Ten days later, the Millionth and Fifth trudged onto a dry and dusty plateau, speckled with mini tropical forests and hanging gardens that drooped over the edges of hills and boulders. Dawit hung back several paces behind Shem and Avana, who were walking as far apart as their formation would allow. The rest of the troop were spaced out intermittently behind them.

The first hint of the Stronghold was a thin line of dazzling white rock that seemed to span the entire horizon. They were still a good two and a half miles from the outer walls; nevertheless, the full weight of their scale cast a shadow of trepidation over the Millionth and Fifth.

Slowing his stride, Dawit fell back beside Keon.

“Listen, there’s a couple things you should know before we go in,” he said. “To enter the Stronghold, we have to pass through the Golden Gate. It’s like a walled city all on its own. Beyond that, the rest of Midnah-Dogu stretches for miles. Once we’re inside the Gate, we have to mask up,” he held up a strip of fabric lined with parchment. “Moonlamps burn pages from their Codices and fill the whole city with fumes. Inhale them and you’ll get infected.”

“With what?”

“Confusion. As long as you wear this, the pages inside will counteract the effects.”

Keon listened intently, taking mental notes.

“Everything inside the Gate is designed to keep you there. So, don’t buy anything. Not even food.”

Keon scoffed, “How can I? I don’t have any money.”

“Knowledge and information are Underland’s currency. If someone offers you something; mangoes, jewellery, even a banana—don’t take it. It’ll seem like they’re giving you a gift, but they’ll want something in return. All they have to do is ask questions.”

“So, what; don’t answer any questions?”

“Don’t give away anything personal. Not even your name.”

“What’ll they do with it?”

“They’ll sell it,” said Kai, coming up on the other side. “Probably to the Mysts.”

“Are you serious?!”

“They run a market here in the city,” said Dawit, nodding in the direction of the approaching walls. “The Bedesten.”

“What do they sell there?”

“Information—and if the rumours are true—Mirrors.”

* * *

By the time they neared the walls, they’d turned their shawls inside out to hide the Torchbearer seals on their backs. Hooded and masked, they kept their chins close to the chest; eyes peeking out beneath fraying hems.

Keon was having a hard time keeping his hood down low (so as to look broody) and seeing where he was going. Several times he almost tripped on slabs of rock jutting out of the ground. All he could make out was the pale, sand-like dust of the land bridge.

After one last trip, Shem grabbed the scruff of his neck and tugged on the tip of his hood.

“Eyes up mate. We’re almost there.”

As he raised his chin, Keon’s gaze roamed across the looming, three-tiered marvel of Midnah-Dogu. Hundreds of white statues lined the walls, spaced evenly between the battlements; their heads wreathed in carved turbans, each brandishing long javelins. Were they there to intimidate travellers or ward people off? He could have sworn some of them were moving, but that was absurd.

The gleaming inner, outer and lower walls were separated by terraces; each wall of hewn white marble holding back escarpments in the land. The lower wall crowned the edges of a moat that spanned the entire width of the Stronghold; broken by bridges every two-hundred metres.

Sapphire bricks lined the tips of the battlements and cut through the white walls in seven bands. The inner wall was fortified by intermittently spaced square towers. About halfway between each tower, smaller rounded towers held up the outer wall. And there, just peeking over the inner walls, he could see pillars of dark orange smoke wafting into the air. Other than that, he thought—

“This place looks beautiful…”

“Don’t be deceived,” said Avana, “It’s nothing but a white-washed tomb.”

Before he could question her sudden concern for his safety, she took off in a brisk stride. A tap on the back caught his attention. Jonas was signing in the direction of the walls.

“We’re about to pass through the Gate,” said Zahara.

White marble steps marched up a ramp leading onto the main bridge. The bridge stood across from the entrance to the Golden Gate; a gold paved courtyard guarded by two colossal flanking towers. A triad of golden doors were embedded in the main walls, each capped by a latticed arch.

The flanking towers seemed to swell around them as they crossed the bridge into the courtyard. Billowing red banners, embroidered with gold, fell down their sides from top to bottom; buffeted by the breeze funnelling through the courtyard.

The central twin doors were flung open, beyond which, Keon could just about make out the golden paths of dusty streets winding between white, flat-roofed buildings.

