Ars Hyrannor: Book of the Bloodcallers

CHAPTER 5: TRIP

Ulith

Chyla’s announcement of a day trip made Ulith’s blood run cold and heart beat fast. It was already the middle of the afternoon -her tutelage lasting from after morning court to the hour of hawks- and they’d almost certainly be having dinner and evening feast from a food seller.

Ulith scrambled after Chyla, dragged by her shawl by the eager girl.

She braced herself, for the odd looks. For the cries of shock. For even the servants and slaves to speak up to object.

But, as they crossed into the broad, verdant main room of the Anahat manor, and found… Nothing? Noone was there, but Chyla’s servants didn’t even look up for more than a second.

Her whole life, she had understood noone would tolerate her. That if she said one word of what she wanted -needed- she would be thrown away. And now, now that she has it. It’s fine? Nobody realises?

She received a light knock to the back of her head, and looked up to see them outside, in the gate to her manor.

“You’re sweating like a hippo, what’s up?” Chyla asked.

“Just. Just thought. I don’t know.” Was her truthful response.

“You’re unrecognisable,” she comforted before feigning disgrace, “You don’t think I’m a good enough make-up artist?”

“Honestly, I would assume you have a servant do it while you eat pita.”

“Impossible; pita is a complex joy, I could never do it while getting all brushed over. You need to enjoy it on its own.”

“Couldn’t be more distracting than an amphitheatre, and you’ve seen the one in the pillarhold.” Ulith remarked flatly.

“Ofcourse,” she scoffed, “where do you think I am taking you?”

A new voice came running behind them, hard on the tan stone steps, “Lady Anahat! Are you taking a walk? Shall I summon your retinue?” A meagre messenger, Ulith thought she might recognise him.

“Ignore him,” Chyla whispered, before commanding, “Nay, we will not be long.”

They hustled down the steps onto the large bridge before them, as Ulith asked, “We will be long?”

“Very.”

Tu-Alomi was, in many ways, made like a spider’s web. Most aptly, it was set over a river and caught everything that flowed across it, but really, it held so many towering pillars, pillaring towers, and manors set on spires -all connected by bridges, paths, roads in the sky- that it invoked the figure of a net, set over vast trees. The spires must have been a hundred and a half cubits, sharpening to points that were poised to pierce the skies themselves, and cut into the great forge above. It was impossible architecture, you’d find nowhere else. Carved from the very earth by historic hands, the stone itself had layers and layers of strata, descending down into the deeps of the city. Each one had a whole village in its walls. House Anahat owned this spire, and filled the topmost levels, Ulith and Chyla stood before what was nearing the tip. House Elethrel’s was shorter, but closer to the centre of the city. The thick bridge road they stood on now leading to that centre: the Divine House.

The tallest structure in the world. What simply could not be man-made. It tapered to no point, but had a large, flat, open roof. Basking in the warm light of the sun, its construction mandated the Maker, and held Its most trusted of priests, and the Divine council itself. Infact, noone except them could enter it. Women and men armed with the only steel in Alomi made sure of that.

Ulith was beginning to need to crane her neck to look at the tall building, so she flipped her gaze forwards. The bridges in the sky were broad, enough that people had built make-shift tents and carriages over them, even as foot and hoof and wheel passed through the centre alike. Stepping on the edge of the road, the human traffic had street jewellers, pedlars, and cooks on one side, and deer-drawn carts and handhelds palanquin on the other.

“Could we not have taken your palanquin?” Ulith hazarded, knowing how much attention she was avoiding without it. It was nice that noone looked at her. Sure, noone looked at her usually. But, she had expected people to be outraged. The usual treatment was nice.

“Nope, I’ve got something I need to see on-foot.”

Chyla tugged Ulith’s dress softly, and took her aside, to an intersection with a bridge leading lower, and brought her down to a quieter stretch of bridge, where the stalls began to get more sporadic.

Here, was a tent with red and tan and fuchsia linen drapes. Local, cheap, fabric but the dyes by no means the same. Round and broad, it swallowed the stretch of road, but still managed to seem unimposing. Gentle. Scents of honey and oil wafted from its opening.

Chyla confidently strolled inside, calling out “Oltat!”

