I should have killed him; the traitor, the fiend.
Memoirs of Anaya
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Year two
I fucking hate stairs. We are running through the city with no clear goal in sight but to move forward.
My classmates and I stream across Lodestar at a trotting pace. I thought I was much stronger than this.
My lungs are on fire and my legs are two long logs.
Most mosses have steps carved out of their sides. Like petrified snakes, the steps twine these miniature cliffs; twists and turns their seal. A few had no railings at all! Even if you had a grain of rice between your ears, you'd still avoid using them.
Ninthday is meant to be free for m---, for all of us poor little suffering students to just sit, and then maybe: sit some more.
Shit! I've almost stepped in one. My moss is far cleaner than this part of the city. I think.
A little while ago, the bastard made us run to the top of a lower moss, only to almost immediately climb back down.
Our wise grandmaster saw it fit to transport all twenty-five of us on the backs of Winged, across a good chunk of the entire canyon, all the way to Lodestar. The purpose? Well, to give us a nice little tour of the city, of course.
Which is completely understandable. It's not as though the tiny Academy has a plenitude of facilities to train us in.
Not all is bad, though. Lucent in daylight, Sol's comforting presence is a warm hug. Soft quilt on a cold night.
They say Sol's light gives no heat or warmth, or at least not the way the sun does. Nonsense. It feels like the sun.
Spear-armed guards are always close. A few behind, and a few further in front of our group.
Over their short dark-red tunics, all the soldiers guarding us are wearing simple sky-white chest armor made of layered linen. At the upper center of the chest area, just below the chin, each of Crimson Guard's custom-built thoraxes has the Academy's emblem of a phoenix taking flight. Fist-sized and highly detailed, the emblem is made of alamarium—the striking swirls and lines of gray and shadow-black are subtly at odds with the whiteness of the armor. The thick brown leathery strips of the tasset skirt, stitched into the armor, cover their thigh area. Molded bronze greaves of golden-brown, match their helmets in gleam and color.
Their helmets are made of bronze, have a rounded top, and narrow slits for eyes, with a long nosepiece and pronounced cheek guards, tapering down snugly to cover the face and neck. The slits remind me of two snakes facing away from each other. How can they protect anything while being half blind?
For some reason, in addition to Academy soldiers, two Black Breakers are assigned to guard us. Both of them don't use reins to control their Winged, which means all four of the battle familiars flying above us are commanded with their creators' thoughts alone.
Like always, the sky just above the city is swarmed with Winged whose leathery and feathery wings swish-swoosh the air.
Richer families have their own Gray-made crystalborn, but, if needed, many beasts can be rented for a day or two.
Shadows flicker across all of us when a formation of seven flying familiars swoops directly above; flying seemingly a little too low.
A feather detaches from one of the Winged as it flies above. Immediately, the red feather starts to degrade and crumble. A gust of wind blowing from the west sprinkles the sparkling dust over the students.
I breathe in deeply the half-stale air of the city. If I had a list of favorite places, the Academy would certainly be near the bottom of such a list. Even so, I must admit the crisp air and less noise that haunts the place can have their appeal.
Most Lodestarians wear blue and white himation garments made of linen. Merchants are often draped in finely-woven wool. They all tend to give us space after seeing the guards and the circling formation of teeth and claws above.
Our lissome footsteps are in time with our heartbeat.
I am grateful this drudgery is mostly in the north and northwestern outskirts of Lodestar. Even if we were running through my moss, chances of passing next to my home were slim but I could easily imagine my mom throwing me a satchel of food to run with.
It wasn't just the reduced threat of embarrassment that had me relieved, though. I didn't wish to pass anywhere near my home for the real possibility I might try to run away from everything and lock myself inside my room.
Above and to my right, I see a large bull with four eagle-shaped wings, transporting three passengers, securely strapped in their saddles. A blank expression of monotony was etched into each passenger's face. Not their first time on a Winged, I brilliantly deduce.
They sit on cushy, well-padded saddles, the blissful wind chilling them.
I almost trip and fall on my jaw.
''Eyes forward, Red,'' Grandmaster Vidar politely says. His harsh voice slams a stylus through my ears. If he continues talking in such tender ways I might just give him scars across his right hand to match those on his left.
Close ahead, there is a crowd of about forty or so people, gathered at a respectful distance of our route. They watch as we pass by.
''New crop seems promising!'' someone shouts at Grandmaster Vidar.
''They seem something, alright!'' he yells at the crowd without looking back or losing a single stride. Many in the crowd just stare at us and bless themselves as we run by.
Unobtrusive roads we run on often seem to be avoided by the public during this hour. Sadly, this doesn't stop minor groups of people from gathering to watch us pass by—this happens with annoying regularity, almost every hundred strides or so.
After passing the nearby throng, Hebe notices me wrinkling my nose. ''What's wrong?'' she whispers.
''Nothing. Had a pebble in my sandal,'' I lie.
Perfume, bath oils, sweaty linen, occasional manure, distant latrines, the not-so-distant ordure of emptied chamber pots, and the miasmal odor of piss, are just some of the smells thwacking my nose every dozen or so labored breaths.
Goddess heard my ruminations.
The bad smells from before are somewhat negated as we run past small open-air marketplaces; where cinnamon, nutmeg, dried rosemary, and other unknown, but mostly pleasantly-smelling spices, spread their tickling vines. Applecherry Plaza—located in the northern reaches of Lodestar—is surprisingly not-so-shitty smelling. The occasional drizzle of the plaza's grand fountain hitting my face offers some nice refreshments.
The fountain had fifty statues made of smooth marble, all painted in mainly red, blue, green, and purple. The statues were about the size of a giant sloth, a large creature inhabiting the Wastes. Each burly figure had two wings bursting out its back and a basic human-like shape. But only about half of the statues had a human head, the rest were animalistic, possessing horns, snouts, and even fangs.
All hundred wings are adorned with gold leaf that covers their entire surface.
Purple and blue are largely used for their apparel, while red is splashed on hair and lips. Green is used on very small sculptures of trees, thrown about their feet.
The coarse-textured marble rocks upon which the statues stand are just rocky outcroppings, very rough-looking and unadorned.
The fountain's basin held a large body of turquoise water, clear and serene—gentle ripples and splashes reflected a pale sheen from above. Two powerful crystalline jets soared skyward, further disturbing the surface.
Striking, yet dreadful. The plaza's main centerpiece viciously clashed with its name.
