The Siege of Abythos

by Phil Tucker

  Did the demon sound smug? Audsley hitched Kethe higher up against his chest again. No matter. He had to attend to her health. "Very well. Which way is moonward?"

  A passing young girl with a perfectly circular face shot him a confused glance and then hurried on.

  Aletheia spins ever toward the east, which is thus the noblest of the cardinal directions and is deemed the direction of the sun. Moonwards is west and to your left.

  Audsley opened his mouth to protest and then simply struck out, striding quickly along the edge of the crowd, no longer caring to examine the beauty of the endless paintings but rather determined to reach his destination. "And, ah, what is this Spire?"

  Oal was merely the greatest poet to live under the rule of the Ninth Ascendant. I shall indicate his spire when we reach it.

  "All right, all right, I understand, you are well versed in everything worth knowing and I am an ignorant buffoon. Can we now drop this pretentious air of superiority?"

  There was no response.

  Audsley hurried until sweat had drenched his brow and was running down his back. He cast worried glances down at Kethe every few moments. Was she still breathing? On he strode, past countless arches that opened to tunnels leading deeper into the stonecloud and past the occasional grand staircase that arose and disappeared to the Sixth Circum above them. The magnificent crowd became a blur of smeared colors and haughty expressions, and he thought he would faint by the time the demon emerged again.

  There. Oal's Spire. Turn to the right to emerge onto the Honeysuckle Causeway.

  "Thank you," gasped Audsley, though he didn't know if was thanking the demon or the Ascendant himself. Arms burning, short of breath, he cut across the crowd and rounded the bronze pedestal on which the statue of a man stood, arm outstretched, a bird alighting on his finger.

  Leaving the Circum behind, Audsley stepped out onto the causeway, one of those gossamer-thread bridges that stretched out over the void of the sky. He had thought himself inured to wonder, grown jaded with awe, but after a few steps he turned and gazed up, up the serried height of Aletheia itself, the endless ledges and great balconies, the towers and spires, the grandiose wisps of clouds that ultimately obscured his view of the tapering height where the White Gate itself was said to be. It was stunning, and despite himself Audsley gaped, unable to focus on one particular element, instead finding that his gaze flicked from one carved abstraction to another, lifting ever up the levels and trying in vain to catch a glimpse of the gloried heights.

  Close your mouth.

  Audsley did so with a snap, and then shook himself and turned to regard the length of the causeway. "Almost there." His heart sank as he considered the causeway. Wide enough for ten people to walk abreast, it was flanked by dismayingly flimsy guardrails and arched out toward six estates that were clustered around the causeway's end. Swallowing his sudden nerves, reminding himself that he could fly if he fell over the side, Audsley hurried on, grimacing apologetically to those who passed him going the opposite direction.

  The estates were large and without walls, adjoining the causeway as it meandered between them. A number of servants were rushing back and forth: Sigeans, Audsley noted, for the most part, with a smattering of Bythians thrown in for good measure. None of them so much as glanced at him. He might as well have been a ghost.

  There, said the demon. The Miliaka Estate.

  And indeed it was, a large ornamental gate rising from the side of the causeway, a short path leading to the building itself. Single-storied, surrounded by wide verandas on all sides, with certain sections standing aloof from the main structure and connected to it by covered walkways, it displayed a serene sense of elegance and modesty. It was a study in white and slate blue, and with a start Audsley realized that it had something of a cloud's transient elegance and insubstantiality to it; screens could be moved to close off certain walkways while others could be slid open to turn closed rooms into exterior pavilions. Mutable and transient like the clouds that passed it by.

  Do not go through the main gate, said the demon. Not unless you wish to be beaten like a common cur.

  Audsley hesitated, about to do exactly that. "Ah." Again he found himself flushing. "I bear Kethe, of their blood. Surely...?"

  You would not have time to cry out your defense before they set upon you with wooden switches. No; use the servants' gate to the side.

  Audsley pursed his lips, once again biting down on his Noussian pride; he was in Aletheia! The Bythian slave of a Sigean nobleman residing in Aletheia might very well beat him with impunity. What an empire!

