XXVIII: Bliss

We were carried by a gentle and insistent breeze over the glassy sea, which broke for us in a smoothly rippling wake. It wasn’t long before all that remained of the lighthouse was a point of light atop a dark mass on the horizon. Or else, it felt like it hadn’t been long, the time we spent regarding the sea and the stars, one reflected perfectly upon the other, a doubled infinity of motif¹.

How much time had passed, I cannot recall—and, indeed, was there even a quantity to the time that had passed?—but soon the three of us became aware that we were nearing the end of our journey. I sat on the aft bench mast while Hester drew up the sails and Gena prepared the mooring lines, and then we beached.

It was bright and hot.

Behind us, the Eastern Range (or, I suppose, the Black Ridge) dominated the horizon. It was the horizon, and the horizon was higher and more colossal than it had any right to be. The range threw an immense shadow across miles of arid, cracked scrubland, bereft of the spring rains of the Lignem, denied them by the barrier of stone.

Before us, the scrubland descended one final slope toward a small canyon, which must have been carved by a respectable river… some centuries past. It was dry, now, and silent, but for the whisper of the wind over its lip.

We stood before an ancient stone arch bridge which been erected over the canyon, perhaps when a river had graced its bed: neglected, covered in blown sands and its decorative faces cracked in places. But the architecture was sound and had lasted the years. On the horizon, a dark irregularity dancing in the heat haze suggested that something, perhaps a town, lay beyond the bridge.

Atop the bridge stood a figure. It was tall, broad-shouldered, resting its two hands on the hilt of a sword, point down upon the apex of the bridge. It wore a white robe tied at the waist, its tails flying gallantly in the wind, a certain loose billow at the chest suggesting that it was being worn over some form of upper body armor.

The three of us agreed that Hester would approach the person while Gena helped lug me a bit closer.

We found a seat on a rock about thirty paces from the bridge just as Hester was slowing to a halt. We could see now that the figure was a woman. Her complexion was dark, her expression clear and appraising as Hester drew level with her on the bridge. Her black hair was drawn back into a single long braid, and she seemed to express amusement in the slant of her chin and the casual bearing of her arms.

They exchanged words as Gena and I watched, impossible to make out over the wind. Hester seemed to ask questions; the bridgewoman gave short responses. Hester gestured behind her, to the east, his long shadow sweeping over the far rim of the canyon as he did so. She nodded.

Steel glinted and they were at each other.

“Oh,” I said. “Hm.”

“You expected something else?” Gena asked.

“I suppose. Though I don’t know why I did.”

They met at the apex of the bridge with a binding of blades. Both used hand-and-a-half swords, versatile weapons ideal for a duel in open air. Hester pushed and the woman pulled, freeing the bind, and they backed away from each other and circled a few paces. There was just enough room width-wise on the bridge for this footwork. The woman stepped in suddenly, feinting high with a dramatic, dancing sweep of her blade to disguise an elbow aimed at Hester’s chest with enough force to send him off the bridge. But Hester had prepared to intercept the feinted sweep in a cautious way, giving him plenty of time and room to circle outside of the elbow. He aimed a hilt blow at her head, which she ducked.

“She’s good,” Gena observed.

“I’ve never seen anyone go toe-to-toe with Hester,” I said. “He finishes most fights quickly.”

They reset; now, her back faced us. Was that a smile I saw on Hester’s face, beneath the sweat on his brow?

“He doesn’t seem to have done so here,” Gena said.

“I don’t think he tried,” I replied, thinking further.

She pulled her blade back into an unusual stance, tip backward behind her left hip, her body low and crouching, swaying ever so slightly on the balls of her feet. Hester held his ground, assessing. She took an ungainly pace a few inches forward, and then another, before she wheeled around with a wide left-to-right slash of the sword. Hester blocked this with his blade, but for his trouble took a kick square to the chest that sent him stumbling backward. He barely righted before falling off the span of the bridge onto the far side.

“He overwhelms lesser opponents with aggression,” I commented. “But he hasn’t opted for that here, against a more formidable opponent, where one mistake can get you killed…”

Hester charged back up the bridge, yelling.

“Oh,” Gena said.

The woman crouched low, blade back again. She leapt forward, ducking to her right and pulling the blade across with her…

… which Hester deflected. Rather than a brutal overhead swing, he had brought his blade tip down for the parry. Both swords wheeled in great steel half-circles as the fighters recovered their footing, unbloodied.

“And neither of them are committing to serious mistakes,” I said.

They met. Blades clashed. Hester pushed, trying to drive her foible with his forte. She released the bind, aiming a cutting blow at his shins. He leapt away. They reset for a beat.

“Classical and polished,” Gena said.

“I’d say so.”

She stepped and sliced, he parried. But this time, she stayed in, seizing his wrist with one hand and aiming a punch across the jaw with another. He braced quickly, taking the blow on the cheekbone² and twisting with the blow, throwing her off. She landed in a roll to her feet; he landed on his back.

