A woman two rows ahead of him—who was dabbing at her cheeks with fresh rouge from a compact while her partner leaned over a mini aerescreen—was talking to someone on the other side of the communicator. The man sucked in a sharp breath. Burning a smidgen of aetheurgy, the silvery sheen exploded within Emre. The thrumming heartbeats of all the guests, their idle chatter nearly overpowered him. Focusing, he picked out the pair’s words.
“…said it’s true,” the man said, “heard it from his sister’s friend, who was there.”
“Can’t be,” the bouffant-haired woman replied. “Not been heard from since the conquest.”
“That’s what I said. But he swears she named herself Brynn Benld.”
His scars began to itch, but he fought the urge to scratch.
Val must have sensed his state because her veil swished as she woke. “Are you okay?”
You know I’m not. He snuffed his aetheurgy. “Yes.” He held her hand. Be safe, my daughter. I wish I could have told you I love you. “Everything is fine.”
Val nestled back into his shoulder, her hair tickling his cheek. “She’ll be fine. She’s got your stubbornness.”
Emre smiled at the thought. Brynn and Cadrianna both. Both here, one happy family reunion.
Although seated at what he might consider the rear of the gondola, the all-around window gave clear view of Gargantua as it grew larger. The walls overtook the gondola as it entered the interior, but not before Emre noted the massive airships docked to the lower half of the fortress. Guild airships.
Just like Tevun had predicted. The Imperium was indeed stirring for war and the Guild had thrown in their lot with the Fallen. The High Seat in Alizarin must be growing fearful the Fallen might come to Altreyia next.
Emre’s plan now took on more importance than ever.
The wheels came to a stop upon the cables within the arching gateway, the carriage swaying as it locked into place. Glass doors opened and a pair of guards upon the gangplank patiently guided the guests toward a series of steps which would lead them to the party. Emre and Val were amongst the last to depart.
A second gondola carriage had been dragged to the side, shattered panes. There were maintenance crewmen repairing the damage, drilling and refitting the glass as they passed by.
“Wonder what happened there?” Val whispered as they followed the parade of party guests.
Nothing with broken windows meant good tidings. It meant a fight. “My guess is that it’s our catalyst.” It was a sobering thought to think of one’s daughter in a fight to the death. He would have to get used to such thoughts. “Wick, Finn, where are you? Copy.”
Wick was the first to answer, but it had taken them halfway up the stairs into a cavern of hanging stone lights before they received his response. “Digging the spice from the soup now,” the lapin said through a bunch of static. “You up high yet? Over.”
“Good to hear your voice, Wick. Topside almost. Over.”
“I’m coming to you for the main course. Has Ruane delivered you the meal? Over.”
“Still in the oven, Em.”
“On my way, humir,” came the response from the drakken. “The lapin will get his boomsticks.”
“Lots of delicacies. Kitchen serving a fired roast tonight. Over and out.” It was code that meant Wick was in a precarious position and couldn’t talk, which was fine for Emre, he just wanted confirmation the lapin was in place. It also meant that Wick was ready to receive the bombs the drakken carried.
They walked nonchalantly through the cavern, trying to blend with the rest of the partygoers. There were hundreds milling within, looking at statues, at artwork, at the intricate stonework. But most of the crowd was overlooking the balcony, and they were ‘oohing’ and ‘ahhing’ over Gargantua’s view.
Standing at a railing, Emre and Valeria joined the gaping horde.
Buildings with multiple tiers, buttresses spanning spires. Mahogany doors full of carvings, windows of stained glass. Grass-lined concrete walkways, flowers of every color, trees of long, wispy willows and others with boughs of twisting white, peeling bark. The setting of the sun left a perfect shade of pink upon it all.
Even the revenge starved Emre could stop and appreciate the beauty of Gargantua.
But then his conscious kicked in and he remembered why all this magnificence existed. Borne off the backs of his enslaved people. “Finn, you shiny?” There was silence for long minutes. “Finn? Copy?”
Nothing. Static buzzed in his ear and Emre’s hackles started to rise. Did Finn get caught? Was he in trouble? His heart began racing. Not yet, please.
Val sensed his apprehension and squeezed his arm. “He’s a rock, that one. Hardheaded to boot. He’s fine.”
“Finn?”
“Oh hey, love. There ya are,” Finn’s voice finally resounded in his earpiece. “Where you been? Over.”
“Where have I been? By the Arbiter, Finn.”
“I’m fine.” A pause, some static. “No, I’m not talking to you, you old hag. Just admiring my handsomeness in this pot you got me slaving away at. What’s that? O yeah, sure no problem. Get right to them.” More static, some incoherent voices. “I’m on it. Calm down.” Another pause. “Gotta go, Em. Over and out.”
“See,” Val said. “My brother-friend’s fine.”
A crier called from behind, “Everyone, please, this way. The party is about to start. If you’ll follow me.”
They became wedged within a crowd of stolae and suits, masks and veils, styled hair and scented oils. Amongst panache and gluttony, greed and avarice. Standing within a grand brick-formed oval entranceway, the nimiety of party guests was like livestock awaiting the bolt.
Emre felt claustrophobic. His scars itched and he struggled to fight the urge to frenzy them.
The flock of guests jostled, laughed, joked, cursed, and scowled as they waited for their gracious host. Elegantly clad servants in black-and-red overcoats stood patiently on either side of the twenty-foot oak doors. Somewhere behind the doors, music flowed sweetly.
A hush filtered within the crowd as the servants’ white gloves pushed open the doors, revealing the entranceway to the party.
A spanning garden of brick led to an open veranda where a raised dais held a dance floor with balustrade stairs. Servants aplenty with trays of crystalline glasses full of wine, bubbled or chilled. Surrounding the dais were waist-high tables draped in fine silks of deep red, candelabras atop. A low wall of brick separated an open grassy area where tables for sitting were located, bearing the same linens and candle holders, but with the addition of iced buckets of wine. A hedge of green outlined the mezzanine. Suspended from yawning trees above the dance floor was a clock polished in dark stain and golden filigree. Aethecite lights along coils weaved throughout, illuminating the dance floor in a soft glow. Opposite was a grand staircase with gilded banisters, a crimson runner down the marble risers. The stairs curved upward toward a set of darkened redwood doors from the Forest of Calibrath, highlighted by a pair of aethecite globes.
