Key of Living Fire (The Sword of the Dragon) (23 page)

The crowd murmured as the woman combed her red hair away from her eyes, picked up her pitcher, and bowed to Ilfedo as she backed out of sight into the crowd. He thought he heard her mutter as she departed. It sounded like “Has he come to free me too?”

The tall man gazed after her, then turned to Ilfedo, as did every other face. “What was that supposed to mean, Everett?”

The bearded fellow shook his head and threw up his hands. “I have no idea. Though it sounded like another riddle, as are all things that woman ever utters. Yet we know the prophecy, at least in part. For now our visitor needs tending to. Leave the details for later, Bromstead.”

“Please, Warrior, it would honor us if you would accompany me into our city.” The tall man shook Ilfedo’s hand with the strength of an ox. “I am Bromstead, captain of the city guard. Please, will you come with us?”

Everett and Bromstead navigated Ilfedo through the milling crowds into the heart of the city, which seemed to be built on a rise in the cavern floor. The Nuvitor kept vigil, as it were, sweeping the crowds with its silvery gaze. Ilfedo couldn’t help but wonder at the number of dilapidated buildings mixed in with those that seemed well tended and lived in. Here stood a spacious hall with high walls, but its roof had caved in, and elsewhere a home that looked new; only, the picket fence that fronted its small yard had half-rotted away.

In the city’s midst, down a broad side road, a stone-fronted church rose into view, with a belfry at its peak. Two dozen warriors kept the crowd from entering the building while they took him into the church and there tended to his wounds. There was a room for monks built off of the worship hall, having inside twenty cots and oil lanterns for light. Several pink-clad monks stood by, gladly fetching clean bandages and other supplies that Everett requested as he tended a long gash on Ilfedo’s leg.

After they had finished, the men rose and bade Ilfedo rest for a while. “For we have many questions for you, and I’m sure you have some for us as well,” Everett said.

Bromstead clapped his hands. “You’ve earned this much from us for ridding us of those creatures.”

Bromstead lumbered out of the room, Everett shuffling after him.

Lying on his side on a thin cot mattress with Seivar nestled against his chest, Ilfedo sighed.
What a day
. With the sound of monks’ prayers in the church around him, he fell deep asleep—on a bed of pink. Despite his weariness, he imagined Ombre walking in and discovering him in this strange place.

“Um, Ilfedo, my dear brother, whatever brought you to this condition, we can reverse the process,” the imaginary Ombre said. “Pink—what is pink? Pink.” He raised one finger and gazed at Ilfedo as soberly as possible. “Pink is . . . evil. Yes, yes, that’s right. Don’t fall into the pit of evil, Ilfedo. God doesn’t like pink.”

Ilfedo released the apparition to oblivion, chuckled, and smiled. Now for some sleep.

The city of Dresdyn lay in deceitful peace as Ilfedo slept, and half a mile from the church, a
bong
sounded. A great factory building, painted pink, opened one of its thirteen heavy stone doors, and children rushed outside. Some smiled, but most just exhaled with relief and stretched their tired necks. The boys marched down the streets, and the girls, brushing strands of pink thread from their hair and dresses, followed. The army of youths formed columns down the streets, fanning into most every section of the city, and dispersed into their various homes. Soon the crowd thinned and silence washed over the emptied streets.

Back at the factory an enormous wooden screw twisted out of the building’s end, as women shuffled outside and stared at each other over the top of the mechanism. “One, two, three, four.” Wearily they pulled on the screw’s ridges, and it turned again, spearing farther out of the building. As the screw turned, the roof split open with a metallic crack, and Dewobins rose like a gentle cloud of pink mist. The women pushed the screw against the building. The Dewobins spread to the distant walls of the cavern, joining with the other innumerable, glowing specks of pink that were their brethren.

As the factory’s roof closed, the women lifted their skirts and walked in the directions their children had taken. Their homes welcomed them with the yellow glows of lantern light, and their children threw open the doors, pulling them inside. A day had ended in the life of the working class of Dresdyn, and though they had no way of knowing it (for they had been in the factory all day), only the stranger in their city could bring an end to this hard cycle.

The Dewobins’ steady soft light flickered. The tiny birds flashed on and off, fireflies that had gone to their secret nests, out of reach from all but their own kind. The pink glow, upon which the city’s days depended, dimmed, swathing the cavern’s heights and breadths in unadulterated blackness. Only the flickering yellow light from lanterns hung in house windows warded back the night as a thin mist flowed down the streets.

The long room in which Ilfedo awoke to find himself was modest. He rolled aside the pink sheet and stretched his legs over the edge of the cot. But he pricked his foot on a sliver in the rough floor and had to pause and pull the sliver out. As he tied both boots on his feet, a wail sounded from the corridor. The sound echoed among the rough-hewn beams along the walls and the gently arched ceiling. He strode out of the room, between the rows of empty bunks with their neatly folded pink silken sheets. The Nuvitor glided from an overhead beam and perched on his shoulder.

