Page 61 of Among the Burning Flowers
‘I wish I knew, my lady.’
The number of people who had survived a close encounter with a High Western was very small. Marosa knew of only three. One was Glorian Shieldheart, the second was Gastaldo Yelarigas, and the third was her father.
‘I see.’ Marosa stood, her voice distant even to her own ears. ‘I had better get ready, then.’
‘No.’ Priessa grasped her arm. ‘Marosa, we can hide you.’
‘Fýredel will burn us all if we do not submit.’ Marosa smoothed her bodice. ‘I doubt that he will kill me. What purpose would that serve?’
Priessa was turning pale. After a moment, her resolve seemed to stiffen.
‘Fýredel will likely breathe the plague,’ she said. ‘If you must go, then let us armour you.’
****
It took some time. Marosa donned twice as many layers as usual, with a veil of the sort that mourners favoured. She would have worn a plague mask, but she imagined that Fýredel might want to see her face, her royal eyes. The veil was more a prayer than any real protection.
Ermendo lent her a breastplate, which she covered with a cloak, in case the wyrm perceived her armour as a threat. Last came a gold circlet forged by Oderica. When Priessa placed it over her veil, she felt as if she, like her ancestor, could survive being folded into the mountain.
The Palace of Salvation looked different. It had been discovered that the bile of Draconic creatures could be made into candles and torches, which burned for days with hot red flames, drawing the air even closer. Her father insisted upon their use. He had also forced a stoneworker to carve grotesques of Draconic beasts around the main doors of the palace, and commanded his court to refer to him as the Flesh King of Yscalin, servant to the Iron King.
Cárscaro had turned into the Womb of Fire. The realm of damnation, the cradle of iniquity. If any newcomer looked upon it now, they would believe its people loved their overlords.
And Marosa could do nothing but watch.
She descended the Grand Stair with her guards, bathed in a crimson glow. Despite the peril, she felt no fear. Perhaps the threat was simply too great to work its way inside her.
A coach waited outside the palace. When Marosa saw what drew it, she stepped back. Two monstrous beasts observed her with glowing eyes. From their furred lupine heads, these were jaculi – a melding of wyvern and wolf, each about the size of a carthorse.
They would ensure she heeded the summons.
‘Saint.’ Ermendo kept one hand on the hilt of his sword. ‘Let me go first, Your Radiance.’
He approached gingerly and opened the door. The jaculi growled, but allowed them both to board.
The Cárscari watched the coach emerge. Their silence was unnerving in a city of forty thousand souls, but one wrong sound could draw fatal attention. Marosa wished she could make the sign of the sword, showing herself to be true to the Saint. Instead, she avoided their eyes, grateful for the veil.
They must think she was on her way to die.
Perhaps she was.
The coach jolted and rattled so badly her teeth clashed. The jaculi were swift, but clearly had no care for their passengers’ comfort, nor for the safety of those around them. More than one person had to run out of their way. They loped between the guildhalls and grand basalt mansions and banking houses around the Palace of Salvation. When Marosa spotted a pair of red wings painted on a door, she pointed them out to Ermendo.
‘What does that symbol mean?’
‘The plague is in the house,’ Ermendo said. ‘Any afflicted families board themselves inside.’
Marosa closed her eyes after that. So tense was her body, she felt sore by the time she dared to look outside again. The coach had passed the merchants’ rowhouses and crossed the Tundana twice. Now they were among the tenements that most Cárscari lived in.
They reached the eastern outskirts of Cárscaro, where the stonecutters dwelled. This was where the rockslide had ended, the night of the fall. Several cottages were almost buried in rubble.
‘I was born here,’ Ermendo said. Marosa looked at him. ‘Most of the survivors have left this quarter, since no one wishes to live near the Fell Door. They’ve all moved closer to the cliffside.’
‘What of your family?’
‘My parents died many years ago, and I thank the Saint for it. I need not fear for them.’
At the foot of a slope, when the wheels could roll no farther, Marosa got out, her veil fluttering in the wind from the Spindles. For the first time in years, she could see the Palace of Salvation from a distance. The dark and sombre tower, illuminated by the sinister red of the Tundana.
