Chapter 21 #2
Hard as it is, I have to strip emotion out of this.
Blayze is right. I can’t afford to be reckless.
It’s one thing wanting to lead, but with leadership comes responsibility.
My father’s vile legacy has taught me that.
And I’ve a responsibility to the other members of the Quaternity.
I have to remain composed, careful. Otherwise, there’s a real chance we’ll die on the peaks.
I have to get us to the Astral Mountain, but I need to do it safely.
‘How are we going to get her to Galtair?’ I ask. ‘She can’t walk, and Briar is in no state to carry her.’
‘I’ll take her,’ Blayze says hoarsely, scooping Delphine up in his arms.
Maris smiles up at him, like he’s the only person standing on the hillside. I don’t mean to stare, but I can’t help it. Her aura brightens, bathing her in a soft glow, like when a moon reappears after being hidden behind clouds.
I only realise I’m crushing my fingernails into the palm of my hand when it starts to smart.
Blayze turns towards the steep path leading to the Last City. He takes a few steps then mutters under his breath, ‘You’ll have to help me, Peacock. Your blasted thin air’s sapping my strength.’
Astrophel curls his lip, probably about to quip something cutting back, but then his gaze rakes over Delphine’s waxen face and wilted body. She looks almost childlike cradled in Blayze’s corded arms. Astrophel’s hands clench into fists, but then he crosses over and takes up the pearlsprite’s feet.
Together, they carry Delphine towards Galtair.
I lumber behind them, the numbness of shock still insulating me.
It’s not until we draw closer to its walls that the hairs rise again on the back of my neck.
We stand in the shadow of the Last City. Flinty eyes flash behind arrow slits in the battlements of its crenellated towers.
I haven’t imagined these eyes, at least.
We have come to the city of walls and whispers.
The city of spies.
*
THICK GREY RAMPARTS shield the city, a single gateway and string of arrow slits the only apertures. The only adornment: gibbet cages wrought from bone hanging from the battlements. Whether animal or human, I can’t tell from this range. Rough manners and old ways, indeed.
I lift my chin towards the empty cages. The others follow my gaze.
‘Orthriel tells me Galtair’s warden – the Arx Magnum – will appear welcoming, but we must tread with caution.
There’s little love lost between the Highlanders and my family.
’ I swallow and draw my cowl lower. ‘Whatever the reception, we remain cordial. We can’t give them any reason to refuse us help.
’ I look at Blayze. His nostrils flare and his jaw tightens, but he nods along with the others.
I take a breath, stride to the gate, rap against it. There’s a scuffing of boots, then the heavy scrape of rusted bolts.
The gatekeeper’s skin is grey like the city walls and similarly weathered.
Broader than most Meissans, he has quartz-white hair, worn long and braided.
His mouth twists as he registers the Outrealmers.
He stares into my Starborn eyes, careful to maintain his distance, holding out his mace, its flanged head formed like a starburst, to keep us at arm’s length.
‘State your business.’
‘We travel under the King’s banners.’ I force as much authority into my voice as I can and reach inside my reticule for the Kingswrit, the permit allowing us to breach the plague laws and cross regional lines.
The gatekeeper’s eyes narrow as he studies it.
The temperature dips. Along with the faint scent of lilies, it’s the only warning before opal flames announce my Guardian’s presence. It’s a relief to see them materialise, though their semblance of a body is wavering more than usual. The altitude and tainted air must be affecting Orthriel too.
‘The Arx Magnum is expecting us.’
The gatekeeper starts back at the sight of the cielsylph and their mention of the warden’s name.
‘Wait here.’ He shuts the gate. Behind it, there’s a jagged exchange in Peaktois I can’t follow. Moments later, the bugle of a horn: three long, low notes.
‘What’s going on?’ Blayze asks.
‘They’re calling curfew,’ Astrophel whispers. ‘Worried we bring fever to their door.’
After several minutes, the gate creaks open and we’re admitted to the Last City.
Once we’ve submitted to examinations and been declared free from plague, the gatekeeper instructs a younger sentinel to lead us to the Stone Keep – the Arx Magnum’s seat of power.
He shepherds us through a tangle of cobbled streets and castellated towers, all eerily deserted.
Delphine is able to walk again, supported by Astrophel and Blayze.
We pass abandoned market stalls, steam still rising over cauldrons of mulled honeywine, flies buzzing around skewers of salted meat.
