Mirror Sight
Page 74
As they rode away from the Scangly Mounds, Karigan took one more glance toward where the castle once stood in the distance. The smoke and haze had settled more heavily over the Old City than when she’d first viewed it. The clouds looked to suffocate all that was left. She turned her gaze away with a sigh that carried all the tiredness and sorrow she felt, and watched the path ahead.
The haze hovered over the mount like a poisonous fog. It shortened Lhean’s breath and burned his eyes. From its rim, he dropped down into his crevice and sat with his back against compressed rock and debris, a dim shaft of light falling on him. He closed his eyes, wondering why the people here allowed themselves to be exposed to such filth. He could only guess that they did not care they were shortening their already short, mortal lives.
He’d tried leaving the mount to search for the Galadheon, whom he sensed to be somewhere down in the city. He’d gone at night and only got as far as the river. The aura of misery, of cold brick and machine, had been too much for him, and he retreated to the remains of the Old City, back into hiding where he could consider his next move.
And now, another day was passing. He’d die here in these ruins just as surely as he would in the city below. His armor had turned a shade of gray, and not just from dirt. It had begun to flake and it ached. Ached all over his body. How long before it perished, and he must shed it? The armor mirrored his overall well-being. If he could not get home, or at least get off this mount and find proper nourishment, he too would perish, cease to exist.
He gathered a few edible wild herbs and roots growing among the ruins, but they were sparse and stunted, poisoned by the same air and water as he himself, and it was not enough to sustain him. He had one precious nugget of chocolate left in his pack. The maker of the chocolate called the variety Dragon Droppings. Eating it would revive Lhean’s spirit and vitality for a while, but he’d been reserving it for a time of dire need. As he weakened, he realized the need was nearly upon him. There would be a point after which even chocolate would not aid him.
He cracked his eyes open to gaze at the gray sky drifting past the craggy rim of his hiding place. If he ate the chocolate, he would have to take advantage of its benefits and enter the city to find the Galadheon. She was no Eletian, but she was his only link to home, and perhaps between the two of them they could find a way back. After all, it was the Galadheon who caused them to be here, wasn’t it? She who could cross thresholds . . .
He would do it under cover of darkness, of course. During the day the mount was too busy with slaves and their masters making the road and erecting a wood-framed structure at the summit. Fortunately his excellent sense of hearing had not deserted him, and even now he heard voices in conversation. They were not very close, and he was not in any present danger of being discovered.
“I’m telling ya,” one man said, “it’s got some of the slaves spooked, and their overseers, too.”
“These ruins are full of ghost stories,” a second man said.
“Yeah, but it’s slowin’ down work and making the boss none too happy. They say they see a figure all in white standing there, then the next moment it’s gone.”
Lhean frowned. Though he’d been careful in his scouting, he must have been seen. How else could he find out what was happening in the world if he did not scout? Just as well he was mistaken for a ghost—these ruins lent themselves to mortal superstitions very well.
The second man laughed. “Tell you what. If we see a ghost, I’ll shoot it, and then we’ll see whether or not it bleeds. Eh?”
The rest of the conversation faded as the two men moved out of range. Lhean would have to be more careful than ever to avoid discovery. The men he saw on the mount—men other than the poor slaves—carried weapons. Not bows and arrows, or swords, but devices that reeked of death and made him almost ill to look at. He’d seen them use the weapons, taking aim at the occasional hare or rodent. He’d covered his ears at the terrible noise they made, his eyes stinging from the quick gouts of flame that burst from the devices. The men usually missed their targets, but Lhean had seen how forceful the weapons were, how deadly they could be. He could be taken down long before he ever got within sword’s length of one of these shooters.
He’d heard of “concussives” used in the days of Mornhavon the Black, weapons that had helped defeat Argenthyne. What he saw of these shooting weapons sounded like the concussives of old. Had time bent round on itself?
He shook himself, trying to replace the images of these weapons, this place, by recalling memories of home, of Eletia, spring green and rattling aspen leaves, the slender white boughs of birches entwining overhead; of the music of water flowing through a lush glen and the myriad voices of songbirds. He faded into the memories, whispering a song of home, the ruins and gray air vanishing from waking thought.
The stars of Avrath, moon to rise, guide me, guide me home, he sang in his own tongue, for I am a mariner lost, a mariner lost on the misty sea . . .
AN INVITATION
On the ride home, Raven grew more skittish the closer they got to the city, but Karigan now knew what to expect, and so they reached the professor’s stables without incident. Upon their arrival, however, Luke received a message from one of his lads.
