Michael Sullivan: Avempartha

“Don’t tell me you haven’t wondered what Esrahaddon has been doing,” Royce whispered. “That wizard was imprisoned for nine hundred years then disappears the day we break him out and we don’t hear a word about him until now? The church must know, and yet the Imperialists haven’t launched search parties or posted notices. I would think that if the most dangerous man alive was on the loose there might be a bit more of a commotion.

“Two years later he turns up in a tiny village and invites us to come visit. On top of that, he picks the elven frontier and Avempartha as the meeting place. Don’t you want to find out what he wants?”

“What is this Avempartha?”

“All I know is that it’s old. Real old. Some kind of ancient elven citadel. Which also begs the question, wouldn’t you like to get a peek inside? If Esrahaddon thinks there’s value in opening it, I’m guessing he’s right.”

“So we’re going after ancient elven treasure?”

“I have no idea, but I’m sure there is something valuable in there. But for that we need supplies and we need to get out of town before Price lets loose the hounds.”

“Well, as long as you promise not to sell the girl.”

“I won’t-if she behaves herself.”

Hadrian felt Thrace leaning again, this time gazing at a two-story country home of stucco and stone with a yellow thatch roof and orange clay chimney. It was surrounded by a waist-high wall overgrown with lilacs and ivy.

“It’s so beautiful,” she whispered.

It was early afternoon and they were only a few miles out of Colnora, traveling east along the Alburn road. The country lane twisted through the tangle of tiny villages that comprised the hill region surrounding the city. Little hamlets where poor farmers worked their fields alongside the summer cottages of the idle rich, who for three months a year, pretended to be country squires. Royce rode beside them or trotted forward as congestion demanded. His hood was up despite the pleasant weather. Thrace rode behind Hadrian on his bay mare, her legs dangled off one side, bobbing to the rhythm of the horse’s stride.

“It’s a different world here,” she said, “a paradise. Everyone is wealthy, everyone a king.”

“Colnora does alright, but I wouldn’t go that far.”

“Then how do you explain all the grand houses and palaces? The horse carts have metal rims on their wheels-metal! The vegetable stands overflow with bushels and bushels of onions and green peas and it is only spring. Look how smooth the road is, even after the rain, and do you see all the cows on that hillside? They even put street names on posts and back there a farmer was wearing gloves-gloves on his hands while working. My father won’t believe it when I tell him. In Dahlgren, even the church deacon doesn’t own fancy gloves, and he certainly wouldn’t work in them if he did. You all are so rich.”

“Some of them are.”

“Like you two.”

Hadrian laughed.

“But you have nice clothes and beautiful horses.”

“She’s not much of a horse really.”

“No one in Dahlgren but the lord and his knights own horses, and yours are so pretty. I especially like her eyes-such long lashes. What’s her name?”

“I call her Millie after a woman I once knew who had the same habit of not listening to me.”

“Millie is a pretty name. I like it. What about Royce’s horse?”

Hadrian frowned and looked over at him. “I don’t know. Royce, did you ever name her?”

“What for?”

Hadrian glanced back at Thrace who returned an appalled look.

“How about…” she paused, shifting and twisting as she scanned the roadside. “Lilac, or Daisy? Oh wait, no, how about Chrysanthemum.”

“Chrysanthemum?” Hadrian repeated. As funny as it might be to have Royce riding a Chrysanthemum, or even a Lilac or Daisy, he had to point out that flower names just did not fit Royce’s short, dirty, gray mare. “How about Shorty or Sooty?”

“No!” Thrace scolded him. “It will make the poor animal feel awful.”

Hadrian chuckled. Royce ignored the conversation. He clicked his tongue, kicked the sides of his horse and trotted forward to avoid an approaching wagon, but remained there even after the road was clear.

“How about Lady?” Thrace asked.

“It seems a bit haughty, don’t you think? She’s not exactly a prancing show horse.”

“Then it will make her feel better. Give her confidence.”

They were coming upon a stream where honeysuckle and raspberry bushes crowned the heads of smooth granite banks with brilliant springtime green. A gristmill stood at the edge, its great wheel creaking and dripping. A pair of small square windows, like dark eyes, created a face in the stone exterior beneath the steeply peaked wooden roof. A low wall separated the mill from the road and on it rested a white and gray cat. Its green eyes opened lazily and blinked at them. When they drew closer, the cat decided they had come close enough and leapt from the wall, darting across the road into the thickets.

Royce’s horse reared and whinnied, dancing across the dirt. He cursed and tightened the reins as the horse shuffled backward, pulling her head down and forcing her to turn completely around.

“Ridiculous!” Royce complained once the horse was under control. “A thousand pound animal terrified by a five pound cat, you’d think she was a mouse.”

“Mouse! That’s perfect.” Thrace shouted causing Millie’s ears to twist back.

“I like it,” Hadrian agreed.

“Oh, good lord,” Royce muttered, shaking his head as he trotted forward again.

As they rode farther northeast, the country estates became farms, rosebushes became hedges, and fences that divided fields gave way to mere tree lines. Still Thrace pointed out curiosities, like the unimagined luxury of covered bridges and the ornately decorated carriages that still occasionally thundered by.

They climbed higher, losing the shade as the land opened up into vast fallow fields of goldenrod, milkweed, and wild salifan. Flies dogged them in the heat and the drone of cicadas whined. In her discomfort, Thrace at last grew quiet and laid her head against Hadrian’s back. He became concerned she might fall asleep and topple off, but occasionally she would stir to look about or swat at a fly.

The broad road narrowed to a single carriage width and rose steadily upwards. To their left lay Chadwick. They steered clear and this drove them east toward Amber Heights. The prominent highland stood out as a bald spot of short grass and bare rock. Part of a long ridge that ran along the eastern edge of Warric, it served as the border between Colnora and the kingdom of Alburn. Reaching the crest, Colnora could be seen spread out below them along with the southern villages of Chadwick to the north. Ahead to the northeast lay endless miles of dense forest.

Amber Heights was a curiosity even to the local residents due to the standing stones, massive blue-gray rocks carved into uniquely fluid shapes. They appeared almost organic in their rounded curves, like a series of writhing serpents burrowing in and out of the hilltop. Hadrian did not have the slightest idea what purpose the stones might have originally served. He doubted anyone did. Remnants of campfires were scattered around the stones etched with messages of true love or the occasional slogan: “Maribor is God!”, “Nationalists are Barmy”, “The Heir is Dead”, and even “Gray Mouse Tavern-it’s all downhill from here”. Because the wind on the hilltop was cool and strong enough to drive off the flies, it made a perfect place to break for a midday meal.

They ate salted pork, hard dark bread, onions, and pickles. It was the kind of meal Hadrian would loathe to eat in a town, but seemed somehow wonderful on the road where his appetite was greater and options fewer. He watched Thrace sitting on the grass, nibbling on a pickle, being careful not to stain her new dress. She gazed off with a faraway look, inhaling the air in deep appreciative breaths.