Two great, pearlescent effigies of hooded women stood either side of the open doors. The hoods clung tight to their foreheads, the sides falling down their cheeks like drapes that met below the navel. Chiselled across their chests, beneath the opening of the hoods, were the scales of armoured breastplates. In opposing hands, they brandished lengthy, gleaming glaives. As the Millionth and Fifth drew near, their alabaster heads creaked to look at them. The glaives suddenly crossed to bar their path, almost shocking Keon out of his skin.

“Almuluk bids you welcome travellers. What business brings you to Midnah-Dogu?”

Their carved features were alluring; the marble seeming to melt and warp as they moved. They spoke in cursive tones, thickened with an accent reminiscent of Wellworn’s. One would be forgiven for forgetting they were made of stone.

Dawit stepped forward, shoulders squared.

“We’re just passing through.”

Their porcelain faces shone with smiles that would warm the heart of any man.

“You must be weary from your travels. The hospitality of the Golden Gate is without rival in these lands. We would be honoured if you dined with us…”

“Perhaps some other time,” said Dawit, his eyes not leaving theirs.

The stone sentinels bowed, yielding. The glaives slowly creaked apart, opening the way.

“As you wish.”

Dawit chanced a glance at Shem who dipped his head in approval.

The group passed through the open doors into a long, vaulted corridor. Geometric, arabesque patterns adorned the walls on all sides, rising to curve across an arched ceiling.

“That didn’t seem too hard,” whispered Keon.

“Getting in isn’t the problem. It’s getting out the other side,” said Dawit.

“What were those things anyway?”

“Mynds,” said Zahara, stifling a snicker at his shock, “Not all Mynds are hideous, just like all ideas aren’t bad ideas.”

“So, what’s the big idea?” he said, signalling back with his head, “Get it? The big…”

Everybody got it, just nobody thought it was funny. Except, maybe Dawit; but he wasn’t about to let on.

“It’s less an idea and more a persuasive lie,” said Avana, turning to look at him, “That Midnah-Dogu is a paradise.”

“I take it you don’t like this place much,” said Keon.

“I’m not overly fond of Moonlamps.”

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

The rush and heat of would-be sunlight hit Keon’s forehead as they exited the archway, forcing him to pull down on his hood. As his eyes adjusted, the bustling streets and white walls of the Golden Gate melted into view. The scent of kofte and fresh flatbread danced across the air. Perfumes and spices of every imagination jostled for a place in his nostrils. Market stools lined the edges of dusty streets, decorated with hundreds of tiny, twinkling mirrors, clinking together on strands of twine.

Even masked, he couldn’t hide the smile breaking out across his face.

“Now this is more like it!”

Hustle, bustle and busyness abounded, with people skittering left and right like worker ants. Some of them observed the new arrivals with scepticism, others with curiosity. In their travels, they had barely seen any sign of life in Underland other than themselves, but Midnah-Dogu was practically bursting at the seams. Young and old. Male and female. Multiple hues of sun-soaked brown.

“We should split up,” said Shem, “We’ll draw less attention that way.”

Dawit nodded.

“Meet on the other side of the gate. Keon, Kai; you come with me. Zahara, you go with Jonas.”

Shem and Avana shot Dawit a look as he grinned with mischief.

“And you two,” he said, index finger swinging back and forth between them, “Play nice, yeah?”

Avana grimaced as Shem shuffled awkwardly in the dust beside her. He blinked, eyeing the crowded streets for a possible path through the walled city.

“Come on,” he grunted.

“We’re not together, we’re just going the same way,” she muttered, pushing past him.

Keon snickered to himself as he, Dawit and Kai wound their way through the dusty avenues.

“What’s so funny?” asked Dawit.

Keon shook his head in gleeful silence.

“Nothin’”

Nobody noticed the man, lounging behind a market stool of wicker baskets, intently eyeing them through the tinkling mirrors across the street.

* * *

This was impossible. There was food everywhere, and not just any food. There was lahmacun. Shish kebab. Donner kebab. Kofte kebab. Kofte, shish and donner kebab wrapped in lahmacun. Naan bread. Pitta bread. Crisp bread. Flat bread. Keon shook his head in a vain attempt to fight off the fragrances. Their lunch had been light, which wasn’t helping. They hadn’t foraged since the afternoon before. How did anyone expect him not to eat anything, especially when people were giving it away for free?

He held up both hands, almost to shield himself; apologising profusely to a motherly old lady who was offering him pomegranates. He didn’t even like pomegranates, but right now they may as well have been edible gold.

