possible, larger and more oppressive than those in Verdann. Merchants with their wagons, nobles in their palanquins and litters, or drawn carriages—all managed to find the space and time to move aside for the crest of House Damion. The nobility did not bow, but they nodded their acknowledgment; all others did as the guards at the gatehouse had done. And if they grudged the bowing and scraping, they were wise enough not to let it show.
Here, however, Vellen was more inclined to be gracious; he allowed the bows proffered to be perfunctory and merely waved the citizens on.
Word spread up the street as they moved, and Darin felt the chill of victory wrap about him like a shroud. Of all the people on the streets now, that word had meaning to perhaps forty, and thirty of those were as he: slaves. He tried to ignore it as its dark edge burned into his heart. Defeat.
An hour passed, judging by the sun, before they at last found a place where the roads were wide and near empty. Walking here was hard. Darin kept looking from side to side at the expanse of walkways that suddenly stretched away from the street to end in manses such as he had never seen. Many were as large as the royal palace had been, but they looked newer, cleaner, and somehow more lofty. No two were alike; some boasted small towers, built with chunks of rough, gray stone; some were almost square and forbidding in their simplicity. On one or two, there were gargoyles caught in frozen relief as they watched their master’s lands.
And color; there was color here to catch and mesmerize the eye. Flowers lined the walks, flowers in late bloom, but still quite beautiful. The reds of roses mingled with pinks and pale whites; the blue of some flower he had never seen looked askance as they passed. Each house bore large twin flags; one of red and black, and the other changing as he walked. Later he would come to know these as the house crests—the banners of the nobility of Veriloth.
Twice they passed guard patrols; the red and the black of their surcoated armor marked them as Swords. They saluted the high priest as he passed, but no more, and the high priest in turn nodded.
And then, finally, they turned to the left and began to walk up perhaps the largest of the drives that Darin had yet seen. His heart flipped high and landed squarely in his throat, and his breath became short and shallow.
The scent of flowers hit his nostrils; the shadows of trees touched the back of his neck. He could see greenery everywhere his eyes dared to wander. But it was organized, controlled green, as if even the things that grew did not dare to displease the high priest by being out of place. From high above, he heard the trill of small birds as they leaped from branch to branch in their agitation at the passing humans.
He forgot all these things as he looked up for the first time. And up. And up.
House Damion was indeed a palace. The walkway ended in a large, vaulted arch. Beyond it, he could see the sunlight touching the courtyard’s flagstones. And above it, he could see four towers that grew as he approached. The stonework here was smooth, but it was far from simple. Along the side of each tower, masters must have labored for decades to create the statues of human likenesses that lined them. They seemed to look down upon the slaves as they entered, their expression and features distantly familiar. Only one tower was smooth—perhaps reserved for the future.
Flags flew here as well; the black and red was distinctly larger than that of the house. As they passed beneath them, the high priest stopped. An elderly man walked out to greet him.
Darin watched carefully, sure that the rest of the slaves did the same.
“Father.” The high priest’s voice was colorless.
“Vellen.” The elderly man, Lord Damion proper, held out a firm hand. “You return in victory.”
“News has traveled.”
The man chuckled warmly. “Forgive them if it has; they spread your word.”
“And the
Here, however, Vellen was more inclined to be gracious; he allowed the bows proffered to be perfunctory and merely waved the citizens on.
Word spread up the street as they moved, and Darin felt the chill of victory wrap about him like a shroud. Of all the people on the streets now, that word had meaning to perhaps forty, and thirty of those were as he: slaves. He tried to ignore it as its dark edge burned into his heart. Defeat.
An hour passed, judging by the sun, before they at last found a place where the roads were wide and near empty. Walking here was hard. Darin kept looking from side to side at the expanse of walkways that suddenly stretched away from the street to end in manses such as he had never seen. Many were as large as the royal palace had been, but they looked newer, cleaner, and somehow more lofty. No two were alike; some boasted small towers, built with chunks of rough, gray stone; some were almost square and forbidding in their simplicity. On one or two, there were gargoyles caught in frozen relief as they watched their master’s lands.
And color; there was color here to catch and mesmerize the eye. Flowers lined the walks, flowers in late bloom, but still quite beautiful. The reds of roses mingled with pinks and pale whites; the blue of some flower he had never seen looked askance as they passed. Each house bore large twin flags; one of red and black, and the other changing as he walked. Later he would come to know these as the house crests—the banners of the nobility of Veriloth.
Twice they passed guard patrols; the red and the black of their surcoated armor marked them as Swords. They saluted the high priest as he passed, but no more, and the high priest in turn nodded.
And then, finally, they turned to the left and began to walk up perhaps the largest of the drives that Darin had yet seen. His heart flipped high and landed squarely in his throat, and his breath became short and shallow.
The scent of flowers hit his nostrils; the shadows of trees touched the back of his neck. He could see greenery everywhere his eyes dared to wander. But it was organized, controlled green, as if even the things that grew did not dare to displease the high priest by being out of place. From high above, he heard the trill of small birds as they leaped from branch to branch in their agitation at the passing humans.
He forgot all these things as he looked up for the first time. And up. And up.
House Damion was indeed a palace. The walkway ended in a large, vaulted arch. Beyond it, he could see the sunlight touching the courtyard’s flagstones. And above it, he could see four towers that grew as he approached. The stonework here was smooth, but it was far from simple. Along the side of each tower, masters must have labored for decades to create the statues of human likenesses that lined them. They seemed to look down upon the slaves as they entered, their expression and features distantly familiar. Only one tower was smooth—perhaps reserved for the future.
Flags flew here as well; the black and red was distinctly larger than that of the house. As they passed beneath them, the high priest stopped. An elderly man walked out to greet him.
Darin watched carefully, sure that the rest of the slaves did the same.
“Father.” The high priest’s voice was colorless.
“Vellen.” The elderly man, Lord Damion proper, held out a firm hand. “You return in victory.”
“News has traveled.”
The man chuckled warmly. “Forgive them if it has; they spread your word.”
“And the
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