Page 22 of Of Blooming Embers
I scurried up after him, not waiting for Gavrel to set foot on the bridge before rushing to the side to peek into the dome. Sure enough, ten gleaming Dormancy pods nestled within, forming a dark, foreboding flower. Watery sludge swayed against the bowed glass walls from the outside.
My top lip curled, and the sudden urge to slam an embered orb into the curved surface burned through me.
“Interesting,” Marek mumbled, eyeing the iridescent halo around me. Although his tone said he was anything but interested. I focused on his smug face as if he were swamp water flooding my boots. My aura sputtered, sinking within me, and I winced, not realizing I’d let it simmer.
Gavrel now stood behind Marek, his face lined with annoyance as he took in the scene. “Neoma,” he barked.
Marek remained aloof, but he slowly tilted his head toward the commander and then strode past him in the other direction without a word.
“Damn boggers,” he grumbled as we followed.
“What was that, Gav?”
He lifted his chin; his back taut and unbreakable. I suppressed my amusement as he stalked forward.
Marek led us through the city, the soft murmur of Bog citizens flitting around us as we passed. He greeted each person we passed with a solemn nod and was met with kind smiles and hearty pats on the shoulder.
From the paths staggered at varying heights, drifting under the planks in narrow boats, or peeking out small windows, the people’s stares were inquisitive as though we were intriguing curiosities they’d never seen.
Perhaps we were. I didn’t suspect many outside of the region journeyed here.
The network of plank bridges gently swayed and creaked beneath our footfalls. Correction. The entire city seemed to move, as if thesettlements were breathing or merely bits of debris adrift in the mucky current. In the distance, the faint hum of crickets warbled.
The sound of mud squelching within my boots accompanied every step. My mouth pulled into a grimace as I fixated on the feel of it between my toes. I exhaled slowly, the air, although cooler now, still stuck within my lungs. At least it no longer smelled of rot. Gavrel had been right.
Marek stopped at the foot of a curling stairwell; the steps fastened snugly around the trunk of a rather thick tree. Around it, the planks coiled below the small platform and into the water next to a narrow, rickety boat that was fastened to a nearby post.
Agitatedly, he poked his quarterstaff into the space above him. “Up you go.”
Any retort fizzled into the damp air as I climbed the stairs, awestruck, holding onto the makeshift rope rail weaving along the outward edges of the spiral. I craned my neck to take in the weeping branches of the tree, which loomed far above us and cast dreary shadows over the nearby walkways and dwellings.
Nestled high against the trunk, the bottom of a substantial ash-colored abode perched. It was fastened to the groaning tree with numerous ropes and wooden supports.
As we drew close, the flight led into an open hatch, and a flickering orange glow beckoned. I paused, drawing in the familiar scent of burning wood, and a mollifying swell of nostalgia rippled over me.
I flinched as Marek brushed past me, barging through the hatch. “Yourdirtlingshave arrived, Yaya,” he jeered.
“Don’t be rude, Marek,” a strong, feminine voice scolded. Her words sounded as if they were wrapped in sturdy, well-worn leather.
I rose into the sizable space. Loosely knit macramé wall hangings, the color of storm clouds and trampled grass, were draped over the graying walls.
Various pieces of carved wood furniture were strewn about the space, with a small kitchen at the back to our right, and a cozy, yet neat bed in the opposite corner with an immense trunk at its foot. Along the wall and beside the bed was a privacy screen painted withscenes of flying black birds and wide, ruddy trees. I drank in the sight, fascinated by the panorama.
It reminded me of home.
Marek’s scoff caught my attention.
“If this big, strongwarriorcontinues to use derogatory language …” Piqued, Marek plopped his weapon against the wall, wood knocking against wood. “I’m obligated to return the courtesy.” His sarcasm trickled off as the older female propped her hands on her narrow hips and squinted at him, her sharp elbows jutting out to the sides.
She was petite but sturdy. A wispy, slate-colored tunic and loose, flowing breeches in the same shade adorned her lean frame. Several dark necklaces made from a myriad of beads and knots swathed around her neck.
Before I caught sight of the small fire in a corner stove, I imagined the very essence of her crackling.
In a mesmerizing dance of light and shadow, the flames snaked over her chest-length strands. The curling, silver tendrils and elaborate braids weaving along her head glinted in the radiance.
Her eyes, the color of burnt autumn leaves, smoldered as she glowered at her grandson. Marek’s shoulders dipped, and he looked out the small window by the bed as if something was fascinating beyond it.
With a grumble, the male’s shoulders slumped ever so slightly as he shuffled over, placed a kiss on her cheek, and then trudged over to the water basin. With efficiency, he began roughly scrubbing the mucksap off his skin with a cloth.
