Chapter 1: Amenion, City of divides
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How swift do you run?
Swifter than the wind.
How bright do you burn?
Brighter than the sun.
How full are your hearts?
Full to the brim.
So how do you die?
We die as one.
Opening verse from the Book of the immortals.
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The slap of our footsteps echoes through the web of alleys as we flee, the shouts of the guards hot on our heels. Olly wheezes as he struggles to keep up, but I don’t dare slow down. The uneven cobblestones threaten to turn our ankles with every frantic step. I tighten my grip on his clammy wrist, refusing to let him fall.
“We’re close,” I say, though I don’t know if it’s true. What I do know is we have to escape this district.
The thunder of boots grows louder. My heart clenches at a hoarse shout from behind us. “Circle around! Cage them in!”
They mean to pen us in, cut off any escape. We sprint through the filth of the narrow alleyway in raw panic. The stench of waste fills my nose with each ragged breath, and I force my legs to pump faster.
The alley tightens, shoulder-width at most. We careen off slick walls, scraping our arms raw, leaving streaks of vivid red on the stained plaster. People peer down at us from windows overhead, pointing and shouting. Some hurl rubbish and pottery shatters around us- I hope they’re aiming at the guards. I shield my head and urge Olly onward.
We skid wildly around a corner into a deserted side street. Spying an open doorway, I pull Olly after me into the barren room beyond. We collapse against the far wall, chests heaving, struggling to muffle the sounds of our laboured breathing. Fear pounds through me in time with my hammering heart.
Olly’s wide eyes lock onto mine, reflecting the same dread. The vials. Those damned forged essence vials I insisted would be our way out. Sold to an idiot noble too blinded by the prospect of power to see the ruse. Now we’ve got the Sovereign’s guard baying for our blood. And they look anything but forgiving.
I creep to the tattered curtain hanging in the doorway and peer out. By some miracle the street is empty. Maybe we’ve lost them for the moment amid the warren of alleys. But it’s only a matter of time before they begin a building by building search. I glance up towards the centre of the city, spying the top of the gigantic hourglass rising above the tightly packed buildings. The last golden grains of sand trickle downward.
We’re nearly out of time. The last moments before the deafening bell will toll out, signalling the cycle’s end, and the end of the window to meet our contact, this mysterious Balen. Our one chance to escape this rotting cesspit of a city. If we even make it that far.
I turn back to Olly slumped on the grimy floor. He returns my gaze, questions in his eyes that I have no answer for. I should never have got him mixed up in all this. He deserves so much better than always being one step away from the cells beneath the Sovereign’s tower.
Guilt twists my insides. I’ve made so many promises to Olly over the years. Sworn we’d find a way up and out of this rotten life. Yet where have I gotten us?
A shout of pain from outside pulls me from my spiralling thoughts. I creep back to the curtain. There’s a crowd of people peeking up from the shadows of their doorways like us. Out in the street, a bedraggled beggar thrashes between two guards, blood leaking from his mouth as they drag him along. But it’s the faint glow around his clenched fists that draws murmurs from onlookers.
“Stolen essence.” The whisper ripples through the watchers.
I suck in a sharp breath. There’s wide-eyed panic on the beggar’s face. He knows where they’re taking him, even though there’s no chance he could have overpowered someone and taken their essence. But the guards won’t return empty-handed to the barracks, so they pinned our crime on him instead.
The man’s terrified eyes lock with mine for an instant before the guards haul him away. I should stride out into that street, demand they release him. Take the punishment myself rather than let them frame an innocent. It’s what someone brave would do. Honourable.
The street empties after the grim procession passes. I slump back into the relative safety of the abandoned house, shame coiling hot and heavy in my gut. It takes so little to destroy a life here. One mistake, one roll of fate’s crooked dice. Without power or wealth to shield you, the city will devour you.
“We can’t stay here, Olly. We’re running out of time.”
We creep from the hovel a few minutes later, take a winding, obscure route skirting the edge of the district.
The market square unfolds before us as we emerge from the web of narrow alleys, the very heart of Amenion laid out in all its chaotic splendour. Vendors’ shouts ring out as we dart through the press of bodies, their wares thrust eagerly toward us - roasted nuts, artefacts of dubious origin, amulets guaranteed to ward off ill fortune. Around us the crowd is a churning riot of sound and colour, redolent with the mingled scents of spice and sweat.