Our footsteps echo as we make our way towards the fortress that crowns the city and boasts its highest tower. My ankle throbs, and I can’t shake the wrongness tugging at my gut. But I force myself to ignore it. It’s just the disturbed thoughts of an anxious mind. Last night proved that.
Every so often we pass a plague house, smirched with its sinister red flame.
Blayze glowers at each and every cypher, and a shadow flickers over Astrophel’s face like he’s seen a ghost. And then it hits me.
He has. This is where his father contracted the fever; each of these houses is a slap in his face, a reminder of the man he never had the chance to know properly – the life stolen from him.
Tansy tugs my elbow.
‘Look up,’ she whispers.
A silent audience stares from the shadowed recesses of half-shuttered windows, their eyes anything but friendly. I reach under my cloak. It’s becoming habitual, using the crystalline pulse of the starstone to steady my own.
We turn a sharp corner, and a circular forum fans before us. The Stone Keep, directly opposite, presides over the space. After Galtair’s shaded tapering streets, this feels too wide, too open. Too exposed.
The keep flies the flag of the twelve-pointed Wishing Star. Loyal to the mountain then, not the Throne. A treasonable offence back in Meissa.
‘You’re sure the Arx Magnum welcomes this visit?’ I ask Orthriel.
‘He couldn’t have made it plainer. Seemed grateful for the opportunity to mend bridges.’
‘He has a funny way of showing it…’
Our guide lifts the metal knocker, announcing our arrival.
Shuffling movements sound within, and the door opens, revealing a long flagstone hallway, hung with faded tapestries.
A fine layer of dust shrouds everything.
An apparition in white robes, wearing a white veil, glides towards us.
I start back from the Veiled Sister. Once the stewards of the Starshrine, Talini’s great temple, the order sought refuge in Galtair after they were forced to abandon the old capital.
‘We’re… we’re here to see the Arx Magnum,’ I stutter.
The sister motions for us to follow her down the musty corridor but doesn’t utter a word – likely bound by the vow of silence her order’s renowned for.
The air chills as we approach a vast, hexagonal vestibule.
There’s the distant thump of slow, regularly planted footfalls.
Blayze reaches for his axe; Maris tightens her grip on her sea-spear.
The Arx Magnum rounds the corner, resplendent in jewel-encrusted robes edged with mottled-silver frostfang fur.
Older than my father, but of similarly stern countenance, his hair is bone-pale and closely cropped.
Like the gatekeeper, his skin resembles the grey stone of the city, and his dour expression is similarly intractable.
A ragged scar slashes his right cheek. His style of dress resembles something my grandfather might have favoured.
Fashions change neither drastically nor fast in Estelia, but there’s something antiquated about it.
And when I look past the jewels, richly-embossed velvet and liberal use of silver thread, the robes are worn through in places.
Much like our surroundings, his appearance is splendid, showy even, but faded, coming apart at the seams.
I don’t like this. Perhaps it’s his resemblance to my father, perhaps I’ve been primed by the walls of hostile eyes that tracked us through the city, or perhaps my imagination is getting the better of me again, but he makes me uneasy.
He stares at us in silence, his eyes lingering on the Outrealmers – Briar, Delphine and Serafine seem to hold a particular fascination. They must sense it, for they shrink into the shadowed corners of the vestibule.
Then he smiles, and it’s like a taper’s been lit in a darkened room.
‘You see? Quite amiable.’
Orthriel might be convinced, but I don’t trust the change. It’s too extreme – the smile too oily.
I don’t dare read his thoughts though. Not even his aura. I can’t know how much the Arx Magnum understands about the ways of the Branded, whether he’ll realise what I’m doing when my eyes mist over. Being caught spying on the inner workings of his mind is hardly going to win his favour.
‘Welcome to Galtair,’ he says at last. ‘I’m Deimos Rigel, Defender of the Last City.
I see you’ve already made the acquaintance of one of our sisters.
’ He motions for her to withdraw, and she slinks noiselessly from the room.
‘It’s been too long since we welcomed a Stellarion here.
’ His voice is cold, jagged as an iceberg.
‘Orthriel, a pleasure to see you again.’ He inclines his head towards my Guardian. ‘Come through to my study.’
‘Some members of our party require immediate rest. The journey was taxing,’ I say, as we follow him down another narrow, winding corridor.
He nods. ‘I shan’t keep you long. You did well to reach us – few manage it.’