The Dark Remains - Mark Anthony [109]
Her beautiful sisters
All have dismissed her,
But one day they’ll sorrow the deed.
With a sword in her hand,
She’ll ride ’cross the land—
And trample them all ’neath her steed.
In a way the fool’s poem reminded her of the dragon’s words. Sfithrisir had said she and Lirith were both doomed to betray the Witches. Was that what the fool Tharkis had been trying to tell her as well?
But Aryn would never harm any of her sisters. Not even Belira. The fool and the dragon were wrong. Certainly one had been mad and the other wicked. All the same, these thoughts had hung over her all the way south, the one dark cloud marring the otherwise brilliant journey.
Now, as they walked through the ancient, thronging streets of Tarras, Aryn pushed such troubles from her mind. There was too much to see to dwell on riddles told by fortune-tellers, fools, and dragons.
From the docks, they walked through a triumphal arch of white stone that was no less than thrice the size of the main gates of Calavere, into the Fifth Circle of the city. It was the largest of the city’s five circles, and—according to Falken—the place where the laborers and common folk dwelled. While the main avenue they walked was wide, spotlessly clean, and lined by columnlike ithaya trees, to either side she could see the mouths of dusty lanes too narrow for the sun to reach. Filthy faces stared out from the shadowed openings. Aryn was glad when they passed through another arch and into the Fourth Circle.
The main avenue was steeper there, climbing rapidly past larger, well-kept homes and businesses. Honeysuckle climbed up iron gates, filling the air with a sweet scent, and everywhere the sound of fountains chimed on the air. The Fourth Circle was the home to the city’s merchants and craft guilds. Clearly the merchants had good standing in this city, given the beauty of their dwellings. But, Falken explained, the tiers of Tarras were arranged so that those farthest in and highest up belonged to the classes with the greatest power.
Soon they passed into the Third Circle, which belonged to the Tarrasian military. They passed blank walls with infrequent doors, each portal guarded by a pair of soldiers. The Tarrasian soldiers were dressed in peculiar fashion compared to the knights of the Dominions. Their chests were covered by leather jerkins and breastplates of beaten bronze, and bronze helmets adorned their heads, but they wore only short kilts, leaving their legs bare, and sandals on their feet. Still, by the hard expressions on their faces, Aryn did not doubt that these were skilled men of battle. For all its decline from greatness, it seemed Tarras had not entirely forgotten how to make war.
Aryn was glad when they passed through another archway into the Second Circle.
“This is as far as we’re going to go for now,” Falken said. “Unless any of you besides Melia happens to be close personal friends with the emperor and simply forgot to mention it. Only his guests, his servants, and members of his court are allowed into the First Circle.”
“We shall concern ourselves with Emperor Ephesian later,” Melia said. “At the moment, this is precisely where we need to be. The Holy Circle of Tarras.”
Aryn gazed around and saw white-stone shrines and domed temples in all directions. Men and women moved along the quiet streets, wearing flowing robes of myriad hues, and Aryn knew at once they were priests and priestesses of the temples.
Some wore crimson, their heads shaved. Others had carefully curled their hair in oiled ringlets and wore sashes of gold over emerald robes. Yellow, azure, flame orange—all colors were represented. If the priests and priestesses of Tarras were so varied a group, Aryn could only imagine what the gods themselves were like. She knew there were more mystery cults in Tarras than the seven known in the Dominions, but just how many she had never imagined until now.
Durge cleared his throat in a nervous rumble. “Melia, may I ask exactly how many gods there are in this city?”
“Don’t worry,