  He walked farther down the causeway, turned in through the much more modest servants' gate, followed a path of crushed white stones between the ornamental trees, and then walked along the far side of the house to an area that was screened off from common view. Servants were at work washing strikingly colored robes on a large rack of rippled soapstone.

  "You, there," said an imperious Sigean who looked to be in his late forties, balding and wearing a pugnacious scowl. The man bustled up to him in such a manner that Audsley almost flinched, expecting to be whacked across the shoulders. You can blast him with fire! The thought did little to assuage the shame he felt from the sheer disgust on the man's face.

  "You have trespassed in great error upon the Miliaka Estate!" The man's voice was pitched in a low hiss, his Sigean clipped with anger. The other servants were all watching him from the corners of their eyes. "Begone, before I have you hauled to the edge of the estate and cast into the sky!"

  "You will be delighted and chagrined to know, my good sir, that I am a magister, an eminent, if not pre-eminent servant of your - well, not your, but your master's – I mean to say ... I am Magister Audsley, in the service of Lady Iskra of Castle Kyferin –"

  "Enough! You are a bilious tramp and an affront to the eyes! If my lord were to catch sight of you there would be an ecstasy of whipping for the affront you would give his sensibilities! Kraichin! Summon the guards!"

  "I – excuse me. I am carrying, as you can plainly see, Kethe Kyferin, daughter of Lady Iskra, who – unhand me, you oaf! No, stop that! Listen to me!. This is Kethe Kyferin! She needs urgent help – will you please stop –"

  Two burly Ennoian servants had gripped him by the elbows and were marching him out.

  Burn them, whispered the Zoeian demon, rising for the first time from the darkness of Audsley's mind. A quick gout. Teach them respect.

  "No," said Audsley. "I won't – now, honestly, let go –"

  The two men were very adept at manhandling him, and, focused as he was on holding Kethe tight to his chest, Audsley couldn't find a good way to resist. Step by step they forced him back down the path, the despair rising in Audsley's chest as he lost ground. He couldn't let them kick him out. He had to attain an audience!

  Audsley relaxed, hung his head, and pretended to turn so as to walk disconsolately off the estate, only to suddenly whip around and bull past the two men, their fingers plucking at his sleeves, and race back down the path, skirting right by the servants' pavilion and looking around wildly for help.

  Cries of anger followed in his wake, and he saw a score of men come running from around the other side of the house to fan out and confront him. They were unarmed, a mixture of gardeners and laborers, but the firm set of their jaws told Audsley that they would not hesitate to beat him into submission.

  He came to a stop. Kraichin and the other servant came running up behind him. He was penned in, with the bulk of the main house to his right, a covered walkway between him and the score of other men, and a small, peaked outlying building to his left. Should he just run into the building proper? This was outrageous! To be confounded by gardeners, who were supposed to be meek lovers of all things green –

  "Enough," whispered a gentle voice, barely audible, but immediately every man dropped to one knee. Audsley blinked and looked around, confused, and saw that one of the curtains that covered an entrance to the side building had been twitched aside by a pa
ir of pale fingers. Nothing else showed in the shadows beyond.

  "My lady," said the Sigean overseer, stepping forward and bowing deeply. "My sincere apologies. I take personal responsibility for this effrontery, and will speak with your father about my shame. Now –"

  "Did I hear you correctly, good stranger?" The young woman's voice cut smoothly through the overseer's words, leaving him red-faced and staring intently at the ground. "Did you mention my sister, Iskra?"

  Audsley's knees almost gave out with relief. "I, yes, Lady Iskra Kyferin, born in Sige. This is her daughter, Kethe Kyferin." Audsley took a faltering step forward. "My lady, Kethe is gravely ill. Please. You must help us."

  Audsley heard a number of outraged hisses all around him and blinked, nonplussed.

  "Approach, good stranger. I would hear more."

  A signal must have been given, for the assorted groundskeepers and servants immediately arose and retreated, leaving only the overseer to stand close by. Audsley stepped up onto the veranda that encircled the outlying building and was about to duck his head so as to pass through the curtains when the Aletheian demon spoke clearly in his mind.