Before exiting the Applecherry Plaza completely, we pause and wait for three large carts with coal to pass. Stocky Grey-made four-legged crystalborn larger than oxen, pull the heavy load. Their horns are waist thick and longer than even the tallest man—despite being curved. Long fly-chasing tails end in a tussock of black mane.
The beasts' heaving muscles are clearly outlined through short gray-white fur.
I look to the right. A tall, colorfully-clothed form captures my attention.
''She could...probably buy us all,'' Hebe pantingly notes after seeing me staring at a finely dressed woman.
''Vambrace-looking thing...on her right hand is almost...pure platinum. It means she is the Headwoman of this guild,'' Hebe continues, pausing after every few words to catch the much-needed gulps of air.
''That guildhall belongs to the...wool-trading guild.'' Hebe nods towards the well-kept but unassuming...no, the building is stately. The guildhall is like a pretty girl trying to remain unnoticed in the crowd; smaller than most temples but it stands out in the end.
Purple banners, dropping between the tall arched windows, had an emblazoned white symbol of the Wool Guild: a crossed drop spindle with a whorl and a simple spindle stick. Jutting from the middle, the tall rectangular facade occupied about a third of the building's side. About thirty arched windows graced the white-gray limestone facade, making it more glass than stone. Far above the stonewood doors, a coat of arms is carved from pure white limestone. Two winged horses were facing each other, flanking the decorative shield with crossed spindles at its center.
My eyes see the joints, the lines, and the tiny cracks; marks of rain and time. From a distance, the stone seemed perfect, though.
The limestone-and-brick building resembles a manuscript's gold-leafed illumination of a small castle. I don't like its slanted roof. That must be a pain to clean.
''That roof must be a pain to clean,'' I murmur to Hebe.
''I know. The dust gets between the tiles, but it looks nice,'' she points out.
Hebe's mother has a sister in the spice trade, working for the Spice Guild. Lana Furia and Ariana especially, offered Hebe pretty combs and nice-looking bone hairpins in trade for some smuggled pepper or cinnamon. To her credit, she rebuffed them quite easily. I would take that deal any day.
The Headwoman has a wheatish complexion and dark brown eyes. She is in her late forties but hides it well, very well. Covering her body are several tunics in layers of pure white, bright green, and that yellow hue of Amber found in crystals often used for lighting the city's streets at night. Exquisitely carved Crimson and Viridian necklaces, earrings, and bracelets decorate her tall stature and valorous poise while displaying wealth that somehow doesn't seem ostentatious—even my father would probably take note of that artisanship.
Crimson tits! I'm getting a slight headache. It often happens when I enhance my eyesight a bit too much or too often. A couple of years back, when I told Mother about it—and showed it by reading tiny notation letters from a manuscript on another side of the room—she didn't know how to respond. At first. But then came her typical reaction of fear. Not of me but for me. She made me promise never to do that or speak about it ever again. How can my having a better vision than hers be a bad thing? I thought about not doing it anymore—I really did—but I can't resist. Sometimes I do it instinctively without noticing. Besides, no one will ever know.
Two servants carry the bejeweled woman's belongings, while, standing nearby, two thickset men—possibly related to those oxen-like familiars—are guarding her. These men are somewhat trying to act inconspicuously while wearing ordinary garbs but are failing, failing miserably with those poorly concealed knives, or possibly daggers—not to mention the constant hawkish glances they throw at their surroundings.
Typically, our breaks come after pausing at crossroads. I will never again be so grateful to see slow-moving carts and the elderly.
For the last few hours, our panting and the sound of our feet only got interrupted at crossroads, or when a few of the students lagged too far behind the main group. In such cases, we would all pause for a bit so that those few can catch up, and so that Grandmaster Vidar can utter obscenities at us. Strangely, I would prefer he yelled more. I've read that the people who yell a lot are usually very weak. Powerless, in fact.
Our running resumes.
Oftentimes, Hebe and I stick to the middle of our ever-moving group.
I would rarely place myself closer to the first place, preferring the middle of the running pack. I won't go first. That spot is reserved for Tomoe, a girl with wings for legs.
Tomoe is trailed closely by some of the boys: Gabriel, Peter, Jax, and Michael.
Here and there a Winged or a group of them can be seen transporting people, smaller packaged goods, woven baskets, or sometimes, large wooden chests and even barrels.
Polygonal blocks of stone with strange smooth, lime mortar-like solid substance around them make for fairly level roads. While running on them, constant click-clacks of our tight-fit hobnailed sandals announce my class' arrival to any potential onlooker.
The main roads of the city were wide enough for two hefty wagons to pass in each direction.
We are about to reach the long outline of Nemea's Track, the hippodrome which can hold almost a quarter of Lodestar. It is a popular place where ground-dwelling familiars, with one or many riders behind, chariot raced.
The gates of the stadium stood wide open. Pulsating shrieks from the doubtlessly entertained crowd within, easily reach my ears. When I was little, Father supposedly took me there once but I have no memory of it. I think horses were racing that day, black horses, blacker than the Void itself, though I'm not sure if that memory is real or a dream I once had.
Personally, I never understood the appeal of chariot racing—nor the passion coming from thousands of zealous onlookers. Charioteers going in circles and raising an Alldora of fine dust. Glorious! Still, I can't stop myself from being envious of people sitting and enjoying themselves while we click-clack through the city.
Near the hippodrome, numerous small stalls were filled with palm-sized pastries, stacks of brown bread, and smoked sausages. The smells are pleasing but I have no appetite to speak of.
We turn westwards through a narrow street.
''Slow down!'' Grandmaster Vidar yells. ''Crossing blocks ahead!''
This street's road is narrower than most, but it has a robust and compact feel to it—like running on some flattened turtle shell. Elevated large stone slabs created a footpath on both sides, periodically connected by crossing blocks. The blocks were spaced enough for the wheels of carriages. Centuries of usage were evident by the carriage ruts that marked the road's surface.
We make a short pause at another crossroad marked by a small fountain at its center.
My eyes are drawn to an elderly woman scooping water from it.
I'm not really thirsty, though I wouldn't mind dipping my entire face into the fountain to freshen up a bit. Void's curse, I wish to lie in it! Even the cold shower caverns seem almost inviting now.
We stream on. No end in sight.
While we are running through the spacious northwestern Lartia Plaza, three boys that couldn't be more than eight excitedly run parallel to us, for a bit.
The sprats are jubilant about something as they release an annoying cryptic chirping that only others of the same age can decipher.
