour. Please, let’s do this again sometime.” He winked at her. “Prell’s favourite sport is Blood-baiting, but he’s not half as good as you.”

  He gave her a quick little bow then bounded away through the crowds.

  Prell’s body was still shaking. She turned in his arms—and saw that he was trying to hold back his laughter, his grin huge and infectious.

  She poked him in the ribs. “Stop that.” She could feel her own laughter bubbling up.

  He cocked his head at her, like a curious bird. “You are a constant surprise,” he said softly. His hand brushed her cheek then gently pulled her headscarf down a little bit, tucking a stray copper strand back under it.

  Someone pushed passed them, jostling Ariella into Prell. She fell against him, and his arms came round her, steadying her. She glanced over her shoulder. They’d moved to the side of the pathway, but there wasn’t much room to manoeuvre around them. In her anger at Raef, she hadn’t noticed.

  “We’re in the way.”

  Prell’s arms tightened briefly around her then he stepped back. “Let’s find the Cythians,” he said, slipping his hand into hers.

  A warm glow was building in her chest, and her hands grew hot. She was worried that they were too sweaty, but she didn’t let go.

  “If it’s anywhere, it’ll be near the pools,” he said, leading her gently through the curving pathways, deeper into the market. Four large pools were set into the ground at the centre of the island. Their shapes overlapped each other, each stacked slightly higher than the others, thin lips built up to contain the water. Tiny waterfalls spilled from one pool to the next, filling the air with a gentle mist and the soft endless sound of falling water. Large loops of crystal-specked stone loomed in the air through the overlapping centre of the pools, their folds vaguely suggesting butterfly wings.

  And, just visible through the damp stone loops, on the other side of the pool, was a row of stalls draped with dark velvet and hung wi
th crystals—the Cythians. People were crowed along the edge of the tents, clustered near the pools, all casting glances at the tents, but few had approached the stalls.

  Prell quirked an eyebrow at her, and she nodded. She could feel eyes on them as they moved towards the Cythian stalls. Some were set alongside the path—these were laden with crystals of all shapes and sizes, giant gleaming ones shot through with gold next to baskets of tiny chips, and each offering had a small placard proclaiming its properties. Yet it wasn’t the crystals that interested Ariella. Yes, Cythian crystals were prized, but crystals were easy to come by in the Everwood, so she’d never really understood the Pyscorian obsession with the Cliff crystals.

  What really interested her was the gap in the tables, a short passageway lit with glowing crystals, and jars of softly fluttering flame moths. Her hand grew damper in Prell’s, and her heart sped up. Real live Cythains. The warring tribes who migrated down from the Crystal Cliffs every winter—the remnants of a people from a ruined, fallen city. They fascinated Ariella—the contrast of a people who chose to live on their terms, rather than hemmed in by a built-up world of rules and restrictions.

  The short passage led into a small tent, where the real Cythian treasures were on display. A few townsfolk were dotted around the cosy, dim space, each attended to by a tall person in leathers. Cythians.

  A maze of small, odd-sized tables filled the tent, each holding only a few items—and none the same as any other. The first table had a silver tea tray, complete with tall ornate tea pot and a set of two cups and saucers. Next to it sat an oversized lock, surrounded by tiny keys. But it was the books that caught her eye. She made a beeline for the small stack of thick, leather-bound books, their spines painted with titles in a language she didn’t understand. She reached out a finger to touch them and jumped when a voice behind her said, “Be careful little girl. Things in this tent often have teeth.”