The sun had set and a pink-orange glow of planetlight settled on Shatterport. Orange highlighted the edges of buildings and reflected off the windows. It was like Vayra was looking through a sheet of amber.
It was still dark, of course, but brighter than most moonlight-bathed cities she was used to.
“We’re…looking for the Grand Continental Inn, right?” Vayra said. They marched straight down the main street, dodging wagons and street peddlers. A patrol of bluecoats marched in the opposite direction, and city guards in their blue-jade armour lined the edges of the streets. Clotheslines hung overhead, swaying in the breeze and casting fluttering shadows over the street.
“It should not be hard to find,” Glade commented, keeping pace beside her. “It is…the fanciest Inn on the planet.”
“Not exactly a tavern party,” Vayra grumbled. “I thought it was supposed to be subtle.”
“It means there’ll be plenty of people to blend in with,” Nathariel said, walking a few paces behind. “There’s a lot of money flowing around here with all the God-heirs, and it needs to go somewhere. Chances are, they booked out an entire event room or two in the Inn. You’re lucky to have received an invite.”
Vayra scrunched her lips up. “Sure, sure, so…what are we expected to do?”
“Make friends,” Natharield said.
Both she and Glade looked over their shoulders at him.
“Aye, you heard me. You’ve earned some respect, and your names are travelling around now. And now, they’ll just be hearing about the stunt you two pulled with the blindfolds. Velaydian or not, you’ll have people’s attention. Show them that you’re not the worst people in the galaxy.”
That made enough sense. At least for now.
They rounded a corner and emerged in a broad plaza. Clean, four-storey tall buildings of white marble clung to the edges, their windows burning with torchlight, and lanterns hung from streetlights, amplifying the orange planetlight. On the opposite side of the plaza was a hulking, sprawling structure with domed roofs and flag-bearing spires. It was twice as tall as its surroundings, and as wide as the plaza itself. Windows dotted its exterior walls, each a guest room of its own.
The Continental Inn.
“Where will you be, then?” Glade asked Nathariel. “If this…meeting”—he said meeting like he was asking a question—“is for the tournament contestants only.”
“I will stay nearby. If there is trouble, I will come to help,” he said. “Though, now that many of the contestants have advanced to Commodore, my help might not be as impactful as it once was.”
Vayra heaved a sigh. “Well, it seems legit. If not, we can run.” She nudged Glade. “Your swordwyrm ready to fly?”
“Ready as ever.”
The blade, hovering just over his shoulder, spun in a circle and let out a metallic chitter.
“Right, I’ll take that as a yes…” Vayra tilted her head. “Can it understand me?”
“I think so,” Glade replied. “It seems to understand me, though it really does not speak much.”
“I guess…best that you don’t have a talking sword in a fancy party?” She shrugged.
They were almost at the front gate of the inn, and everyone around wore fancier, cleaner clothes. Colourful coats, hats with massive plumes, and elegant dresses. They were heading to the inn as well, though she doubted many of them were truly God-heirs. They didn’t radiate any spiritual pressure.
It wasn’t supposed to be this fancy. Someone should’ve said something, told her what to expect. Who? Dunno. She patted herself down. Her new robes were still relatively clean, if only a little tattered after a few fights, and hopefully she wouldn’t stick out too badly. Her mechanical arm would draw the most attention, but even with sleeves, it would’ve been hard to hide.
“Just maintain a steady cycling pattern, and keep your wits about you, aye?” Nathariel said, peeling away from them. “Don’t drink anything without first analyzing it in your spiritual senses. I doubt you’ll find poisons that can harm your bodies at this stage, but if someone slips a spiritual ailment in your drink, you’ll want to know about it.” He took a few steps away and disappeared into the crowd. “You’ll do great.”
Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.
He raised a hand over the heads of the crowd and delivered a thumbs-up before slipping away entirely.
They arrived at the main gate of the inn. It wasn’t really a door; a raised portcullis awaited them, and two broad wooden doors yawned open behind. A cluster of armoured city guards waited on either side, as well as inn staff in vibrant green coats. They were all mortals, but they held lists of parchment, and guests approached to check their names off.
Vayra and Glade approached the nearest man with a parchment list. “Are we…on there?”
“God-heirs?” The man looked up, tilting the brim of his tricorn hat up. “Oh! The…Velaydians.” He glanced at a different worker, then back at Vayra and Glade. “Apologies, you were on the list. Please…uh, enter.” He swallowed nervously, then glanced at a different worker and whispered, “Who…who pays the tab if they cause damage? We can’t bill their king, can we?”
