Two templars stood behind him, their hands on their swords. Both had the yellow sheen of the taint in their eyes.
"Want to tell us what you're whispering about?" one of the templars said.
"Hand over that paper," said the other.
Evrin sighed. Two of them would be hard to handle.
"Hold on a moment," Evrin said.
Before they could react, he put the piece of paper into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. Evrin looked from one templar to the other. He would make a dash for —
Something smashed into the back of his head with the force of a horse's kick.
Evrin's eyes slowly rolled back in his head as he sank to the floor.
The last thing he saw was the tavern-keeper standing over him with a cudgel in his hand, an apologetic look on his face.
28
KILLIAN arrived in Seranthia, weary to his core. It had been a long walk.
His journey had been slowed by the vast number of soldiers on the road. His survival instincts told him to stay out of their way, hidden behind a hedge or waiting in a copse of trees. These were strange men, a race he had never seen before, tall, with ice-blue eyes and near-universal blonde hair. They walked with others who were perhaps of a different race, or were under the effect of some strange spell, for their eyes were entirely white and they walked with listless movements.
Killian wasn't sure if he wanted to know more. He didn't want anything to distract him from his purpose: find the Primate, and he would find the book; find the book, and he would find Evrin.
As he reached the hilly farmland and pasture surrounding the city, Killian saw the Wall ahead. Monstrous and indomitable, it stood impossibly tall as only the lore of the builders could make things. Grey and forbidding, the Wall grew with each step that Killian took forward.
Killian thought about Seranthia. He wasn't from Tingara, he was from Aynar, and his earliest memories were of life on the streets of Salvation, but he still knew the city well.
In another life, Killian had been part of a troupe, a travelling show that wandered from city to city, town to town. Seranthia, with its wealthy merchants, bored administrators and skilled craftsmen, was a frequent destination for the troupe.
Killian had always had mixed feelings about Seranthia; it was such an incredible city, but its problems were as great as its virtues. Such riches flowed through it, yet there were so many poor, sleeping on the streets, fighting each other for scraps, living in conditions akin to most dungeons.
Killian would know; he was no stranger to dungeons.
Yet the Grand Boulevard was awe-inspiring — a broad avenue stretching out as straight as a rule, so wide a stone could not be thrown across it, and so long that one end could not be seen from the other. Arguably the world's best-known street, it was lined on both sides with manicured parks, and the statues of former administrators were noble and severe as they watched the passers-by.
Even more impressive, the Grand Boulevard led to the Imperial Palace, a great edifice of crenulated walls and towers, with peaked white roofs poking from behind the battlements. In the centre of the Imperial Palace a broad tower rose tallest of all, with a high balcony visible to all below, from which over the years Tingara's emperors had made speeches to their people.
The markets of Seranthia were legendary, the eating houses beyond compare, and the libraries second to none. Killian wondered if one day the man would come who could take Seranthia to greatness.
As he approached the city he again considered the Wall. It was the perfect symbol for Seranthia — tremendously huge, something that could never have been built without great wealth, yet used to impress and intimidate, to lock out and discard.
Some soldiers walked away from the city, their path taking them past Killian, but he felt safer here in the hilly land close to the city. The road was highly trafficked and these soldiers, while they were Tingaran legionnaires, were commonplace compared to the strange warriors Killian had seen earlier. These men also looked busy. They were escorting several carts filled with prisoners.
Killian felt the anger rise to his cheeks as he watched the pitiful wretches go past. They were mainly old, he noticed, but there were also some who looked starved, and even a few who might have been simpletons, unaware of what was happening around them.
And then Killian saw an old man with white hair and a beard flecked with ginger who wasn't moving at all.
Killian's mouth opened in shock.
"Evrin," he cried. "Evrin!"
Killian ran towards the drudge-pulled wagon, desperately trying to get the old man's attention. He waved his arms and called out, running up and smacking his hand against the wood of the cart.
Evrin's eyes stayed shut, and then a legionnaire came forward. He glared at Killian, but rather than the sharp words Killian expected, the legionnaire smashed the hilt of his sword into Killian's cheek.