by L. L. McNeil
The words sliced through him, and his legs threatened to give way.
Lathri held the gold brooch in her hand, rubbed a thumb over the blue jewels set deeply into it, and brought it to her lips. She kissed it once, gently, and returned it to the bag, holding it out to him.
Palom stood in silence, his world crashing around him, a flood of emotions coursing through his veins.
He didn’t trust himself to speak.
With a shuddering breath, he took the bag from Lathri and left her home.
*
The scent of molten steel and melting silver never quite faded. It seeped into the floor, furniture, clothes, tools. It was the scent of the workshop, of the closest thing he had left to home. Palom knew the smell would remain long after it was burned to the ground.
He’d had once adored the scent. It was his work, his life. But now, the smell was grief and loss, emptiness and failure. Now, his workshop was another bad memory. Something else to erase.
Anahrik had been a brother to him. They had been through so much together, building their business from nothing and crossing continents to sell their wares to Goldstones and wealthy merchants.
But he had failed Anahrik.
Like he had failed Lathri.
Failed himself.
And all he could do was run.
Palom stood in his empty workshop, taking everything in one final time. A glint of silver caught the weak winter sunlight drifting through the window. Anahrik’s silverwork. His finery brought something special to their weapons. A mark to differentiate them from all the other blacksmiths.
His heart and soul ached, and the sword on his back felt heavier than a battle axe. He couldn’t continue in his trade. Not now. With another deep breath, he crossed the workshop floor and lit the bellows for the final time. The fires wouldn’t be hot enough to work metal for some hours, but it was hot enough for the task at hand. Without hesitating, he tipped the growing flames onto the workshop floor and trudged out.
This would be the end of his life in Taban Yul.
He thought to Amarah and Kohl, of his claim that Arillian magic could be used to bring Moroda back. He knew Amarah had asked him to help fight whatever demons lay at the edge of the world, but he couldn’t play along with Kohl. Not after everything he’d done.
Palom scoffed at himself. He’d screwed up too many things, let too many people down. Perhaps leaving was a cowardly act, as Lathri suggested, but he had no brother, no family.
No choice.
Grey smoke rose from the workshop in thick clumps, swirling around in the wind and spreading out across the wide, paved streets. A huge swathe of Taban Yul was dedicated to trade, with Palom’s workshop right in the centre of it, near the eastern gate of the city itself.
He ignored the acrid scent as he made his way down Trader’s Alley. The district was well named for what it was—a hub of shops and market stalls—and busier than ever now the city was recovering from Aciel’s war.
At its widest point, the main street of Trader’s Alley could fit six carts abreast, but even with the vast space at ground level, the buildings were cramped together— grey slabs of stone giving way to deep, rich, blue on the higher floors. Many had ornate gold or silver around the windows—the more gold on the building, the more gold it was assumed you carried in your pockets.
A group of blue towers flanked the street’s head: hexagonal in shape, each with a roof of gold. The Imperial Guard would usually be in position beneath them, but considering winter had claimed the city, there was little need for their presence. That, and much of the Guard had been cut short following the battle with Aciel.
Palom thought briefly about returning to his hometown, Feoras Sol, which lay a few day’s travel from the capital. But it would mean facing his father.
Fear bubbled in his gut.
It was very likely his family still lived in Sol, mining the Feor Mountains as they had done for generations. They’d be none-too-impressed with his return, he was sure.
No business.
No gold.
Leaving death wherever he went.
Palom wasn’t sure he could stomach the shame of looking his father in the eye if it came to it.
He’d only seen him twice since his blood brother had died; once to tell him what had happened, and once more to tell him he was leaving.
To return after twenty years with his tail between his legs? The embarrassment would be too great. No. Perhaps he should keep to the wilds and avoid other Ittallan for the time being.
His thoughts were interrupted by a wooden cart crashing along the cobblestones a short way ahead. The wheels were large and thin, catching between misshapen rocks. Palom watched as it wobbled violently and thought it would topple over. The driver pulled up, cursing under his breath. He looked up as Palom approached.
‘Ah, just the person I need! Would ye help me pull this old thing out the city, Palom? I need tae be in Feoras Sol in three days. There’s not a chance I’ll get there in time on me own.’ He was short, balding, wearing a cloak far too big for him which kept catching under his feet as he heaved the wheel out of the crevice it had gotten stuck in.
‘Not going that way. Sorry,’ Palom replied.
‘What if ye take me at least as far as the inn? There’s one half a league from Sol. I’ll pay ye, too! Three florins a day, and ye welcome to share me food. It’s your hometown, isn’t it? Sol? Who’d be better tae look after me?’ He reached into his pocket and brought out a fistful of coins—florins and half florins—with smaller pennies spilling out onto the ground.
Palom stopped where he stood, considering.
‘Five florins?’ The trader asked, a hint of desperation in his voice.
‘Just to inn...’
‘Ye have a deal!’
Palom exhaled. He’d barely taken ten steps from Trader’s Alley and already he was getting caught up in something he had no business being part of. He looked the man over again—he was slightly hump-backed, with a wiry grey beard and moustache, and grey eyes.
Fodder.
