*
Hell’s Mouth was twenty miles away. It was a remote, mysterious city, far from the seat of Eislandia, that few knew anything about, other than it was a growing trading center. Until a few months ago, I had never heard its name. But it was supposedly a large enough town that it offered the opportunity for buying and trading for the settlement. I was tired and irritable as we rode. I hadn’t slept well last night, even in my tent. This miserable flat wilderness pecked at me like a relentless sour bird, and it seemed impossible that any sizable town existed way out here. It felt like I hadn’t taken a deep breath in days. Synové chattered nonstop, and I snapped at her like a shrill crow when she brought up the racaa again.
“I’m sorry,” I said after a long silence. “I shouldn’t have jumped on you.”
“I’m afraid I’ve run out of fresh subjects,” Synové answered.
I was truly wretched. And she was right—she knew. I didn’t like the silence, and she was only trying to fill it for me. I was used to the noise of the city, the constant hum, the bang, the wail, the sound of people and animals, the tinny patter of rain on roofs and the slosh of wagons in muddy puddles, the chant of street peddlers trying to entice someone to buy a pigeon, an amulet, or cup of steaming thannis. I longed to hear the roar of the river, the jingle of soldiers as they marched down a lane, the heave of a hundred men pulling the great bridge into place, the sounds of remembrance bones clacking as they swung from a thousand belts, all of it teeming together like something alive and whole on its own.
All those things helped me to hide. They were my armor. The windswept silence left me naked. “Please,” I said, “tell me about how they give birth again.”
“Eggs, Kazi,” Wren interrupted. “You weren’t listening.”
Synové cleared her throat, her signal for us to be quiet. “I’ll tell you a story instead.”
Wren and I both raised our brows, dubious, but still, I was grateful.
It was one she had told many times before, but she often added an unexpected twist to make us laugh. She told the story of the devastation, the way the Fenlanders told it. She reverted to her thick, easy drawl. The angel Aster played large in this version. The gods had become lazy, not tending to the world as they should, and the Ancients had elevated themselves to godly positions, soaring among the heavens, ravenous in power but weak in wisdom, crushing all in their path, and so Aster, who was guardian of the heavens, swept her hand through the galaxy, gathered a fistful of stars, and threw them to earth to destroy the wickedness that dwelled there. But there was a Remnant on the earth she found to be pure of heart, and to them she showed mercy, leading them away from the devastation to a place of safety behind the gates of Venda. “And to the Fenlanders, of course, supreme over all, she gave a fat roasted pig with a glittering star in its mouth.” Every time she told the story, Aster always bestowed the Fenlanders with a different gift—usually a fat, juicy one—depending on how hungry Synové was at the moment.
Wren took a turn too, telling the story with the details from her own clan. There were no roasted pigs in her version, but plenty of sharp blades. I had no version of my own, no clan that I belonged to—even among Vendans I was anchorless—but one thing was constant in all the versions I heard, the gods and angels destroyed the world when men aspired to be gods and mercy had fled their hearts.
No one was spared except for a small Remnant who found favor, and that was how all the kingdoms began, but as the queen often warned, The work is never over. Time circles. Repeats. We must ever be watchful.
Now it seemed, we needed to be watching the Ballengers.
Wren had the eyes of a hawk and called out first. “There it is!”
Hills rippled the plain in the distance, and scattered ruins finally appeared, flecking the landscape with rich, lush shadows, but far beyond them, tucked at the foot of a misty lavender mountain, a dark blotch grew larger. It took form and color as we got closer and sprawled like a giant beast lying at the feet of its brooding master. What kind of beast was Hell’s Mouth, or, maybe more important, who was its master? An oval of deep green appeared to hover over it all like a foreboding spiked tiara. Trees? Strange, unearthly trees. Nothing like I had ever seen before.
Synové sucked in a breath. “That is Hell’s Mouth?”
My pulse quickened, and I stepped up in my stirrups. Mije snorted, ready to break into a gallop. Not yet, boy. Not yet.
Glimpses of ancient streets began to appear, like the backs of subterranean snakes surfacing as if they traveled just below us.
“By the gods,” Wren said. “It’s as big as Sanctum City.”
I took a deep relaxed breath and sat back in my saddle. This was going to be easy.
*
The city was just inside the border of Eislandia, a Lesser Kingdom shaped like a large falling tear, and Hell’s Mouth was at its apex, distant and remote from the rest of the kingdom. Just outside the border, the Ballenger stronghold overlooked it all, but their fortress was impenetrable according to a report the queen had received. We would see.
Unlike the Sanctum in Venda, there were no walls around this city, no Great River to hold it prisoner. It ambled with the boldness of a warlord, nothing daring to hold it back. Its homes and hamlets reached out with strong crooked fingers, and the whole city seemed to be hemmed in only by the circle of trees that towered over it like a mystical wreath. There were multiple points of entry, and far off we could see many other travelers making their way into the city too. While still a good distance away, Wren picked out a suitable abandoned ruin as we passed, and she and Synové stowed some packs there before we continued on.
Though many travelers entered the city, when we rode in we drew stares. It could be they saw the Vendan crest on our tack, or maybe they saw something in our faces. We weren’t there to buy or sell goods. We weren’t there for any reason they perceived as good. They were right.
Wren hissed. Shook her head. Grumbled. “I don’t like it.” She pulled out her ziethe, spun it, and shoved it back in its scabbard, the hilt snapping against the leather.
Synové and I exchanged a glance. We knew this was coming. It was Wren’s ritual, as she recalculated every risk in the minutes before we actually took the risks. “You sure? They’re a powerful family. If they lock you up—”
“Yes,” I answered before she could propose something else. It was the only way this was going to work. “Like I told Griz,” I said, our gazes meeting, “I’ve got this. So do you.”
She nodded. “Blink last.”
“Always,” I confirmed.
There were all kinds of unwritten laws that we lived by on the streets. Wren knew that was one of mine. Blinking last wasn’t just an occupational tip to reel in a target, it was a survival aspiration.
We proceeded forward, gawking at the strange city, taking turns pointing out oddities, like the web of rambling structures looming overhead where the thick, muscled arms of tree branches held them securely aloft, rope suspension bridges connecting them to more structures—homes, shops, even a large, sprawling inn that ascended into the trees—shadows upon shadows and endless paths to follow. The architecture of the city was a mix of old and new, ruins repurposed into homes and shops. The pitted ancient stones of another time were joined and fitted with newly polished marble. In some places, the giant trees were a staunch troop of sentries huddled close together, their trunks as wide as two wagons, and only dappled light danced through their soaring canopies. In the center of town, the sentries took a step back, leaving an opening for the sun to shine unobstructed into Hell’s Mouth. It shone now on a white marble building ahead, giving it an ethereal glow.