1.1: Sinking

We arrived in Kipana the same morning that the storm did. It had been following us north for three days now: a dark, brooding wall of thunder clouds that crept closer each hour with the grim kind of inescapability normally reserved for things like death. That looming front had been a weight at my back as we rode, a solid presence that pushed against my awareness like a smothering hand. And now, the last morning of the long trek, it poured, and it poured, and it poured some more.

               If any of the merchants in our little party had hoped to ride in with some sort of dignity, the rain extinguished that idea right away. The gates of Kipana opened not to welcome a distinguished merchant convoy, but to swallow a thankful group of drenched travelers riding horses splattered up to their stomachs with mud. 
              No one was happy about the weather but, in a way, it was strangely fitting for the storm to finally break as we reached the city. It had been raining the day I'd left as well, I remembered sourly as I sat my horse in the torrential downpour waiting for the Furl's men to open the gates. The same, cold, winter rain. I had even been riding the same horse. Only back then I had left with half the bones in my right hand broken, Marcus' blood fresh on my knuckles, and a stone cold certainty that I was never, ever coming back.

               At my side, Ezra shifted in her wet saddle and shot me a sidelong look like she could guess what I was thinking. "Are you alright?" she asked quietly as we waited. They seemed to be taking an awfully long time with the gates. The last time I had been here the mechanisms that had operated the Gates and Doors and Lights of the city had still been functional. But those delicate clockwork contraptions and intricate systems of switches and pulleys had slowly died without the Heralds to tend to them. Even the stone of the city, once a pure solid white, was gradually rotting to gray. Ensconced in the skeleton of the once great city, teams of soldiers and laborers struggled to hold it together, manning structures that had once manned themselves. South Gate was once such edifice. I remembered the way the gates had raised for me last time, the slow rumble of hidden gears at work, the smooth rising of a solid section of the wall. Now the Furl's men strained and curse and struggled to lever the Gate open and, despite their best efforts, could only raise it about halfway. There they held it, with barely a foot of clearance between a mounted man's head and the bottom of the gate and their Captain stared irritably at me, urging us to get a move on as if he was unsure or unwilling about keeping it open this long.

I nodded to the man and nudged my horse into motion. He wasn't anyone I recognized but that didn't mean much and it sure as hell didn't stop him from greeting me with a scowl. I wasn't paranoid enough to take it personally, but it wasn't the greeting the rest of my group expected and they muttered behind me as we rode through. I made it under without having to duck but Shibel, mounted on the biggest palfrey I had ever seen, grumbled as she bowed her head to avoid the dripping bottom of the Gate. Ezra, following close behind me, had forgotten her question and was all open amazement, craning her head back to study the underside of the Gate, heedless of the mud that fell from its edges. I could feel her growing excitement replacing her earlier concern and the sheer energy radiating off her- the pure eagerness- was at odds with my own darker mood. Eight years earlier, her delight would've been totally justified but now? Why get excited over ruins? Why get enthused about ghosts?

We passed through the wall and the city sprang up around us, the Low Markets right there where I'd left them, all laid out in the Herald's precise geometry. Before, not even a storm of this magnitude could have shut down business in those markets, but now only a thin crowd moved through the trader's buildings and wooden stalls. The wide streets ran with watery mud and the downpour couldn't quite wash away the heavy and pervasive stench of burning twitch. If the weather had been better, the alleyways here would have been choked with clouds of the smoky stuff hanging so thickly it would've almost been a haze. Like the rain did now, it would've muted the once bright colors of Low Market- the reds and blues of Dell'an dyes, the soft pinks of the giant Cadavari fish dredged up from the bottom of the river Ice. But now everything was gray and dark and half-hidden to avoid getting wet and the people that navigated their way through the mud didn't look up from the shadows of their hoods.

