Chapter Thirty-One
All the tiny rivulets and brooks tumbling over the escarpment have formed a new river. Titus calls it the River Surat, but
he says the name is controversial, that Corthans stubbornly refuse to call it anything but the Corthan River.
I decide the River Surat is my new favorite river in all the Sunderland because it gives us the opportunity to bathe, and
because it brings green, green life. It’s nothing like the wide, muddy Iolandria, but rather narrow and fast, with crystal-clear
water that makes it seem shallower than it is. The shores of the river are lush with high palms, thick ferns, and stunning,
wide-canopied trees that Titus informs me are acacias.
But beyond the verdant west bank, the land turns dry and hard, riddled with cracks. And beyond that is sand, sand, and more
sand. Hills and valleys of sand, sparkling yellow in the sunlight, as far as the eye can see. Wind gusts sand from the tops
of the dunes, creating eddies like gossamer curtains.
“Glass,” Titus observes from Blackwind’s back, and I realize I’ve paused to stare. “Late-summer storms bring lightning that
turns the sand to glass. No one travels out there; it’s too dangerous. Even a mild glass storm can tear the clothes from your
body and cut you to shreds.”
“Are we safe on this side of the river?” I ask.
“Safe enough, this time of year.”
“It’s beautiful,” I say, shading my eyes. Something moves out there. Several somethings. From this distance they are mere
shadows, kicking up sparkles as they shuffle along. “I see people. Do you think they’re in trouble?”
Titus peers into the glazing heat. “Ghouljinn,” he says. “The other reason no one travels out there.” At my questioning look,
he adds, “The mistwraiths of the desert. Created by Alamandron. They’re more corporeal than mistwraiths, with very sharp teeth
and long claws. Instead of coming with the fog, they rise from the sands when the sun is high. Whether or not they are truly
alive is the subject of much academic debate.”
My stomach does something funny. Now I can see that they don’t move like people—not exactly. They stumble, directionless.
They’re terrifying. “If I ever meet this Alamandron god-person, I’m giving him a piece of my mind.”
Titus chuckles. “In that case, I pity him. But not to worry; ghouljinn don’t cross water. That’s why every traveler we’ve
encountered has been on this side of the river.”
I’m only a little reassured.
An hour later, the river takes a sharp curve westward, creating a vast stretch of green farmland that leads to a massive,
horizon-spanning edifice. Finally, I have my first view of the near-mythical city-state of Cathira.
Giant palm trees frame the city gates on each side, but they don’t come close to reaching the top.
The walls stretch in either direction, made of stone blocks stacked like bricks—if bricks were ten times larger and carved from yellow-orange sandstone.
Regular openings near the tops of the walls attest to their thickness.
They are wide enough to contain walkways.
Beyond the walls, buildings stairstep toward a tall center, where gleaming metal domes attest to the city’s wealth. Pennants
fly from the rooftops and the walls themselves, displaying all sorts of insignias. I recognize some from the rings I’ve seen
on people’s fingers.
Until this moment, Khefrita was the biggest city I’d ever seen, but Khefrita is a tiny village, a dot on the landscape, compared
to Cathira. Thousands of people must live here. Maybe a hundred thousand.
“The largest city in the Sunderland,” Titus says, startling me. His gaze is soft, a slight smile on his lips. “I’ve never
considered this place my true home, but I’m strangely glad to see it.”
Indignation rises up inside me, and I’m not sure why. Everything is wrong. The man beside me is wrong. His voice is all wrong.
It should be—
“Bria? What is it?”
Tears blur my eyes as my mind catches up to my feelings. “I was supposed to come here with Da,” I tell him. “We were going
to see the Edge of the World together.”
His gaze is so full of sympathy that I have to look away.
“Ma didn’t like to leave the inn, but me and Da . . . we dreamed of going places. Anja too, when she was old enough. He took
us with him to Khefrita several times, but we always knew we’d go farther one day. He owned a chunk of rock. A piece of the
Edge. I think the trader who sold it to him probably lied, but Da kept that ugly thing on a shelf in his bedroom. Said we’d
see the real thing someday.”
Titus guides Blackwind to the side of the road, and I realize it’s because we’ve stopped traffic with our gawking. After a carriage clatters past, he says, “I must meet with the high potentat as soon as possible. But I’ll find a way to get you a good view of the Edge. We’ll make the time.”
“Thank you,” I choke out, then force my legs forward, toward the giant city.
We’re not even halfway through the farm sector before I realize that people are staring at us. I’m the only blond, light-skinned
person in sight. Titus’s height makes him stand out like a conifer in the desert.
