Chapter 6 #2
Now I know why they struggled to describe this to Selencians whose only points of reference were rolling hills and rivers that wind gently through the trees.
There are no words that can paint this picture, not if you’ve never seen a single mountain, much less a line of them rising in a jagged row.
Not if you’ve never felt the spray of ocean water on your face, leaving a light dusting of salt on your skin.
Not if you have no concept of a curved horizon uninterrupted by trees or rocks or hills.
And there, nestled against a backdrop of towering mountains—built into the mountain itself—is Edessa. The capital city of the Kingdom of Faraengard. All the whisperings and rumors, all the gloating and boasting of the soldiers: none of it could have prepared me for the grandeur that is Edessa.
The base of the mountain enfolds the palace, more immense and grander than any overlord’s house ever dreamed. The outer portion is made of a black, smooth material—marble, maybe?
Spread out before the palace is the city, which sprawls from one mountain to the next in a haphazard way, overtaking the entire valley.
Most structures, whether public buildings or domestic dwellings, are made of a dark stone I’ve never seen before.
It’s not smooth, but has a rougher texture, with bits of grey and white weaving throughout the nearly black core.
Temples to the gods glow throughout the city as the morning sun touches their fine marble walls.
The roads wind and crisscross in a bewildering tangle of pavement.
There’s not a single dirt path among them, and even at dawn they are already full of travelers.
I’ve never seen so many people all gathered in one place.
Children with plump cheeks and the distinct bloom of health on their faces race carefree through the streets, laughing and smiling, all in identical clothes with daypacks on their back.
School. They are going to school. The soldiers have talked about this.
Well, they’ve taunted about school, about how they know so much, and we know so little.
The adults rush about with fewer smiles and less laughter, but they are just as healthy.
Many of them are dressed in wool or linen tunics, but the material is sturdier, cleaner, and far less worn than what we wear back home.
Others wear even finer materials—things I’ve only glimpsed on the overlord and his family—leather, hemp, and even silk.
And the colors of their clothes are so varied—blacks, blues, purples, pinks, greens, reds.
It’s all complimented with gold and silver broaches, fur trim, and the most intricate assortment of jewelry.
Necklaces that swing on the chest, bracelets that wind up the arm, rings on all their fingers, earrings that dangle.
The stalls of the markets are packed with all manner of goods, and most of it … most of it is grown or raised by us. Beef, chicken, pork, grains, fruits, vegetables. It all comes here, and much more is stacked in these markets today alone than is needed to feed this entire city for weeks.
My peace is gone. Shattered.
It is replaced with a furious rage. My gaze returns to the palace, and I let the anger simmer. I don’t know how. I don’t know when. But I want the entire royal family to pay.
My attention and my thoughts have been so focused on Edessa, I startle slightly when Ryot brings a hand up to my chin and raises my gaze from the palace at the base of the mountain to look higher, and higher still. I’d forgotten he was there.
“The city is not where you should be looking, rebel girl,” he says. “It has nothing to do with you.”
The sheer impossibility of where he draws my gaze is enough to make me forget my rage, at least for now.
There, looming over the bustling valley, is what must be the Synod.
This … this I’ve never heard described before.
The soldiers have never talked about the Altor, not even in the simplest terms. Not even to gloat.
Where Edessa is the embodiment of luxurious opulence, the Synod is pure militaristic simplicity. Despite that, it is still majestic in its audacity.
It is a fortress, built on the highest mountain of the range.
It sits on the edge of a cliff, about halfway up the mountain, that juts out at an impossible angle over the ocean below.
A curtain wall surrounds the structure, which has dozens of towers of various heights in the center, some type of arena, and a central tower that dwarfs the others.
The material looks to be a simple granite.
The rustic grey and brown stone has been left bare of any adornments.
There’s movement on that high tower, and I narrow my eyes.
My vision wobbles before it focuses in on the handful of men stationed there.
They are all staring right at me, various expressions of confusion and indignation on their faces.
The man in the center strides forward and seems to offer a sarcastic salute to us before blowing a massive, high-pitched horn that’s attached to the very center of the tower. I wince from the gods-awful noise.
“Fucking Maxim,” Ryot mutters from behind me.
From all around the fortress, men emerge, running for the nearest square tower. Each has a flat top and no guardrails.
Then a new sound reaches me, one so deep it reverberates through my very bones.
I turn my head, searching for the source of the rhythmic beating sound—almost like drums, but not quite.
I lift my eyes toward the summit of Godswatch Peak as a swarm of black bats emerge from the mist that hides the peak.
I narrow my eyes, trying to focus my wavering vision for the distance yet again.
My mouth drops open. Not bats. Faravars.
The beasts fly for the Synod in a synchronized dance, the beat of their massive wings creating a gust of wind that ruffles my hair, even from this distance.
They land in a clearly well-choreographed formation, from tower to tower, and most are immediately mounted by a waiting Altor.
The hardened gazes of the men scan the horizon for a threat but clearly find none. And then all those eyes fall on us.
Ryot leans slightly forward, and whispers again in my ear.
“Brace yourself, rebel girl, and offer your prayers to the gods.” This time, the warmth from earlier in the ride is gone.
He’s not even taunting like he was in the forest. He’s grim.
I twist behind me to get a glance at his face.
Tension lines his mouth, and his eyes are stormy in a way I haven’t seen yet.
He nods forward, toward the Synod. “This is where the ride is going to get rough.”
I turn back, taking in the now dozens of men staring at me, mouths agape. I reach for my powers, but find they’re muted. I’m too drained to do something as simple as focus my eyes.
I do my best to shutter my emotions, square my shoulders, and brace for what’s ahead.
Because I don’t think Ryot is talking about our landing.