The river widened, and the boat’s stately progress slowed, but Fergus decided against hurrying. He’d had a good day, and he deserved this quiet time. He watched the banks of the river change from cultivated land to wilderness. Tree-covered hills rose on both sides and birds cawed as they flitted from one branch to another. Fergus sighed with contentment and, stretching out on the boat, he began to dream.
It was still light enough to see, but even so he wouldn’t have noticed the length of cloth twisted amongst the reeds of the riverbank except for the colour — deep orange. Fergus thought it a strange colour to be seeing with the greens and browns. Still, it was just some cloth that had made its way downriver, why should he investigate?
He drew on his pipe and blew out a trail of smoke. It wasn’t just a piece of orange cloth, he could see that now. The cloth was wrapped around something. Fergus looked up at the sky; there certainly wasn’t much light left in the day; the sun was a red ball on the horizon and slanted rays reflected from the river in a golden shimmer. However his curiosity was nagging him like an old woman, and if he wanted to find out what it was, he needed to do it now.
Finally it was the fact that he was upstream of the object that won the argument. It took only a light sweep of the oars to get him steering in the right direction.
Fergus let the river take him closer. He would wait until he was nearly on top of the object before he tried to take a proper look. If it was something worth salvaging — perhaps some goods had slipped off a trading barge — he wanted to know for certain.
The ferry boat bumped gently into the riverbank. The boat was flat-bottomed, and as sure-footed as Fergus was he had no difficulty walking to the front.
Fergus leaned out. The orange material was just out of reach. Whatever the cloth was wrapped around, it was submerged beneath the reeds. He stretched and stretched, one hand holding to the gunwale and the other clutching in vain at the material. He was so close, barely a hands breadth. He took the igniter from his pocket and tried again. With the extra length provided by its long stem he could nearly touch the cloth.
He almost lost his balance and regained his footing, his breath heaving. He tried again. Finally he caught hold of it with the end of the igniter, pulling the cloth close enough to grasp with his fingertips. What in the Skylord’s name was it?
He could see now that the cloth was silk — expensive and unaffected by the water. Fergus tried pulling on the orange material but it was caught, weighed down by whatever it covered. He took it in a firm grip and leaned back, careless of how his balance was affected. With a sucking sound the cloth moved, tearing from the reeds the thing from below.
Fergus cried out and fell back into the boat. His eyes went wide with shock, and the igniter fell out of his fingers, landing in the river with a plop. He clutched the sides of the boat with both hands, his fingers painfully gripping the wood, as if to wake him up from a horrible dream.
The body was that of a woman, middle-aged and beautiful. She was clothed in the most expensive of garments and wore dainty little bedroom slippers on her feet. There was no colour in her skin, and her hands were wrinkled from the water. She could have been asleep except for her eyes. She had stared at Fergus with a far off look that spoke of terrible pain.
Fergus’s chest heaved; his breath came ragged. His mind whirled while he tried to decide what to do. He knew what he was supposed to do, but the thought filled him with fear.
He knew who the woman was. Lord of the Sky — everyone knew who she was.
He cursed his curiosity. What should he do?
~
MORNING dawned over Sarostar, grand capital of Altura.
The city rested snugly in a low valley, surrounded on all sides by green hills. The River Sarsen entered the valley through a gap between the hills, passing untamed wilds. It wound its way through the city’s heart before exiting the great basin at the other side. The river felt the light first and carried it sedately in, a golden saddle on its green back.
The sun rose ponderously at first, its light touching each of Sarostar’s nine bridges in turn. It lit the Crystal Palace, instantly diffused with a sparkle. The markets of the Poloplats woke and shook off the night’s chill. The wealthier districts of the Woltenplats basked in its glory, while the outlying farms and hamlets soaked it up with joy. It touched on the lawns and buildings of the Academy of Enchanters, and for an instant the Green Tower was silhouetted against the sky.
The farmers always woke first, then the market vendors and craftsmen, and finally the lords and wealthy merchants. And so the city came alive from its rim to its heart —the outlying areas were a flurry of activity long before any movement was spied at the Crystal Palace.
A lone figure walked on the Tenbridge, tallest of the nine bridges. She was a young woman, and she carried a basket of flowers in her arms.