From the width of the road, Salima must have supported a sizable population to require so massive a causeway. And yet the construction technique used was primitive. The road had no weaves—unlike the wall and the gate through which they entered.
Again, he was reminded that Asrial had known nothing about djinn and the weaving of power. If the Lomidari were his people as she speculated, the loss of knowledge was troubling.
Why had the people abandoned Salima for outside its walls?
Scarlet flashed between the trees, sudden and fleeting, startling as an explosion. Something besides them moved in this quiet wilderness. Perhaps a bird, if they had birds on this world. He sensed the pulse of life, though he could not see it.
A break in the trees revealed fallen stones; the building they had been part of, a ruin in every sense of the word. Its roof had fallen in, leaving debris to gather within. Trees grew from atop the crumbling walls, their roots digging deep into the joints and prying them wide. In some places, only unnaturally straight lines betrayed the existence of a structure.
Asrial made a sound, as if in pain. She bit her lip but continued on. Clinging to hope despite the evidence before her.
“Is this like the abandoned cities on Maj?”
She shook her head, her attention fixed on her controls. “Weeds wouldn’t dare grow in the streets of Maj.”
The image her answer conjured disturbed him at a visceral level. That the wildest plants could not defy the Mughelis even thousands of years after his enemy’s disappearance!
Silence settled between them as they left the ruin behind. Romir did nothing to break it, leaving Asrial to fly them to her family’s palace. It was a faint hope she pursued. Examination under the bright light of reason would likely reduce its embers to ashes.
Doubts nibbled at him. She was wasting her credits and resources on a hopeless search. Even if someone had discovered the means of breaking a djinn’s enslavement, what were the odds that the knowledge had survived the passage of time? After thousands of years, what could be there to find?
Surely Asrial had made the same calculations, yet still she pressed on. Such foolish, headstrong determination. But it was typical of this woman who would take a djinn to her bed. His lips tilted upward despite himself.
More ruins appeared in the distance, surmounted by bushes and the skeletons of dead trees, the victims of centuries of abandonment. Some were little more than piles of timber overgrown by vines. The latter presented a strange sight. His people had preferred to build with stone, not wood. Stone and metal held weaves of power better.
They crossed a tumultuous river, the wide bridge spanning it furry with moss and feathery with ferns.
She touched the panel, her expression controlled. “According to the map, we’re close. The palace is near the headwaters. We should see it soon.”
Romir nodded, hoarding his doubts within. Then they would know—one way or another.
A building emerged above the trees to one side of the road. Straight lines, unadorned granite, a gray needle in a pool of sunlight within the forest. As they got nearer, he saw it was more than that as the rest of the sprawling structure came into view. Like the wall, it stood untouched by time, unstained by moss or the elements. A Parvinese fortress, strong and imposing. Built to defend a battered people. Even from this distance, he could feel the protections woven into its massive stone blocks. The lower levels had smooth granite as walls. No windows pierced their spans, at least none that could be seen from outside.
“Yes!” Asrial whooped, shaking a triumphant fist. “That has to be it!”
He stared in astonishment. Despite the granite wall that enclosed Salima, he had come to expect a ruin, much like the other structures they had passed.
Asrial coaxed more speed from their craft, the gleam in her eyes hunter bright.
The fortress proved even larger than he had thought, its walls backing against the mountain. The river they had crossed had its headwaters within, its channel emerging from a section of granite wall.
“Do you think this is another of those walls?” Asrial pointed ahead where the road ended at another stretch of granite.
Romir nodded. “The pattern is the same.”
She slowed only slightly, a small smile escaping her when a gate appeared just before they would have crashed.
They emerged on a narrow platform overlooking a gentle meadow and a paved courtyard that was as different from the land outside as day and night. Flagstones worn by generations of feet and centuries of weather stretched out on both sides.
Asrial’s hands danced across the controls, and the craft rose until they were twice the height of the wall, affording them a bird’s-eye view of the fortress. A maze of rooftops bewildered the eye, intact and bristling with defensive weaves. In the distance, water spilled down the side of the mountain from several points, sunlight making the spray glitter like crystals.
“Oh.” She took it in, her eyes wide. “Where do we start looking?”
Romir shared her dismay. Even a cursory search would take days—and that assumed there was anything to be found. Only gradually did he realize a sense of familiarity about the scene. Something about it nagged him.
The walls were plain, blank stone. The windows in the upper levels were equally utilitarian, bereft of any detail to delight the heart and eye.
So why did he feel he had seen it before, somewhere?
He cast his eyes over the rooftops once more.
It took a while before he understood why it seemed familiar: the layout matched that of the Academe of Daraya, the seat of weaver lore and the most heavily defended institution in his homeland of Parvin. It was the school where he had received his training. As an apprentice weaver, he had had years to learn its every recess and back way. His people must not have had time or energy to design a safehold, so instead had chosen to rebuild the strongest fortress of Parvin in this new world.
If they remained true to the design of the Academe, he knew where to search. “Go there.” He pointed into the complex toward a building closer to the mountainside.
“Why there?” Asrial asked even as she maneuvered the craft in accordance with his direction.
He explained his reasoning absently, his attention on the rooftops they flew past, so different yet so similar. A growing sense of certainty filled him the farther they went. His instincts had not steered him wrong. “This is it.”
Little distinguished their destination from the other buildings in the complex. It had the same blank stone walls and utilitarian windows as the others with none of the dignity of the main archive, the central repository of weaver lore.
Asrial set their craft down in another weathered courtyard, and they continued on foot to explore.
A cold cloak of disconcertion settled around his shoulders, unpleasant and increasingly oppressive. He had never been here before, had never walked its halls, and yet it was as if he had lived here all his life. He kept turning around, expecting to see something that was not there, that had never been there—a statue, a mosaic, some carving, a fountain—and each time he was disappointed.
