As we approached our destination along the road, which was rather wide now, rooftops, shimmering glass domes, and a dozen church towers emerged on the horizon. Lottie, our destination, the City of Flowers, was waiting and the gateway to it was the solitary road that we rode on. A gentle drizzle fell from the skies, veiling the land around us in a knee-height fog. But as we reached closer to the stone buildings and paved roads, the rain stopped.
I found myself leading the way, with Florencia at my side, hidden deep inside her coat. Jace followed behind us, and he was wearing his Eye of Eki—the minor god of intellect, magic, and intelligence—openly now. Because of the chilly wind, he held the collar of his blue coat up, and on the smooth wool fabric were beads of water from the misty rain.
“It’s like a weight fell on my heart,” he said. “Does anyone else feel it, or is it just me?”
Everyone could feel it. I saw it in their eyes. The blanket of gloom had left none untouched, and I wondered whether I could even sense the taint of the demonic through this noise of human-made suffering.
“I can’t get rid of it. I’ve never felt anything this overwhelming…” said Jace and rubbed his temples.
Iskander was not impressed by what he saw laid out before him. His wild black hair waved in the soft wind, and his dark beard was beady from the moisture.
He said: “The City of Flowers, huh? All I can see is mud and grey stones.”
“It wasn’t always like this,” said Florencia. “I remember coming here during the spring, many years ago. It was gorgeous—blooming flowers, lush trees, and violin music on the streets.”
“I bet we won’t hear a note of music,” said Iskander, and patted the mane of his horse.
I hoped we might, and we rode along the road, flanked on our left by fields and windmills built between the uneven squares. And to our right, some hundreds of yards away was the azure blue ocean.
*
Lottie was called by many names, and it is a testament to how precious the people living there hold it, or how profound an impact it had on those who had visited it.
While the most commonly used name was the City of Flowers as it encapsulated its soul perfectly, it also earned the title the Gardened City because of its many botanical gardens that were built in many districts. Two were massive, and we could see the domed roofs of them as we approaches, while others were smaller and more humble, though not any less impressive.
Lottie was also fondly referred to as the City of Song because of its allure to musicians, who were drawn to its vibrant music scene. It was said that one would walk the streets, and could hear the tune of a violin or a lyre or some other instrument everywhere they went.
Among the many architectural marvels of the city, was the grand concert hall called the Rittaria. Its enchanting architecture was rumored to surpass even the grand old theater, the Carpanturra, from the capital itself. Whether that was true, we would, hopefully, find out.
Through the heart of Lottie flowed the winding river known as Ombrosso, meaning ‘the little round one’ in the older Lienor tongue. It was said that the Ombrosso’s shimmering waters were to have inspired countless artists during the better days. Painters, poets, singers, writers, and sculptors all were said to find their muse alongside the shores of the little round one.
Adding to the city’s allure, Lottie was situated along the Casliera Bay, built upon the blushing rocks of the coast. Because of that, most buildings were of an old, red hue, contrasted by bright orange roofs. The bay itself was spacious and almost two hundred miles across.
It was said by many historians, and Jace was very familiar with this, that Lottie was first founded as a war camp over eight hundred years ago by some great Lienor commander of troops called Friango Lott. He and his men defended the camp, ever-expanding their defenses, from desperate raiders who came from the northern mountains, and wild and exotic pirates of the ocean from the south.
The city of Lottie, birthed from the chaos and turmoil of war, had flourished and stood its ground against the trials of nature and man, and matured into a place where people came looking for a new beginning. Many were from the free cities of Stotor, while others were from the more populated cities of Lienor and Lith. From this mixing of tongues and cultures, one could immediately hear their particular way of talking in the Lienor language.
Over centuries, Lottie blossomed into a sprawling city, with a vibrant culture and love for the arts. It drew inspiration from the neighboring Stotor cities like Oade and Proolt, which had long been known for their artistic heritage. From those places came musicians with unparalleled skill, and their passion for the beautiful things in life took root in the budding soul of the city. Like a sponge for influence, the young Lottie was, and it grew colorful and sophisticated.
