Caeldera is nothing like I imagined.
After so many days spent in the icy shadow of the mountains, perhaps my expectations are unfairly low. I pictured the capital city as a larger version of Coldcross or Vintare.
I could not be more wrong.
On our third day of riding, the frost plains come to an abrupt end when we reach a wide canyon. Stretching out of sight from the Cimmerians to the North Sea, it forms an unquestionable boundary between the glacier-bound Frostlands and the flat, snow-topped plateau upon which Dyved sits. The mesa juts against the blue sky, not nearly as tall as the range but elevated enough to make an invasion almost impossible.
No wonder the Northlands weren’t conquered during the Cull. With the mountains to the south, seas to both north and west, and the canyon to the east, Penn’s entire kingdom is uniquely shielded from all sides.
After crossing the border, we make our way up a winding switchback pass to the top of the plateau—a climb that takes several hours. Whatever Dyved’s natural geographical protections, it is clear they take no chances when it comes to safeguarding their territory. I count at least five guard posts along the way, eachstationed in a wooden tower with a unit of armed soldiers in dark brown uniforms. They stand at attention when they see our company coming, then drop into deep bows of respect as soon as they recognize Penn. At my back, he nods to return the greetings.
The top of the plateau is not sparse, as I’d envisioned, but densely forested with white-barked pine trees. A thick bed of needles blankets the frozen earth on either side of the trail as we make our way inland. I wonder if the snowdrifts here ever melt completely, even in the heat of summer.
Will I still be here in two seasons’ time to see for myself?
For hours, there is nothing but forest. But then the woodland trail widens into a dirt path, and eventually into a cobbled road that branches in many different directions. Stone markers are placed at each crossroads, counting down the distance to Caeldera. As we approach, we pass settlements and villages, along with other travelers—in carts and carriages, on foot and on horseback. Everyone who sees our riding party drops into the same deep bow of deference to their returning prince.
I have never been more conscious of my riding position, seated before Penn. I feel the weight of many eyes on me, curiosity swirling in the air as we near the outer limits of the city.
Prince Pendefyre has returned.
And brought with him a girl.
I keep my spine straight, my shoulders set, and my hands fixed on the pommel as the road hooks around a sharp butte of rock, then slopes suddenly downward through a deep tunnel in the earth. In a blink, midday sun is swapped for shadows, a shift so abrupt it makes my breath catch. The clatter of our horses rebounds in every direction, an echo chamber of hoofbeats. The walls drip with fern and lichen in the low light. The stone is striated with lustrous ore, a galaxy of glittering mica, almost dazzling to the eyes.
There is a dark beauty about it, despite my innate dislike of enclosed spaces. The clawing sense of panic I typically feel whenever I lose sight of the sky is offset slightly by the soaring ceilings of the passage, as well as its width. All the same, I find myself breathless and reeling when we exit through a set of ultra-thick doors at the far end, and I catch my first proper glimpse of Caeldera.
We are at the bottom of a deep, verdant crater. Like a hollow center of a tree stump, the gorge is encircled by the sharp walls of the plateau that rise around us on all sides. Built into the cliffs, some hanging at precarious angles, are dwellings of many different shapes and sizes. They look carved from rock itself, their walls rough-hewn and capped with a fuzzy coating of moss. Tidy chimneys spout from their copper-plated roofs; glass-paned windows twinkle brightly against the gathering twilight. Narrow, near-vertical roads slash their way down the snow-dusted cliffs like claw marks, funneling into the bottom of the crater, where a large lake pools in shades of teal.
The lake is fed by a great waterfall that thunders from the upper cliffs. Open-air markets line its banks, food merchants and spice traders bartering with a sea of shoppers clad in fine cloaks and fashionable gowns. Cobbled streets web out in circular rings from the lakeside to the base of the cliffs.
It is all spectacular. I can scarcely take it in. But the thing that steals the breath right out of my lungs and makes my eyes widen to their limits is not the dazzling lake or the charming stone-fronted buildings that surround it or even the cascading falls, but the keep.
No.
Not a keep.
It is a palace. Built into the rock wall by the base of the waterfall—in fact, one wing looks to be nearlywithinthe waterfall—the spiresand ramparts shoot up toward the sky, piercing the shroud of mist. The tallest tower almost reaches the top of the crater.
“Welcome to Caeldera,” Penn whispers into my ear.
We follow a wide avenue through a central marketplace to the arched bridge that spans the lake beyond. I had thought the attention we drew up on the plateau was intent, but it is nothing to the fierce scrutiny of thousands of Caelderans who line the way, their rapt eyes fixed upon us. Some throw flowers in our path; others call out in welcome.
“Prince Pendefyre!”
“Welcome home, Your Highness!”
Penn is not at all affected by this. He continues to nod sedately, occasionally lifting an arm to wave at someone he knows in the throng. I hope my expression is not as pale and shaky as I feel inside. By the time we reach the foot of the bridge, my stomach is a ball of lead.
At some unseen command, the foot soldiers break away from the contingent of us on horseback, bound for their barracks and a well-earned rest from the road. Only seven of us—me, Penn, and the highest-ranking Ember Guild—are to continue to the palace. Though the bridge itself is wide enough for at least four horses riding abreast, the other mounts drop back to let Onyx lead the way. Jac, Uther, and Mabon trail directly in our wake. Cadogan and the ever-unpleasant Gower bring up the rear.
All around us, two-seater paddleboats and angular rowing craft knife across the lake’s surface, carrying residents from one shore to the other. I crane my neck in an attempt to keep the tallest turret in my sights as we near the palace. There are three round towers of escalating height—shortest on the left, tallest on the right. The tallest is so mist shrouded from its proximity to the falls I wonder if anyone inside can see out the windows, if the walls within are damp and cold from constant moisture.
By the time we reach the front gates, which are at least thrice the height of the average soldier, my face is dappled in fine beads of water. It takes four brawny guards to open them for us. They swing inward with a creak of hinges, leading into a courtyard of dark flagstones, where a greeting party has gathered to receive us. A contingent of uniformed servants line the walk, all clad in the same dull brown shade, heads bowed in subservience. Standing beneath the stately threshold to the inner keep, a flock of courtiers position themselves like colorful peacocks.
Perhaps I am a girl of simple tastes, with no eye for the regalia of court, but their exaggerated finery seems ill-suited for the natural beauty of Caeldera. They drip with gemstones—rubies glitter at cravats, sapphires sparkle at cuff links, emeralds twinkle from earlobes, diamonds drape ample necklines. It is such a staggering display of fortune, I am nearly blinded as we cross to them in a clatter of hooves.
None shine so resplendently as the silver-haired woman standing at the very center, whose gold crown is so weighted down with gems, I’m not sure how she manages to keep her neck from buckling. Even without the crown, I would know her for royalty by countenance alone. Her posture is unyielding. She seems carved from marble, more statue than flesh and blood.