Olly slips through the throng with the ease of long practice, and I follow in his wake, using my broader shoulders to carve a path when the bodies grow too packed. We make for one of the main thoroughfares that radiate out from the square like wagon spokes.
Above the milling crowd floats several of the city’s elite, reclining on softly glowing discs as they drift on errant breezes. With languid gestures, they conjure showers of radiant butterflies that flutter and swoop gracefully around them. Those below stop to watch the dazzling display, envy and longing naked on their upturned faces. They look as if they would devour those glittering motes if they could, starving men and women hungry for even a taste of power.
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“That should be us up there,” Olly mutters, eyes tracking the opulent spectacle as it rises towards the soaring spires and floating manors of the upper city. “Imagine what we could accomplish with that kind of magic.”
I can’t help a derisive snort. “Not waste it on gaudy tricks, that’s for sure,” I say. But the longer we’re forced to claw out an existence in the rot and filth of the outer city, the more the jealousy burns hot and bitter within me. What I wouldn’t give to trade places with one of those preening fools, if only for a day. To float above it all, immune to the hunger and the stink. Maybe up there I would look down on people like us with the same casual disdain.
We slow our pace as the avenue opens up before us, thronged with food vendors, workers trudging home after back-breaking shifts, and jostling crowds queued outside the many essence dens dotted along the street. Now more than ever, we can’t afford to draw attention. The guards stationed on this street look even more sullen and quick to violence than their brethren. As we join the sluggish press of people, the aroma of sizzling meat and onions filling the street.
My mouth waters. When was the last time either of us enjoyed a scrap of hot meat? But then my eyes fall on the wretched figures lining up outside one of the essence dens and my fleeting appetite vanishes. Here people face the desperate choice to sell essence for coin, to trade life force for food and rent.
One by one they shuffle inside, entering meekly, shoulders bowed by hunger or sickness or despair. But they don’t emerge the same. Some stumble into waiting arms, gaunt, their essence depleted to dangerous levels for a pittance of coin. Others seem robbed of all vigour, shuffling away like hollowed out husks soon to collapse into obscure corners and die. My hands tighten to fists at my sides.
A sturdy woman with a weathered but kind face emerges, leaning against the wall of the dingy essence den. Her neat but faded clothes and the tight bun of her dull brown hair speak of lingering pride despite hardship. In her hands she clutches a small but desperately needed handful of coins. The grey pallor of her skin draws muttered exclamations from those around her. She has sold too much. Given too much away. Even from here, I can see her life draining with each faltering step as she stumbles toward two small children waiting nearby.
“Let’s move on, Korm,” Olly murmurs, voice thick with shared sorrow. He tugs my arm. “There’s nothing for us here.”
I let him steer me away down the street, but my eyes remain fixed on the little family until the press of bodies hides them from view. The mother will be dead in days, a week at most. And her children? How long before desperation drives them to follow her fate? For how many generations has that essence den fed on the hopes of the poor? Anger and helplessness churn sourly in my gut, but Olly’s touch keeps me grounded.
We walk in silence for several blocks, putting distance between ourselves and the grim spectacle. The crowds thin as we near the outskirts, the gutted buildings gradually replaced by piles of rubble, remnants of grander times that now serve as a shelter for the shadowy denizens of this lawless borderland.
It’s Olly who finally breaks the heavy silence between us. “When I gain magic, the first thing I’ll do is open a clinic. Heal anyone too poor to afford it.” His face is fierce, jaw set with determination. “I’ll change things, Korm. I have to.”
His sincere words stir the smouldering anger deep in my chest. “You’ll be the greatest healer this city has ever known,” I vow, clapping him firmly on the shoulder. Out of all those vying for essence and advancement, Olly deserves it. I know in my bones he’ll stay true to his ideals, no matter the temptation or circumstances.
Olly gives me a small, grateful smile before his expression turns thoughtful. “And what about you, Korm?” He asks. “What will you do when we secure essence and magic of our own?”