The Lartia Plaza's main feature is a decorative column with a painted statue on top.
The woody and a bit fruity aroma of burning frankincense mixed with the warm, slightly bitter scent of myrrh.
The looming temple of Theia nearby is so clean and blood-red color—spreading the lower halves of the pillars—so crisp, it seems as though it was built yesterday. It is well-kept. The priests like to show some of their devotion through upkeep. And the more worshipers you can attract, the more crystal chips you make via donations.
Before long, the plaza's column disappears into the distance.
We continue our pointless excursion as it takes us charging forth next to a millrace. The earthy, sweet, and grassy whiff of freshly-ground grain wafts over me. That picturesque olive-colored watermill ahead of us probably does the work of forty men. Greenish hue charmingly stains its exterior. A large, turning, stonewood waterwheel rotates the granite millstone inside. Must be granite. Most watermills use sandstone, but this one has a two-story design, is well-kept, and located in an opulent part of the city.
And...the sign outside says: ''Granite crushed! From grain to greatness.''
We climb. We climb the steps born from rock. Luckily, with railings this time. Ground level of the city becomes something distant, and there is only up. Realm of birds, our goal.
We run westward.
The northern moss was not the highest, nor the lowest of mosses. Its streets, narrow and winding, were often lined with four and five-story dwelling complexes. A few of these brick and stone buildings had blue and yellow facades, richly painted with depictions of lions, familiars, and purple floral patterns.
Much of our path today was surprisingly unobstructed, which makes me wonder how many other wretches before us did this same mindless excursion. What is the point of this? It must take considerable effort and strain for the Academy's resources to not only transport us all here but also to guard and train us.
The bridges connecting the mosses offer breathtaking views, and this one is no different as it spans the abyss of white stone, rectangular homes, and distant circular plazas.
Since I grew up on a moss, height never bothered me. But I don't think that is the case for most of my classmates, more than a few of whom were forcing themselves to look only forward. Some slowed down considerably, and perhaps, reasonably so, wish to have skipped their breakfast. Little escapes my eyes.
A formation of about twenty or so Gray-made Winged glides far below us, each with one or two riders.
Winds seem to be slightly stronger here, making me feel more alone. That doesn't make sense. I'm surrounded by people. Why would I feel alone?
''A heart has eyes of its own.''
I just remembered that quote. It's from a shitty book I've read years back. The manuscript spoke how the heart and the mind are destined to always be at odds, and how divine spark often tips the balance toward one or the other. Personally, I think the author was too philosophical in style but, you know, a big volume is bound to have a good maxim or two.
On a few occasions, I was able to hear the low humming of the flowing water beneath my feet and sense the barely noticeable vibrations made by its passage.
All the sky-bridges connecting the mosses have thick steel pipes inside them that carry water, and, I'd wager, add to their strength. Just as is the case with the one I'm running over now, there are no pillars below any of the sky-bridges, they are elegant and continuous.
Halfway done.
The radiant white marble balustrade runs along the entire length of the bridge. It is adorned with candelabra-shaped lamps made of gilded bronze. Although numerous, the lamps are nicely spaced. The Cobalt and Crimson light of the candelabras is pale, only at night or at dusk is their true splendor revealed.
The sky-bridge is made of strange grayish-white stone. There are no joints on the roadway, I don't know how to explain it, the roadway is like one smooth continuation made of this stone. It has an overall rough texture but smooth appearance. The sides of the roadway are little worn and polished by the patina of use, making them a bit smoother than the middle section.
All of us huddle to the right side of the broad bridge as a four-legged Ground familiar runs past us in the opposite direction. Long, barely curved horns and serpentine body—its forelegs and hind legs are widely spaced from each other—elongated muscular neck, pointy ears, wicked claws, ruby eyes, a snout of two slits for a nose and spearheads for teeth, all make for a striking image.
The long zaffre-blue creature is pretty.
Following close behind it: a same-looking fur-shimmering beast. Except this one was awash with vibrant vermilion-red, the hue of crushed carnelian.
They're probably some senator's pets.
The bridge crossed, soon we traverse the clearing and climb the wide steps leading to the moss' level top, strewn with white and gray buildings. Like in most of the city, their roofs are often flat.
Lodestar in miniature, Caelius Moss is roughly the size of the one I grew up on, except that it was more irregular in shape. This moss is one of the tallest ones, the northwestern waterway connects to it.
Every other street we pass seems to have a saddlery—that are possibly more numerous than smithies.
Most saddleries often feature a red, blue, or green vividly painted stonewood board, claiming that their Master Saddler and services are matchless. Or professing how the prices were never lower.
The shop we are passing, to our right, is no different. Their displayed saddles seem so inviting to my ass. An old man inside gave us barely a moment of attention before returning to thread his long nail-like needle through thick leather.
The walls of this saddlery are adorned in a rich floral pattern of dark-red blossoming vines, with black silhouettes here and there symbolically depicting transport familiars.
The best saddlers probably make more hex than my father.
I saw no chairs inside. Maybe you don't need actual chairs while making the sculpted ones meant for the backs of familiars. As I trot onward, the silly thought baits a fleeting misty smile from my lips.
Ahead of us, a woman wearing a purple palla is a little hesitant at first to make way, but in the end she and her four tall guards, each armed with a spear and draped in a blue cloak, move for us. Her perfect dark-brown eyes bathed in black skin whose tint mirrored the one found far above Sol at night. Shimmering pale green paint graced her eyelids, but that was that. She wore no crystal finery, no earrings or necklaces, not even a simple bracelet. She didn't need any.
She regards us curiously, with a warm expression. Like a mother might at her children playing.
She seems to be wearing half a tent.
''Long live the Senate!'' a boy behind me shouts toward the dignified woman. The rest of the students, including the grandmaster, repeat those words.
I almost choke on my last thoughts as if they were words said out loud. A senator. How can I see so much and so little? The four watchmen near her belong to the city. The Cobalt Guard's white thorax armor is scratchless, and bronze greaves are not even a little bent. Unlike the overall armor of Academy's Crimson Guard, the signs of true usage are slim. Apart from that, the armor worn by the Lodestar's blue-cloaked soldiers is identical to what I'm used to seeing at the Academy. Of course, the alamarium phoenix emblem is replaced by the one depicting a boar.
Munificently, the Senator gives our group a slight nod.
