Dreams of Darkness Rising (8 page)

Emelia could not help but marvel at the pristine beauty of the buildings as they passed through the city square and turned towards the lower gate. The grandeur of the architecture hailed from the days of the First Empire and the conservatism of the Eerians had maintained its sharp lines in the millennia since. It took little imagination to think of life in those past times. The huge libraries, concert halls, theatres and noble houses would have changed not one iota. To Emelia this observation conveyed not awe at the structures but sorrow at the sterility of a city that had never advanced past its triumphs. It was a city as cold as the winds that whistled through its stone canyons.

The rickshaw slowed as a parade of robed adolescents crossed the avenue. A half dozen Air-mages flanked them as they strode along the wide street, their grey robes rippling in the wind. At the rear of the group a score of Eerians followed, the opulence of their garb inferring noble status.

“The candidates for the Choosing. They must be on the way to the Enclave,” Abila said.

Emelia barely registered Abila’s statement. She stared at the sombre figure of a Knight of the Air, who marched at the very edge of the group. The knight was a tall woman, her grey hair tied back in a bun. Her eyes transiently met Emelia’s and the young housemaid had an odd premonitory sensation.

“You’ll be seeing some of them soon enough, Emelia,” Mother Gresham said as they watched the parade pass.

Emelia felt sick inside, a rising terror in the pit of her stomach. What Mother Gresham said was true, but for some odd reason she just couldn’t see herself at the Enclave. It was a ridiculous notion—after all she had never visited the place. Yet she had a peculiar idea that if she simply tried not to imagine it, to deny its reality, then it simply wouldn’t happen.

She had developed a stitch in her side by the time they approached the gate and a glance at Abila indicated that she was tiring too. The gatehouse was a splendid structure that had admittedly sacrificed something of its defence value for its image. Two rounded towers stood as sentries either side of a small barbican. The gate itself was an enormous pair of metal shod doors, with a raised portcullis for good measure on the exterior side of the short tunnel.

“Is this the way out of the city?” Torm asked.

“Not really. It’s the way to the Avenue that will take us down to the lower city. I’ll warn you the view is quite frightening the first time you go down.”

The boy paled as they walked through. He glanced up at the murder holes, now worn smooth by the wind. The guards at the gates were idle. Six of them stood within the wide tunnel as the rickshaw trundled through, their red and silver tunics covering well-kept chain mail. They nodded at Mother Gresham and winked at the two servant girls.

“It is said that during the coup that ended the Empire that Lord Ebon-Farr’s ancestor slew the mad Emperor’s champion at these gates. He rode through a hail of arrows and past a rain of oil from the murder holes,” Abila said to Torm.

The footman scampered forward swiftly and then stumbled to a halt at the awesome view. The Avenue of Clouds was the only link between the upper and the lower city and it descended precipitously. It was a broad road etched into the mountainside and bordered by a small wall that reduced the risk of any unplanned descents over the edge. Millennia of traffic had necessitated a near continual cycle of repair and it was rare to actually travel the length of its steep incline without encountering at least one crew of dark skinned slaves patching the surface.

The farmlands of Lower Eeria could be seen far below, extending to the horizon. Torm instinctively held the side of the rickshaw as it began its descent.

Eager to keep the boy’s mind off the journey, Emelia pointed towards the lower city.

“You can see the falls of Alkar to your left. The River Garnet comes through the upper city walls and it plummets hundreds of feet into a pothole. You can’t see that bit for the mists. It comes out way below in the lower city in the neighbourhood of Cheapside.

“If you look through the haze you can just make out the tiny plateau below and to the south of the upper city. That’s Ferioch-Torik, where the temples of Blessed Torik are.”

The descent was slow, with the shift of weight now pressing down on the backs of the rickshaw drivers. After half an hour the rickshaw and its companions had creaked all the way down the Avenue, overtaken by almost every other traveller who came from the upper city. They passed through the eastern gate of the lower city. It lacked the splendour of its counterpart at the top end of the Avenue but had a similar functionality, with twin towers and a portcullis.