But now, in these latter days, Lottie came to be known by the more ominous name City of the Evening. Whispers passed around in the night, referring to it as the Last City, for there was no going further east by the Vatrel Valley into the free cities of Stotor in these wicked days.
There were those who dared utter that with Lottie, civilization itself ended in the east, and beyond its borders, madness began. None who ventured into that valley ever made it back.
*
There was a column of three carriages before us, military looking, with shields tied to the roof, but they turned away to the right before reaching the city limits, and I wondered for a moment what was there.
As the road took us ever closer, we noticed the most bizarre thing.
On the western side of the city, between the farmlands and the reddish stone buildings, a narrow but deep trench was being dug. We saw hundreds of men in the distance, wielding either shovels or picks and were tirelessly working away at the wet dirt. It looked like the trench would go straight into the ocean, some two miles away from where the progress was.
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I looked down at the road beneath me, and it felt slick and treacherous, almost like a sudden rainfall would make this road unpassable.
On the western side of the trench were hundreds of dull-colored tents set up in the dry dirt. What seemed like a wooden fence was built around the encampment, and the workers did not seem to wander farther than either the trench or the tents.
“By Eki, what is that?” asked Jace.
“My guess is it’s the refugees from Stotor,” said Florencia as she looked at how the men and women worked.
“So they were just sent there to work?” wondered Jace. “What madness is that?”
But we had no real answers for his outburst, so we left the topic alone.
As we rode on, the company we had traveled with since Pianneturre dwindled, and the road that stretched before us was now much less busy.
There was no definitive line to cross to enter Lottie, only a sudden disappearance of farmhouses covered with plaster and planks and wood. Taller buildings, double or triple-storied, built from squared stones of reddish color and with colorful roof tiles, took their place. The road under the hooves of our horses became paved with smooth stones.
Very quickly it became apparent that the name City of Flowers did still apply, though it was overshadowed by something more troubling.
The residents of Lottie took the name City of Flowers very seriously, it seemed, and even though it was now late autumn, where on cold nights the water would have a thin frost on it, the moderately wide streets were still colorful. There were bouquets, made from flowers that bloomed in the summer, set up everywhere, and garlands were hung from the iron-wrought lampposts. All kinds of colorful vines grew on the facades of the buildings and the stone walls. Narrow trees, some evergreen, others deciduous, were planted between the sidewalk and the main thoroughfares.
Iskander’s bet had proven to be incorrect, for there came the faint tune of a lone violin in the distance. It might have originated from a cozy cafe built in some varr—a small square surrounded by greenery.
To this, Iskander smirked and didn’t seem a bit bothered.
We rode past the song, but I was taken by the solitary dance of the violin. I’ve never heard this kind of music before. I had only heard some crude assemblage of instruments when passing a venue in Caffria, but nothing that moved my soul. But here, this very lone violin playing seemed to touch my very heart. I wanted to find that violinist and hear them play until I fell asleep.
“At least they’re trying to keep their tradition alive,” said Jace about the residents. “If they were to give up now…”
But the desperate attempts of the public were not enough to overshadow what was going on in their once-wonderful city.
The very first thing that caught our attention was the sight of beggars and haggards stumbling dumbly around the streets. We saw them everywhere, cloaked in tattered rags, wrapped in worn-out scarves, and wearing coats that had once been luxurious, but now were only remnants of a forgotten past. These downtrodden figures wandered around aimlessly and asked for alms from those who were better off.
We could immediately tell a Stotor refugee from the Lottie locals.
The refugees had a deeper shade of bronze on their skin and faces wrinkled from worries that set them apart from the natives. They were slightly shorter and hunched over, which spoke of a lifetime of toil and adversity.
“They’re not talking your tongue,” said Iskander as he shoved two beggars away who had been scraping his boots. Though only a menacing look from his fierce eyes would have sufficed.
