The Spell of Rosette - Kim Falconer [16]
Where are you now, Mamá?
The ship glided through the harbour, the surface of the water shimmering with the last glimpse of daylight. Whispering a silent plea to the sea goddess Sednara for smooth sailing, she headed below deck as they rounded the jetty and set sail. Rosette found an empty bunk and climbed up, spreading her quilt over the straw-filled mattress. The journey would take five days and six nights if they caught a good wind and the best currents. Plenty of time to think.
She lay back, staring at the ceiling, lulled by the rhythmic rise and fall of the hull. She could hear the crew above, charging about as orders were barked. Soon the clipper picked up speed, the sound of the prow cutting through the swell like a waterwheel churning full bore. She thought of the wheelhouse back home, alongside the river, and the day she and Jarrod…
She stopped. Focusing on the past just makes more of the past.
She called her wandering mind in and tuned in to her body. Her legs ached from the long walk and so did her heart. Her stomach felt empty, though she didn’t know if she could eat. Her appetite had vanished. There would be plenty of fish soup and sourdough bread in the galley, she guessed, though she didn’t get up to find out. Instead she drew her quilt around her tight and closed her eyes, the undulation of the boat rocking her to sleep.
The streets of Corsanon were empty—like an old eggshell that had dried up in the sun. The tattered flag snapping above the roof of the central tavern and bits of rubbish that tumbled aimlessly down the road were the only things in motion. This city had been defeated almost two decades ago and there’d been no effort to repair the damage. It was a scar on the face of Gaela, one that most ignored, unless they needed something they couldn’t get anywhere else.
Those who lived here were nocturnal and hard-edged—contract killers, thieves and drug dealers, making a living without custom or principle. The authorities were paid well for their silence, blind to the trading of human slaves for gold, children for the poppy’s embrace, and any kind of sex for a warm meal. But the gold and the drugs and the food were transient—what remained constant was the despair.
The land had lost its soul, and no-one remembered exactly why, or how to get it back. No-one cared. What mattered in Corsanon did not require soul. It thrived on guile, treachery and corruption, though it was not always so.
Corsanon had once been a rich, affluent district, hosting the celebration of the Five Rivers—an annual spring festival that honoured the mystery rites and the ancient deities known collectively as the Watchers, written of in the Draconian Tablets and other texts from the now destroyed Dumarkian Temple. People from all over Gaela had flocked to the revelry, many remaining to add their own uniqueness and craft to the city.
The area not only hosted the ritual celebrations of the temples, it was home to one of the portals—a corridor to the many-worlds. For eons, only the Watchers knew of this, until the priesthood of Corsanon, quite by accident, made the discovery. Coveted, it was thought a boon, a way to increase the wealth of Gaela and the prominence of Corsanon’s High Temple. Some feared the Watchers and voted not to use the portal, but the majority agreed the Watchers were impartial observers that intervened—or not—as it suited them. They wouldn’t notice the activation of the Entity, the guardian of a portal, or any little trips down the corridors the temple clan cared to make.
The Watchers did notice, though, and they were not pleased. Before they took action, Corsanon and its temple were destroyed.
The city’s downfall came about the same way most civilisations crumble—the misuse of power. A corrupt high council priest had joined ranks with governing officials, making a deadly