The room opened into the sanctuary, a broad room with white walls and brown twisted pillars. The pillars supported a low ceiling with crisscrossing beams. Most of the wood resembled oak, with some pine as well. The wood grains were close together and filled with small knots. An array of thick brass pipes filled the rear wall of the sanctuary, and the organ to which they belonged sat in a half circle of smaller pipes at their base. A large lantern hung from the ceiling, its flickering light bouncing off the polished organ pipes.

The soft prayers of pink-robed monks filled the church. Unwilling to disturb their devotion, he stood at the back of the room. Two monks stood beside the organ, and another sat on the bench. His hands struck the keys and pulled on various knobs, while his feet slid across the pedals. The organ belted forth a deep, majestic song, and close to fifty monks stood from the benches, songbooks in hand, and sang.

Ilfedo followed the wall to the pillars at the front. He walked to the thick doors, grasped the cold iron latch, and pulled it open. The door made not a sound, and he closed it gently behind him. But as he turned and set his foot on a lower step, the little man, beard still sweeping the ground, smiled up at him. “Good morning, sir.”

“You are Everett?”

“Everett Matthaliah at your service, stranger.” The little man pointed at the church. “I am the shepherd here at the Church of the Seekers.”

Ilfedo gave a start. “Your family name is Matthaliah? Strange. So is mine.”

“That is strange,” Everett replied, stepping onto the same step as Ilfedo. He eyed their feet and slowly raised his gaze up to Ilfedo’s. “I don’t believe in coincidence, yet, looking at you and me, there is no family resemblance.”

“Well, I am not sure whether or not I believe in coincidence, but I have never met another Matthaliah. My parents died when I was but a youth. My father was an only child, and his father was also an only child.” Ilfedo circled the little man, and then faced him again and laughed. “At the very least we are distant cousins.”

“Perhaps—but for now, with your permission, let us put this matter aside. I think you need to see some things.” Everett stepped back into the street, and Ilfedo followed him. “You must be hungry, Ilfedo. Did you sleep well?”

“Very. In fact, other than a few aches and sores, I feel strong.”

The little man stroked his long beard and threw its draping length over his shoulder. “Remarkable,” he said. “You are either very resilient or enjoy the Creator’s favor.”

“I would like to say a little of both.” Ilfedo nodded. “But truly, yesterday’s experience was a nightmare.”

Everett led him down the dusty streets between rows of houses, some falling apart, some well tended. The contrast was everywhere, a reminder that something dark seemed to rule this underground world.

The city awoke as they walked. A sprinkling of Dewobins in the cavern’s high reaches, which provided only moderate light, were soon joined by a multitude more. The pink birds soon glowed in such numbers that the city filled with their warm light. Women and children emerged from many of the houses, their faces sober. They formed a line that grew into a mass of bodies marching with lunch pails in their hands. They marched to a pink structure that loomed behind the rows of houses. A
bong
sounded, and Dewobins veered from the main flock high above, spinning to the building and out of sight as if entering through its roof.

“What is that place?” Ilfedo said to Everett as a gap between buildings again revealed the long pink structure.

Everett paused to follow Ilfedo’s pointing hand. He glanced at the building. Unsmiling, he said, “After breakfast I will show you.”

Turning down a side street, they faced a fountain encircled by the road, which was surrounded by a thick carpet of green lawn. They stepped onto the lawn and Ilfedo, curious as to how grass could grow in a place such as this, reached down. But his fingers brushed moss, a soft and thick moss. As he straightened, Everett pointed sideways across the lawn to another street with only a few homes, but one stood out from the rest. It was large and surrounded by a white picket fence. “That is our mayor’s residence. At some point soon you will be expected to dine with him. I’m sure the leaders of our city will want to learn more about you, as there is a prophecy concerning the return of a Lord Warrior to Dresdyn. But I will save the telling of that for another time.”

They crossed the lawn into a village of shops. The smell of baking cakes and muffins, of bread and cider, rolled off the low rooftops. Women and men stepped in and out of various storefronts, some sweeping dust off the steps, others carrying out clothing and tools. Most of the clothes were pink, though a very few were shades of yellow, white, or black.

In front of a bakery that read “Not-so-mundane Meals,” Everett paused and laughed. “The owner here is a friend of mine who will gladly fill our bellies with delicious food for a reasonable cost!”

The pair entered the bakery, and Ilfedo ate his fill of close-to-mundane food. During the meal Everett hinted that he wanted to show Ilfedo around before the city council could object. There were things he wanted to show him that they would not appreciate. Continually Everett praised the baker for the breakfast. Ilfedo came to the conclusion that either these underground dwellers had too limited a selection of foods, or Everett did not know a good thing when he tasted it. Nevertheless, he thanked the baker for the meal and followed his willing and straightforward guide back into the streets.

Across from the village lay the city square. Everett stood at its edge and pointed to the square’s corners. Stone monoliths twenty feet high corkscrewed toward the cavern’s epicenter from each corner. The statue of a lightly armed swordsman rose from the square’s center. Ilfedo crossed the moss lawn and peered up the statue’s base at the lithe figure. The man’s eyes were close together, and the sword in his hand had a green blade.