The cart itself was no better—completely wooden with two large rear wheels, and two smaller wheels at the front. It was slightly bowed at the back, he presumed from the large barrel it carried. High wooden slats made up the sides, with a small deck at the front from where it could be pulled or pushed along.
‘Give me florins now and I’ll pull it,’ Palom said, making his way over to the trader and adjusting the sword on his back.
‘Ah, dragons above, thank ye, Palom. I’ll not soon forget this!’ He handed over six silver coins, dark with age and use, but holding all their value. ‘Oh yes, me name’s Jekkin, but ye can call me Jek if ye want. Everyone knows ye, Palom! Not many weapon smiths gets tae live at the palace! Fewer still make swords like ye with that power. I must guess the whole of Val Sharis knows who ye are!’
Palom shoved the coins in his pocket and regarded Jek. ‘I didn’t live at palace. I was invited to stay after battle.’
‘Ah well, the locals all here think ye a bit of a legend now. What with Aciel and all that, ye know. See, we know ye one of us. And we know what with what happened tae the wee lass, eh… Moroda?’
‘We go, now. Or you’ll never get to Sol,’ Palom said, interrupting the barrage of words, grabbing the arms at the front of the cart, and hoisting them up to his sides.
‘Aye, let’s. But we all saw what happened tae ye. An…. An I’d like tae offer me condolences for your losses,’ Jek said, bowing his head slightly and closing his eyes.
Palom grunted. He couldn’t face more talk of those he had lost, not when he’d just been rejected by Lathri and burnt his workshop to the ground.
As Jek continued to chatter, Palom focussed on putting one step in front of the other, pulling the cart along at a steady pace. Though it was empty, something he could easily lift and pull as required, the cart felt heavier with every step he took from Trader’s Alley, until it was as though he dragged a boulder along behind him.
His breath grew ragged, and he realised it was the emotional burden just as much as it was the cart but didn’t know how to separate the two.
He’d hoped destroying the workshop would have brought him relief, but if anything, he’d made things even worse.
Chapter Four
Amarah was not used to being fussed over like some Goldstone at a grand ball. Even if she’d had a lifetime’s experience, she’d never get used to it. The Arillians of Oren crowded around her, cooing and touching her back, dumbfounded by her lack of wings. Amarah quickly discovered that being a spectacle wasn’t fun, but Kohl had explained almost no-one in Oren had ever left the village, much less the floating islands, and had never seen anyone who wasn’t an Arillian. Her legions of new fans were equally impressed with her ship, and asked question upon question until Amarah’s head span.
What was it made of?
How did it fly?
What storms did it bring?
Did it speak?
Did it move on its own?
She’d been exhausted after the first day, and hadn’t been able to find out a single thing about their resurrection magic, or whatever power could supposedly release Moroda from her crystal prison. Every time she’d tried to ask anyone about it—because Kohl found her awkwardness amusing and refused to step in to help as they jostled to get near her—they’d ignored her questions and asked half a dozen of their own.
The children were worse, darting about in the air just above eye level, touching her back and shoulders then swooping off before she could do anything to retaliate, their wings sending ripples of wind over her.
The older Arillians shooed them away, eventually, but the whole experience drained her. They all wanted to know more about who she was, where she came from, how she lived.
What life was like on-ground.
Interestingly, not a single person mentioned Aciel, the war, or the intense dislike the rest of Linaria held for Arillians.
Amarah had docked Khanna on the edge of a low plateau, which was immediately investigated by the goats, birds, and other wildlife that made the remote islands their home. She spent a short while hunting a particularly scrawny goat while Kohl went off to make introductions, and when he returned with a handful of curious—or bold—Arillians of various status, all thoughts of food vanished as he thrust her into the midst of their society.
She’d found her first foray into the village full of surprises. Instead of being ignored, or looked down on with disdain, the Arillians were kind, generous, and exceedingly friendly. None of them carried weapons, either, which meant Amarah quickly relaxed despite the unfamiliarity with their culture.
A huge fire burned at the village’s centre: roaring flames that never went out, Kohl explained, and as they approached, she saw Arillians cooking or warming themselves by it. Many flew up to greet her as she arrived, dozens and dozens of them, their wings ranging in colour from charcoal-black to straw-gold and every hue in between.
Kohl kept most of them at bay while Amarah marvelled at the flames. They must have reached ten feet high, and were so vast, she couldn’t see through to the other side. Tall shards of smooth, greyish-black—yet somehow translucent—rock jutted from the ground, almost like a frozen waterfall, surrounding the base of the fire.
She’d reached out to touch the rock, and immediately withdrew her hand when her skin touched the surface.
They were burning cold.
‘The same material as the Ice Golems,’ Kohl had told her. ‘They let us to see through our storms.’
He’d been about to say more, when the crowd of Arillians swelled, and Amarah decided to retreat to Khanna to rest.
Even sunrise here was bizarre, as the sun rose below the floating island, casting shadows from odd angles. But once it rose above the island’s horizon, Oren seemed much the same as anywhere else in the day. From first light until nightfall, the skies were full of Arillians flying from one destination to another.
