Chapter Nineteen - The Skyperch

(Part I)

It was late afternoon when Sara arrived at the garden of the Skyperch. She emerged from a thick doorway in the walls, flanked by King’s Guard in shining black armour, and stood blinking in the sudden light. The sun was high in the sky, wreathed in narrow strips of pale cloud, and the brightness of it gleamed blue and pure on the broad oval of grass and stone, picking out silver channels of bubbling water racing through the green. Here, at its most eastern point, the great rock of the Heartspire bulged at its edge, leaving a rare bubble of earth beyond the enormous walls that encircled the City of the Moon. Only one side was bordered by the pale battlements; the rest were open to the dazzling gleam of the sky, and the grass fell away suddenly into nothing at the precipice, sheared off as though by some enormous blade. Pressed against the western side, an old stormtower rose black and smooth above the buildings behind, spire topped with incandescent moonsilver. At its base, a narrow pool of clear, dark water shifted in the skeletal shade of a long dead tree. Its ancient limbs were charred silver by fire, twisted with age, and its roots trailed through the pristine darkness of the water. Sara blinked at it, frowning.

‘This way, M’lady.’ Sir Varos told her.

She started forward again, following the black mirror-shine of the Silver Wolf’s armour out over the grass, leaving the other two guards that made up her escort behind at the edge of the garden. The wind flurried and whistled over the exposed cliff face at the edge of the Heartspire, tugging at the murmuring grass, and there, at the easternmost point, just a few inches short of the ledge, the King stood waiting, looking down at the smoking white circles of the city hundreds of feet below. His cloak drew out into a long stream about his shoulders, trimmed with gold, and the moonsilver sword gleamed darkly at his waist. The enormous shadow of the Bloodless in her boiled leather was nearby, pale, ruined face bulging grotesquely from her jerkin, a sword bigger than Sara strapped over her black cloak. Sara almost shivered. The air was cold and hard in the garden, so exposed above the clouds. The fur throw around her shoulders shielded her from the worst of it, but another dozen layers wouldn’t have kept her blood warm with that monstrous-looking woman so close.

‘Your Majesty.’ the Silver Wolf said politely as they approached, stopping a few paces short of the precipice, hand resting easily on the polished hilt of his sword. Beside them, the Bloodless stood still as stone, looking down at the Captain of the King’s Guard with bulbous, unblinking eyes. They made for a strange pair, Sara thought. Pristine and grotesque, smooth and jagged. She had been more than a little surprised, to find the Silver Wolf asking for her at the door of the Queen’s apartments, and more surprised still when he had led her out of the keep towards the eastern edge of the rock, but who was she to argue. She took another breath, trying to compose herself, as the King turned slowly at the grass’s edge, eyeing the new arrivals with an expressionless calm that made her stomach knot.

‘The Lady Sara, Your Majesty. As requested.’ Sir Varos told him, dipping his wrinkled head. Taking her cue, Sara dropped into a delicate curtsy at his side. A narrow smile had spread across the King’s lips. The snapping whirls of his black cloak made for an imposing shadow, here at the world’s edge, and Sara lowered her eyes, suddenly naked beneath his eyes.

‘Ah yes, Varos, my thanks.’ he replied smoothly, hair whipping in the breeze. ‘You may leave us.’

The old warrior bowed his head again, armour clinking. He shot a look of barely concealed disgust in the Bloodless’s direction as he turned to go, practiced poise slipping for a moment. Then he was gone, black armour gleaming, long cloak snapping in the breeze. Sara couldn’t help but wonder how much he liked playing the King’s messenger.

‘Lady Sara.’

The King’s eyes flicked over her, and she saw again that strange familiarity she had noticed at the feast. She thought of what Lord Royce had told her, and almost frowned.

‘I had hoped you would come.’ he went on, face motionless. ‘I could not help but feel our previous conversation was cut short.’

‘A Lady does not refuse her King.’ Sara replied politely, lowering her eyes. When she looked up again, he was smiling. The sun at his back cleared of cloud, for a moment, and the light caught the hilt at his waist, glittering darkly. Even at his age, the King was still a large man, though the lines of his broad chest sagged a little beneath his doublet, and there was a strange hunger to his eyes that made Sara’s stomach twist a little tighter. She thought of her father, how his strength had dissolved into the softness of inactivity and excess. By comparison, the King was still hard and powerful, moving with the effortless calm of a man in command. He seemed to her an imperfect reflection of her father, as though Lord Nordin were his old friend seen through a warped mirror, distorted at the edges. She supposed that applied to more than just his appearance, and the thought made her frown, so she looked at the grass instead, trying not to notice the closeness of the cliff-edge, or the looming shadow of the Bloodless beside them with her giant sword and ruined face. The King must have caught her look, because he raised a gloved hand, waving the brute away.