              Directly in front of us, Blood's Eyrie rose up out of the rain. Even in ruin, the great, twisting structure was large enough to defy the storm and I could easily make out its shape through the downpour, the hundreds of large windows dotting its serrated surfaces gaping like dark wounds. I tried not to look too closely at it. I still dreamed of that massive building sometimes. I still dreamed of Blood too sometimes. I gave my horse the spurs and rode through Low Market, the others falling further and further behind with each passing stride. If I looked back I knew I would see them in a confused knot of horses and wagons and mules, pointing and whispering like the city had ears and would take offense to what they were saying. Predictably, they were caught up on the Eyrie, captivated by the harsh, alien curves of the tower and the way it almost seemed to sway if you didn't keep an eye on it at all times. Who knew how long it would take them to tear their gazes away let alone to get through the twisting maze of the Market itself where anything of Herald-make, any Dell'an war artifact, would inevitably draw their attention. I began to leave them behind in ones and twos, like beads slipping off a string and didn't look back.

               I turned my horse down a barely remembered side street but I hadn't gotten more than a few feet before movement caught the corner of my eye. "You don't have to stay with me, you know," I told her. "I'm not exactly taking the scenic route."

               "Now, what kind of assistant would I be if I abandoned you?" Ezra asked as she rode up. I turned to look at her and was met with small smile that was only half kidding.

               "Ezra," I said, rising to the bait nonetheless, "You're not my assistant."

               It was an argument we'd had half a dozen times by now and one she always won thanks to a slip of paper with the King's royal seal impressed on the top. I honestly didn't know why I bothered anymore. She obviously found my staunch denial amusing, if I had to judge by the smile in her blue eyes, but I couldn't share her good humor. I hadn't been the most popular person when I left Kipana eight years ago and I doubt time had done much to smooth out my memory. But try telling Ezra that and she just nodded like we were discussing what to eat for lunch.

               I thought she was going to reply but then her gaze went past me and locked on to something up ahead. "Well they look awfully official, don't they?" she asked. With a sinking premonition in my gut, I followed the direction of her stare and saw them right away. A small group of horsemen were riding towards us under a soaking banner that dripped rain. It was too dark and there was too much rain to see the face of the man leading them but I would bet my horse's weight in gold that it was who I thought. The banner, a white feather with a red tip on a blue backdrop, was tasteless clue enough. "That's the Furl's personal sigil," I told Ezra. "Get used to seeing it plastered on everything that can't move."

               "Is that the Furl then?" Ezra asked.

               I fought back a dark laugh. "No. That's her Champion."

               She offered the name with ease. "Seerhus?"

               "Mhmm," I confirmed. "The Sword of the North." I reined in and Ezra followed suit and we sat our horses in the rain and waited for the riders to come and meet us, and I tried my hardest not to think about how I'd last parted company with the Furl's Champion. Predictably, it was then all I could think about.

               Ten paces away and the lead rider held up a gauntleted hand but whether it was a greeting or a command for the rest of his small group to halt, it was impossible to tell. His men did stop at a discrete distance and he rode up us alone, with the impeccable mounted form I remembered too well.

               Graveside. Winter rain. Whisper reached into my memories and dredged up the imagery with a distinct lack of care for how his voice and those words gutted me. I had to make a conscious effort to not reel in my saddle, his intrusion into my mind was so unexpected. And so raw.

               Luckily, Seerhus didn't seem to notice. He reined in a few feet away and for several seconds we sat there and openly looked at each other while I scrambled to get my composure back. Unlike me he had a new horse, a heavy dappled gray that towered over my own smaller mare so that I had to raise my head to meet Seerhus' eyes even though I was the older and taller of us. New horse, same man. Seerhus hadn't changed one bit in my absence. Same dark regard, same closed face full of gravity, same quiet, self-assured grace. It took people by surprise to see such darkness out of such light eyes. For being Northern born, pale-skinned, white-blonde, and just shy of thirty, the Furl's Champion had this intensity about him, this solemnity, that gravely mismatched his appearance. He wore his armor like a second skin, sat his horse like other men sit on stools in their favorite dives, and looked into you rather than at you until you got the impression that nothing you say could surprise him.

               Not many could match his stare when he really cranked it up and looked at you. But I'd had practice.

               After a moment he conceded this fact and switched his attention to Ezra. "Lady Ezrana Ril?" he asked and she shifted at my side, suddenly uncomfortable.

               "Ezra is just fine," she said.

               He inclined his head, correct to a fault. "Welcome to Gere, Lady Ezra-"

               "Just Ezra. Please."

