But that wasn’t all.
Fluted pedestals held acrobatic dancers in skin-tight clothing and ornate masks performing all sorts of flexible movements, contorting their bodies in unnatural, yet beautiful ways. A pair of flying trapeze artists swung back and forth above the dance floor, where small planks nestled into the trees waited for the artists to launch themselves. A full orchestra played upbeat music from under the far arch of a tree, led by a lovely vocalist with exquisite range. Masked servants stood ready with trays of delicacies from all over the Mistlands.
One thing that stood apart from the rest was a marble fountain that spewed arcs of clear liquid. But instead of splashing water, mist rose from the bowl.
“Is that?” Val said.
“Aethecite,” Emre finished, awe and anger mixed within his voice as he noted the prism of colors that threaded the arc and of the mist. Aether. “He’s taunting us. Carelessly brandishing his power over Drenth. Even as dozens die daily for his quotas.”
“How did they liquify it?”
“I don’t know, Val. I just don’t know.”
The guests entered with great aplomb, happy to savor the drink and food. Willing to sacrifice their vengeful morals to curry favor with the Fallen. The servants waded through the crowd with their trays, retreating with the empties only to come back with more. Emre spied Finn amongst the partygoers. The elfir gave him a wink before spinning away with his tray.
It was another half hour before the redwood doors at the top of the curved staircase opened. The vocalist lifted a soprano note, followed by the instruments. The guests quieted at the entrance song and looked up expectantly.
Solanine appeared.
The womanly body bore a flesh-tight, crimson stola the flared out below the knees into a ten-foot train, it hugged hips as the void-born creature within swayed down the steps. Slithered more like. Hair—coiled and braided—changed from blonde to brown as the aethecite glow highlighted the outer façade’s steps. No mask upon the heart-shaped face, full lips painted red as freshly spilt blood. A warpaint for a different type of combat.
“Friends of Drenth,” Solanine’s voice rang clear, “seventeen years ago you were liberated from the hardships placed upon your shoulders after the Fall of Eminence. Unable Drenth was in the aftermath to gain traction in this new world.” The partygoers listened with bated breath. “Trials given unto your children with naught but the Pentax’s curse covering the land, making it inhospitable. Until They gave us the means, a power of the earth itself. Power to warm when cold. Power to cook when weather was poor. Power to build this great mega-city from the ashes of the old world. Power of conquering the skies Zenith tried to forbid man from.”
“Aethecite!” a lone woman called from somewhere within the crowd.
“Precisely, my dearest friends of Drenth. A glorious gift.”
Through the death of my people, Emre thought bitterly. It wasn’t a glorious gift, but one of destruction. But the guests didn’t care, enthralled they were. Or uncaring only to bootlick personal favor.
“A gift to prosper.” Solanine paused for effect. Murmurs of agreement wriggled through the crowd. “However, raw aethecite was the only means we know. A method so archaic, we remain shackled to it. Long hardship you’ve suffered within the mines. Digging for years, bent with ache. Limited vision in daylight. Death comes too soon from its radiation. All for what? A tiny shard of metal so valuable the Mistlands would collapse without it.”
More whispers rose like the slow hum of an aethecite engine.
“But no longer will you have to work your fingers to the bone,” the blooddrake-in-the-flesh-of-man continued as if shoveling the very ore into said engines. “No longer will your children have to work eighteen hours a day in confined tunnels that cave in without notice. No longer will your spouses or loved ones worry that today might be your last within the tunnels or from the radiation. No longer will your brethren wonder where their next meal will come from.”
The crowd ate up Solanine’s words like a prisoner starved for days. More and more of the nobleborn were nodding their heads in agreement, whispering affirmations, tapping glasses in hear-hears.
Arms raised, Solanine silenced the crowd. “For five centuries you’ve toiled. Why? Because the Pentax, no Nocturne, stole true aether from us. Giving us the cursed mist, the deathly poison. Stolen from Zenith’s creations because His chosen warrior went mad. The Last Godsking did this to you, friends of Drenth. Forced you into this harsh life. His ego, his selfishness, it lies at his feet. Eminence would remain aloft in the heavens if not for him. There is a way, my friends, to bring it all back into our hands.”