“Most don’t talk our language,” said Florencia firmly. “They were forced to come here, so they have nothing else to do than beg for cuenos all day.”
“Why not ask for work on the farms? There’s always work there. Or fishing, or in the sawmills or…” wondered Iskander. “It’s surely better to not let them crowd the city like this.”
“It certainly does look like it,” said Florencia, and we pushed ahead.
Another quickly noticeable difference was the sheer amount of Lottie guards that were patrolling the streets. They walked, holding dark-green batons that were made from the soft but flexible torpos timber. All seemed grim-faced and with short tempers. They wore cloaks of vibrant green, trimmed with patterns of embroidered gold and orange, and had the sigil of Lottie sewn on their cloak—a yellow and green flower on a shield of silver and gold, in the background of spiraling circles.
The guards walked in a team of three or four, and where ever was a gathering of refugees who seemed agitated, or even animated, they went in and broke it up. They put their batons to quick use, hitting the backs or thighs of anyone who dared oppose their commands.
“Jonas,” said Florencia in hushed tones. “Put on your Scorro pin.”
None of us looked like those wrinkled refugees, but I did as she told me to.
Suddenly two older men with dangerously thin faces and maddened brown eyes jumped in front of our horses, right in the middle of the thoroughfare. One held his palms together and kept repeating the word cuenos, cuenos, dralb. I wondered when they last had a had a bath.
But the other, the one with the maddened eyes, said so quickly I hardly could even make out the words: “Jartal ab avings tan all hoovaren! Rult! Arnavar rult watar allar, watar allar, rult!”
I looked down at him with gentle eyes, pat his shoulder, and, I could not even guess where from, said: “No, there can not be a flight from this.”
Before I could fully comprehend what I had just done, the violation of rules had already summoned the wrath of four guards. They ran to us, batons in hand, and began to strike lightly the two men into the soft places on their bodies. Hopefully, this was done to cause slight pain, but not injury.
“Back, you beggars, back!” shouted a wide, but shorter guard. “My apologies, lords, but they’re everywhere.”
Lords? Iskander smirked and Jaxine giggled.
“Please, move on ahead quicker,” said his partner, an older and more weathered guardsman, with a wrinkled face and greying beard. Judging by his insignia, he held the modest rank of corporal. The Lottie guards all wore helmets of an older design. At least that’s what it looked like to me. The metal was not polished, and rather dull, with countless scrapes and scratches on them. Not all looked alike.
“If you lords go quickly through those gates that you see over there, the black iron ones with the spiral-looking decorations, that show the border of the old town, and the beggars are forbidden to enter the old town. At least those beggars respect that… But before you’ve passed the gates, I suggest you lords ride faster. They can’t catch up to such fine horses.”
“Thank you, corporal,” I said kindly and leaned down to meet his eyes on a more equal level. This surprised the man. “Could you kindly tell me where the town hall is, or where can I find the Lord Mayor Vilip Fascamonta?”
I showed him my golden pin of Scorro.
“Oh,” the corporal went red and nervously fidgeted with his dark-green baton. He proceeded to prove a detailed explanation of the route we should take and said that the Lord Mayor is available most of the time because of the strange and troubling times. I expressed my gratitude again, and the corporal smiled proudly, and we rode ahead.
The four guards returned to their patrols, and not before long, they were already dispersing another mob of refugees who had found a merchant caravan to harass.
It was getting dark now, and we did not have much daylight left.
“Come, Jonas,” said Iskander, already annoyed and impatient. I was beginning to share those emotions. “You can think later. Let’s go.”
And we went with speed towards the town hall, where we hoped to find the Lord Mayor. I wondered whether Rainier Pitties had sent his letter, and if it had found the Lord of the City.
There was a maelstrom of thoughts running through my mind as we went through the streets, all jumbled up in chaos and tumult.
But it was in the City of Flowers that our lives would be forever changed. Again.
I could almost say that my adventures from Bessou to Lottie had merely served as a prelude, a mere precursor to what was to come. None of us could fathom the events that would unfold in this city of beauty and song.