“You’d best get changed,” he told Karigan. “The boys will take care of Raven. You’ve got a guest.”
“A guest?”
Luke nodded. “Apparently someone of importance. It was conveyed that I should urge you to hurry.”
The haze hovered over the mount like a poisonous fog. It shortened Lhean’s breath and burned his eyes. From its rim, he dropped down into his crevice and sat with his back against compressed rock and debris, a dim shaft of light falling on him. He closed his eyes, wondering why the people here allowed themselves to be exposed to such filth. He could only guess that they did not care they were shortening their already short, mortal lives.
He’d tried leaving the mount to search for the Galadheon, whom he sensed to be somewhere down in the city. He’d gone at night and only got as far as the river. The aura of misery, of cold brick and machine, had been too much for him, and he retreated to the remains of the Old City, back into hiding where he could consider his next move.
And now, another day was passing. He’d die here in these ruins just as surely as he would in the city below. His armor had turned a shade of gray, and not just from dirt. It had begun to flake and it ached. Ached all over his body. How long before it perished, and he must shed it? The armor mirrored his overall well-being. If he could not get home, or at least get off this mount and find proper nourishment, he too would perish, cease to exist.
He gathered a few edible wild herbs and roots growing among the ruins, but they were sparse and stunted, poisoned by the same air and water as he himself, and it was not enough to sustain him. He had one precious nugget of chocolate left in his pack. The maker of the chocolate called the variety Dragon Droppings. Eating it would revive Lhean’s spirit and vitality for a while, but he’d been reserving it for a time of dire need. As he weakened, he realized the need was nearly upon him. There would be a point after which even chocolate would not aid him.
He cracked his eyes open to gaze at the gray sky drifting past the craggy rim of his hiding place. If he ate the chocolate, he would have to take advantage of its benefits and enter the city to find the Galadheon. She was no Eletian, but she was his only link to home, and perhaps between the two of them they could find a way back. After all, it was the Galadheon who caused them to be here, wasn’t it? She who could cross thresholds . . .
He would do it under cover of darkness, of course. During the day the mount was too busy with slaves and their masters making the road and erecting a wood-framed structure at the summit. Fortunately his excellent sense of hearing had not deserted him, and even now he heard voices in conversation. They were not very close, and he was not in any present danger of being discovered.
“I’m telling ya,” one man said, “it’s got some of the slaves spooked, and their overseers, too.”
“These ruins are full of ghost stories,” a second man said.
“Yeah, but it’s slowin’ down work and making the boss none too happy. They say they see a figure all in white standing there, then the next moment it’s gone.”
Lhean frowned. Though he’d been careful in his scouting, he must have been seen. How else could he find out what was happening in the world if he did not scout? Just as well he was mistaken for a ghost—these ruins lent themselves to mortal superstitions very well.
The second man laughed. “Tell you what. If we see a ghost, I’ll shoot it, and then we’ll see whether or not it bleeds. Eh?”
The rest of the conversation faded as the two men moved out of range. Lhean would have to be more careful than ever to avoid discovery. The men he saw on the mount—men other than the poor slaves—carried weapons. Not bows and arrows, or swords, but devices that reeked of death and made him almost ill to look at. He’d seen them use the weapons, taking aim at the occasional hare or rodent. He’d covered his ears at the terrible noise they made, his eyes stinging from the quick gouts of flame that burst from the devices. The men usually missed their targets, but Lhean had seen how forceful the weapons were, how deadly they could be. He could be taken down long before he ever got within sword’s length of one of these shooters.
He’d heard of “concussives” used in the days of Mornhavon the Black, weapons that had helped defeat Argenthyne. What he saw of these shooting weapons sounded like the concussives of old. Had time bent round on itself?
He shook himself, trying to replace the images of these weapons, this place, by recalling memories of home, of Eletia, spring green and rattling aspen leaves, the slender white boughs of birches entwining overhead; of the music of water flowing through a lush glen and the myriad voices of songbirds. He faded into the memories, whispering a song of home, the ruins and gray air vanishing from waking thought.
The stars of Avrath, moon to rise, guide me, guide me home, he sang in his own tongue, for I am a mariner lost, a mariner lost on the misty sea . . .
AN INVITATION
On the ride home, Raven grew more skittish the closer they got to the city, but Karigan now knew what to expect, and so they reached the professor’s stables without incident. Upon their arrival, however, Luke received a message from one of his lads.
“You’d best get changed,” he told Karigan. “The boys will take care of Raven. You’ve got a guest.”
“A guest?”
Luke nodded. “Apparently someone of importance. It was conveyed that I should urge you to hurry.”