A tall young guy with the longest beard he’d ever seen offered him some kind of overcoat. He didn’t know what the man was saying but he seemed concerned he wasn’t wearing the right clothing for the arid heat. At least, that’s what Keon assumed based on how he kept gesturing to the sky and tugging at his shawl. Goodness, it smelt good too. And the quality. Was that satin? Whatever it was, it felt amazing!

He was suddenly jostled out of his euphoria by Dawit tugging on his arm, gesturing for them to move on. They had to practically drag him away.

Overcrowded market avenues soon gave way to an open square of immaculately cut grass. Keon breathed in the freedom of the silky, smooth air that seemed to permeate all of Underland. They were walking down a path of cream marble that lined the perimeter of the square. Daylight twinkled between overhanging palm trees as they passed, light dancing across the surface of a fruit he didn’t recognise. At the centre of the square, children frolicked around a ringed pool of crystalline blue. Its waters were fed by a pearlescent, marble fountain in the middle, set aside like an island. The fountain itself was shaped as an open book atop some kind of stool with the waters trickling down its gold lined centre into the pool.

“What’s that?” Keon asked, nodding in its direction.

Dawit gave it little more than a passing glance, making a beeline for the opposite end of the courtyard.

“That’s the Kalimat Mithali. Their Codex.”

“They only have the one?”

“Moonlamps Forge from a single, unified Codex. Their legends say that the Kalimat Mithali belonged to the King himself and that, long ago, he gave it to the Intermediary who passed it on to the people. Moonlamps have travelled to Strongholds like this ever since to record its words in their Codices.”

“You ever read it?”

“Why would I?”

“I mean, if it belonged to the King, wouldn’t you wanna read it?”

“It doesn’t.”

“But, how do you know?...”

“Because bro!” Dawit wheeled round, realising he should probably lower his voice, “Because Helel ibn Shahar is the one who gave it to them…not the King.”

He turned and took off, leaving behind a somewhat sceptical Keon.

Something about this place set Dawit on edge. All of them in fact. Except maybe Shem. He didn’t get it. The people seemed oddly every day, save for their dress. Multihued kaftans with golden embroidery. Not the kind of thing you would expect to wear to a dusty market. Everyone dressed like royalty, from the humble man selling purple yams to the old sage, sat on his stool smoking a long pipe; his features practically swallowed by facial hair. Even the kids wore elaborately decorated skull caps (if they were boys) and hoods (if they were girls); probably to save their fancier clothes from the dust, judging by the golden-brown stains lining the bottoms of formally white robes.

As his eyes roamed the square, his gaze fell upon a wall on the far-left side. It was featureless save for an arch breaking its surface like an open mouth, its long throat falling into a deep void.

“Yeah, you don’t wanna go that way bro,” said Kai, startling him out of his preoccupied stupor.

“What is it?”

“That’s the Bedesten. The Mirror Market.”

* * *

They’d been walking awhile when Dawit’s pace began slowing to a crawl. He was getting clumsy, stumbling over every little pebble on the street. Keon came up beside him.

“You alright, Dawit?”

He seemed out of breath, tugging at the neck of his mask; what’s more, his forehead was sparkling with beads of perspiration. Seeing Keon’s concern, he wiped his head with the back of his bracer.

“Must be the heat,” he said, which was odd because a cool breeze had been blowing for the last twenty minutes.

As time went on, Dawit’s uncertain stride diminished to a muddled shuffle. His movements grew more laboured and uncoordinated.

“Quit messing around bro,” said Kai impatiently, but Dawit could barely focus on his face.

By the time they rounded the next corner, he was breathing heavily, leaning on the market stools for support. The mirrors tinkled as he almost lost his balance and Keon rushed to steady him.

“Dawit?”

“I’m fine…I’m fi—”

He lost his grip and hit the ground hard, blowing a cloud of golden dust into the air.

“Dawit!”

Kai skidded to his side, yanked off Dawit’s mask and tilted his head back to stop him choking on his own tongue. He flicked his eyelids open with his thumbs. His eyes were rolling back, fighting to snap shut. He was running a furious fever, as though competing with the arid heat. The crowds quickly amassed like seagulls to seed.

“Does anyone have any water?!” Keon cried.