They’d carved towers and buildings into the sheer rock face and ice, giving the whole settlement a silver-blue tinge except during sunrise and sunset, when it looked as though the Oren had been built from melted gold. There were no curved walls or domes—everything followed the natural lines of the rock—and most buildings were tilted as a result. But the strangest thing was the lack of doors—most simply had a particularly large, glassless window somewhere near the top of the structure through which Arillians flew in and out.
In a way, it reminded her of Berel.
At ground level, Oren spread out over most the main island, which Amarah estimated to be about a third of the size of Niversai, though with fewer inhabitants. Kohl couldn’t tell her their exact numbers, but suggested only a few hundred lived here, most of whom had been left behind by Aciel.
In fact, the majority of the Arillians in Oren were either very old or very young. Everyone else of fighting age had been swept up in Aciel’s plots, and they were returning to the village in dribs and drabs.
That unnerved Kohl, Amarah noted. He spoke in hushed tones to several older Arillians, asking after their family and friends, but every time Amarah wandered over to get involved in the conversation, they’d hurriedly changed the subject, or flown away.
She hadn’t been permitted to meet the few who had returned, either—a dozen or so—they’d been whisked off to recover from their injuries.
Supposedly.
While Amarah would normally accept their reasoning, she’d not seen any blood, not seen Arillians help carry them back. They’d arrived under their own strength, and that conflicted with the idea of having to recover from severe injuries.
When she’d wandered close to one of the many dwellings that housed some of the retuning Arillians to investigate for herself, the moans and wailing which echoed from within unnerved her to such a point that she’d raced off before she’d even peeked inside.
Even the children—who were happy enough to fly anywhere they liked—avoided the areas returning Arillians had holed up in to recover, and she wondered whether there was perhaps some strange illness they’d brought back with them.
They were, after all, outsiders to the mainland.
When it became obvious Amarah wasn’t getting anywhere with learning about their magic while they were so excited to meet a foreigner, she decided to indulge them.
In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time anyone had taken the time to talk to her—just talk—without an ulterior motive.
She even went so far as to say she enjoyed being fitted in some of their traditional dress: multiple robes of linen folded around her body in some intricate pattern she couldn’t follow, and a simple bracelet fashioned from polished eagle claws and bits of animal bone she couldn’t identify.
Snow-covered rock made up the vast majority of Oren; trees draped along the higher peaks, with winter shrubs and stiff, hardy grass shoots pushing their way through the ice where the land flattened out. In the very lowest spots, meltwater from the snow-capped peaks flowed down into pools, around which Arillians gathered at varying points through the day.
Here, there were no seasons. No summer warmth to melt the ice, no autumn leaves to paint the land in reds and golds. Here, the days were short and the nights long. Here, the Everwinter ruled, every day of every month; a vast, unchanging land of cold and snow.
To Amarah, it brought stability. But to many of the Arillians—particularly the young ones—it brought boredom. Tales of savages on the mainland were often told to entertain the children, though Amarah’s decidedly non-barbaric nature seemed to clash with the more colourful parts of their stories, but despite the Arillian’s thoughts about where she came from, the sky pirate found Oren peaceful above anything else.
Their food, however, was not to her taste.
It consisted chiefly of dry bread, roots, and vegetables that were tougher than any meat she’d ever eaten, no matter how long she cooked them for. Even boiling the water was nigh impossible at such high altitudes.
Lukewar
m and tasteless was as about as best she could manage, and she thanked herself for stockpiling black pepper and cured meat.
Once Kohl was sure she was as comfortable as she could be, he’d disappeared, leaving Amarah with the crowds of sixty or so Arillians who made up Oren’s core community.
She suspected he was going to see the returned Arillians, or Jato, perhaps. Or maybe any other family he still had. Come to think of it, she hadn’t asked if he had a wife, parents, or siblings. The thought hadn’t occurred to her, and Kohl had only explained about his link with Jato when he was on the threshold of being executed by Palom.
She assumed he had a wife, or at least knew the mother of Jato, but he’d never mentioned anything. Amarah knew what it was like to be shunned by those who were meant to love you. Her own upbringing had not been the easiest.
She blamed her rough start for getting involved in piracy. She’d effectively been exiled and had no inclination to return “home” and live in the desert country of Ranski.
Kohl, however, seemed to feel very differently about his home. She could see the pain in his eyes and hear the sorrow in his voice whenever spoke of his Oren, and she wondered what had caused his exile in the first place.
As darkness rolled in at the end of her second day in Oren, hunger pushed her back to her ship, so she sat cross-legged on Khanna’s deck, a pot bubbling away on a small fire, chunks of wild goat and vegetables floating in the broth. The flame was small and fierce, and came from a bottle—portable Samolen magic, about the only thing from her home country that she used—and offered warmth in the frigid land.
She stirred the pot and dropped in some cheese in an attempt to thicken it into something with taste, as a familiar, cool, breeze washed over her, signalling Kohl’s arrival.
‘Eating?’ she asked, barely glancing up as he landed on deck.
‘Oh, yes, thank you,’ he said, removing his hat and stepping over to the pot. ‘My tastes have grown used to ground-food. It’s been so long since I’ve been here…’