‘You may leave us, Trela.’

The Bloodless hesitated a moment, looking down at him with dull, swollen eyes. Then she withdrew a little way across the grass, boots stomping like drumbeats.

‘She frightens you.’

Sara looked up to find the King watching her again, dark eyes gleaming.

‘They… they say she does not bleed.’

‘Everyone bleeds.’ Dekar told her. Sara didn’t know what to say to that, so instead she found herself looking out over the edge of the garden again. Far below, beyond the gentle curve of the city walls, the stone-scored grasslands of Valia raced away jaggedly towards the distant shadow-smudge of the Teeth on the horizon, wreathed in cloud. It was easy to forget the height of the Heartspire, locked away in the palace, but here the size of it made her twisting stomach slide with ice.

‘How do you find the capital, Lady Sara?’

She swallowed.

‘I… I am more at home each passing day, Your Majesty.’

‘Good.’ the King looked away over the empty vastness of the air beyond the ledge, impassive. ‘It must be strange, after all that time, hidden away in the Westmere. How old are you, Lady Sara?’

‘Eighteen, Your Majesty.’

‘Late, to be leaving home. Much later than your sister. Your father must be very fond of you.’

The precipice ached with closeness beside her, distorting the air.

‘My father… My father is a complicated man.’

‘That, he is.’ the King replied, still not looking at her. Sara hesitated.

‘You were friends, once.’

This time the King did look at her, pale eyes gleaming. ‘Men change, Lady Sara. None more so than kings. There is much a man must do, to achieve great things.’

His eyes lingered on hers with that same strange familiarity she had noticed at the feast, and Sara found her skin prickling under his gaze. She swallowed, looking away towards the empty stormtower behind them, black stone smoothed perfect, leaning its dark shadow over the city beyond. At this distance, she couldn’t see any cracks in the stone at all, and she’d never seen one so tall.

‘Temur’s Tower.’ the King told her, following her eyes. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’

‘Temur’s Tower…’ Sara murmured, then turned back to the King, blinking. ‘So this… this is where it happened?’

‘Yes.’ he replied, looking at the tower distantly. His right hand was on the hilt of the sword at his waist, fingers trailing lines over the nightglass pommel-stone. Sara swallowed again. Every child in Valia had heard the story of what happened here. Where the traitor Aerolf and Princess Talia met their end. Where the Bloodless threw the deceiver to his doom, and the Chosen trickster Isandur brought down his storm, saving the Northman’s kin from Dekar’s rallied forces. Where the war had ended. Sara had never taken much stock in the more supernatural meddlings attributed to the immortal sorcerer, but now she was here, the garden had a strange heaviness to it she couldn’t quite explain, separated, somehow, from the giant severity of the colourless world inside the City of the Moon’s walls. She stared at the tower, the pristine grass, the gleaming water of the pool, split by the jagged shade of the dead tree, and fancied for a moment the shifting darkness of its surface was thick with blood. She often thought everything atop the Heartspire was made for giants. But here… This garden was made for men.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

‘What happened to the door?’

The door of the tower was black, unnaturally so, scorched by some terrible fire. At its edges, there were traces of the moonsilver markings that had once adorned its surface, but what they might have been, Sara couldn't tell.

‘A storm.’ the King said darkly, staring at it. ‘None have opened that door in a long time, though many have tried.’

There was a flash of anger in his dark eyes, and for a moment Sara waited breathless, worried she had caused some offence. Then the King’s frown vanished, and his eyes fixed themselves again to hers.

‘I like this place.’ he told her. ‘No one comes here, anymore. It is a good place to think.’

And to escape prying eyes, Sara thought. She remembered what the Fox had told her at the feast about the King’s fascination with Princess Talia, and decided to change the subject. Her eyes settled on the dead tree at the water’s edge, trailing its silver roots into the dark pool.

‘That is a Quin, isn’t it?’ she said, pointing. ‘Or it was, before…’

She trailed off again lamely, mouth full of wool, but the King had a faint smile on his lips.

‘You have a good eye.’ he told her, cloak flapping.