I felt my breath catch. “Gena…” I said.

She was on him as fast as lighting. She showed the blade overhead: a killing blow from above.

Then Hester made his one mistake: he went to deflect it.

With a flick of the wrist and a deft twist of the blade, hers slid under his and toward the crossguard at a keen, terrible angle. He was forced to throw his arm wide and lose his grip on his sword as her blade caught its crossguard and sent it spinning, clanging down the bridge.

She leveled the point of her blade on his throat.

But that was her one mistake.

There would be a beat of silence there, normally, where the beaten fighter would be made to offer their surrender, or else be executed where they lie. Hester, experienced half-sworder he was, grabbed her blade right at the terso and wrenched it from her grip, flinging it away.

The duelists stared at each other, both disarmed.

And then they began laughing.

She offered a hand, and he took it, and together they hauled him to his feet.

“Oh,” I said, breathing again.

“I am Aliyah, sworn to the Queen of the City of Bliss. It is an honor to receive our guests,” she said. Her eyes spoke of curiosity and gladness. Her accent spoke of Ivian learned as a second language and practiced diligently.

My eyes, I’m sure, spoke of suspicion and surprise. “Lady Iltara, of the City of Bliss?”

“Of course,” she said.

“You know that… uh…” I stammered, looking to Hester.

“I seek to return something she stole,” he said, nodding. “I said so.”

“All the same, he is to be welcomed as an honored guest at her court,” Aliyah said. “This seems strange to me too, have no doubt. But I see no reason I should question my duty. And I can see he is an honorable man, besides.”

“May we… seek redress, then? At court?” I said.

“Perhaps.” Aliyah shrugged. “That is not for me to decide. My duty is to accompany Sister Gena and Sir Hester to the city.”

“Accompany, or capture?” I asked. “And am I to be turned away?”

“Why should I need to capture you?” she said with a laugh. “You have been coming this way. And you may come and partake of our hospitality, too. But Her Highness tells me you have no business with her, and so it is not my duty to be your aegis.”

“Oh. Anyway, what was the bridge about?”

“I was told to find you there.”

“And you and Hester fought because…?”

“Because it would be fun,” she said.

“A friendly spar,” Hester added.

“No, really.” I said.

“Well, when you encounter a knight on a bridge, there are forms to observe, you see…” Hester explained.

The valley forelands are a mesmerizing place. Of course I would say that; I find any night under a cloudless sky to be a salve for an troubled mind. And every night in the valley forelands is under a cloudless sky. But even during the day, under the great pale blue, the arid landscape is a wonder of its own, transforming beneath you.

The cracked dirt and short, hardy scrubs gave way to, at first, little rivers of sand, and then great pools of it, and eventually a sea of tremendous dunes. That was the third day. The provisions Aliyah had brought (water, bitter nuts, salted goat, dried flowers she identified as seba) were running thin, and the four of us were drenched with sweat every minute of daylight, each of them taking turns at the miserable labor of helping me limp across the desert. I did not have the luxury of taking turns. Time after time, I wished I could cut the splint and test my weight on the leg, but I knew it would only be a wasted effort and a wasted splint.

We arrived at a small town, Jofia, huddled about a smaller spring. It was fully walled in red granite, giving it the appearance of a tiny toy fortress that had one day long ago slid down to rest at a low point amongst the dunes. Aliyah, at the lead, saw us in the gates and greeted the townsfolk, not quite as kin but certainly not like a stranger. None spoke Ivian and only a handful spoke any Yaria, so Aliyah interpreted for us as we exchanged greetings, spoke briefly of our mysterious business, and prepared for the next leg of our journey.

Aliyah informed us that we were only a day away from the city of Bliss, but she expected the journey to take somewhat longer. The townsfolk of Jofia were unable to part with any pack animals³, but a creative young tradeswoman was able to improvise by specially crafting a crutch featuring a wide foot for use in the sand.

The livestock, as it happens, had been taken west by the Morul-Om. We had missed them by just a week or so, one villager told us.

So we left Jofia with an ever-so-slightly brisker pace (although the effort of walking was still painful and laborious) and three days of supplies for another journey through the lonely desert.

In the vast twilight of the second day, we reached the edge of town.

The city of Bliss didn’t look like much from the west. A few modest columns of smoke from cook fires and forges drifted up on the dry breeze. The buildings were wide, dark, and squat, appearing on the horizon as little more than a homogenous spread of brick and limestone, their finer details washed out in the deepening shadow.

A jungle of trees and fronds was visible on either side of the city, clinging to an unseen riverside, silent and still.

It was dark, unadorned, and very, very quiet. There was not a soul in sight.

“Is this the city of Bliss?” I asked as the low, dark mass grew near.

