Haelward yawned, looking over at Morgan. ‘Have you ever seen one of the Wych folk?’
‘No, never.’
‘I have.’
‘Really?’ said Morgan curiously. ‘When was this?’
‘About seven or eight years ago. I used to serve in the Tanaren City garrison and, like I often do, fancied a change of scene. So for a year or two I joined the marines. It was at the time
of the wars with the Kudreyan pirates who kept attacking our trade routes. I saw action at the Battle of Galpa where they were mostly destroyed.’
‘You were at Galpa?’ said Morgan; obviously, Haelward was more of a veteran than he thought.
‘I didn’t do much,’ Haelward replied. ‘My ship was held in reserve; we were merely involved in the final sweep picking off the last pockets of resistance. Anyway, before
all that we used to escort trading vessels to the isle of Danathra. The Wych folk, or Aelves as they call themselves, are not allowed to trade in Tanaren due to ancient laws stemming from the wars
against them. Instead, they have a port in Danathra and we go there to trade with them. It is some three to four days out of Tanaren, depending on conditions.’
‘From what I have heard it is supposed to be a beautiful city.’
‘It is quite small, not really a city at all, but yes. I have seen nothing else like it. Their buildings have high, needle-thin towers with walkways running between them that look as if
they are suspended in the air, and the statues that they fashion, some out of the hardest granite ... well, it stunned me the first time I saw it.’
‘And the Wych folk themselves?’
‘Reserved and polite, no interest in mixing with us; we had a quarter of the city in which to stay but most of it was off limits to us. They were interested only in what we had to trade,
not in what we were. I managed to pick up a couple of words of their language too.’
Morgan threw a damp mossy stick that he had been fiddling with into the fire where it smoked for a long time before igniting. ‘What do they look like? Are they that different to
ourselves?’
‘No, they are quite like us really: thinner and slightly shorter; angular faces with vividly coloured eyes, mainly blue but sometimes gold or even a light purple.’
‘And the famous pointy ears?’ Morgan grinned.
‘Exaggerated, the ears are a different shape, but then you could say the same about their noses, which are very thin. Even their eyes are slightly larger. There were only a couple of women
that we saw but they were extremely beautiful, delicate-looking creatures; the men, the human men, were drooling over them but they wouldn’t let us near. I must say though that those that
live in the Aelvenwood seem to have taken a different path. They sound much more savage and unforgiving than the ones I met; perhaps they just haven’t done as well as their mariner
cousins.’
‘Interesting.’ said Morgan. ‘Well, if they don’t kill us on sight, I might let you try your Elven phrases on them.’
Haelward shook his head. ‘I am not sure what use “My rudder needs repairing” will be in the circumstances.’
‘Well, you never know. Why did you leave the marines?’
‘After Galpa, what else was there left to do? The war down here was going badly at the time but, rather than join a group of mercenaries, I travelled here and enlisted in Felmere’s
army; it seemed more honourable somehow. Of course, by the time that happened we had recovered a lot of the ground we had lost to Arshuma and since I arrived we have got more and more bogged
down.’
Morgan gave a short bitter laugh. ‘This is not the place to seek glory.’
‘Too true! I think Mytha God of War has determined that I am forever to miss out on parading through a city in triumph with grateful maidens throwing rose petals at my feet.’
‘Don’t believe all the old tales; the one time it happened to me after Axmian most of the “maidens“” I saw seemed to lack any teeth.’
‘Ah well,’ said Haelward wistfully. ‘If you shut your eyes...’
Morgan threw another stick on to the fire.
Tanaren City, Tanaren City, was there ever a jewel more radiant, any maiden so fair as thee? I remember my first glimpse of your proud beauty as I remember the birth of
my only son; it is emblazoned on my mind with crystal clarity, a picture that will remain burned on my soul until the day Xhenafa clamps it to his bosom. ’Twas on the third day of
midsummer just as dawn’s fiery red had started to weaken, broaching the fine sea mists as we passed Heldaras rock, that my eyes first beheld thee in gentle somnolence, nestling on low
sloping hills caressing the sea that lapped gently against the harbour walls.