               I stifled a humorless smile at the silence that followed her interruption, staring out into the rain as Seerhus finally gave in.

               "Ezra," he conceded, somehow managing to pronounce the word like its own unique title. "His Majesty sent word ahead that you would be visiting with the trade delegation. The Furl has sent me to welcome you and to escort you and the rest of your caravan to the Keep."

               Ezra's confusion was almost palpable but when I continued to sit idly, still staring off into the distance, she straightened in the saddle and spoke. "I don't know what the King told you, but I'm here as the personal assistant to Captain Winters. Nothing more."

               Seerhus looked back at me and I slowly turned my head to meet his eyes again. "Hello, Seer."

               "It's been a while Corvalis," he said quietly.

               "Not long enough," I replied and meant it. Fresh dirt on the grave, Whisper agreed. I twitched like I'd been stung by the world's largest horsefly and knew he'd seen it. Knew he knew what it meant.

               Still he played along. "Eight years?" he asked.

               "Not long enough." We looked at each other for a while.

               Seerhus's already closed expression closed a little further but there was something of understanding in his nod. "Can I take you to the Furl?" he asked.

               I could've said 'no' but what would've been the point? Eventually everyone's got to pull the knife from the wound. So I just nodded. "Sure."

               Seerhus' eyes went past us like I was hiding the rest of my caravan somewhere in the shallow alley and the rain. "Where are the merchants?"

               "Don't know."

               He raised an eyebrow at me.

               "They're somewhere in Low Market," I amended. "They got sidetracked."

               "I see." The Champion twisted in his saddle and beckoned his men closer. The banner flapped wetly above out heads and I looked up at it as he gave two of his men new order. A white feather on a dark background, its tip and the leading edge stained red with blood. A dark little smile cooked my mouth. Inside my mind Whisper stirred and sighed and faded before the hurt could find him.

               "Ready?"

               I blinked. Seerhus and Ezra were both looking at me so I nodded. "Let's go."

If the Furl was hoping her escort would make some grand welcome impression the rain had more or less ruined everything. The banner was a soaked piece of cloth by the time we started riding again, too wet to do anything other than cling to its pole even though the bannerman gave it a few discrete shakes when he thought no one was looking. The soldiers got drenched, the horses got drenched, and the streets ran with mud and were overrun with puddles. In some places the entire road was filling with rain water. As Seerhus' men guided their horses to the side of the street, yelling at the remaining vendors to clear a path, I paused for a moment in the middle of the cobblestone road and looked to either side. My horse was fetlock deep in a massive puddle and the ramshackle buildings around me seemed oddly elevated, almost as if the street was on a lower level than they were, almost as if the road had sunk ever so slightly. Like the city wasn't just crumbling above ground but also slowly dropping onto the earth as well.

               I caught up to Seerhus and Ezra. "Kipana is sinking," I remarked. It wasn't a question.

               Seerhus shot me a sidelong look. "No one calls it that anymore," he said. "It's Gere now."

               "I know what they've named it. Kipana's sinking."

               This time Seerhus didn't answer but Ezra was all ears. "Sinking how?"

               "In the same way everything else sinks. Down." I leaned close to her and pointed. "Look at the buildings, at the roads. The Furl's hard a try at shoring up the infrastructure with things like these cobblestone streets and granite bulwarks against the walls but no one really knows what Kipana was originally made of- the Herald's white stone, no one really knows if it's even really stone at all. Stone doesn't rot like this stuff does...” I looked around at me, at the shadow of Blood's Eyrie now on my left, listing in the rain. "It's all crumbling away. Slowly, yes, but in another decade or two this place will fall down around whoever's left."

               Ezra eyed me like I was pulling a fast one on her but I just nodded at the scenery around us, at the deep puddles we splashed through, and left her to draw her own conclusions. The evidence was there if you looked. Or wanted to see.

               We rode the rest of the way in silence. Seerhus had urged his charger a few feet ahead of us, just behind his bannerman, and I watched the rain stream down his polished back plate through hooded eyes. My face ran with water. The smell of wet horse clung to all of us and now thunder was coming in, rolling up from the south with a long, low growl to announce its arrival.

               It had been raining that day too.
              The storm tumbled in and drowned the sky.