“Yes, and no,” Aliyah said. “This is its shadow.”

“Hard times?” I said, lurching forward through the sand.

“Yes.”

Like Jofia, the city was fully walled. A lone sentry poked his head above the gate, exchanged some words with Aliyah, then vanished. A minute later, the portcullis rose, and the gate swung open. The same sentry—just one man to watch and open both gates—saw us through, giving a casual salute to our escort as she passed, which she returned, smirking.

The buildings of the city proper clumped near the wall, as if pushed there in a wave issuing from the center of town. Close up, the architecture was faded glory: splendid stonework, weathered and sandblasted by the ages, chipped paint and crumbled statuary. Every door was shut against the wind and darkness. Aliyah led us past empty stables and a darkened way-house, then turned to the right into an alleyway. She stopped and rapped on the second door to our left. The first touch of warmth in the cold night greeted us as it cracked open, and she led us inside.

There, she greeted a man, tall and broad, wearing a dusty apron. They embraced, and he bore a smile nearly as wide as his shoulders. Behind him lay a pile of battered shields, and behind that a heap of chainmail, and beside that a neatly sorted collection of nicked and bent short swords. Six cots were laid out however they could be made to fit upon the floor and, of course, the forge itself took up what little space was not occupied by everything else.

“This is my brother, Utba,” Aliyah said. “Utba, these are the guests.”

“Well met and honored,” the man rumbled, like a cheerful boulder.

“The others will be here shortly,” she said. “Your… honor guard.”

Gena smiled. “Our jailors.”

Hester and Aliyah shared a look. This puzzled me greatly.

“A cynical way to put it,” Aliyah said. “But I shall not quibble.”

“I’ll… quick-bull, then,” Hester ventured. “Just because you’re being escorted by soldiers doesn’t mean you’re being jailed. We needn’t be rude about that.”

“Oh, but we’re not being escorted,” Gena countered. “We’re staying right here.”

This puzzled Hester greatly. “We’re going to meet Lady Iltara… here?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Gena said.

Aliyah nodded, her lips pursed in appreciation. “Indeed, as soon as you are ready.” She gestured to the cots.

My heart caught in my throat. Wings of flame and eyes of hatred flashed before my inner eye. Not again.

“We cannot… could not simply meet her here, in the city?”

“You will meet her at her own court in the city. You would ask a queen to leave her throne to meet you?” Aliyah said. The smile on her face only sharpened the reproach of her question.

I stammered. There was no place for me to find purchase in the argument. I had a choice: stay, or go.

So, of course, I chose to go.

“…No, I would not,” I said. “We will go.”

Hester seemed to perceive the shift in our fortunes. He no longer leaned on the wall with his arms crossed. He stood gallantly beside the door, as if by the angle of his hips and the ready hang of his hands he could send danger skittering away, thinking better of it. “Yes. We will go, then, to meet your lady.”

Gena shrugged and picked herself out a cot. I lowered myself down on the nearest one, trembling and aching. Hester seemed to fume silently, before he, too, was laying his kit aside so that he could make himself comfortable.

“You have my word,” Aliyah said. “I, and my brothers and sisters in the queen’s service, will keep you safe from this side. We have sworn so.” After meeting Hester’s gaze, she added: “I do not know much about your quarrel with Her Highness. Nor your invitation to her court. But I know my duty. You should trust me to do it, I say.”

Hester nodded with a lopsided, mild scowl that I think was supposed to convey I am unconvinced, but that was a good speech about honor and duty and I must respect that, at least⁴.

“Go to sleep already,” Gena mumbled.

Sleep did not come easily for me. I lay on my side, staring at the doorway, away from any faces, resisting the urge to roll over—firstly because it was tedious to turn my whole body over with my left leg still immobilized, and secondly because it seemed preferable to hide the fact that I wasn’t asleep. Or at least not announce it.

After an hour had passed—maybe more—the hinges on the door gave a tiny creak as it swung out, and I half-shut my eyes. Four pairs of boots treaded into the room. Quality boots for long wear and long distances: thick-soled, tall, supple at the ankles. Their wearers were walking carefully, their feet falling gently all about the room as they entered and walked about the cots and their sleeping (and not-quite-sleeping) occupants.

The person atop one of the pairs of boots—a man, reedy-voiced and quick-tongued—exchanged words with Aliyah in Uri-Kedis. Their voices were soft with respect for our sleep, and their tones were steady and brisk. Something about the cadence told me it was a simple exchange of facts and instructions: a soldier’s report (Aliyah) and an officer’s orders (the man). Aliyah had a few questions of her own for the man, and something she said caused a murmur of a chuckle to ripple throughout the group. There were a few more words, and then three pairs of boots left: one remained in the room.

The man said something else, and then Aliyah said, quietly, but in clear Ivian: “it can be hard to sleep after a long journey, no? But they are honest. They are sleeping.”

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