Chapter Three
After they crossed the marsh, the landscape was simply more boggy grassland, sometimes interrupted with patches of dry land and trees, sometimes passing through farming villages that all looked much the same and mocked him for the loss of his own. He stopped looking out the window.
The priest appeared to fall asleep again, though he was sitting upright with his head drooped a little to one side, so Ethyr wasn’t sure.
Despite his bony structure, his nose was rather bulbous, and he had a wart above his left eyebrow.
Without those staring blue eyes, he didn’t look intimidating at all.
His gnarled hands, resting in his lap, had a wax-seal ring on one finger, and a simple iron band on another.
He had no belt at all, and a silver brooch that looked like a ram closed the long neckline of his robe.
His cream silk shoes looked useless as comfortable or durable footwear.
It was strange fashion, to be sure. He wondered if everyone at the palace dressed like that. If he’d have to. The guards at least wore normal tunics, though of richer material than anything he could hope to own, and with sandals instead of boots.
He also examined the gold knocker on the wall behind the priest; the dark, perfectly smooth wood of the benches they sat on; wondered where the silk fabric covering it was from, what stuffed it that made the seat so comfortable; how the rug under his feet was made so fluffy and soft.
He was running out of things to hold his attention, and staying inside the little carriage was starting to become insufferable when a different cadence of noise drew his attention out the window once more.
It was not just the chatter of town life—dogs barking, children playing—it was loud, and so constant as to blend together into some indecipherable hum.
Ethyr watched buildings sprout up around them.
They weren’t square houses with lots of rooms hanging off them, but singularly tall, so tall that their carriage would have to be stacked on top of itself three times to even reach the roofs.
And they were stuck together, or so close together not even a child could slip through the cracks.
Their walls were flat and white, a material almost like dried clay.
The dull thud of hooves on dirt had become loud, tinny clops as the horses pulled the carriage over a road lined with endless flat stones.
Dogs barked and fought over scraps, chickens were imprisoned in reed cages, and there seemed to be no end to the groups of people talking or shouting or laughing.
They only glanced at the carriage before continuing whatever they were doing without any indication of interest. Not a goat or sheep or pig could be seen, though their meats were on display in front of some buildings.
“I’ve never seen so many people in my life,” Ethyr breathed.
The priest glanced out the window, disinterested.
“Is this what the capital is like?”
The man chuckled, shaking his head like Ethyr was an amusing child, and did not respond.
As they continued along, the street did not end, and people did not disperse.
If anything there only grew to be more of them.
Many of the buildings’ lower halves were open to air, and inside were shops selling fabrics, accessories, pottery, tools, meat, produce, cooked food.
The latter drifted tantalizing scents through the air that rumbled Ethyr’s stomach and reminded him that he hadn’t eaten since early morning.
Night had already fallen when they first entered the city, and when the horses finally stopped and the swaying carriage stilled, the sky was pitch black. The priest lifted the door clasp and a few seconds later a guard opened it and stepped aside with an offering of his hand.
The priest gestured for Ethyr to go first. He lifted the basket, the remains of his life, and pulled away when the guard tried to take it from him.
So he was allowed to keep it as he stepped down onto the stone-paved earth.
The patches of stone were flat and smooth on top, but still hurt his feet through his soft-leather boots.
Unlike the comforting, soft warmth of dirt, the stones only offered hard coldness, seeping up through his soles.
Although it was late into the night, the street was not dark. It was lit with lanterns attached to the surrounding buildings, though here and there people were leaning out of windows to extinguish their lights.
“Come along,” the priest said abruptly, and the male guard’s firm hand gripped Ethyr’s shoulder and forced him forward.
Unlike the village, where the guards had seemed mostly relaxed and unconcerned, here they walked stiffly in front and behind them, hands on their sword hilts and eyes casting around the street.
They arrived at a bridge, a real bridge, which Ethyr had heard described but never seen.
It stretched out over a river, another new sight.
He had seen streams, but they were nothing like this.
