Page 12 of The Cradle of Ice

Kanthe did not doubt it. During his seventeen years, he had never set foot in Kysalimri. He had certainly heard rumors, been shown maps. Still, nothing had prepared him for first setting eyes on the city. He had considered Azantiia, the royal seat of Hálendii, to be vast, but a hundred Azantiias could fit within these walls.

The royal entourage slowed and skirted away from the lake again as they reached a bustling dockworks that blocked their way. Fishing skiffs and larger barges crowded the piers. Gulls and crows screamed in an unending chorus. The winds carried the scent of spilled fish guts blistering in the heat.

Kanthe was relieved when their carriages swept away from the shoreline and back into the shadowed edge of the city. The temperature dropped, and the air quickly cleared of the stench. Shops lined either side of the road. Bakeries scented the air with yeast and cinnamon. Open braziers roasted fish, sizzling fat and flesh.

Kanthe’s stomach growled, reminding him he had barely touched the spread of wares afforded him aboard the pleasure barge this morning, too discomfited by the presence of his betrothed. Unfortunately, their coaches didn’t stop at any of the cookeries. They still had a long way to go to reach the Imri-Ka’s palace.

The group continued onward without slowing—until an overturned hay wagon blocked the way ahead. Bales littered the street. A dehorned ox had been sliced free of its tethers and shook its head, as if denying the accident was its fault. Figures in byor-ga robes fought to right the wagon using a long pole.

As the carriages neared, a few arms waved, begging for assistance.

Their pleas were ignored.

Once the golden shine of the carriages came into view, the men in the street fell to their knees and raised the backs of their hands to their foreheads in clear obeisance. A few sang praises as they passed. Or maybe it was prayers. Here in Kysalimri, the line between royalty and godhood blurred.

Aalia failed to acknowledge the deference, apparently deaf to the litany of praises, or so inured to the homage that it meant no more to her than the cries of the gulls by the docks.

Kanthe frowned.

It seems I’m not the only one unworthy of her attention.

The procession jostled past, taking a side street to skirt the blockage. After a time, the motion of the carriage lulled Kanthe again. He settled back into his seat. His eyelids drew heavy, his chin sinking to his chest. Then the carriage bumped sharply, tossing him fully out of his seat. He landed hard on the bench, clacking his teeth together.

“Hold tight,” Pratik warned. “This stretch runs rougher.”

By now, they had reached a section of the city that looked in ill-repair. The cobbled streets were missing countless stones, creating a rutted and pocked path. The homes on either side looked long abandoned. Windows were boarded up, or simply broken clean out. Bony-ribbed curs scurried from their path, vanishing into alleyways and barking at their passage.

The carriage rattled past a house of worship. Its steeple had collapsed long ago, crushing the chapel beneath. Kanthe stared at the ruins. He seemed to be the only one noting any of this. The soldiers kept their gazes fixed forward. The pace of their carriages grew swifter.

Kanthe cast Pratik an inquiring glance.

“Kysalimri may be the Eternal City,” Pratik explained, “but the same could not be said for the populace. The birth rates have fallen over the past two centuries. All the city’s white marble may gloriously reflect the sun, but the shine only hides the slow rot beneath. Vast swaths have fallen into ruin. It has been four centuries since the city had to expand its outermost walls to accommodate growth.”

“I’ve heard no whisper of such a decline,” Kanthe said, shocked. “Not even from my teachers at Kepenhill.”

“No one talks about it here. And certainly not when abroad.” Pratik nodded to the soldiers, who all focused forward, seeming to refuse to see what lay to either side.

Past Pratik’s shoulder, Brija stared toward them. Her eyes glinted coldly through her veil’s slit. She surely did not appreciate Pratik sharing such insights.

The old woman was not the only one to overhear their conversation. Rami leaned forward. His six Chaaen, who were spread across two benches, looked conspicuously elsewhere.

“It’s true.” Rami pointed to an abandoned row house with a guttered roof. “Such a regression remains a challenge to confront, especially when my father refuses to acknowledge it. Sadly, he seldom leaves the palace grounds. During my nineteen years, he has stepped out its gates no more than a dozen times. Mostly to travel to his Augury in Qazen.”

Kanthe recalled his dismay at the thought of the members of the baseborn never leaving the palace citadel. Apparently, the Imri-Ka was equally trapped, though of his own volition. Still, it made Kanthe despair.

I’m to marry into this family—maybe in as little as a week. Gods above, spare me such a fate. Or at least buy me more time to figure a way out of it.

As if the gods heard him, a loud blast shattered the day. A fiery sun exploded ahead of them. The concussion threw Kanthe back into his seat. Rami was knocked to the floorboards as the carriage horses reared in their traces.

Kanthe raised an arm against the blinding flash, shielding his face.

He caught a dark shadow cartwheeling high amidst the flames.

The war wagon …

The armored coach flipped twice in the air before crashing against a neighboring building. Soldiers shouted, men screamed, smoke rolled over their carriage—but not before movement drew Kanthe’s eyes.

Figures cascaded down the walls to either side, dropping from the rooftops, scurrying down ropes. More shadows appeared in windows, drawing bows into view.