And that’s when the firedrake roared.
The people cowered reflexively, frightened by the whooshing of wings overhead. Swooping down from the evenfall clouds, it came. Burnished crimson scales sparkled as its great bulk scythed through the sky in its descent. Eyes of blood, daemon eyes. Mouth agape as it came to a perfect landing upon the center of the raised dais, wings folding inward.
The people recovered, standing with heads raised to the magnificent beast. But Emre scratched his arms relentlessly as a dark-haired man slipped from the drake’s back.
The Fallen.
“Our master,” Solanine’s smile was so wide it nearly broke the contours of the stolen woman’s face, “plans to enter Eminence once more.” The murmurs rose in question, Solanine answered, “There is but one way, my friends of Drenth. The Seals to Eminence are real. The Seals block our path into the ancient city, but we know where they are. Our great master knows the key to breaking them. Once there, he will revive the Great Crystal, return our world back to what it once was. Banish the poisonous mist forever and unveil the riches hoarded upon the city by the Last Godsking. Our master is gracious. He is kind. All will be given their share of Zenith’s wealth. We will live as kings!”
The crowd devolved into a mass of cheerful hysteria, whistles and howls, claps and stamps of approval. Emre merely shook his head.
“Now, my lovely friends of Drenth,” Solanine said as the applause died down. “Eat. Drink. Dance! For the Fallen plans to challenge the Pentax Themselves! But first, he will destroy the last bastion of rebellion here in Drenth, freeing you from a tyrant you didn’t even realize was doing you harm. This Gutter King who spoils your lives further. Then he will march to Kalderim and end the threat of the Golden Throne. Eminence awaits!”
Solanine cued up the vocalist and the band. Music came to life and the crowd dispersed once more to passions anew. Solanine joined the Fallen as the pair mingled with nobleborn as they flocked to his side. He greeted them like old friends he hadn’t seen in ages, smiles and booming laughter. A guise of friendship only discernible by the eyes of those who saw a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
Emre hated everything in that minute. He tore into his scars, not caring what anyone thought.
XXXI
Cadrianna
SHADOWS SWALLOWED THE gondola under a dome of stone and steel, coming to a final resting place upon a series of grated walkways.
Cadrianna and Captain Arhin were the last upon the glass carriage, the lagging gaggle of party guests squeezed through the slowly opening doors, insistent on not being any later to the grand to-do that had already started. Their polished boots and supple slippers sung upon the lattice walkways as they hurried about, being fashionably late as nobleborn sycophants were wont to do.
“Mistress Cadrianna,” said the captain, his tinted breather reflected in the aethecite lamps lining the docking bay, “do you need assistance, or should I report the happenings of your capture?”
More than your simple mind could possibly understand, she wanted to say, but instead responded with something curter. “I’ll make the report.”
After fleeing Emre and the bikrome, she had wandered the streets of Drenth numb, unsure of what to think or do, in a stupor as she tried to piece together the ruins of her life. She was truly alone for the first time since being bonded with the Strix, as she had left it behind in her hasty flight. For as much as she didn’t want to admit it, she missed the daemon blade. Could have used its guidance when she was so lost.
Seventeen long years sworn to do the Fallen’s bidding only because of her daughter, to keep her from the everlasting pain of the void. All because of Emre’s betrayal. To learn that not only could Brynn possibly be free, but that Emre was not dead was breaking to the core.
She hated him, loathed him, had wanted to berate him for everything that he’d put her and Brynn through. She had wrapped the lies around her like a protective shield. Bought into the Fallen’s words, the reassurances that her daughter wouldn’t suffer if she but obeyed. Gods, she even felt love toward Lu Har, even though she never stopped loving Emre.
What was she then, if not complicit?