The inside was warm, a flamed pot sitting in the centre, housing boiling blobs and a bronze tool, with a wooden table in the shape of a crescent blocking off the pot, and the cook, from any visitors. On it, sat racks and racks of honeyed dough balls, a treat called unshmi. Ah-ha, Ulith understood, the pot kept a boiling oil, that the cook placed dollops of dough into, which were scooped out with a bronze skimmer, and coated in cool honey to keep them moist but cool down them down! They looked delicious.

Chyla seemed to think so too, as she swung her arms onto the counter and commanded, “2 skewers for me and my quiet friend!”

The chef, a boy with terracotta eyes and two long braids who couldn’t be a year older than the pair and presumably this ‘Oltat’ smiled with recognition, and caught his skimmer, “Only the best for you, Ms. Anahat! …And your friend too, I suppose.”

Chyla found humour in that crack, which Ulith took as leave to stifle a giggle. Chyla narrated, “yeah, this is really the best place to get good unshmi. Everywhere else is either too crowded, or puts red bean paste in it.”

“You won’t want red bean paste in your unshmi.” Oltat remarked.

“Nobody wants red bean paste in their unshmi!”

“And, yet, they still keep popping up.”

“Truly a tragedy.”

“Here are your skewers.”

“Truly a blessing.”

Ulith found a skewer making way to her hand, honey slow but still dripping. Momentarily, she worried the honey would destroy her face of make-up, but she took the bite anyway, saying ‘damn you’ to needless caution.

Sweet, lightly spiced, airy, the unshmi felt like miniature dessert rolls, and the honey was only a spike of intensity to compliment the subtlety. Before she knew it, Ulith had scoffed the lot.

Looking up, Chyla’s eyes were wide “…Did you eat today?”

“Nay, I am just that good, Ms. Anahat.” Oltat attested.

“I don’t doubt that.” Chyla’s eyes bore a drip of genuine concern, Ulith nodded reassuringly. She hoped.

“She’s not… You know?” Oltat hazarded. Ulith’s blood ran cold. Her eyes must have given the shock away, as he immediately shrank back, expecting a rap on the knuckles. Infact, Chyla was already reaching for her courtsword.

“What?” Chyla asked. Ulith didn’t see her face, she’d turned away, the skewer still in her mouth.

“…Slaveborn, ms. I thought she might have been your half sister.” He clarified quickly, and probably didn’t expect Ulith’s shoulders to drop in relief.

Wow. That. That wasn’t new. That was the oldest one people asked. Ok.

Phew.

Phew.

Chyla must have echoed this, the way she sounded so relieved, clarifying, “We’re not related, and she’s not slaveborn.”

“She has some features.”

“I am not her keeper, I’d ask her house if you wanted her pedigree.”

Ulith had already stepped out of the tent when she heard a rap of wood on bone.

Chyla followed a second or too after, nursing the honey on her final unshmi.

“Shorry about that,” she swallowed “please don’t say you’re used to it.”

“I am, but I won’t.” Ulith sighed, “did you have to hit him?”

“Ulith! He misstepped completely!”

“Right, right, but did he deserve to be beaten?”

“Well, what else? We let people say stuff like that? I’ve been trying to stop you being a carpet, Ulith! Stop people walking all over you!”

“Atleast let me beat citizens for myself”

“Probably more realistic than stopping, I guess…” Chyla almost looked bored by the interaction.

The part they didn’t say was how Ulith thought he might be right.

They’d been over it, again and again. Ulith never met her mother whilst she had memory. Her father never talked of her, but also never said she was born to a slave.

Was he ashamed? Was he unaware it was an issue?

Was he so blind as not to see a daughter infront of him with the features of a westerner?

Well, that was wholly possible. He didn’t see a daughter at all, so who knew how myopic he was.

Chyla rapped the back of Ulith’s head, “no bad thoughts today, we’re getting to the ampitheater before it fills.”

Ulith began jogging to catch up to her friend’s immediate gallop, “Is there anything happening today?”

“That performing company from Tu Nansi you like is in the city! Word is they’re doing Ancient Silver Winds!”

Ulith’s face equipped a broad, insane grin. Chyla mirrored, and they ran even faster as they approached a greater bridge.