I counted the hills, enclosed within the crenellated belt of its fortifications – five, just as the scholars
had told me. I could even name them. The Loubian Hill, highest and fairest. From my ship I could see the white stone palaces that stood upon it, their towers and spires glinting in the emerging
sunlight. And then, right next to it, lower and flatter, St Kennelth’s Hill, home of the grand cathedral of Artorus, its great belltower the tallest outside of Chira itself, standing tall
and proud. And it was true! The tower was covered in gold! They say that it can be seen for many miles out at sea if the city is approached from the south and, my friends, you will not find
this humble soul disputing these claims.
And then there were the three lower hills: to the west, the Artisans’ Hill where the world’s finest craftsmen laboured ceaselessly to produce armour, clothing, glassware,
brooches and necklaces for export around the world. Then there was the central hill, known as People’s Hill, the largest, broadest hill in the city and home to most of its many thousands
of people, and at its centre the grand market, trading in every conceivable item, foodstuff, spices, leather, animals ... all brought in from every corner of the world. You could buy barrels,
wagons, wine, silver, gold, fresh meat slaughtered in the adjoining shambles that very morning. I remember walking the smooth worn cobblestones of that market, brushing up against sons of the
Duke, merchants in bold livery, maidens in fair white dresses, toothless old crones, beggars, pickpockets, cutpurses, knights with rapiers, humble priests, tavern wenches and the vendors,
red-faced with voices hoarse from shouting. Then there were the smells, spices, burning incense, cooking meat, fish and sweat all mingling into a heady fragrance.
And finally the last hill, Voyagers’ Hill, the hill adjoining the harbour. The city folk call it the poor quarter but, my friends, its dockside taverns, the small closely huddled
cottages, the fish market on the harbour front, the cry of the gulls, and the shanties of the sailors repairing their nets and stitching their sails, give it a character all of its own.
Our ship was docking now and, as it did so, I beheld the first of the city’s many statues – the statue of Hytha, Goddess of the Sea was there before me, arms outstretched,
both protecting and welcoming sailors returning to shore. Before the day was ended I would see many more statues, of gods renowned and obscure, of every grand duke and duchess, typically
standing alongside the fountains that were a feature of every square, no matter how small, and for which this city is justly famous.
...And now I must depart. No sigh is deeper nor heart heavier, for I have seen that which is incomparable in mine eyes. No more shall my sleep be a peaceful one until the day of my return
here is upon me.
Marcus snapped the book –
Travels of a Humble Priest
– shut; he always read that passage before arriving in the city, although he had never quite shared the awe
of the itinerant brother Wolper, the author of the piece. They had been at sea for just over a day and would probably be anchoring close to Tanaren City harbour that evening, so they could arrive
early the next day. The ship was one he had been on before, an old-style galley with both oar and sail and around eighty feet long. It only had one cabin, nominally the captain’s but, as
Cheris was the only woman in a ship’s complement of over a hundred, he had chivalrously surrendered it to her. Marcus had wondered if Cheris might have felt intimidated by this situation but,
as it had turned out, she had other problems of her own. She was about ten feet away from his position up aft, voiding her stomach contents into the briny. She had been doing this for much of the
voyage, much to the amusement of the sailors. Once she had finished, she turned to walk towards Marcus, and, as she did so, a sailor no more than a boy bumped shoulders with her. He apologised but
then, as she passed him, turned and smiled.
‘You know, my Lady, you would be a pretty girl if your skin wasn’t so green.’ She shot him a withering look, then, catching sight of her red robes, he seemed to remember
exactly what she was.
His face fell. ‘Sorry, my Lady. I meant nothing by it. Please don’t explode my head or anything.’ Many of the older sailors laughed at the boy. They were used to ferrying mages
and did not have the fear of them that many others had.
‘I will let you off, just this once,’ she croaked and came up to Marcus.
‘Xhenafa take me. How much longer must I endure this?’
‘We will arrive at dawn tomorrow,’ Marcus said cheerfully. ‘We could be there by this evening but certain protocols have to be observed.’
