Page 108 of The Iron Flower

Countless buildings densely cover the central valley. My eyes dart around, straining to take it all in from this height. There are so many styles of architecture here, unlike the mostly uniform Spine-stone styles of Verpacia or the unvarying Ironwood forest designs of Gardneria. It’s all varied and mixed—as if every type of architecture on Erthia was thrown into the valley and tossed with a mixing spoon.

Long lines of glowing red trace the angles of each roof, casting the entire city in an otherworldly, scarlet glow. I point the glowing red lines out to Valasca as we descend, asking her what they are.

“Lines of runes,” she says. “They power lights and stoves and such. When the different runic systems are melded, they turn red. Hence our rather monolithic color scheme.”

The stone floor of an enormous circular plaza is gradually rising up to meet us, its tilework fashioned into a multicolored design made up of interlocking runes. The sound of female voices echoes everywhere, spread thick across the plaza and beyond—women shouting, women talking and laughing boisterously, women singing along to the melodic sound of string instruments. All women. No men.

A crowd is gathering below us, the plaza illuminated by guttering light of countless torches that send up scarlet flame.

An immense Spine-stone sculpture stands in the center of the plaza below, reminiscent of the statue of my grandmother back in Valgard. Only this monument depicts the Amaz Goddess in flowing garments, her belt a twining serpent. There’s a white dove on the Goddess’s shoulder, and the three First Sisters sit at her feet, gazing up at her adoringly. Below the First Sisters, a ring of small, horned deer prance.

Beyond the Goddess sculpture lies the largest structure in the valley—a massive geodesic dome with a series of smaller domes attached to its base, like offshoots.

“That’s the Queenhall, home to Queen Alkaia’s Council,” Valasca says proudly. “That’s where we’re going.”

The Goddess statue rises up to tower over us as we finish our descent. We smoothly connect with the ground, the runes beneath us winking out of existence, and a ring of stone-faced, heavily armed soldiers in rune-marked scarlet tunics fall in to surround us, a throng of curious onlookers just beyond them.

The Amaz all over the plaza are as varied as our own party. Urisk of every class. Alfsigr and Smaragdalfar Elves. Elfhollen, Ishkartan, Keltic, Noi—and even a few Gardnerians, their skin tinged with a green glow like mine, some of them with fastmarked hands. Many of the women seem to be of mixed heritage, like Andras and Professor Volya, and their clothing is as varied as they are.

Only the black rune-tattoos on their faces mark them as uniformly Amaz.

Every Amaz, save the young children, is heavily armed with rune-knives, swords or axes strapped to their bodies, along with many gleaming weapons I’ve never seen before. Even the very old women wear sly, curved knives hanging from intricately woven belts and small double-sided hatchets fastened to their arms.

I think of Andras’s adept mastery in the use of so many weapons and remember what he told me about the Amaz training all children in a wide variety of weaponry and martial arts.

Freyja points sharply at me and gives what sounds like a firm order to Valasca in another language. Valasca nods, then smiles and says something jauntily in return. I gather that Valasca’s response has been somewhat cheeky, as Freyja shoots her a stern look before riding up to the soldiers surrounding our party.

Freyja confers with the soldiers, then rides off with nine of them toward the Queenhall, effectively splitting our numbers in half. The rest of us set off in the same direction as well, but slowly enough that Diana can now saunter beside me.

The Queenhall is covered with a stunning mosaic design fashioned in every shade of scarlet and deep purple, its geometric surface edged with lines of glowing scarlet runes. Worked into the front of the dome is a gigantic arcing entrance framed by a carved ivory snake, its tail undulating out onto the plaza. Beyond the arch is a series of multicolored curtains, each receding layer draping slightly longer than the one before, giving the entryway the appearance of a lush, fabric tunnel.

Rune-torches affixed to black spiraling posts bracket the Queenhall entrance and wash it in a crimson glow.

A sizable crowd is assembling near the Queenhall, spilling out over half the plaza. The dense group parts as we near, and some of the women gasp as they catch sight of me, their eyes narrowing—the older ones in particular. Their hands instinctively reach for swords or axes, as the children are swiftly hidden from view or spirited away entirely.

As we draw closer to the entrance, Valasca leans down to press her face against our horse, her eyes closed, reminding me of Andras’s runed-enhanced way with horses. I remember that some of the Amaz rune-tattoos confer the ability to speak to horses with one’s mind, among many other skills.

Our horse slows, then stops, and Valasca dismounts. She helps me down, then gives the mare a pat and prods her to trot off with the other horses.

The crowd is thickening around us, growing increasingly threatening in their demeanor. They’re rendered all the more intimidating by the crimson torchlight, the world of the plaza a menacing landscape of flickering red light and shadow.

Diana glides closer to me in a protective stance, her wild eyes darting around, and Valasca’s hand comes to rest on my back. “Stay near me,” she whispers in my ear, her gaze carefully scanning the women around us.

I glance over my shoulder at Marina, who shoots me an anxious look, her ocean eyes round with worry, her arm linked through Ni Vin’s. Ni Vin seems to have appointed herself as Marina’s bodyguard, her unscarred hand resting lightly on the hilt of the curved sword that hangs at her side, her face expressionless as she surveys the crowd.

As we approach the Queenhall, I see that the huge rune-scaled, rose-skinned soldier has positioned herself between us and the curtained entryway, her mammoth frame blocking our way, her rune-axe gripped menacingly in both fists. We slow to a stop a few feet away from her, and the crowd’s belligerent muttering dies down.

“Make way, Alcippe,” Valasca orders with a casual swipe of her hand. “The Gardnerian is here to speak with Queen Alkaia. You know this. And Freyja has ordered that it be so.”

“No,” Alcippe growls, tightening her grip on her axe.

“Alcippe, what are you doing?” Valasca asks, seeming genuinely confused. “This is Freyja’s decision.”

Alcippe’s face takes on a look of deep disdain, and she spits out a derisive laugh. “Freyja has forgotten who she is. I am overriding her decision.”

Valasca and Alcippe launch into an intense string of conversation in another language. Then, without warning—and to my immense horror—Alcippe snarls something at Valasca and starts toward me, hoisting her rune-axe.

Fear bolts through me as Diana yanks me roughly behind her and Valasca pulls out a knife, leveling it at Alcippe.

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