Ancient Silver Winds was perhaps Ulith’s favourite performance ever. A dazzling historical-warriors epic! The warrior-princess was such a fascinating character, with her massive steel axe, bringing her knowledge from north back to her ancient southern home. And the performers? The company had the most talented gourd flute player, a completely hypnotic chorus, and the martial arts of the actors were unparalleled. She’d never gotten Chyla into it, but she’d always been more about competition sports displays and unscripted martial arts than choreography.

Seems like this was Ulith’s lucky break. Possibly even better than the clothes.

Hmm. No, Ancient Silver Winds was second today.

Skidding to a more respectable, noble lady’s pace as they entered the bridge, Ulith took a moment to look at the amphitheatre.

Cutting off a spire short, it rested flat-topped amongst the wide web of buildings. Broad, wide, it was a modern building cut of white stone, and guilded in bronze fixings. Linen sun-shades hung around it, host and shade to legions of pedlars and food stalls, forming like a ring around it. Then, another ring, gardens of flowers and bushes, an area almost as big as the amphitheatre itself, and swallowing every surrounding road and path into itself. Like a sea vortex, the building a valiant ship fighting the waves. And a valiant ship it would be! With enough space to house several companies of soldiers, and still fit their husbands and wives.

The duo approached the gate, joining a not insubstantial crowd entering in. Private soldiers stopped meagre citizens from getting in, and pointed the awaiting nobles to where they might sit, jotting down names and attendance on clay tablets, no doubt with their sovereign lord clamouring to throw a party in honour of record numbers.

Wait. A ledger. Ulith tugged Chyla’s sleeve, “they’re keeping a ledger.”

“Yeah?” Chyla was unfocused, waving to a stall with beer being sold, the citizen scrambling to make the two a mug.

“Well, what will we tell them of me? Can’t exactly be ‘Sir Elithrel Ulith.’”

Chyla paused, before shrugging “I’ll just say you’re my retinue.”

“I’m one person.”

“This is why we give beatings, so we don’t get questioned like this. Just follow my lead.” As she said this, she was handed the mug of beer, two straw reeds placed inside, and the line fell to them.

An already-tired soldier parsed them, “Can we have some names, great ladies?”

Chyla may have overacted her confidence, “Oh of-course! Anahat Chyla, and retinue! Might you show us where to place ourselves?”

The soldier didn’t even glance up as she asked, “Who accompanies?”

Ulith could see the bead of sweat form on Chyla’s forehead. Forge above, she could feel her own heart beat in double time. Chyla improvised, “Ms. Elithrel-”

Damn it.

Ulith cut in, pleading her softened and heightened voice would work, “Kyrmia. Elithrel Kyrmia, dutiful soldier.” She bowed softly.

She shrugged, and gestured them to a seat close to the stage, still high on the walls.

Chyla giggled, elbowing Ulith as they ascended stairs, “Kyrmia? Seriously? That’s not from a poem, right?”

“…Is it better if it’s from a play.”

“Sparks and steel, if it’s from this pl-”

“No! No it’s from A Hazel Tree’s Ballad.”

“Oh I see, pick one so boring noone will know it, eh ‘Kyrmia?’”

Her heart fluttered at the name.

“Kyrmia?” Chyla tested, “No, you’re actually using it?” She gasped.

“I don’t know! I guess.”

The two sat down, the beer mug between them.

“Please say no, or else I’ll feel bad for making fun of it.”

“You make fun of my name already.”

“Exactly why you need to replace it.”

—

A hush fell over the seats, even the rowdy citizens below them, as the flute’s drone began. Ulith -Kyrmia?- could feel herself draw in a breath. The chorus began, as they do, at the end. The Warrior-princess resplendent in victory, her people enlightened and order brought, as behind her, a bow was strung, and her closest ally shot through her heart with a blinding arrow.

It always stunned Ulith or Kyrmia how they managed to so convincingly make it seem as if an arrow had passed through the actress.

But, perhaps even more impressive was when the story began, and dialogue was sang to the tune of the flute. The actors’ lips all moved in sync, even as the story ramped up, and they performed greater, greater feats of martial arts expertise, flipping and swinging silver weapons. Surely, they’d be impossible with the real, heavier, steel weapons, but the actors made it feel real. Even as the flute riffed and riffed, the chorus calling in shouts or hushed voices their death-defying stunts, it felt as Kyrmia lived them herself. And she almost cried out as the play brought to a close.

She forgot about everything.

And she remembered how much she loved this story.