Page 15 of Kissed By the Gods
All of it—the rolling hills of Selencia, the jagged cliffs of Faraengard, the burning south and the frozen north—makes up Aesgroth, a continent eternally on the brink of destruction thanks to the demons that haunt it.
And right now, I’m flying over it.
My back is snug against Ryot’s chest—there’s no room for any space between us—but he leans even further forward until the heat of him nearly burns and his mouth brushes against my ear.
I shiver, and it has nothing to do with fear.
No way. No. Absolutely not. I’m not attracted to my kidnapper. That would be insanity. I try to edge away from him, but there’s nowhere to go.
“Look up,” Ryot whispers.
I tear my eyes from the rapidly retreating ground as Einarr ascends even higher, and I find myself breathless due to something other than pain, fear, or anxiety. It’s from pure reverence for the immensity of the heavens. The stars are infinitely bright. They glimmer and shine in ways I couldn’t have imagined.
For the first time in months, I’m not overwhelmed by a barrage of sensations. There’s soothing silence in this ethereal space between the gods’ domain and the humans’ tenement. The one interruption—the constant beat of Einarr’s wings on the wind—is calming. It’s meant to be here.The crisp air is invigorating and pure, and the chill of it acts like a balm against my sore and cracked skin.
Flying does not make me feel free, though, despite Alden’s imaginings. Even here, in this indescribable space with the clouds and the stars and the wind as my neighbors, I’m nothing but a prisoner; that’s not something I can forget. But he was on to something. Taking flight brings peace. It’s better than anything you could find in Rene’s temple, I have no doubt.
Ryot chuckles softly behind me, and the sound is a low rumble.
“Not so bad, right?” Ryot asks.
Not so bad? It’s everything.
For now, I’m content to revel in what I know is a fleeting feeling. I allow everything else to fall away and spend the rest of our flight basking in the immense glow of the stars. Ryot doesn’t utter another word, even as the stars and the darkness begin to fade, overcome by the blazing oranges and yellows of the rising sun. I bask in that sense of stolen peace, even as Einarr begins to descend back toward the earth.
Until we break through the clouds to find the landscape completely changed.
I’ve heard stories about the mountains and the ocean, of course. They’ve been described in simple terms. Mountains are like towering hills, the few who’ve ever traveled to Edessa say, but imagine that the hills are reaching up to touch the sky. The ocean, they tell us, smells of salt and is so vast you can’t see the end.
Now I know why they struggled to describe this to Selencians whose only points of reference were rolling hills and rivers that wind gently through the trees. There are no words that can paint this picture, not if you’ve never seen a single mountain, much less a line of them rising in a jagged row. Not if you’ve never felt the spray of ocean water on your face, leaving a light dusting of salt on your skin. Not if you have no concept of a curved horizon uninterrupted by trees or rocks or hills.
And there, nestled against a backdrop of towering mountains—built into the mountain itself—is Edessa. The capital city of the Kingdom of Faraengard. All the whisperings and rumors, all the gloating and boasting of the soldiers: none of it could have prepared me for the grandeur that is Edessa.
The base of the mountain enfolds the palace, more immense and grander than any overlord’s house ever dreamed. The outer portion is made of a black, smooth material—marble, maybe?
Spread out before the palace is the city, which sprawls from one mountain to the next in a haphazard way, overtakingthe entire valley. Most structures, whether public buildings or domestic dwellings, are made of a dark stone I’ve never seen before. It’s not smooth, but has a rougher texture, with bits of grey and white weaving throughout the nearly black core. Temples to the gods glow throughout the city as the morning sun touches their fine marble walls. The roads wind and crisscross in a bewildering tangle of pavement. There’s not a single dirt path among them, and even at dawn they are already full of travelers.
I’ve never seen so many people all gathered in one place. Children with plump cheeks and the distinct bloom of health on their faces race carefree through the streets, laughing and smiling, all in identical clothes with daypacks on their back. School. They are going to school. The soldiers have talked about this. Well, they’ve taunted about school, about how they know so much, and we know so little.
The adults rush about with fewer smiles and less laughter, but they are just as healthy. Many of them are dressed in wool or linen tunics, but the material is sturdier, cleaner, and far less worn than what we wear back home. Others wear even finer materials—things I’ve only glimpsed on the overlord and his family—leather, hemp, and even silk. And the colors of their clothes are so varied—blacks, blues, purples, pinks, greens, reds. It’s all complimented with gold and silver broaches, fur trim, and the most intricate assortment of jewelry. Necklaces that swing on the chest, bracelets that wind up the arm, rings on all their fingers, earrings that dangle.
The stalls of the markets are packed with all manner of goods, and most of it … most of it is grown or raised by us. Beef, chicken, pork, grains, fruits, vegetables. It all comes here, and much more is stacked in these markets today alone than is needed to feed this entire city for weeks.
My peace is gone. Shattered.
It is replaced with a furious rage. My gaze returns to the palace, and I let the anger simmer. I don’t know how. I don’t know when. But I want the entire royal family to pay.
My attention and my thoughts have been so focused on Edessa, I startle slightly when Ryot brings a hand up to my chin and raises my gaze from the palace at the base of the mountain to look higher, and higher still. I’d forgotten he was there.
“The city is not where you should be looking, rebel girl,” he says. “It has nothing to do with you.”
The sheer impossibility of where he draws my gaze is enough to make me forget my rage, at least for now. There, looming over the bustling valley, is what must be the Synod. This … this I’ve never heard described before. The soldiers have never talked about the Altor, not even in the simplest terms. Not even to gloat.
Where Edessa is the embodiment of luxurious opulence, the Synod is pure militaristic simplicity. Despite that, it is still majestic in its audacity.
It is a fortress, built on the highest mountain of the range. It sits on the edge of a cliff, about halfway up the mountain, that juts out at an impossible angle over the ocean below. A curtain wall surrounds the structure, which has dozens of towers of various heights in the center, some type of arena, and a central tower that dwarfs the others. The material looks to be a simple granite. The rustic grey and brown stone has been left bare of any adornments.
There’s movement on that high tower, and I narrow my eyes. My vision wobbles before it focuses in on the handful of men stationed there. They are all staring right at me, various expressions of confusion and indignation on their faces. The man in the center strides forward and seems to offer a sarcastic salute to us before blowing a massive, high-pitched horn that’sattached to the very center of the tower. I wince from the gods-awful noise.
