Page 5 of Aubade Rising
The old man falters, confidence draining from him in the face of her rage.
When he remains silent, I see her eyes fill briefly with tears she doesn’t let fall. Two narrow jets of water shoot from her hands into the manacle locks, shattering them violently and the walls echo with the noise. She pulls me to standing, an action which exhausts me – my legs are too weak. I lean heavily on her small frame and desperately try not to think about my shaking hands or how broken my body has become.
As we make our way to the door, the old man is frozen in place. Dervla tugs me along, before he can object. The shadow isnowhere to be seen.
Our pace is excruciatingly slow. We climb floor after floor, resting frequently, each pause shorter than I would like before Dervla hauls me to my feet, encouraging me to continue. Her anger is icy cold and tension radiates through every one of her steps. Each time she sees me stumble or my muscles spasm in an aftershock, her lips purse threateningly.
She leads me upwards through a beautiful palace I recognise from childhood stories, Chi An Mor, the heart of Pentargon city. It’s built into a bleached yellow sandstone cliff with the rest of the city separating it from the ocean. I’ve heard it has over one hundred floors but climbing these stairs feels like a thousand.
We pass through cream sandstone corridors, each with a shallow stream, about a hand-width wide, running along channels carved into the floor. The water is sparkling and clear and it takes everything I have not to fall down and drink from it.
Finally, Dervla pulls me into a suite of rooms and locks the door. A soft futon in front of me tempts me, begging to be slept on.
“Do you need to channel?” Dervla whispers.
I assess the dregs of magic in my chest and nod.
“Quickly then.”
I stumble to the window to replenish the void in my chest. The sun is hidden behind thick clouds, casting a sombre shadow over the city below. No matter – I don’t need much. My aching hands rise and call the daylight to me, replenishing my magic and wiping away some of the exhaustion from the cell.
“Come. We must go,” Dervla snaps the moment my hands stop moving, her posture tense. She unlocks the door and drags my weary body back out into the palace.
The climb is gruelling, each flight of stairs deepens my exhaustion and a glance at Dervla tells me she isn’t faring much better.
“Keep going Sage,” Dervla pants. “Not much further. We have to get to the King first.” Her pace falters as she struggles to bear my weight. I must rest but the resolve in her face tells me it’s not an option.
“What happened to you?” I gasp as we reach the top of another flight of stairs.
“I burnt out.” She pauses and looks around to check we are alone. “My magic got us here but I had nothing left. The waterfall underneath the palace restored me but it took days.”
Days of channelling magic to recover? That’s a staggering amount. I’ve come close to burnout before but it takes me moments to replenish. The amount of magic she must be able to store defies all of my preconceptions. I regard Dervla warily, realising for the first time she might be one of the most powerful Mordros in the Kingdom.
“I came for you as soon as I could. I didn’t realise my message had been misunderstood. They thought I had brought you in for questioning. That I apprehended you when I escaped.” She turns to me, her dark brown eyes wet. “It’s my fault you were tortured.”
“You were the reason we escaped Athnavar and the attacks. You can’t blame yourself for what happened next.” I reach for her hand, clasping it tightly in mine. I don’t blame her.
We stagger upwards, holding hands, ignoring our cramping, weakened legs.
Chapter 4
Dervla continues walking once we’ve reached the top of the stairs and leads me along a long sandstone corridor. With every step, I watch her compose herself and don a mask of blank neutrality. She halts abruptly in front of a large, wooden door and releases my hand. The action causes me to stumble. My hands plunge into the narrow channel of icy water that runs the length of the corridor. I swear aggressively as the dampness spreads up my clothes, spreading the grime from the dungeons further.
“Sage. This is important.” She pauses in front of the door. “Whatever you do, do not lie to the King. He can tell. Do you understand?”
I nod, not able to bring myself to care that I’m about to meet the most powerful man in Trevesiga in ruined clothing, smelling of the dungeons.
The door partially opens to reveal the guard from the rescue, the first one in the water. He towers over both of us, his broad shoulders blocking the doorway. I might be exhausted but I note that he looks as good now as he did in wet uniform. One of his eyebrows rises at my disgusting appearance but he doesn’t comment, and opens the door widely.
The room is a vast space: large panes of glass cover three sides and I take a minute to absorb the views. I expected to see the city and ocean beneath me but on the north side is the great expanse of the River Targon, lazily disappearing under and around the floor of the chamber. I could walk straight out and onto the surface of the water.
To the left and right of the river are the tops of two show-stopping waterfalls which hug the external glass walls before thundering into the city below. I’m confused. Growing up in Pentargon I remember the river appearing at the base of Chi An Mor, the palace breathing it into existence. These beautiful waterfalls are completely hidden, disappearing into wide tunnels that are buried between the palace and the cliff-front –another Mordros secret. This room and the upper floors of the palace are recessed into the cliff and instead of a city view to the west, I can see the curved arm of the archipelago stretching into the distance.
Once I’ve adjusted to the unexpected view, the other people in the room draw my attention. Dervla smiles weakly, her dark skin pallid and ashen from exhaustion and her hands pulled tight behind her back. One of the two men sitting opposite me is the old man from the dungeon. My lungs constrict, feet frozen in place. Adrenaline rushes through my body, screaming at me to run. My body listens and I back away, only to find the guard from the rescue blocking my exit.
Trembling, I turn to face my torturer. His face is flushed; he must have set quite a pace to arrive before us but still he manages to look derisively at us. I keep him in my peripheral vision and take in the final occupant sat behind a large reflection pool.
He must be King Cado; a thin metal circlet adorns his head, the pale gold contrasting with his dark hair. My unease remains as I take him in. He’s tall and long-limbed, classically handsome and looks completely at ease leaning back in his chair, a half-smile playing across his lips. Actually, I think he’s smirking at my sodden state. I doubt he’d still be smiling if he got close enough to smell me though.