The contrast between the districts of Coonor was initially subtle when one entered the lower plateaus. The Coonorians civic pride still extended to this inferior aspect of their city. The pale stones of the buildings were from identical quarries and indeed the style of the construction, arrived at by centuries of architectural rumination was in essence the same. It was as if the regal skeleton of the upper city and its sombre Imperial memories had been thrown down the mountainside and the flesh of life restored to its bones. The lower city overpowered the senses. The shouts and cries assailed the ears whilst the odours of every part of life here found their way to nose and mouth.

“The ‘wise woman’ lives on the far side of the market so we’ll have to cut through the carnival,” Abila said to Emelia.

“Stay close to the rickshaw,” Emelia said to Torm. “And don’t worry I hated crowds the first time I was brought here.”

“Did it make you yearn all the more for the tranquillity of the Islands?”

“What little I can remember.”

The streets in the lower city were narrower and more winding than those higher up the mountain. A multitude of houses loomed from all angles as the six moved through the throng. The stone structures had far more variety in the lower city with roofs of slate, wood, thatch and even tin creating a constantly changing skyline. Busy shops were squeezed next to noisy inns next to brightly decorated town houses, all a backdrop to the human tide that ebbed and flowed with the joy of the festival.

The rickshaw dragged its way through a mass of exuberant Coonorians as they traversed the Jewellery Quarter towards the market square. Torm and Emelia clung onto the side of the rickshaw, whilst Mother Gresham swore at the foolishness of the revellers. Sandila looked wan and was silent, staring in envy at those in the streets.

The group passed the bottleneck that had formed at the end of Gate Street and emerged into the large market square. Emelia’s eyes widened at the crowds as they headed towards Cheap Street on the far side of the square. Golden-toothed Mirioth merchants proclaimed the beauty of their finest carpets and rugs shoulder to shoulder with Midlundian brewers selling beer by the barrel. Two Air-mages haggled with a bearded Coonorian over a stack of scrolls and journals. It felt strange to Emelia to see mages engaged in something so mundane after her encounter with Inkas-Tarr.

Emelia spotted a tanned trader, perhaps Feldorian, selling bottles of red wine to a richly dressed Eerian and his retainers. Children knocked into baker boys who carried trays of pies that exuded welcome odours into the crisp mountain air. Carts pulled by hill ponies lumbered through the festival, loaded with produce from the farmlands of Lower Eeria and the Delta.

“What in Asha’s name are those?” Torm asked.

A tingle of excitement ran through Emelia as she saw the squat forms of four Galvorians. They were looking with curiosity at some oak chairs, chatting in their strange language. Even in the din of the crowd the sounds stood out, as if two huge millstones were constantly scraping.

“Galvorians. Annre calls then potato men,” Abila said.

“Abila, that’s awful,” Emelia said. Torm chuckled.

Emelia returned to her examination of the Galvorians. They stood five foot tall with dark brown skin that had the appearance of soil. Their eyes were completely black and glinted like onyx in the sunlight of the Eerian day. She was fascinated by their complete lack of hair and a pang of ignorance came within her as she realised she knew so little about them and their culture.

“They are hired by the lords to work in the mines just out of the city, I think,” Abila said. “Mother had said they have a natural draw to finding gems and gold.”

“Wouldn’t it be magical to see where they came from? I wonder what their homeland is like?”

Abila was distracted and did not answer. From within Emelia’s head the familiar voice of Emebaka commented,
perhaps if we chose not to go to the Arch-mage we could find out. Look at all these people; it’d be so easy to slip away
.

Emelia scowled at her rebellious inner voice and turned to see what had drawn Abila’s attention.

The rickshaw had halted and the two drivers were begging Mother Gresham for a rest and a drink. She nodded gruffly and began to talk in low tones to Sandila, her jowls wobbling with each wag of her pudgy digit. The drivers bought a flagon of ale from a Midlundian brewer and eased back in exhaustion on the poles of their vehicle.

Eight soldiers approached the rickshaw, their red tunics emblazoned with a silver eagle and the sun glinting off their spears and mail. At the front of the group strode Captain Ris, his hand resting with self-importance on his longsword.

“Good day, Mother, Girls. It is a grand morn to be gracing the lower city with your collective beauty.”

“Captain, what a treat!” Mother Gresham said.

The rickshaw drivers looked as if they were going to kiss the Captain for the additional rest he had just earned them.