That is strange. I supposed all of them traveled in a private litter with richly patterned awnings; usually carried on the shoulders of at least four servants. Or, as I've seen it once, on the back of a decorated Winged— bristling with charged crystals embedded in custom-made, sleek, polished, light alamarium armor. I remember my eyes being drawn to the metal's misty stains, its charcoal-gray swirls, and long smoky lines.
I've heard a few senators take it even a step further and ride a destrier. Most people would probably see it as a rather unimpressive animal, especially if compared to some mighty crystalborn, but they are gorgeous beasts nonetheless. Sadly, I doubt any of the haughty riders care much about the destrier's beauty. Horses are rare, and warhorses are amaranth-rare. Combine this with the equine maintenance costs and the noble beasts are reduced to being glorified trophy-thingies...living status markers.
My father once hushedly said to me that senators have twigs for legs and therefore can't walk; Mother was nowhere within earshot, of course.
I tried not to think of my parents but our current excursion makes that difficult.
Shortly after reaching the blessed end of our journey, Lana Furia and Cassius disgorge up their last meal.
''We all cry for our mothers as we are born and as we die,'' Vidar regards our sorry state with a slight grin, ''however, some of you seem to have been regrettably stuck at the first stage. I will never question the wisdom of Allmother, but if our holy ancestors could see you all now they would be doing cartwheels in their watery graves.'' Keep talking and you might meet them soon.
A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
He notices my death glare. ''Is there something you wish to add to my words of wisdom, Red.''
''Some of us need water.'' To drown you in it. You florid-faced dustbag.
Nest-chin regards me quietly for a few moments. ''All in due time.''
This moss has a long protrusion, jabbing westward and resembling a spear born out of the soil itself. From the ground level, it looked like an ugly nature-made wall with purple mossy patches thrown about. Thousands of dirty, rough, jagged dents and other irregular shapes make for anything but a smooth wall. But, standing on its flat narrow top, I must admit the view is pleasing. Lodestar stretched southward: a patchwork of white buildings and houses.
The city is a white canvas splurged with almost incandescent colors.
Rising red blush forms dominate the city's landscape.
Distant roseate mosses had tops speckled with white dots, their high rims edged with purple. Faraway flat-roofed houses resembled miniature castles.
Lodestar's outskirts and the canyon floor beyond, have rock formations that hardly deserve to be called a moss(with their narrow top of a butte, spire, or wild inselberg-like shape).
Yet the name is very flexible.
Given by ground dwellers long ago, the term stuck, describing almost anything tall, rocky, and with life on top.
Again seeing it as a violet smudge, Ariadne Garden added a life made of incalculable purple glossy leaves to Lodestar's western reaches. On those rare occasions when visiting home, I was seriously tempted to try and fly directly over it. Maybe even walk the hedge maze. Sadly, that was never possible. Familiar transporting me home and back was imprinted with a singular command: to take me home and then, after a visit too short, back to the Academy's voidish embrace.
Grand streets and byways led me to this spot, yet I barely give them any attention now.
Even the large purple, blue, red, green, white, and gold horizontal bands of the column directly below Sol are easy to distinguish. Laid in the center of Lodestar, the circular outline of the Senate Plaza was bursting with tiny people and some crystalborn thrown in. The plaza's marketplaces seem well-provisioned. There are vegetables of both natural and artificial origin lining the---
I need to be careful. Mustn't give voice to what my eyes truly see.
The rocky spear of Caelius Moss pointed toward the imposing Western Cliff that wasn't just a part of the horizon, it was the horizon.
Mist veils the cliff, making pockets of fragile white clouds.
Waterfalls are not easy to spot from here, but mirroring the Eastern Cliff, the Western one also had thousands of cascades creating white clouds of mist across its grand face.
Western river-channel's thick outline was red, somewhat echoing the redness of the cliff. Although; on a closer look, the water's surface glimmered with a darker shade of red and a tint of brown. It looks like a river made of mud and shit.
Above, several senatorial villas are clearly visible. Carved out of sandstone, the villas are wide luxurious houses with multiple landing platforms, which can also serve as a courtyard of sorts. These spacious structures were often very high and only accessible using a winged mount.
To the north, the buildings quickly gave way to Valley's violet gown. Distant trees became dots and blurs, marching toward the canyon's northern end.
The arcade of many white arches stretches in the northwestern direction. It meets the Western Cliff somewhere far away from me.
My city's emblem, the black silhouette of a wild boar with long tusks proudly standing on a field of blue, is featured on thousands of fluttering banners scattered across Lodestar. Their sheen of vivid blue elegantly drapes the walls of round, crenelated scouting towers and public buildings.
A recognizable, delicate, clinking sound reaches my ears.
Dust washes over us, causing a few of my schoolmates to cough. A beautiful pink horse with matching feathery wings lands noiselessly nearby. Bella.
Katerina Varro, crystalborn's rider, smoothly dismounts from her mount. Did she even put her straps on?
She retrieves a medium-sized sack from her saddle. Her nimble steps quickly bring her in front of the grandmaster. The tinkling of many metallic rings in the caretaker's long black hair announces even her slightest of movements.
''Were they good?'' Rings kisses Grandmaster Vidar on both bushy cheeks.
''They were good enough,'' he answers, profusely praising all the students.
Rings gives him the sack and, after he pulls something out of it, both of them move about the students.
Grandmaster Vidar begins giving small black pebbles to all of us. She does the same, but pulls the white ones out of the sack.
''Each of you is going to cast a ballot,'' the grandmaster begins. ''If all cast a white pebble, we run to the city's southern outskirts, and then back toward the Academy on the backs of Winged. Same way we came.'' Vidar puts a black pebble onto my palm. He already gave out about half, his bear-like right hand serving as sort of a bowl. ''If even one of you casts a black pebble, then thirteen students, randomly chosen, will fly to the Academy immediately on a Winged, from here. The rest, no Winged at all. On foot, all the way back.''
''...What?...''
''...They can't do that...''
''...When are we going to eat?...''
''Shut up,'' Fuzzy Beard orders, silencing the discontented voices. ''Once you choose the pebble enclose it in a fist, and open the fist inside the box so it's all secret.''
Rings puts a wooden box on the ground.
Grandmaster Vidar looks at our pitiable condition. I and about eight students sitting in dirt. Cassius and Hebe are almost lying down. The standing ones don't fare too well either. Grayish pallor holds Zuri's face; Lana Furia might heave up again, her face a sickly shade of green.
Gabriel seems almost unaffected, as though we all took a stroll through the city.
We're all just very tired, wishing to go home.