“Just let them in!” the other worker whispered. “She’s…she’s—”
“Don’t say it!” a different worker hissed. “She’s just a God-heir, and that’s all.”
Blinking in confusion, Vayra took a few cautious steps past the mortal workers, entering the inn.
They stepped into a main foyer. It was a massive hall at the front of the building, with varnished wood walls and marble pillars. Gargoyles clung to the capitals and carved vines wrapped around their bases. A chandelier hung from the domed ceiling, illuminating the murals and paintings on the ceiling.
They had to be older than eighty years, older than the Elderworlds themselves, because they depicted armies of Redmarines battling dark fiends and a figure cast in golden light, using a technique that looked suspiciously like a Mediator Form. A casing of golden light enveloped him, but it outlined a completely different person, forming a wireframe cage just slightly overtop his skin.
Vayra and Glade prowled through the crowd, pushing toward the center of the room. Inside, it wasn’t nearly as crowded, and she sensed a powerful presence from most of the others—they were either Captains or Commodores. Mortal workers slipped between them, carrying trays. Most carried crystal glasses overflowing with wines—in fact, probably spirit-wines, weak elixirs, based on how they glowed in Vayra’s spiritual vision—but some also carried trays of appetizers and foreign foods.
Buns, pastries, seafood, foreign squids and nests of noodles that she couldn’t even hope to identify, and so on.
When they reached the center of the room, she glanced at Glade and said, “What was that? With the doormen?”
“They did not want to acknowledge you as the Mediator,” he replied, speaking softly despite the chatter of the crowd. She could barely hear him.
“B—but they have to know!” she exclaimed.
“Most do. They have heard the tales and legends. Some fear you—that would be a product of Karmion’s news campaigns, I imagine, and possibly due to the stories he has writers put out in the realm of fiction—and some are neutral. There may also be those who secretly hope for your success, or simply for a radical change in the systems that have dominated their lives.”
“Then…why don’t they say?”
“For eight decades, Karmion has pretended that the Mediator no longer exists, and that the Stream has forsaken them. For a Mediator to return? It has started to unravel all his lies. But it is still a crime to mention the Mediator in a positive light, or to publicly acknowledge that one exists. If you aren’t fined into poverty immediately, you will be jailed for a short period. Your friends will forsake you for fear of associating with such a person, and your employers will shun you.”
She shut her eyes, suddenly pitying the workers. She’d almost ruined their lives just with her presence. “How…”
“Tyranny is built on isolation. Karmion wants everyone to think they’re alone, that there is no one they can trust. God-heirs are naturals at it; they have been doing it their whole lives.”
She swallowed. Her throat had gone dry. “Right, then…” She didn’t want to think about that. “We need to get busy. See if there’s anyone around who’s kinda friendly to us.”
On the far side of the foyer, a small orchestra began to play a quick, upbeat tune. Vayra stretched up to her tip-toes to see around. On either side of the orchestra was a doorway. One led to the inn’s main event room—which had been converted to a ballroom—and the other to an expansive restaurant-turned-tavern (for the evening, at least).
“If this is what they meant by tavern…” she muttered.
“I think someone was messing with us,” Glade replied softly. “They wanted us to arrive in too casual of a manner.”
‘As usual,’ Phasoné chimed in.
“Well, we’re here now, so—”
“Glade!” someone exclaimed.
Immediately, Vayra shot Phasoné a mental warning, and they prepared to summon their scythe and activate their techniques. A presence bubbled up behind her, emerging from the crowd, and when she whirled around, she immediately identified the source: the lapin woman who Glade was friends with.
She wore a bright yellow dress, the colour of autumn trees, and a couple hair ornaments made of maple leaves. Her staff hung off her back on a strap, but she presented no weapons, nor a threat of any kind. Vayra’s spiritual perception quieted.
Glade’s expression immediately brightened, and he bowed his head to her. “It is wonderful to see you up and functional again, Ameena.”
The woman, Ameena, snorted and flicked her ears. “It’ll take more than that to keep me down. I hope.”
According to Vayra’s senses, Ameena wasn’t a Commodore yet, but she was on the cusp of advancement.
“Come on, Glade!” she said. “I didn’t think I’d see either of you two here! If you come with me, I’ll show you two around! Including you, Ms. Feathers!” She stared directly at Vayra when she said that. “It’s gonna last well into the evening, but we’ve got plenty of ground to cover!”
She hopped off into the crowd. Vayra and Glade shared a glance, but there wasn’t any time to deliberate. If they wanted to keep up, they’d have to follow along.