‘The… Lord Royce showed me a similar tree, in the quarters you gave my father.’

‘Ah yes, Royce.’ the King purred. ‘I am glad I can offer you a reprieve from the Fox’s attentions.’

Sara blushed, lowering her eyes. ‘I… Lord Royce has been most kind to me. Honourable, even.’

‘Honourable? Now that, I have not heard, before.’ the King replied, smiling again. ‘Foreigner, perhaps. Outsider. It is said a man must keep his enemies close. I believed that once, but now I find myself thinking the opposite may be closer to the truth. No man alive can throw a dagger across the Sea of the Maker.’

‘You mean to send Lord Royce away, Your Majesty?’

‘Perhaps.’ the King murmured, almost to himself. ‘I think it is time for him to take on a new task. One that keeps him a little further from the Night Throne. Maybe it is time for him to go home.’

‘A task befitting his many years of service, I hope.’

The King paused, looking at her thoughtfully, and Sara averted her eyes self-consciously. She wasn’t sure why the King was telling her this, but if he meant to continue their real conversation, she certainly wasn’t going to stop him. His fingers were on the hilt at his waist still, toying endlessly with the shifting surface of the nightglass pommel. She looked at it, frowning. The steel was dark, darker than any steel she’d seen before, more grey than silver, like the water of a lake under cloud. Temur’s Steel. She realised she was strangely disappointed. She’d never really cared for works of steel, but moonsilver swords were the stuff of legend. Even one was more precious than all the gold in Valia. She wasn’t sure what she had expected, but it was not this.

‘You have never seen a weapon like this before.’

His eyes were on her again. She hesitated.

‘It… It is not what I expected.’

‘It’s not what it looks like.’ he told her. ‘It’s what it does.’

Sara didn’t reply. She could feel the King’s eyes on her skin, prickling, though not uncomfortably.

‘Would you like to see it?’

She looked up again, meeting his eyes, and nodded. The King wrapped his gloved hand around the leather-bound hilt and drew the blade slowly from its sheath. It was a long, simple thing, double-edged and cruelly-shaped, all hard lines and perfectly worked steel. When she looked closely, the dim light of the grey sky seemed to eddy in little curls over the dark face of the blade, a gleam that was at once half light, half shadow.

‘Temur’s Steel.’ the King said quietly. He held the blade aloft in one broad arm as though it weighed little more than a piece of driftwood, watching her eyes closely. ‘Windtamer, they called it. An heirloom of an older time, hoarded by men who thought their blood sacred.’

‘The Chosen.’ Sara murmured, clamping her mouth shut a moment too late.

Again, a flash of anger crossed the King’s face, and his eyes darkened. ‘For all the good it did them. Now it is mine.’

His cloak twisted in the wind, and his broad shoulders were suddenly tense. Sara looked away, blood filling her cheeks. The blade of the moonsilver sword gleamed dully, full of shadows. There was a mark, near the hilt, she realised, a spark of pale metal engraved into the steel. A circle of vines, and in it, a silver tower, its point struck by nine bolts of jagged lightning. She frowned, looking at the ruined door of the stormtower with its scorched markings. Is that what had been marked there?

Beside her, the King lowered the blade, returning it to its sheath, and the shadow on his face vanished.

‘The secrets of shaping moonsilver are lost, but the fruits of the craft still remain.’ he told her calmly. ‘It’s everywhere in this city. The stormtowers. In the stone. The very Heartspire itself.’

‘In the Heartspire?’ Sara blinked.

‘How else do you think this garden stays where it is?’ he said, smiling softly. ‘You ask a lot of questions, M’lady.’

‘I have need of many answers. This city is still strange to me.’

‘Is that why you accepted my invitation?’

'I was not aware I could refuse it, Your Majesty.’

He smiled at that.

‘Well, my lady Sara.’ he said, still watching her. ‘Answers are all well and good. But I find I learn more when I can see something with my own eyes. Is the lady afraid of heights?’

‘She is not, your Majesty.’

He held up his hand for her to take. She smiled, and approached him as calmly as she was able, laying her hand on his. Behind them, the dark shadow of the Bloodless stood still as a statue, and Sara almost shivered. Instead, she composed herself, favouring the King with another smile, and let herself be led slowly towards the edge of the cliff. She was suddenly very aware of the weight of her own feet, but if her hand trembled, the King gave no sign, and the sound of her quickening breath was snatched away by the wind. They stopped a yard or so from the ledge, and Sara looked down over the glazed smokiness of the city below. At this height, the men and women of Uldoroth’s Rings were flecks of dust on the breeze.