“We brought the new boy down on an errand for Master Uthor. It’s his first time in the lower city. I fear he is rather overwhelmed,” Gresham said. Torm looked at his feet.

“Well the festival is well underway so you’ve chosen an exciting time to be down here. The carnival folk are in the south part of the square. They have bears with them this year—dancing ones. They’re chasing around the masques and the fools and keeping my lads on their guard.”

Gresham chuckled in delight, wobbling the rickshaw dangerously.

“How ever do you and your poor, poor boys manage to keep a lid on all this revelry?”

Captain Ris puffed out his chest in smugness, as was his manner, and gestured towards the roof of a small church to Torik.

Atop the church steeple were two winged creatures. They stood tall, with long slender limbs and golden feathers on their bodies. Their slim arms were wings and here the feathers were longer and darker, folded into their sides as they balanced atop the slates. Emelia marvelled at their faces, for each had the head of a bird: one a hawk and the other an eagle. Pale wood bows were secured to their backs and a quiver of arrows to their slender hips.

“Netreptans,” Mother Gresham said. “Good captain, I didn’t know you worked with the bird-men thus.”

Ris preened his beard, as if the association with the Netreptans had made him fancy himself a peacock. His soldiers exchanged weary glances.

“It’s a new move from the council. Highlord Cranston felt it would be a good show of unity with them, especially during the Choosing. They’re a bit strange to work with—must be the thin air in their cloud cities.”

Abila, Torm and Emelia continued to stare at the pair of Netreptans, amazed that such creatures could accept the command of one such as Captain Ris.

“I mean every four years that this festival comes here is such a strain on our garrison. You probably weren’t aware of this, girls, as you’re too young to remember your arrival here, but it takes days for all these foreigners to get used to the clean Coonorian air. I’ll warrant the boy knows what I’m talking about. You make a Miroth run around the town on his first night and he’s liable to faint dead away.”

Abila had wandered off further into the square and Emelia glanced at Mother Gresham enquiringly. Mother nodded her permission whilst listening to Ris’s chatter, indicating for her to take Torm. Emelia slipped the cloth bag onto the rickshaw and the pair ran to catch up with their friend.

It would be an untruth to say that Emelia feared crowds but today felt somehow odd. A knot of unease began in her belly as she slipped through the gaggle of people. Glancing to her side she noticed several city folk scowling at her and one or two whispering as she passed.

“Emelia, about the other week,” Torm said. “In the corridor, I…”

“You don’t need to say anything. It was just bad luck on my part. I’m trying to forget it. So should you.”

“I should have got the sword and…”

“You’d be the main show on the gallows today if you had. No, Torm, thank you for being so noble but let’s not talk of it again.”

Torm nodded and they wriggled through the throng.

Abila had come to stand before a troupe of carnival folk, along with about two- dozen others. Emelia balked at the show that was being performed before them. She had detested the masked troubadours that Eerians referred to as masques for many years.

The show today was an enactment of some ancient magical battle in a far away land called Kevor and the masques rolled and mimed their imaginary spells to the whoops of the crowd, throwing red cloths to symbolise the blasts of magical fire. Their faces were wooden caricatures, with bulbous noses and garish cheeks that muffled their speech to a near indiscernible point.

“They’re hideous,” Torm said.

Emelia shuddered and said, “Mother used to be fond of scaring us with stories about the terrible plague helmets of old. The helmets were created during the Plague of Dust that wiped out old Azagunta.”

“What did they look like?”

“She said they had funnelled beaks and glass eyes. Blessed Torik, I didn’t sleep for a month after that.”

Torm smiled and touched Emelia’s arm lightly. The slave girl blushed and glanced over Torm’s shoulder. Four women were looking in disgust at her and sneering.

The noise of the crowd escalated as the play neared its finale and Emelia caught the eyes of two Eerian women smirking at her. She glanced down, her heart pounding, feeling the press of the crowd all around. Her breathing was getting shallower with the heat of the bodies that were beginning to jostle and push. It was as if she couldn’t inhale properly and a sudden vision of being crushed under a stampede of people came upon her. She tasted sour bile in her mouth and her yarkel-wool cloak felt heavy and stifling. Her shaking hand reached to her shell necklace for reassurance.