  Don't.

  There was a forbidding finality in the demon's voice that stopped Audsley cold, and he nearly tripped. Instead, he lowered Kethe to the walkway, smoothed her hair from her brow, then knelt gratefully and interlaced his fingers in his lap.

  "Please," said the quiet voice from within. A young woman, judged Audsley. Perhaps still in her teens? But her voice had a pleasing huskiness and dignity that made her seem a woman grown. "Begin at the most appropriate point and tell me what has brought you here."

  Audsley took a deep breath and launched into the events of the past few months. He sketched Lord Kyferin's fall in battle, the betrayal of Lord Laur, Iskra's banishment to Mythgraefen Hold, their valiant defense against Laur's knights, and their discovery of Kethe's affinity for the White Gate. He was about to launch into the most exciting part, their climactic battle with the demons, but a gasp from the far side of the curtain cut him short and brought him back to the present.

  The curtain was pulled aside, revealing Iskra's younger sister and simultaneously giving rise to a series of shocked gasps from a number of ladies-in-waiting, who knelt just beyond her within the building and had clearly not expected to be so suddenly revealed.

  The young woman who emerged bore a striking resemblance to Iskra, from her auburn hair to those same high cheekbones and striking eyes. She was slight, however, almost painfully slender, a vision of what an underfed Iskra might have been at the age of twenty. She moved forward to kneel beside Kethe and passed a hand over her brow.

  "She is fading," whispered the younger sister. "It might already be too late." She looked over at the overseer. "Pryimak, summon my father's carriage immediately."

  "Lady Iarenna," spluttered the overseer. "Your – but your father is –"

  Iarenna rose to her feet. She was wearing what looked to be four layers of robes, each marginally heavier than the last, and sleeves in varying lengths so that the coloration of the under layers was shown to pleasing effect. Her hair was worn loose down her back, reaching past her waist, and her manner betrayed a decisive firmness that assured Audsley immediately that she was indeed Iskra's sister.

  "Elacha, Vachlava, Stoika, please prepare yourselves to accompany us. Chynica, fetch my father's largest travelling robe for the magister." There was a pregnant pause as the ladies-in-waiting simply stared at her, all of them older and wearing their own gorgeously arrayed robes, but then Iarenna clapped her hands once, softly, and they all bustled into movement.

  Audsley stepped back, bemused. Pryimak hurried away, calling out orders, and in a matter of moments an ornate carriage came rolling forth, drawn by four white ponies with charms intertwined in their mains and their hooves painted silver.

  Chynica came rushing out of the main house, a number of confused demands following after her, holding a heavy cloak of forest green in her arms as if it were more precious than a child. She hesitated, eyeing Audsley with barely hidden remorse, and then thrust the cloak at him.

  It was a stunningly thick and rich piece of cloth, with a pattern of silver flowers subtly yet intricately stitched down its voluminous sleeves. Luckily it was large enough for Audsley's generous frame, and he pulled it on as Kethe was gently picked up by two male servants and placed inside the carriage.

  Iarenna emerged from the building, her hair hastily done up with silver clasps and combs, three new layers of robes thrown over the first four, and ghosted up into the carriage, followed by her four ladies-in-waiting. Audsley hesitated, not sure if he should follow, but Iarenna's imperious glance removed all doubt. He stepped up into the confines of the carriage and sat on the padded bench opposite Iarenna, wincing as the entire vehicle tilted under his weight.

  "My lady," entreated Pryimak from the carriage's doorway. "This is most unwise, most hasty. Can you not please await the return of your lord father –"

  "We cannot, my dear Pryimak, though I thank you for your graciousness. We shall return directly."

  The overseer nodded glumly, stepped back, and shut the doors. There was a cry, and the carriage lurched forward, the wooden wheels crunching on the gravel, and Audsley swayed from side to side as they trundled out onto the causeway. They left, he noted, through the main gate.

  The carriage was large enough that Kethe was able to lie on his bench comfortably, his own self squeezed at the end and facing the five women who were staring fixedly at him, Iarenna in their center.

  Audsley tried for a smile. None of them returned the expression.