‘The Skyperch.’ the King purred beside her. ‘Beautiful, is it not.’

‘It is.’ Sara murmured. She could feel the heat of him beside her, the weight of his body pressed so close to hers, her hand on his. She swallowed hard. ‘Is this what you wanted to show me, your Majesty?’

‘Patience, my Lady.’ he replied. He motioned her closer to the edge, hand gripping hers. She looked at him, confused for a moment. Her heart almost stopped as she realised what he meant.

‘You… You will not let me fall?’ she asked breathlessly.

He smiled at her.

‘I wouldn’t dare.’

His fingers wrapped around hers, thick and strong, and his cloak snapped out in the wind behind his broad shoulders. She took another breath, fixing her eyes to her feet, and took another tentative step towards the edge. One step. Two. Her toes were poking out over the edge of the grass, touching nothing but sky. The wind rose over the ledge, whining, clawing at her cheeks. She looked back at him again, and he nodded encouragingly, still holding her hand. She took a deep breath, mouth full of water, and swallowed, leaning forward.

A moment of breathless terror followed. Then his hand squeezed hers, slowly lowering her away from his body. Inch by inch, she leaned further and further out over the edge, heart throbbing in her ears, skin damp and cold, but he held her hand tight in his, and the strength of his arm bound her fast to the grass below. She squeezed her eyes shut, achingly aware of a vast emptiness she could not see. The wind whipped at her cheeks, gnawing at her furs. She felt she must be almost horizontal now, only the King’s strong hand between her and endless falling.

‘Open your eyes.’ he instructed her, voice muted by the raging air. Sara clenched her jaw, racing heart stretching her chest to bursting. She swallowed again, tasting sour spit, and opened her eyes.

The world opened up around her in every direction in an endless sphere. For a moment she did not know up from down, left from right, the sky from the ground. Below her, the rocky edge of the Heartspire curved back on itself, striped with dark, gleaming silver, a ledge without a pillar. Below that, there was nothing but the sky, empty and shapeless, hundreds of feet of open air above a city of blurred white stone. She stared at it, and it stared back, and the wind rang in her ears. She was dimly aware of shapes beyond that emptiness, of grass, and rock, and distant mountains on upturned horizons, but they seemed far away, divided by a thin film of indifference, and the open air before her swallowed her thoughts whole.

A peculiar thing happened, then. Her heart began to slow. Her skin warmed. Her breath was clear. She felt suddenly very calm, at the edge of the world, with nothing but that narrow strand of muscle and bone holding her back from eternity. She smiled, and the King’s hand held her, hard as stone.

Then it loosened suddenly against hers, and her heart lurched, skin slick with ice. But it was only for a moment. He had her again, pulling her slowly upright, and she stumbled giddily back from the edge of the Skyperch, guided by his strong hands. They released her, and she breathed, filled with a strange, sudden elation. She realised she was grinning. When she raised her eyes again, he was watching her closely, eyes clear as glass.

‘Were you afraid?’

She shook her head.

‘Good.’ he told her. Sara looked at him, breathless, and he looked back, tall and strong and tired, proud eyes ringed with shadow, hair streaked with silver. Looking back at her with that strange familiarity she had seen before. She found herself thinking about what the Fox had told her, again. There is always someone watching. Something cold twisted in her gut, and she looked back towards the rear of the garden, frowning. Was one of the Queen’s spies watching her now, from some high window? But there were no windows. Not here. Only a blank wall of pale stone, and the city beyond it. No one to see. Just the Black Guard, flanking the small gate in the stone, and the Bloodless, bigger than a wagon, swollen eyes staring back at her, unmoving.

‘I have enjoyed your visit, my Lady.’

She blinked, looking up to find the King watching her, face expressionless once more.

‘As have I, your Majesty.’

‘One of the guards will escort you back to the Queen’s chambers.’

Sara hesitated, unsettled by the sudden coldness of his tone. Then she straightened, regaining her composure, and curtsied, turning to leave.

‘I may call on you again, soon.’

She stopped in her tracks, but did not turn.

‘I hope so, your Majesty.’ she said quietly. Then she swallowed and went away across the pristine grass of the sky-bordered garden with its empty stormtower, leaving the King of Valia alone, cloak tossed by the restless wind, fingers toying endlessly with the shadow-gleam hilt at his waist.