Total pages in book: 204
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Because they’ve been killed or died off.
And the buildings we pass, though whole and clean, are showing a loss of roof tiles here and there, a chimney that requires a repair, a column that is split and unfixed.
This Kingdom of the South is teetering on a fall. Add some centuries? It’ll be what’s down that slope, eroded back to the raw components from which it was made.
Everything is as the mural proclaimed.
When I and my escort of guards reach the edge of the city, we exit a border wall and proceed out into the meadow of wildflowers. The crop fields are off to the south, and I know from my previous foray into the compass’s map as well as what Merc’s map showed, that there’s an ocean somewhere close by, but I cannot visualize the latter. I’m not concerned with the land’s details, however.
It’s the sun I am most focused on.
Now I thank fates for the passage of all that time in the cell, and I can guess the why of the delay. The Queen had given an order to let me go, and the vizare wanted to make sure her majesty was serious about her decision. No doubt that advisor was hoping that clearer minds would prevail in the morning. And into the start of the afternoon.
Obviously they didn’t.
It’s a relief to see the trees come up, because it means no more daylight will be wasted with travel, but I am filled with dread as the gate looms. While I look up and follow the walkway across the top of the great doors, a shot of fear goes through me. Over to the north and west, way above the spiky stone summits of the mountains, there are shadows riding the currents. They look like birds, but that’s a misinterpretation because of distance. They are dragons, readying for the hunt as wildlife begins to move into its nocturnal hideouts. I imagine that those kings of the clouds live off of ogres and maybe skystalkers, in addition to the dsteers and goatum that roam the more habitable rises.
But they might well take a human if they were hungry enough. Or a stallion.
Soon enough, I am once again standing before the mighty gate with its banded bare trunks and its center split. The creaking occurs at the hinges as the side I entered is opened once again, and then I see through to the mist on the other side.
No one says a thing. But I didn’t expect the guards to wish me well or help. Their job begins and ends at seeing me to this point, and I suspect they’re relieved to discharge the responsibility. At least my stallion is sticking with me. Lavante is happy to go through and be in charge once again, no more horses he must follow. He has no conception of what we are in for, however, as we confront the fog … and the gate starts to close—
“Wait!” I call out.
I expect the closure to continue. When there’s a pause, I wheel Lavante around.
“I need one more thing,” I request. “Please.”
Eighty
Spiders and Rubies.
On the far side of the gate, the mist is even thicker than I remember, and I’m battered from all sides as we go through the trees with their slapping branches. Lavante is just too good at weaving in and out of that which I cannot see, another game he likes to play. The torch that I got from the guards doesn’t help. Flames flare and spit as I dodge the arboreal attacks, but all the golden light gets consumed in the thick humidity, frustrating me as I search for the drop-off down to the ruins—
We find the slope when Lavante’s hooves slip out from under him.
As he goes into a topple, I’m nearly unseated, and grab on to his mane to try to steady myself while also making sure I don’t light either of us on fire. Even with his superior sense of balance, he’s falling sideways through the mist, his hooves digging for purchase, his grunts a testament to how hard he is working to recover.
I look back at where we were; then attempt to see forward.
If the mist persists below now, I worry that we’ll not be able to orient ourselves at the bottom and sure enough, we finish the scrambling descent without notice, the ground underfoot suddenly angling sharply to the flat.
I can see absolutely nothing.
And then, as I cue Lavante forward, there’s a sloppy sound.
Fates, I think we’re in the marshes. I’ve gotten turned around without knowing it, distracted by conjecture, fear, and sorrow—as well as our sloppy, flailing nosedive—so I didn’t check in with the compass. And now I’m certain we are much, much closer to the ocean than the ruins.
Pulling up on the reins, I squint as I look around even though that doesn’t help. If we keep going in the wrong direction, we’re going to get mired in, and that is going to be disastrous.