  "If I may ask," he said, lamenting his lack of practice in Sigean, "where are we going? The Temple?"

  "Indeed," said Iarenna. "That is the only place we can take her."

  "And, well, are we in time?" Audsley gazed down at Kethe's face. In the gloom of the carriage's interior, her skin seemed to glow with a waxen sheen.

  "I don't know," whispered Iarenna. "My eldest brother is said to have gone immediately upon detecting his powers. How long would you say it has been since Kethe first manifested hers?"

  "Oh, that's hard to say." Audsley tapped his lips, his huge sleeve sliding all the way down to his elbow. For some reason, that made two of the ladies-in-waiting – Chynica and Stoika? – grimace, as if he had casually pulled down his breeches for a moment. "Perhaps a month? Maybe a little more?"

  Iarenna shook her head sorrowfully but made no comment.

  The other four ladies were staring at him a manner that made him extremely uncomfortable. It was as if they thought they could push him right out of the carriage and their lives if they simply glared at him hard enough. Instead, Audsley looked out through the slats at Aletheia beyond.

  The journey to the Second Level took almost three hours. They traveled deep into the core of the stonecloud, and from there out onto the Way of Righteousness, a corkscrewing avenue of startling breadth that rose up through the heart of Aletheia, passing each level in turn with a number of secondary avenues branching out like spokes from a hub to connect with each Circum. Despite the gravity of the occasion, the sights outside were fascinating, and as they climbed he saw more and more carriages, each more fanciful than the last, as beautifully decorated as the birds of paradise that were so esteemed back home in Nous.

  Still, each time he found his elation growing, he had only to glance down at Kethe and his heart would sink. The minutes dragged on, and soon he grew to despair at the riot of color and beauty outside as the carriage inched ever upward, level by level. The desire to grab Kethe, kick open the carriage doors and fly to the top grew ever stronger – but then, how would he turn her over to the Virtues without being summarily attacked and killed?

  Finally they exited onto the Second Level. The city this high up was vastly different from what he had traversed on the Seventh; it was composed of large estates that put Iarenna's to shame and little else. The interior avenue opened to the Circum almost immediately, and Au
dsley realized that they were nearly at the peak of Aletheia – and his heart skipped a beat. He was but one level below the Ascendant's Palace. One level below the White Gate itself.

  The view through the Circum's arches was stunning. The top of Aletheia wasn't circular, but rather a complex series of folds and ridges, so that at any time he could view entire sections of the city through the arches.

  "There," said Iarenna, moving forward to point through the slats. "That complex? The Temple of the Virtues."

  Audsley's breath caught. The Temple, bathed in sunlight, took up the entirety of a billowing fold of white rock, carved into its verticality. He could see an endless series of balconies, courtyards, colonnaded temples and other structures, glinting with gold and replete with marble statuary. He felt the demons within him recoil, pushing back into the matter of his mind as if seeking to hide, and felt a mean satisfaction at their discomfort.

  "What will they do with her?" His voice was grave as he sat back.

  Iarenna studied Kethe's profile. "They will rush to Consecrate her, if they can. No one knows what that involves, but it is an often fatal procedure."

  "Yes," said Audsley, staring glumly down at his hands. "Your sister" he almost said mother – "told me that your eldest brother didn't survive his own."

  "No. Many, if not most, do not. And with Kethe being this weak... Tell me, Magister. What was she like?"

  "Kethe?" Audsley squirmed in discomfort. It felt as if they were already discussing someone dead. "She's brave. Brash! She trained for years in secret with the sword so as to be a knight. Oh, yes, she takes her Ennoian heritage very seriously. And she competed in an actual tournament, you know, with live blades against other knights. The thunder of the charge! Kethe in the thick of it all! I saw her take a lance square in the shoulder, and it punched her right off her horse. Crash! She fell to the mud, rolled, and lay still!"

  Audsley fanned out his hands, painting the picture, and for the first time the four ladies-in-waiting leaned forward, eyes wide, their animosity forgotten. "Did she die?" asked Stoika, only to receive a series of eye rolls from the others and blush and sit back.