I’m silent for several paces as we pick our way through the rubble. In truth, I’ve never allowed myself time to think about it. For so long, survival has been our only goal, tomorrow’s meals our only concern. But Olly’s question stirs up old dreams and desires - to be someone that matters, someone strong enough to protect what I hold dear rather than always running.
“I suppose I’ll join the ranks of the Swords,” I say at last. “Become a warrior like General Lorentine. Help secure more of the fertile northern lands.” It’s said the rich earth there overflows with vegetables and fruits. “Maybe we can start farms to feed the hungry, make a real difference.” I think of the gaunt mother and her children.
Olly’s answering smile is approving but laced with gentle humour. “The mighty warrior philosopher! Who knew you were such a soft hero under all that brooding?” He nudges me playfully.
I cuff his shoulder in mock affront but can’t keep a rueful grin from my lips. Trust Olly to find humour even now. In so many ways he’s my counterbalance - optimistic where I am dour, gentle when my anger threatens to consume me. Olly never loses his spirit.
The crumbling buildings fall away, replaced by drifts of rubble and weed-choked lots stretching to the great wall that rings the city proper. We’ve reached the true outskirts, the forgotten borderlands and lawless frontier. Up ahead, I spy the cracked statue that marks the meeting point, just visible beneath the accumulated filth. My pulse quickens, a heady mixture of excitement and apprehension churning in my gut. This is it. Our one chance to secure passage out of this festering city and into the desert ruins beyond the walls, where unknown artefacts wait to be claimed.
I glance sideways at Olly as we pick our way through the rubble towards the statue’s plinth. His jaw is set, and his eyes shine with purpose.
Figures emerge singly or in pairs from the surrounding ruins to converge on our meeting place. Some prowl with coiled menace, others swagger with false bravado, but scratch away the posturing and they’re all here out of the same bone-deep desperation that has driven us to this illegal run. We’re the dregs, the forgotten... the ones with nothing left to lose. That makes us useful to a man like Balen. Expendable assets for his own designs.
As we draw nearer, I size up the other hopefuls through narrowed eyes. Any of them could turn on us in an instant if they judge us rivals or liabilities. My muscles tense for confrontation, nerves singing a high sharp note beneath my skin.
We come to a halt at a wary distance as the hulking figure of Balen emerges from behind the statue’s crumbling base. Even at fifty paces, his sheer physical presence is formidable. Shoulders as broad as the city gates themselves, arms like banded iron, heavy brow knit in disdain. His hard gaze sweeps over our ragged assemblage, assessing costs and benefits with a merchant’s shrewd eye.
When Balen’s flinty gaze falls upon me, his eyes blow wide in outrage. Face mottling a livid purple, he stomps toward us. Before I can brace myself, one of those iron-hard hands shoots out to stab a blunt finger at my chest with the force of a sledgehammer.
“No Vardos scum on this expedition!” He says loud enough for all to hear, voice ripe with contempt.
It takes every ounce of my self-control not to launch myself at his throat in fury. I’ve endured countless taunts and sneers in my life for my mixed blood, but never have I been itching for a fight as in this moment. My hands curl into trembling fists and I‘m ready to fly at him.
Before I can act on impulse, Olly steps between us with hands raised in placation. “Kormen’s blood doesn’t matter,” he says, voice clear and steady as temple bells. “He’s my brother in all ways that count. And there’s no one braver or more loyal.” Olly’s eyes blaze with absolute conviction. “I vouch for him with my life.”
Something complicated flickers through in Balen’s gaze. Contempt still simmers there, but perhaps also a spark of grudging respect for Olly’s courage in facing him down. He turns the full force of his attention on Olly. Eyes narrow, he looks him up and down as one might assess a hog at the market.
“Your word?” Balen scoffs, glancing around at the other outcasts. “Here in this den of jackals and thieves?” He spits at Olly’s feet.
Before we can react, Balen surges forward, bull-like. His massive fist rockets out in a roundhouse punch aimed not at Olly but at me. Enhanced by his reservoir of essence, the blow connects with my chest like a sledgehammer. Pain detonates through my torso. Then I’m airborne, the ground ripped away beneath me. I have one impression of Olly’s stricken face, mouth open, before I’m hurtling backward and my vision goes white.