No, not home. The Academy, I correct myself.
''Pebble. Fist. Box. Now!'' Grandmaster Vidar rarely yells, but when he does, well I can't argue with the results. Our stupor broken, one by one, we vote. ''Nice and dandy,'' brown-bearded-bastard nods in approval.
After wrapping up that affair, Fuzzy Beard and Rings separate from our group, Rings taking the box away.
I focus my hearing and eyes on the duo.
At a comfortable distance, Rings opens the box. After a few moments, she shows four fingers to Grandmaster Vidar.
''Every fucking time,'' Grandmaster Vidar mutters so quietly that even I barely heard the profanity.
''They will learn,'' Rings whispers to him. ''In few more Ninthdays, the group will come together.''
Shit. Fuck. Shit. That was a test. They are going to keep taking one of our classes-free days until we all cast the white pebble.
The duo comes back.
Grandmaster just smiles at us, the way a child might smile at an ant about to be squashed. ''It is decided. We all go back the same way we came.''
Of course. It would take days for the tired students to run or walk all the way back to the Academy. He is going to pretend we all voted with a white pebble.
''I will let them know,'' Rings tells Grandmaster Vidar before sauntering toward her pink mount.
Grandmaster just nods in acknowledgment. He tells the twenty-five of us to rest before we ''hippity-hop'' back home. His tall frame perched with a boulder-head, leaves us to a much-needed respite, hopefully for a good breath or two.
***
The library's antechamber was decently sized. Could probably fit multiple girl dormitories.
Before getting inside the library I had to put a special padded covering over my new knee-high leathery boots. My guess is that that was Vice Keeper Sabina's invention. She is number two of the Great Library, set to become the next Master Keeper. Or would her future title be: Mistress Keeper? I don't know.
The current Master Keeper is older than old. Him considered being half-deaf and half-mad, you can imagine who truly governs this wonderful place. Vice Keeper Sabina is sorta like Rings in this regard.
Anyway, the current Vice Keeper is a firm believer that noise gives birth to more noise. I wouldn't be surprised if she had better hearing than me. On several occasions, at least five girls from my class lost library privileges—some for a few days, others: a week—for supposedly laughing raucously. And one or two girls said their banishment was due to them breathing too loudly or coughing, I can't remember exactly. Such punishments, especially during times of exams, can be a scholarly death sentence for some students.
I approach the black-brown desk. Bent at a right angle, the desk was thrown into the antechamber's corner, its both ends almost seamlessly fusing with the sandstone wall. A small door on the other side, only access point.
Vice Keeper Sabina narrows her eyes upon seeing me. ''You again.'' She doesn't like working at night. Nor during the day, perhaps.
Vice Keeper Sabina Sabinus is in charge of library access. She can be a tiny bit strict. Damage a book or make noise one too many times, and you lose access to the library perhaps indefinitely.
I've heard some older students calling her, ''The Whip.'' She has a special thin stonewood stick. Basically, the offending student is given a choice: fingers or exile. Depending on your offense, she slams your fingers with that stick. Sometimes until they get swollen like sausages. You can always choose exile, of course. Hmmm...I guess naming her ''The Stick'' would be a bit silly-sounding.
I scratch my cheek. ''Greetings. Yes, me...again,'' I say, softly.
''You know, it's interesting. You practically live there,'' she nods at the library's large entrance, ''and yet I never seem to see shoddy red bristles anywhere.''
''I'm very quiet.'' I give her a tiny smile. If I gave her anything more, like: ''One end of the broom is on top of my head, but the other end is deep inside your back end,'' or anything of the sort, it would just give her an excuse to use her power on me. She would search and find a reason to get me barred from the Great Library.
''What do you want?'' Her pinkish gaze is slightly down. Even at fourteen, I'm only about half a head shorter than her.
Unshockingly, she wears pink-tinted crystal lenses with a thin and elegant golden alloy frame. Mother had plenty of berating for my father about how he should be focusing his craft more on making these remarkable vision-improving wonders. There was simply more hex to be made that way.
Grudgingly, I must admit she is not hideous; as is evident by the number of boys frequently asking her stupid questions or staring at her back as she slithers through the library, always ready to disperse punishment for any trifling misdemeanor.
Vice Keeper Sabina is in her mid-twenties, ancient to my eyes but young considering her position. Her skin of polished marble and flawlessly balanced features were harshly contrasted by a vicious nature, hiding beneath the pretty veneer. Although her eyes mirrored each other in immaculate likeness, they seemed somehow empty to me—like a fetching but drained Amber.
Hebe told me some older students start to whisper or clamp their mouths if Sabina's slender form suddenly passes next to them in the Great Chamber or courtyard. She must think of herself as a consul or some such.
''Just a lantern, thank you.'' I tap at my satchel. Shoulder strap diagonally cuts across my chest and coat, satchel resting at my right hip.
Before entering the Great Library, we are allowed to ask for a shining crystal or two, attached to a stick or inside a lantern. The stick is easier to carry but lantern is more suitable for reading.
''Cobalt, I assume,'' Sabina says.
I've always found the pleasant blue light of Cobalt to be the best for reading. Not that it matters that much to my eyes. ''Yes please.''
She hands me a simple-looking black-gray iron lantern with a shining Cobalt inside.
I smile at her and leave for the library's entrance.
As is so often the way throughout the Academy, the large double doors have their own small portal embedded at the side.
The swirling vortex forming in my midsection is far different from the one I had upon first entering the Academy with Aleera. No fear of the unknown this time. Just the thrill and the feeling of thousands of tiny spiders moving beneath the skin of my lower back.
Even after so many times of coming here, the feeling of awe is undiminished.
Resembling some forgotten strongroom bursting with lost treasures, the Great Library is located very deep within the cliff.
The library's main aisle is simple in design, really. Basically, the Gutter is a very wide and long central corridor that stretches straight forward, disappearing into the Void's mouth. Its floor is a river made of perfectly flat stone, about half a mile long.
I always feel as though I'm inside the rib cage of a mountain, walking its spine.
Oh! I was repeatedly corrected and told that the Great Library is a chamber and not a hall. So...anyway, this gargantuan hall stretches the length of the Gutter—the library's main aisle reminds me a bit of that middle entrance corridor Aleera and I walked through, a lifetime ago. The same way a candle might remind one of Sol, I suppose.
Giant upright slabs of stone are embedded with books, millions of books.