“I’m sure to be recognized,” Titus says below his breath.
“In these disgusting clothes? With weeks of travel on our sleeves?”
“Yes. Be ready.”
“For what, exactly?” I ask. “Will I have to defend you from excess deference?”
He snorts. “Hardly. The Surat Confederacy is ruled by women. I’m expected to become a consort to Sylabet, not a ruler in my
own right.”
“Then—”
“Marriage and courtship in Suratia are a lot more fluid than in Corth or Iola. Even Grimsvold. Until our marriage is final,
I’m still . . . eligible.”
“So I’ll have to defend you against excess wooing?”
Titus is frowning. “Something like that.”
“You poor thing,” I tell him, shaking my head. “Handsome and strong. Profoundly Gifted. Heir to three kingdoms. Sought by
beautiful women all over the world. I can’t begin to fathom the burden you bear.”
Confusion riddles his face. Then: “You’re mocking me.”
I barely keep from laughing. Titus is thoughtful, observant, intelligent. But sometimes he can be thoroughly dense.
We reach the main gate. A dozen guards stand watch, six on each side, peering carefully at everyone as they pass. They are
all men, bare chested and bare legged. I turn away, blushing. Their attire would be considered immodest in Grimsvold.
The walls are thick enough that the entry gate feels like a short tunnel. A portcullis is held up by massive chains. As we
pass beneath it, I can’t help but imagine those massive iron spikes crashing down on top of us.
And then we’re through, and the city spreads out before us. Buildings are squished together and stacked on top of one another,
forming narrow alleys and crooked streets. Almost everything is a bright shade of brown—yellowish brown, reddish brown, orange-ish
brown—and made of either sandstone or adobe. Sailcloths in a riot of colors stretch across streets and walkways, providing
shade. The streets themselves are dusty but clean and well maintained.
I breathe in peppery spices and warm citrus. Flowers tumble from windowsills and climb two- and three-story trellises. A canal
filled with sparkling water curves around a busy market building with open-facing stalls. Pedestrian bridges arch over the
canal at regular intervals.
I’ve never seen so much bare skin in my life. Women wear sleeveless gowns with diaphanous skirts that barely reach their knees.
Men are mostly shirtless, with short, billowing pants made of cotton or silk. Everyone wears sandals, displaying toes with
glittery polish and jeweled rings.
The high potentat’s palace rises in the distance, framed by two bell towers with golden domes.
Beyond that is the Corthan escarpment at its highest, casting much-needed shade onto the royal quarter.
Three waterfalls of various thicknesses tumble down the escarpment.
Two look like white silk ribbons from this distance.
But the third, the widest and northernmost, has been lit by the afternoon sun to appear like fiery magma.
Titus follows my gaze and says, “That’s Sulestra Falls, Alwin Falls, and Winfry Falls, named after the sun and moons.”
“They’re incredible.”
“They’re liquid gold,” he says, sliding from Blackwind’s back. “Because the city would not survive without them. King Jaydeth
hates the fact that so much of his water ends up in Cathira.”
I hand him Blackwind’s reins, and Titus leads us deeper into the city. We make so many turns that I would be completely lost
if not for the looming escarpment to the east and the vast nothingness to the north.
The Edge of the World. Too many rooftops block my view of it, but I can feel it there, so vast and empty. Or maybe it’s just the wind, which is gentle but constant—a testimony to the unspeakably massive
abyss that lurks just over the horizon.
We skirt another busy market, this one filled mostly with textiles. A corner stand promises the “best spicy crisper in the
confederacy” and displays several headless, skinless rats impaled on sticks. My mouth waters involuntarily at the scent of
peppery meat.
“I wish I had enough money to hire a litter,” Titus grumbles, but I truly don’t mind the long walk. With the notable exception of rat cuisine, I want to see everything.
We cross a canal, and it’s like parting a curtain into another world, because the buildings go from clustered tenements and
open-air market stalls to limestone mansions, wide streets, and adorable storefronts with carved wooden doors and real glass
panes.
“Welcome to the royal quarter,” Titus whispers.
Our journey angles steeply uphill. The streets are less crowded with pedestrians, but litters pass by every few seconds, mostly
two-seaters carried by two or more young men who jog with remarkable synchronicity. Tinkling wind chimes alert us, and Titus
pulls us to the side of the road to allow a palanquin to pass—it’s much larger than the litters for hire, and closed off by
beaded silk curtains. A flag flies from the top, displaying a bright rectangular emerald. The brass chimes hanging from the