Each disappointment weighed on him. This was not the Academe of Daraya all over again, but a plain shroud hung over the forged bones of that great institution. This was a barren place, bereft of life and the little touches of beauty that warmed the heart, speaking of desperation and dire straits that predated its abandonment. A sorry excuse of a Parvinese mausoleum. What had happened to his people after their escape that what should have been the soul of their haven had been left so stark?
The memories of his time at the Academe that woke during the walk through the empty halls pricked him with melancholy, a longing for the carefree days before the Mugheli invasion when his greatest worry was perfecting his weaves and attaining his master’s sash—before he had plumbed the depths of betrayal and killed his own people.
He had thought himself world-wise in his innocence. He had been a fool.
Room after barren room contained nothing to assuage his disappointment. Even the weaves set into the walls were utilitarian, controls for light intensity and heat but none to freshen the air or for beauty—here in what should have been the heart of the Academe.
Night had fallen while they explored, the heavens lit by a strange half-light from the planet’s icy ring that drowned the glow over the trees from the city. The outer edge of the ring sparkled with the dazzling color of thousands of rainbows, lending a dreamlike quality to the desolate ruins. A cool wind blew down from the mountain, carrying the pungent smell of tree sap and the clean perfume of askei flowers.
Askei trees, here?
A longing for home grabbed him by the throat and refused to let go. Why, after all this time? Its grip was so strong he could not bring himself to speak when Asrial startled at the darkness.
“This late already?” Flicking on a head lamp, she craned her head around. “I hadn’t realized,” she added with a self-deprecatory laugh devoid of surprise. Clearly she was accustomed to losing track of time while exploring.
In silence, he trailed after her to the courtyard where she had landed their craft. Instead of going to the front, she went to the back.
“I thought we would be returning to the
Castel
.”
Smiling, she shook her head. “No point. We haven’t found the answer to the
Promise
. It’ll be more efficient to just camp here until we’re done. Less chance of drawing attention, too.”
Attention?
He was reminded that she had been worried about spies on Eskarion 14. He had thought her caution due to her cargo, but perhaps she had other enemies. Such as the one who had her abducted?
The rear section yielded a large pack. Curiosity stirring, Romir picked it up when Asrial moved to lift it. The pack was bulky, with some heft to it, but nothing he needed two arms to carry. “Is there anything else you need?”
“That has everything.”
He followed her back to where they had ended their explorations. She chose a room, apparently at random, as her campsite, dragging out a thin sleep sack from the pack and spreading it out in the corner farthest from the windows.
It was an austere camp: no heat, a small headlamp for light, the inexplicably functional toilet down the hall for her necessities, the hard stone floor as a bed. All it lacked was a crush of frightened children and moaning casualties for it to be war conditions. So had they camped during the days leading to the escape to Omid.
He could have twisted the glows to life; the weaves were there, their threads bright, ready to be used. But as during the war, the light might draw unwelcome attention.
“Will you be fine?”
Asrial laughed, her eyes glinting in the beam of the head lamp set on the floor at an angle to illuminate most of the room. She pulled something from her belt before sitting down on the sleep sack. “Won’t be the first time I camped on-site. Won’t be the last. At least there are working facilities.”
When unsealed, what she held smelled unpleasantly rich; Romir was suddenly reminded of . . . concentrate rations—the dry, nearly inedible bars that allegedly provided all the nutrients necessary for survival. In the latter days of the war before his capture, he had subsisted on rations.
He stiffened in shock. Why were all these memories stirring? All day bits and pieces of his past had surfaced to bleed anew, tattered rags of a lost life. He willed himself not to breathe to avoid the scent.
It was this place with its similarities to the Academe of Daraya. If only he had not had to rouse those memories. But the reminders of happier times created cracks in the wall he had raised to block out more recent ones of war and betrayal. He could only hope they left this place soon.
“Sleep. I shall keep watch.” He took a position beside the sleep sack when Asrial was done with her meal, his back on the wall, his legs stretched out in front of him.
She slid into the sleep sack and lay down, pulling the edge over her. No complaints. No hesitation. An unusual woman. One who did not take care of herself as well as she ought. He was tempted to bundle her in blankets and sit her down for a proper meal. She neglected herself out of consideration for others.
Quiet settled with the darkness, then slowly gave way to night sounds—the rush of the river, branches scratching against the stone walls, the small chirps of some nocturnal creature, the wind whistling through the empty streets.
He was left to stare at the sparkles in the walls—old patterns he had memorized in his boyhood—and wonder at the sequence of events that had left Salima deserted, abandoned by the people who had fled to Omid in hopes of safety and a better life. Why had they left what should have been the heart of the city barren? Free of the Mugheli threat, surely his people had flourished; after all, they had spread throughout the planet and reached the stars.
Nothing he could see with his weaver’s sight enlightened him. Nothing hinted at an answer. Everywhere he looked, the patterns of power looked fine—strong and steady. No damage, no trouble, no danger.
So why ... ?
Some time later, the night sounds were interrupted by a rustle . . . rustle . . .
rustle
from close by. Not leaves on stone, not from outside. Closer. Much closer.
Asrial rolled over and again that rustle: the friction of the thin fabric of the sleep sack. Though she slept, it was a restless sleep.
He touched her cheek and found it cool but dry. Free of tears, thankfully. But when he raised his hand, she grunted, a small sound of displeasure, her head turning . . . in pursuit?
Huh?
She twisted around, wrestling with the sleep sack and kicking the flap away, only to shiver. He could not ignore that. She could fall ill from the cold. Reaching over to cover her, he stilled. Her hand was on his thigh, petting him. His awareness homed in on that point of contact, a low throb starting in his balls.