On each side of the wide walkway, bookcases—if I can call them that—are carved from the very pale red stone of the cliff itself. Many stories high, the cases stretch at a right angle from the Gutter and seem to additionally serve as pillars...hmmm...no, obviously they look nothing like pillars, but, I'm fairly certain they function as a pillar does. They must support the ceilings.
Stacked shelves are recessed into these wall-pillars, taking the form of special indentations used for storing books.
All this panthalassa of knowledge is a gift by the Goddess to our holy ancestors. I've learned that word here. Can't really use it much, if at all. Although, Grandmaster Hadrianus would surely know its meaning.
The Great Library boasts many illuminated manuscripts whose elaborate illuminations typically include shiny metals such as gold or silver, sparkling on pages beyond count.
Inside this giant vault of knowledge, the shelves abound with luxurious tomes that seem as though they might be works of art; too precious to be touched and read and instead needed to be admired from a distance with pure reverie.
Astonishingly, endless thousands of books are bound in silk and velvet.
Silk has an appearance similar to nanilu and is one of the hallowed vestiges passed down to us by our holy ancestors. Not even consuls wear silk. It might be rarer than nanilu itself but not nearly as strong.
Yet here, here the silk is far from rare. I've read several books just to hold and feel the softness of their luxurious covers.
Many of the most richly decorated works are often religious ones.
Tonight, my sapphire satchel holds three books, and none interests me. A book needs to be requested in advance, a day or two earlier before you wish to get it. Usually, we can't have more than three taken outside the library, but this rule is flexible.
Those that graduate get expanded access. And, you can take ten or more books with you to your own private chambers. Imagine that, your own quarters. No need to share anything, or listen to someone's noisy breathing and snoring; or having to pretend to be sleeping, or...ah. Despite Academy's spaciousness, privacy is rather lacking.
The books of medicine, science, history, philosophy, art, poetry—even a precious few about Genesis—and beyond. All is here. Knowledge of the world permeates the space. Neatly cut and stacked sheets of papyrus and parchment are braced with velum, leather, and such.
Was there ever such a place? Worldly understanding at your fingertips.
On top of that, Academy's library is sealed to most of the public. The place has its perks.
Leathery, earthy, slightly sweet, and a faint scent of wood, all blended together to form a subtle aromatic mixture. There was even a whiff of an acrid smell, which strangely didn't disgust me, but complemented the rest of the smells quite nicely. Like adding garum to a cake batter: it shouldn't go well together but it does.
An occasional faint aroma of hyacinth flows around me. That's probably just me, though.
The majority of reading spaces are thrown at the far sides of the library.
Within the distant walls of the Great Library, there are high, hollowed-out small rooms, with only a slab of protruding stone and no chairs inside. The slabs burst out of these rooms' walls, acting as legless tables, so you can read while standing. Why would anyone wanna do that? I don't know. Even sitting on the floor is preferable to standing all the time.
The library's name, although well-earned, is...quite bland. Why not name it: ''Parchment Imperium,'' or ''The Arcanium''? If everything is named ''Great'' then nothing truly is.
In all four corners of the library, there are these fantastic double helix staircases—the only stairs I wish to tread—that can lead one to many levels of reading alcoves, honeycombing the tall walls. The alcoves are so numerous that even if all the guards, the students of each year, and all the caretakers suddenly felt that divine urge to read, all at this very moment, they...they would still be mere grains of sand thrown at a large hill.
Elbow space, indeed.
It would be incredibly wasteful to try and bring crystal light everywhere. That's why there are plenty of areas where darkness rules, making haunting images of cave-like entrances swallowed by the black.
Pockets of trapped inky blackness had an edge of vivacity to them, playing tricks on the eyes. Shadows here can come to life, if you let them.
During my first year, I did a little discreet exploring of the forgotten and rarely-used alcoves lining the highest reaches of the library's walls. So, I discreetly punched the walls inside some of these very high reading rooms, listening to the sound my punches made. Conclusion: huge sections of the library are hidden from the students—possibly even from fully-fledged Breakers. I was thinking of using my little ears to learn who else knows of these concealed areas.
My hearing manipulation has improved, but I'd rather not push my luck. One can be discreet only so many times, you see.
Orbs of light throw radiant spears at the unkillable night.
Scattered across most of this...hmmm, what is the best word...magnificent. Yes! Magnificent.
Scattered across this magnificent expanse, thousands of crystals shine their red, blue, yellow, and green glow.
During the day, a small army of caretakers is responsible for replenishing and charging the spent Cobalts. There are some Viridians and Ambers, placed willy-nilly, but I would wager they are used for variety's sake rather than any practical purpose.
Edging the spots of brightness, twilit nooks and crannies spread like ghostly vines across the Great Library.
Lantern is handy mostly while studying at one of the many carved reading alcoves dotting the walls, or those far-away tenebrious areas between the bookcases that have secluded, fine-textured stonewood desks and tables. Otherwise, the spaces near the main entrance have plenty of light.
Every time I'm here, my mind struggles to explain how this Alldora of volumes can be possible. I feel as though it would take thousands of years and resources beyond imagining to make all the tomes around me. Creation...mark of the Goddess is evident everywhere I look.
Not only that but there are books here—the biggest slice of the cake, really—that are filled with strange, punctiliously drawn letters on crystal-sleek papyrus.
Most of the books have lettering so crisp and clear, they look as though made with a ruler. Since Allmother gifted them to our chosen ancestors, these books are considered holy. And I must admit, their papyrus is divinely smooth, so pleasing to the touch, and whiter than purest marble, often with barely any yellowish tint to it.
Forever gazing sternly across the Gutter were the towering shapes of philosophers, poets, writers, semioticians, arithmeticians, and scholars of all sorts. The narrower side of every bookcase is carved into a statue of their likeness. Sentinels of stone guarding parchment. Luminaries of the past, hidden but not forgotten.
On closer inspection, roughly resembling wood grain, the statues are streaked with countless lines of varying thicknesses. Each line has its own unique shade of red, brown, or pale yellow.
Surrounding me on both sides, the bookcases are so wide I'm having problems discerning their farthest shelves.
Some shelves are stacked with books whose spines have no letters but strange, almost blossoming flowing gilt shapes that create floral-like lines, instead. The pretty patterns would often repeat more than two times across the spine, separated by raised bands, or fat golden lines. Must be a delight to catalog those.
The Great Library has dozens of levels of shelves, soaring upward. Each level has its own balcony.
Spiraling svelte staircases, often narrow and soaring, are everywhere; cutting through balconies, connecting them.
