Eons of glaciers had carved out the bowl and left the cobalt-blue water of the fjord, flanked on every side by rocky peaks. At the center of it all, where the mountains and forest and fjord water converged, stood the fortress city of Achlev. Storm clouds hung low and thick over the basin, but there was a perfect circle of clear sky above the city, as if the storm was circling an invisible barrier, angry at being denied entrance.
This was the famed Wall of Achleva—?spelled to keep the uninvited from ever passing through its gates, and the reason Achleva’s capital city had never fallen in all the long years of war with Renalt. It was as if King Achlev had hewn it straight from a mountain and reassembled the stones
as tightly as they were cut. Fifty feet tall and at least fifteen feet thick, the wall stretched in an unbroken ring over the crags and hollows and across the narrowest width of the fjord. Behind those unassailable walls was a complicated series of gray towers and steep turrets. The tallest of them stood in the center, pricking the circle of bare sky like a rapier. This was a place meant to endure even the worst assault.
It was a place built to withstand armies and ages.
It was dusk when Falada and I finally made our approach. There were fires dotting the outskirts of the wall, travelers’ camps, mostly. People, I guessed, who’d been ejected from the city and those who’d yet to be invited in. They clustered around the fires in threadbare blankets, and I shrank underneath the weight of their gazes as I dismounted Falada and led her past them.
“You’re a long way from home, aren’t ye, miss?”
The speaker was a man of late middle age, tall and thick, with gray-tinged stubble growing in unkempt patches across his ruddy cheeks and chin. He stood, a hammered tin cup in hand.
“It’s none of your business where I’m from,” I said.
He grinned, revealing a row of yellow teeth spread across his gums in irregular intervals.
“You look tired and hungry, miss. Here, here, come sit with me. Rest. Have a drink.” He clamped a fleshy paw around my wrist.
I was staring at his offending hand and wondering which would be a more effective way to decline his invitation—?kicking him in the groin or gouging out his eyes—?when a raucous laugh came from nearby.
“Go ahead, Darwyn. Put the lassie on your lap. Get friendly. I’d pay a gold sovereign to see what happens when Erda comes back and sees it. Maybe this time she’ll get yer other ball.” The man was pulling down papers tacked to the wall every few feet and gathering them into a pile in his arms.
Darwyn released his grip on my wrist. He said defensively, “It was just a nick, Ray. Erdie didn’t mean it. I still got both my balls.”
“For now,” Ray replied, tugging another paper down with a laugh. Darwyn glowered at him and went back to his place next to his fire, self-consciously crossing his legs.
“Thank you,” I said to my would-be rescuer. “Mr. . . . ?”
“Thackery. Raymond Thackery.” He shifted his pile of papers into one arm and rubbed his close-shorn white hair with his free hand. “Darwyn isn’t even the worst of ’em, miss. This place is crawling with the unseemly, who’d do a lady harm if given the chance.”
“And you, Mr. Thackery?” I asked tenuously. “Are you one of them?”
He barked another laugh. “Gonna get right down to it, aren’t ye? I could say no, but there’s no real way to tell, is there?”
“Please, sir. I just need someplace to rest, just for a little while. And some food and water for my horse.”
“Nothin’ comes for free, miss. I won’t try to peek beneath yer dress like ol’ Darwyn there, but I ain’t in the habit of feeding every stray that comes along, neither. You got any money?”
“No, I don’t. Sorry.”
He gave a nonchalant shrug. “Too bad. Best keep moving, then. Unless . . .” He scratched his chin. “Your horse. Is she an Empyrean?”
My eyes narrowed. “I’m not selling my horse.”
Another paper came off the nail with a yank and joined the stack. “I’d give you a fair price, seeing as how she’s in such bad shape. The girl’s half-dead.”
“No. Not for any price.”
“Everybody has a price. I’d sell my mother for the right price.” He shrugged again. “But she’s a scheming harpy, so the price would probably end up being pretty low. Too bad for you, though. I’ve got fresh straw in my stable, and I was about to sit down to some vegetable soup.” He put his back to me.
“Wait!” I fumbled in my pocket and pulled out my charm bracelet, twisting off another charm. “Would this work?” I opened my fingers to reveal the topaz gryphon, rearing on its hind legs, claws outstretched and curled tongue extended.
He raised an eyebrow. “Well, now. I suppose that would suffice.” In a blink he’d snatched it up and hidden it away in the ragged folds of his clothing. “This way now, miss.”
He led me past several other camps, gathering papers as he went. “Royal decrees,” he said, sensing my curiosity. “King Domhnall issues a new one every few days and has them posted everywhere, in and out of the city, generally demanding thanks for things he didn’t do and praise for traits he doesn’t possess. Every time, we think his proclamations couldn’t get stupider . . . until the next one.” We stopped at a ramshackle structure of sticks and twine propped against the side of the wall, a few thin skins draped over the top. “I use ’em for kindling, see. Only thing ol’ Domhnall is good for: starting fires.” He crouched next to a smoking fire pit, crumpling the stolen decrees into balls and chuckling to himself as each new one smoldered and caught flame.
“This is your stable?” I asked with chagrin. “And what is that smell?”