The water ran strong and wide, battering white foam against the stones that held the walkway so far above it, but the stones did not topple and the bridge did not budge under the force.
Ethyr didn’t know where to look as they crossed: at the smooth stone walkway, made up of thousands of individual rocks yet holding as solid and steady as earth, or over the side, at the water rushing below his feet as he walked untouched above it like a god.
On the other end there was more city. They did not go into it, but followed a path along the river.
It sloped down until it was near level with the water.
There, tied tightly to posts along the riverbank, was a large, long boat.
That must have been what it was, though it didn’t look like the descriptions from travelers.
There were no cloths tied to the top or people sitting inside with sticks jutting out.
It looked almost like a house, a covered wooden structure standing in its middle with curved roof points that held glass-and-iron lanterns at each corner.
Two people who had been standing idly nearby and chatting straightened when the group came near. One of them hurried to lift a wide plank from the ground and hook it over the side of the boat. Then they quickly stepped aside and bent almost double.
The red-haired guard, Poyut, walked up the plank without hesitation, turning once inside the boat to help the priest up and into it. Then she held out a hand to Ethyr.
He stood at the bottom of the plank, looking at the narrow strip between the stone bank and the bowl of the boat. Water rushed under the makeshift bridge, looking much more vicious and dangerous than it had from several heights above it.
“It is perfectly safe, Your Divinity,” she reassured him. “Pass me your basket.”
He looked down at the wicker top, latched shut with two leather clasps. Just the thought of holding it out made his stomach turn, imagining dropping it and watching it rush away under the torrent, gone forever. Like the rest of his life.
He swallowed and shakily held it out, gripping it so tightly that the woven sticks dug painfully into his palms. The guard took it and rested it down into the boat, then reached out again.
Ethyr stepped onto the plank, pressing some weight on it to make sure it wouldn’t buckle immediately. Then he grabbed the guard’s hand and threw himself into the boat, bypassing the rest of the plank altogether.
He staggered inside, the floor lower than he expected, but the guard’s support stopped him from falling over. He looked up and was surprised to see a smile on her face.
“You could be a riverman, Your Divinity.”
“A what?”
She nodded to the two boatmen. One of them and the other guard had already climbed inside.
The man still on the bank removed the little walkway, then they both went to untie the thick ropes keeping the boat in place.
When they were loose, the boatman on the dock vaulted over the unobstructed water, clearing the side of the boat just as it started barreling down the river.
He landed smoothly on his feet and immediately began winding up the rope, unaffected.
Ethyr doubted he had looked that elegant.
“Poyut,” the priest called. She straightened and looked over at him. He had gone to the far end of the house-like structure and was waiting at the corner. She lifted the basket and started to tuck it under an arm but Ethyr reached out imploringly.
“Can I carry it?” he asked, adding, “please,” as an afterthought. She obediently held it out for him and he wrapped his arms around it, hugging it to his chest. Then she gestured for him to go first, so he walked ahead of her to meet the priest.
There was a door on that end of the structure.
So it was a house. But inside was unlike any house Ethyr had ever seen.
The polished wooden floor was covered with a huge rug that almost reached the walls, its swirling, symmetrical pattern made of bright yellows and purples.
Expertly woven tapestries depicting scenes of luxury and leisure were hanging on the walls between the latticed, circular windows.
In the middle of it all was a low, round table, covered with dozens of small dishes piled with food Ethyr had never seen before.
The smell of roasted meats and fragrant herbs hit his nose the second he stepped into the room.
He halted cold at the marvelous sight of it all. The priest slipped past him and sat on one of the fat cushions on the floor next to the table.
“Sit,” he beckoned.
Ethyr carefully nestled the basket in a corner of the room and sat across from the man.
He reached out to the first plate in front of him, desperate to taste whatever the glistening golden-brown nuggets were.
A smack on the top of his hand made him pull back reflexively and he turned an equally reflexive pout to the priest wielding a slender piece of metal.
“Sit properly,” he admonished.