for a book about the dead city of Erturia?” Marthir asked.
The druid’s question drifted in the forest air like an early morning mist.
***
Emelia.
The familiar voice seemed to be calling from a vast distance, sounding faint and immaterial.
Emelia!
A blissful heaviness enshrouded her, comforted her. It was like a mother’s womb, secure and removed from the terrors outside. Her instincts implored her to stay within this tranquil haze, to keep as far away from the acuteness of reality that awaited her should she strive to emerge.
Emelia. You cannot stay here.
All of her senses jerked back into action at the same instant and she jolted awake slumped in a filthy alley.
She looked around in disbelief and then at her own arms and legs as if she was a soul who had drifted in error into some giant marionette. What in Blessed Torik’s four winds had happened to her? Her skin was dirty, with cuts and scratches criss-crossing her hands and knees. Her hair was matted with grime, curly ringlets having escaped the bun; her yarkel wool cloak was ragged and snagged.
Come on you idiot girl, focus your mind, you are in danger here , Emebaka said. Emelia concentrated, ignoring the sting of the scrapes on her body. Her memory was fragmented. It was as if the last few hours had been painted on one of the Keep’s stained glass windows then shattered with a stone. Shards of recall came back: images of pushing through crowds, running down jostling streets and stumbling past droves of merchants.
The panic that had so driven her was gone now and in its wake she found herself shaking like a leaf in the breeze. Tears welled to her eyes then flowed down her cheeks. Was she loosing her mind? She recalled those vivid dreams of being chased by some wild dog and falling towards the shining cobbles of the square, each night the ground getting closer and closer. If you died in your dreams did you die in the world or did some part of you just disappear forever?
Sandila had once said the Azaguntans believed dreams were your spirit leaving your body at night searching for messages from the Gods. What messages were the gods trying to convey to her? Nothing made sense any more, everything was changing and it terrified her.
What had got into her at the carnival when she had heard the masque’s voice? How ridiculous that anyone should even care about a housemaid or what she had ever done or ever heard. She had surely misheard it, misinterpreted some comment to some other person of importance in the crowd? A pang of unease still sat in her stomach: was she so certain it wasn’t true?
Emelia wiped her tears on her muddy sleeve and rose to her feet, wincing at the ache in her thighs. The Moon’s malady they called it in the kitchen: the sickness of the mind. Captain Ris had talked about it one evening with Mother. A young soldier had gone insane after some terrible incident in the lower city involving the miners. They had found him stood naked outside the gatehouse wailing like a new widow. Sandila had made some lewd comment about his lack of clothes and the effects of the cold and Gresham had struck her squarely with a spoon.
Moon’s malady or not we need to get from this place, Emelia , Emebaka urged.
You’re the one always nagging me to run away, to escape this little rock pool of a city , she retorted.
This isn’t the right time for you to do this, we must return to the Keep and accept the punishments , Emebaka replied.
The punishments were likely to be painful, she thought, as she emerged from the alley. Runaway servants were made examples of to the others and as far as Gresham was concerned that would mean the birch. Tears sprang to her eyes again. How was this fair? Why was it happening to her?
Emelia had emerged into a winding street, its surface covered by cobbles and patches of browned straw. The houses leaned nosily over the road, producing a gloom that was deepening as dusk approached. Several city folk went about
The druid’s question drifted in the forest air like an early morning mist.
***
Emelia.
The familiar voice seemed to be calling from a vast distance, sounding faint and immaterial.
Emelia!
A blissful heaviness enshrouded her, comforted her. It was like a mother’s womb, secure and removed from the terrors outside. Her instincts implored her to stay within this tranquil haze, to keep as far away from the acuteness of reality that awaited her should she strive to emerge.
Emelia. You cannot stay here.
All of her senses jerked back into action at the same instant and she jolted awake slumped in a filthy alley.
She looked around in disbelief and then at her own arms and legs as if she was a soul who had drifted in error into some giant marionette. What in Blessed Torik’s four winds had happened to her? Her skin was dirty, with cuts and scratches criss-crossing her hands and knees. Her hair was matted with grime, curly ringlets having escaped the bun; her yarkel wool cloak was ragged and snagged.
Come on you idiot girl, focus your mind, you are in danger here , Emebaka said. Emelia concentrated, ignoring the sting of the scrapes on her body. Her memory was fragmented. It was as if the last few hours had been painted on one of the Keep’s stained glass windows then shattered with a stone. Shards of recall came back: images of pushing through crowds, running down jostling streets and stumbling past droves of merchants.
The panic that had so driven her was gone now and in its wake she found herself shaking like a leaf in the breeze. Tears welled to her eyes then flowed down her cheeks. Was she loosing her mind? She recalled those vivid dreams of being chased by some wild dog and falling towards the shining cobbles of the square, each night the ground getting closer and closer. If you died in your dreams did you die in the world or did some part of you just disappear forever?
Sandila had once said the Azaguntans believed dreams were your spirit leaving your body at night searching for messages from the Gods. What messages were the gods trying to convey to her? Nothing made sense any more, everything was changing and it terrified her.
What had got into her at the carnival when she had heard the masque’s voice? How ridiculous that anyone should even care about a housemaid or what she had ever done or ever heard. She had surely misheard it, misinterpreted some comment to some other person of importance in the crowd? A pang of unease still sat in her stomach: was she so certain it wasn’t true?
Emelia wiped her tears on her muddy sleeve and rose to her feet, wincing at the ache in her thighs. The Moon’s malady they called it in the kitchen: the sickness of the mind. Captain Ris had talked about it one evening with Mother. A young soldier had gone insane after some terrible incident in the lower city involving the miners. They had found him stood naked outside the gatehouse wailing like a new widow. Sandila had made some lewd comment about his lack of clothes and the effects of the cold and Gresham had struck her squarely with a spoon.
Moon’s malady or not we need to get from this place, Emelia , Emebaka urged.
You’re the one always nagging me to run away, to escape this little rock pool of a city , she retorted.
This isn’t the right time for you to do this, we must return to the Keep and accept the punishments , Emebaka replied.
The punishments were likely to be painful, she thought, as she emerged from the alley. Runaway servants were made examples of to the others and as far as Gresham was concerned that would mean the birch. Tears sprang to her eyes again. How was this fair? Why was it happening to her?
Emelia had emerged into a winding street, its surface covered by cobbles and patches of browned straw. The houses leaned nosily over the road, producing a gloom that was deepening as dusk approached. Several city folk went about
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