“NO!...No!” Kai held up a hand to a young man offering a copper-coloured jug, his wide-eyed expression telling Keon to can it.

“He’s tired, man! He’s just…he’s really tired!” Kai called over his shoulder, without a shred of conviction. He yanked Keon by the hood, “What are you, stupid? Don’t ask for anything!”

“The hell’s wrong with him? Is it the fumes?!” hissed Keon.

“Can’t be. He’s had his mask on the whole time!”

Kai turned his head to the side, watching beads of sweat trickle down his neck.

“He’s been stricken.”

“What? What’s that mean?”

“It means he’s sick!”

He took the strip of garment that was Dawit’s mask, poured some of his canteen over it, squeezed it out and began dabbing Dawit’s forehead.

“Back home, you get sick; it’s from bacteria, yeah? Or a virus.”

Keon nodded.

“Well here, it’s your mindset,” he said, pointing to his temple, “Hope deferred makes the heart sick and a crushed spirit dries the bones.”

Keon had no idea what that meant, but he nodded all the same.

The beads of sweat seemed to form faster than Kai could wipe them. He shook his head, reticent.

“It’s no good,” he muttered. “Bro? Bro! Talk to me. I can’t help you if I dunno what’s wrong with you.”

“I…I can’t…I tried…I’m sorry…”

Kai’s honey-brown complexion seemed to desaturate as the colour bled from his face and his back tensed.

“What is it?” asked Keon.

“It’s doubt. He’s been stricken with doubt,” he said, “We need to get him away from the crowds. Now!”

“Why?”

Kai slid out his Codex and peeled off a strip; eyes fixed on Dawit’s wriggling form. He folded furiously, forging a long bow, from which he tore off a length and twisted it into an arrow. Several of the people dispersed in alarm as though the very act were taboo.

“If we’re not careful, he’s gonna attract something worse.”

“Like what?”

“Stop stopping and get your Codex! I need a blank page from the Appendix.”

Keon scrambled to swing his satchel round, fumbling with the clip. He slid the book out, hesitant. He hadn’t gone near the Appendix since that day.

“Isn’t this risky?” said Keon, eyeing the crowds.

“Doesn’t matter now.”

He popped the pencil out of its pouch and flicked to the back of the book.

“What you’re gonna do is write ‘blue’, attach it to the arrow and set it alight,” said Kai.

“What?”

“Just do it!”

Keon tore out the page, wrote ‘blue’ and poked the arrow through both ends of the paper, attaching it to the shaft. Grabbing the flint and steel kit, he crouched down and began striking sparks over the paper. It caught quickly. As the flames spluttered to life, blue smoke began billowing from the page. He lifted the arrow up to eye-level, his features bathed by the blue glow.

“Whoa…”

“Now, notch the arrow and shoot it up,” said Kai, struggling to sling Dawit’s arm across his shoulders.

“Uh…”

“Bro, it’s not complicated! You’ve watched movies! Just point it up and shoot!”

Keon aimed up, bent the bow and loosed.

* * *

Shem and Avana were walking at a distance that made little sense for two people travelling together. Locals randomly passed between them, making them move quickly to re-establish eye contact. Whenever their eyes met, hostilities would resume. This cycle repeated for ten straight minutes until Shem decided to break it.

“Alright,” he said, arms flapping in resignation. “This is ridiculous.”

Avana slowed to a stop, bolting her arms across her chest.

“I agree,” she replied.

“Why were we even fighting?”

“Because you’re an idiot.”

“You what?!”

“I don’t like repeating myself…”

“Really? ‘Cause you do nothin’ but repeat the same crap, day-in-day-out. It does my head in.”

“Which shouldn’t be hard, given how little’s in there…”

“Alright, listen…”

Shem took her by the arm. He probably intended to be gentle, but wasn’t quite gentle enough.

Instinctively, Avana spun his arm off and shoved him in the chest with the other hand. He flew back two metres, knocked over a stray basket and landed in a giant sack of paprika.

Avana cupped both hands over her mask as plumes of orange-red powder mushroomed into the air around him, breaking into a high-pitched cackle moments later. She doubled over, struggling to soothe her aching stomach muscles as the powder settled, blanketing Shem in a thick layer of spice.

He sniffed a chuckle, dusting off his powdery, orange arms. As he moved to pick himself up, all mirth melted away. Avana traced the path of his stare up into the sky—and to the trail of blue smoke arcing across it.