Spring 39, 512 AV
The port had died with the sun’s last light, and fog covered the ground like a shabby grey blanket that left the air damp and cold. Lanterns shone hazy and yellow through the gloom, littering the slapdash arrangement of shanties and shops and houses that were little more than jagged black shadows, unwavering in the darkness. A bell rang beyond any mortal’s reach of vision, and black brine lapped against stone pilings and barnacle-crusted wood columns.
Seven Xu stirred from his berth on one of a hundred roof tops. He had spent the day’s last bells on his back, watching stars wake one by one through the blur of grey-blue mist. Gooseflesh rose beneath his thin cotton sleeves, and clammy air clung to his neck and face. He groaned, leaned forward, and flexed the toes beneath his right boot. They were stiff. His entire leg was stiff; the cataclysm had left a glossy lattice of pink scars from the knee down where perfect white skin had once lived. The halfblood pulled back his trouser leg long enough to scowl at the mess before letting the cloth fall against his boot again.
There was a bed waiting for him, somewhere in Alvadas. Sooner or later, closer to the sun’s return to the sky, it would be filled with all the familiar warmth and smells that home’s comfort offered. It still hugged his shirt, or rather, his shirt—for he owned more soiled shirts, than clean ones.
A smattering of paper was left at his side. Through the darkness, his bastard eyes could still see dark points and numbers scrawled across a grid. Sequences spelled names: Fyrden, Shoyden, Swalden. He knew them all, and yet knew so little. Iraltu’s Observatory was a world away, and in Alvadas, no one cared about the music of the spheres. It was hard to even fathom inside the walls, when the Trickster could pour stars out of that upturned black bowl as easily as one could empty ale from a wooden mug.
The sky above patchwork port was less prone to the deceptions and perversions Ionu or His priests could weave. Seven pursed his lips. His back found the shingled roof top again. No sooner did his eyes flutter shut, did a puff of wind and a rustle of paper pry them open again. “Damn it.” He gave chase, but he was awkward and slow and could only crawl to the edge of a shingled precipice. “Damn it!”
Star charts littered a slick wet boardwalk, and a helpless white face peered out of the darkness. Seven’s wildly searching eyes were drawn to a familiar set of milk-glass horns and a gasp caught in his throat. He swallowed the lump. “Ho, ethaefal.” His lips were dry. How many could fall from the heavens? Perhaps Alvadas was at fault. The cynical halfblood had no love for them. Seven licked his lips, waited a heartbeat, and added, “Don’t step on those.”
The port had died with the sun’s last light, and fog covered the ground like a shabby grey blanket that left the air damp and cold. Lanterns shone hazy and yellow through the gloom, littering the slapdash arrangement of shanties and shops and houses that were little more than jagged black shadows, unwavering in the darkness. A bell rang beyond any mortal’s reach of vision, and black brine lapped against stone pilings and barnacle-crusted wood columns.
Seven Xu stirred from his berth on one of a hundred roof tops. He had spent the day’s last bells on his back, watching stars wake one by one through the blur of grey-blue mist. Gooseflesh rose beneath his thin cotton sleeves, and clammy air clung to his neck and face. He groaned, leaned forward, and flexed the toes beneath his right boot. They were stiff. His entire leg was stiff; the cataclysm had left a glossy lattice of pink scars from the knee down where perfect white skin had once lived. The halfblood pulled back his trouser leg long enough to scowl at the mess before letting the cloth fall against his boot again.
There was a bed waiting for him, somewhere in Alvadas. Sooner or later, closer to the sun’s return to the sky, it would be filled with all the familiar warmth and smells that home’s comfort offered. It still hugged his shirt, or rather, his shirt—for he owned more soiled shirts, than clean ones.
A smattering of paper was left at his side. Through the darkness, his bastard eyes could still see dark points and numbers scrawled across a grid. Sequences spelled names: Fyrden, Shoyden, Swalden. He knew them all, and yet knew so little. Iraltu’s Observatory was a world away, and in Alvadas, no one cared about the music of the spheres. It was hard to even fathom inside the walls, when the Trickster could pour stars out of that upturned black bowl as easily as one could empty ale from a wooden mug.
The sky above patchwork port was less prone to the deceptions and perversions Ionu or His priests could weave. Seven pursed his lips. His back found the shingled roof top again. No sooner did his eyes flutter shut, did a puff of wind and a rustle of paper pry them open again. “Damn it.” He gave chase, but he was awkward and slow and could only crawl to the edge of a shingled precipice. “Damn it!”
Star charts littered a slick wet boardwalk, and a helpless white face peered out of the darkness. Seven’s wildly searching eyes were drawn to a familiar set of milk-glass horns and a gasp caught in his throat. He swallowed the lump. “Ho, ethaefal.” His lips were dry. How many could fall from the heavens? Perhaps Alvadas was at fault. The cynical halfblood had no love for them. Seven licked his lips, waited a heartbeat, and added, “Don’t step on those.”