She looked alarmed. ‘You are not serious – what protocols?’
‘They have to fly the red flag for one hour before arrival so all on land can see it. Then on land they sound a horn every ten minutes or so as a warning that there are mages arriving.
This gives everyone a chance to finish their business and go and hide, if that is their wish. Then, after we’ve docked, the knights escort us through the city to their tower in the city
walls. Once there, we will get into our furnished wagon and the knights will ride us to the battle front, all the while flying a red flag so that anyone we meet on the road has the opportunity to
dive behind a rock somewhere and cower in terror.’
‘If I didn’t feel so wretched, I would laugh.’ she said. ‘Do we really provoke such fear?’
‘Among many of the more ignorant common folk, yes. The more educated will not hide from us; some will even stay and talk, although they will be very guarded. Unsurprisingly, it is the
people who see us most often, the soldiers, these sailors and the like who are the most relaxed around us. You will get used to it. Where are you going?’
‘To the cabin for a lie-down. If I am not out in an hour, I have probably died.’
‘Well, try not to decompose too quickly. Think of my sensitive nose.’
The cabin was tiny – a low bed, a desk with drawers, a chamber pot and a small circular window summed up its contents. Her own trunk was on the desk and she opened it, pulling out her
mirror. By Artorus, she looked terrible! She wondered whether or not to put some make-up powder on but dismissed the idea; the powder was quite rare and at the moment it would be like trying to
camouflage a ghoul. She pulled the belt on her robe in a little tighter; Marcus often laughed at initiates’ vain attempts to feminise their garments, but Cheris vigorously and vocally
disagreed with him. She had taken a knife to both her red and blue robes when they were presented to her, trimming and gathering them in, so that they looked more like tight-fitting dresses than
badges of office.
On the bed was her staff, presented to her at her induction ceremony three days before. It was made from black metal, light and easy to carry. It included a detachable blade at the bottom in
case it needed to be wielded as a weapon and it had a white orb of crystal at its head. A wizard’s staff was much more than a walking aid; it was a device that held a reserve of power which
could be drawn on when required to give a final impetus to a spell, so avoiding the risk of frying a mage’s overtaxed brain. Over-estimating one’s ability and reserves of mental
strength was a perpetual danger when magic was wielded and the staff served as a vital safeguard against the worst possible outcome. She took her staff off the bed and rested it against the wall;
then, picking up her newly presented Book of the Magisters, a history of magic and its wielders, along with descriptions of the most common incantations, she lay on the bed and attempted to
read.
They sailed until the evening, finally weighing anchor when the lights of the city could be seen. Cheris had dozed off and on all afternoon and was feeling a lot better. Above the
captain’s cabin was a small quarterdeck and she stood there now, leaning on the rail staring at those city lights. Marcus was with her.
‘Nervous about tomorrow?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she said wistfully. ‘But it’s not just nervousness; there’s a whole lot of other things too. My parents are out there somewhere; maybe one of those lights
could be theirs.’
‘I wish you could see them tomorrow, but we will be out of the city pretty quickly.’
‘I know.’ She sighed. ‘I have been trying to remember, you know – what it was like, living in a house, being in a family, but everything is maddeningly vague at best,
like a vivid dream that you forget in the morning.’
‘Do you remember anything at all?’
‘I remember mealtimes. I have a brother, you know, and a sister who was born after I left. We would sit at the table and laugh; my parents could be very funny, I remember laughing a lot.
And I remember one evening, too – I had a colic or something, my temperature was high and my throat was dry and rasping – I was in bed and Mother was there, passing me water to sip,
telling me Meriel would look after me. She sang to me, too – “Meriel Watches over Me”. Do you know it?’
‘Yes, it is a popular children’s song.’
‘I suppose that is true.’ She smiled and then in a plaintive and clear voice she sang softly:
Meriel watches over me, on the land or over sea
Pain she eases, fever calms
Always sleep gently in her arms
Meriel watches over me
Wherever it is that I may be
Safe forever in her gaze
From now until the end of days.