Each balcony has a slender spiral staircase made of wrought iron connecting it to the one above.
They remind me of the pendant, warmly resting on my chest.
The triquetra pendant Mother gave me looks plain and cheap. As though made of iron. But, the pendant was made of rare Lilac, later coated deeply in black-gray metallic paint. For the most part, we are not allowed to have jewelry. And not only that but a Lilac would certainly get stolen.
Ascending galleries kiss the distant ceiling.
It would take me dozens of jumps to reach the top gallery. I never had the proper opportunity to test myself fully in that way but I could probably leap over the combined height of six or seven adults without much difficulty.
Sometimes I'm tempted to do just that. To jump high and race the wind.
The library has about twenty flying crystalborn for reaching the highest balconies faster. They are small, enough for just one rider, and have owl-like wings. Sometimes even I struggle to hear them. I think these Winged are specially trained to be quiet. Of course, there are more than twenty in total. Those inside would perish without the sunlight and need to be rotated from time to time.
My favorite is a pink, winged horse. Her name is Bella. She is so pretty and sweet and lands gently like a feather. And to pour honey on seaweed jellies, she doesn't shit all over the place.
As I walk the Gutter, I notice what must be hundreds of dark greenish-brown ladders placed on balconies. Stonewood ladders, several times taller than a man, are everywhere, often several per balcony, and yet, they are twigs in a large forest.
All the balconies held platform-like four-wheeled ladders, for reaching the higher shelves.
The ladders often seem to be fairly new, and not that old.
Straight, rolling, swooshing, swaying, twirling, curvy, winding, sinuous, coiling, wandering, flexuous, undulating, tortuous balustrades infuse the space around me. Their top rails are sometimes level and sometimes curvy like a snake.
Rising around balconies, the often meandering balustrades had their handrails supported by thousands of newel posts, most of which had flat newel caps. Each of these caps had its own unique, fist-sized, intricately detailed figure on top. These finials portrayed familiars in all their splendorous variety of shapes; possessing manes, horns, scales, scutes, feathers, blunted claws, beaks.
Just like the crystals, no two figures were the same.
Crystalborn of every type and shape were here, forever standing guard over a myriad of books.
When I was a little girl...well, a smaller girl; anyway, when I was smaller I would try to guess the number of pages in a manuscript simply by observing its thickness. I was terrible at it, but it did give me some sense of scale. If all the figures in the Great Library turned into a leaf of parchment, I imagine the stack would rise to burst through its ceiling.
And the most astonishing part about the balustrades is that all of them are made of Valley-type of wood. Their oak has a warm dark brown tone with a tint of yellow.
The lower levels of bookcases are well-lit while higher levels are often lost in darkness, shelves reaching into the distance everywhere I look.
Vaulted ceilings are frequently eaten by the dark. Without a crystal lantern, one could easily get lost in the embrace of raven's wings.
Candles, torches...thinking of embers, and such, were strictly forbidden in the Great Library.
Obviously, we were told nicely that if even the smallest candle is found within the library, the student who brought the flame is barred from it forever. In addition, all the classmates of the perpetrator are also forbidden to set foot in the library for a month. I believe, if you are lucky, the minimum punishment for bringing any flame to this place is that you get banished for two years. Same dust, in my view.
It is strange. I should be partly exhausted from all the running in the city but I do not feel achy. The opposite is true. A fiery vigor is coursing through my blood.
I may or may not have slipped my tongue to a few girls in my class about how I overheard ''two guards'' talking about the voting test. I'm as innocent as a lamb.
At this time of night, the Academy's library is even more tranquil. I'm not sure if that's truly possible, my mind is probably playing tricks.
A feather in my hand, the iron lantern serves its purpose, casting a small sphere of blue radiance about this much less lit region of the library, keeping the encroaching darkness at bay.
At the distant end of the Gutter, large double doors made entirely out of alamarium dominate the view. They rise, embedded into the Great Library's end wall. The carved-out reading alcoves and nooks continue far above.
The doors have hundreds of strange symbols etched all over their surface: circles, inverted triangles, flowing and straight lines growing out of squares, and triangles forming simple and elaborate shapes alike.
Crossed and symmetrical lines created intricate patterns and glyphs whose true meaning is only known to the best Genesis semioticians.
During my first year, I was told that if caught simply touching those doors or sketching the symbols, I would get barred—for at least two months—from using the library. Or maybe even expelled from the Academy.
I've memorized most of the symbols. Many nights I've imagined myself drawing them again and again.
The double doors seem to have been made by giants for giants.
The sealed entryway has eight child-sized hinges, four on each side. They could probably reach my shoulders, a bit hard to say, though. Even for me. From this distance...of about eighty paces—yes, the length of a decently-sized gymnasium—the hinges appear small when compared to the doors.
They are arched, but unlike most of the Academy's larger doors, this arch is slightly more aggressive in appearance: slightly more pointy at the apex than just mildly curved.
A few months ago, as I passed closer to those doors, at the corner of my eye I'd glimpse the metallic-gray shadowy stains and swirls of alamarium seemingly dancing across its surface, locked inside the metal.
Not once have I seen them opened. There were no marks of heavy usage on the hinges and I noticed a very thin layer of dust on the doors' cantilevering bottom rails, at my eye level. The light of the lantern was pale, the last time I went there, but my gaze was undeterred. Got a voidish headache that night, too.
I turn left.
The space between the bookcases is a gorge whose soaring cliffs are made of books.
This region of the library has probably been quiescent for months.
It is serenely quiet, so much so that at moments it seemed as though someone might hear your very thoughts. This is a place where every whisper seems magnified and most of the time if there is a sound it only comes from the spider-quiet steps of library-keepers.
At this time of night, The Breaker Academy's library is devoid of even such rare sounds.
Every so often I hear the daintily tippy-tapping made by some dormouse's teeny steps. But that's about it. Dead silence.
Now and then, I avoided going to this forlorn area of the library, the obscure section feels strangely colder, probably because of its remoteness.
Sometimes when I read, my ears would pick up even the faintest of sounds. To escape people and the noise I prefer going to some of the Great Library's most remote regions, places quieter than quiet. Reading alcoves during the day, cozy ground nooks at night.
Usually, I like to begin my reading sessions with the book on the table, or, during the daytime, on one of those flat slabs of stone in the alcoves far above. This never lasts, and I always end up sitting on the floor or on a chair with my legs up, a book perched over my thighs. Since I prefer my fingers the way they are, slender and smooth, and since I prefer not to be noticed, this forsaken spot is perfect. Add the sublime quiet into the mixture, and my reading haven is ''better than honeyed mustacei,'' as Father might say.
A chair, table, and wide balcony above.
Slender spiral staircase behind me.
I leave the crystal lantern on the table, pull out my books, and adjust the reading reflector.
Most reading spots on the ground and high up have a polished gold plate attached to small post; it serves as a reflective mirror that concentrates the crystal light on the parchment. The Great Library holds thousands of reading reflectors, a good chunk rarely used.
I make myself snug and begin reading.
...In the long human history, it was often those cultures that have proclaimed themselves to be the most superior and pure that have committed the greatest sins against all mankind.
Only true superior culture would be the one that acknowledges its own failings and openly admits the possibility of not being the best...
...Those that build roads and bridges that they themselves will rarely walk upon may end up with their progeny conquering the world.
There is a pattern in history. The greatest civilizations were those in which their citizens were willing to work, live and die for the glory of the state. Cultures where loyalty, sense of duty, and valor were deeds, not words. Regrettably, such remarkable traits are...
...Long ago there were two renowned swordsmiths, fierce rivals. One day, in order to decide who makes superior blades they each planted their finest sword in a shallow stream.
First sword would cut every leaf and twig the water brought at it. The second one would cut only some leaves and twigs, others moving delicately around the blade. Since his blade cut everything, the maker of the first sword, naturally, declared himself the victor. However, the sagacious justiciar decided that second sword is superior because its edge cut with purpose. Moreover, it was decided---...
Plotinus -Date Unknown.
Well, this is boring. I stretch my legs and lower the old book. Reading philosophical works is a good way to solve my sleeping problem. We are often given lists of tomes, which are obligatory to read. I have no idea what does all that have to do with Genesis. Some, no doubt, older than dirt grandmaster deemed it to be part of the studies, and now it's taken as holy curriculum.
My short break over, I continue perusing the old text.
...Rules and laws work for those who create them. As individuals we are limited to the knowledge gathered by a narrow scope of one's own life, therefore, concentration of power into one individual is a folly of the greatest order.
Ruling over everything requires a ruler who knows everything. Span of one life, with all its limitations, is simply not enough to produce such an individual. In an empire of millions, avoiding famine alone can be a major logistical challenge. If those around the ruler are valued for their loyalty far more than merit, well, worms and crows will hunger not. Of course, preventing the collapse of an empire is a far greater challenge than---...
Author Unknown
Again, that symbol. Papyrus of about one in ten books I've read here had a small symbol of a snake eating its own tail, hidden inside it. Only seen by shining a crystal through the papyrus. The impression is easy to miss. I first noticed it months ago by chance, when turning the pages while the Cobalt shone at my side.
...It is part of human nature to always want more, to be restless. This can be good for avoiding stagnation of mankind but it can also give birth to conflict and destruction...
...The most dangerous individuals are those that do not know they are...
...There are 2 types of anger: Fire and Blade. Fire seems more powerful but it dies quickly. It destroys a small area around itself and then gets extinguished. It is quick anger. Blade waits patiently, cutting flesh with purpose and calculation. It can cut many times before going dull. The Blade is cold anger.
Fire is easier and more satisfying to many, however, in most cases, the Blade is more effective and devastating in the long run. It should be noted that in a primitive situation Fire---...
Tiny tremors scatter across the back of my neck. Hours of pure silence are broken. A delicate sound reaches my ears: barely audible rustle of pages.
Balcony above.
I stop breathing and focus.
Even during the day, this area of the library should be a desert.
Using the nearby staircase, I dawdle to the first-level balcony and towards the sound.
The last few treads creak a bit. I don't think I've ever---
THEIA'S TITS!
My stomach is a bubble of pain as spine after spine of books fills my vision, flying upwards.
Moments after I reached the balcony, my body was catapulted over the handrail.
I land hard in a jumble of dark-green linen and red tresses.
There is a large tear on my coat's left shoulder.
That was meant to kill. One of my classmates could have died from that.
The library, the Academy; the world is gone and my mind is full tilt focused on my ''killer.''
Despite partially losing my breath and the fall; in mere moments I'm getting up. Dull pain radiates through multiple spots on my head and body. A feeling quickly muted, thrown into the background as my frenzied heart bursts out of its cage.
No need for discretion anymore.
I compose myself wind-fast, and jump all the way back up to the first-level balcony.
As I glare at the young man that kicked me, his cloaked shape, now clearly shaken, takes a step back, quickly pulling his hood low.
The Hood's reaction is that of palpable fear. There is something more, he seems confused about what to do.
I bend my knees and hips a little. My toe, knee, and shoulder arrange to form a line. My feet are hip distance apart, right one in front; hands in front and bent at the elbows. Perhaps this place is not teaching only useless dross.
Minding my new stance, I move forward to repay the friendly tap in kind. My eyes are fervid, unmoving, unrelenting, unblinking; not leaving this man-shaped dustbag for even a swash of time.
Horrendous images and thoughts of Hebe, Michael, or some other student lying broken on the floor, flash through my mind.
A dark flame burns inside my chest, and I realize: I am going to kill him.
Judging by the hooded man's body language, he seems surprised. I expected him to try and hurt me, but instead: he begins to flee.
I chase after.
The cloaked man runs with an impressive speed of a Winged and then jumps impossibly high, grabbing the balustrade of a next-level balcony.
He moves like I can!
I follow the Hood whip-close, my own jump spearing me through the air until I grab and squeeze my fingers around one baluster's narrower part. I'm over the handrail in half a moment.
Just as his form is about to reach a dimly lit area of the library, I notice a shape outlining the right side of his flapping cloak. The shape is that of an oversized wax tablet. Did he steal a book!?
The Hood suddenly jumps, throwing himself from balcony's end.
In a flash of movement, his right hand flings a pouch in my direction.
A pale blue mist hugs my eyes.
Holding my breath, I continue to chase.
In no time at all, whatever that smoke-mist was is already behind me.
Where are you?Where are you?
Fruitlessly and for some time, I try to hear, to hear anything, focusing my hearing everywhere around me.
He is gone.
He sent me flying across like a thrown toy. The bastard moved so fast, perhaps even faster than I can. And where did he disappear? All the exits are always guarded.
The lion pin of the bronze fibula in my inner pocket stabbed at my heart as I fell. Hope I didn't break it.
***