After the utterdesertion of the royal grounds, Hylios is a veritable melee of life. The throngs of civilians are so thick, it is difficult to forge a path forward. I make myself Soren’s shadow, keeping close to him as he moves unhurriedly past innumerable outdoor cafés that line the canals, where people are crowded around tables eating breakfast, drinking coffee, smoking tybae leaf from braziers fitted with pipe hoses. I drag in a lungful of the familiar smoky scent and my eyes water as it burns a path down my throat.
I have never felt more drab in my colorless uniform than I do as I survey the citizens of Llyr, in their flamboyant silks and elaborate embroideries. A pigeon in a menagerie of beautiful peacocks. It is more than mere clothing. Until I walked among them, until I heard their carefree conversations and easy laughter, I did not realize how foreign such things have become. These past months, the cobbled streets of Caeldera were silent as a crypt. Misery oozed from the pavestones.
Yet here is Hylios. Untouched. Unscarred. A lively port brimming with vitality.
A constant stream of boat traffic flows beneath countless curved bridges. In every direction, couples stroll with arms interlocked, families pick powdered sugar pastries from shopwindows, elders hunch on benches, feeding scraps of bread to rainbow-hued finches.
I am so parched for normalcy I want desperately to drink it in; to suck it down in great gulps as if to fill myself up before life once again becomes about bandages and tinctures and inflammation and death. This craving within is followed swiftly by a paralyzing guilt.
How selfish am I to dream of sitting at a bistro table with a cup of something warm clutched in my hands, when those I’ve left behind are barely scraping by? How dare I even contemplate a wasted afternoon of people-watching when, back in Dyved, joy is such a scarce commodity?
“Are you all right?”
My eyes flash up to Soren’s. He’s paused beneath a large lemon tree, standing in the shadows with his back to the bustling sidewalk. He is so tall, I find myself mostly shielded from the prying eyes that press upon us as people amble past, no doubt curious about the pale blond stranger who shadows their king’s every step.
“I’m fine,” I whisper.
“You’re not.”
My retort dies on my lips when I register the awareness in his eyes.
The godsdamned bond!
Infernal hells. Of course. I should have realized. He can feel my emotions cresting and crashing like sea upon sand, a relentless riptide of grief and guilt. Instantly, I throw up more mental blockades, building an invisible fortress around my mind so he cannot read the feelings that spill down the tenuous thread that connects his maegic to mine. I thicken the air shields that surround the center of my power until they are denser than stone. Impermeable. All the while, I glare defiantly into Soren’s face.
Try to invade my private thoughts now,I challenge silently.I dare you.
He does not. Emotions swirl in the depths of his deep blue eyes as he stares down at me, but I cannot read them with any more success than I can his empty expression. Before I can even attempt it, he glances away.
“The floating market is just around the corner,” he says, as though the last few moments have not happened. “Fair warning, it can be…chaotic.”
I say nothing as I fall back into step beside him. My tongue feels thick and useless inside my mouth. Every now and then, I sense his gaze on me as we cross a nearby bridge and turn the corner to a wider waterway than any we have yet come across, where several main canals intersect. I stop in my tracks, staring at the myriad boats crisscrossing before us. There are so many, the surface is barely visible.
Every city has a central marketplace of some kind. A hub of trade, where citizens can barter for goods in exchange for precious coin. But I have never seen one like this. Its name is apt, for it is indeed a floating market. In lieu of carts or stalls, dozens of barges are moored in the middle, plus more tied to heavy cleats along the canal-side. Flatboats ferry willing shoppers between them, steered by sternmen with long oars wearing striped blue shirts.
Vendors shout out their wares in booming voices, urging passing craft to stop at their barges. There seems no end to their inventory. I struggle to pick out individual calls in the clamor.
“Apples by the bushel!”
“Fresh figs, get your figs here!”
“Eggs by the dozen!”
“This morning’s mussels, still breathing!”
“Salted cod, straight from the North Sea!”
“Daggerpoint lager by the barrel!”
“Titan gin, direct from Prydain!”
My eyes cannot take it all in fast enough. My head whips back and forth from barge to barge, each painted a different attention-catching color, some flying embroidered flags, others displaying wooden signs that advertise their stock. I hear Soren speaking to someone in measured tones close beside me, but I pay him little notice, even as his hand lands on the small of my back and he guides me down onto the deck of a flatboat. The sternman grins at me as it bobs under our sudden weight. I grab at Soren’s arm for balance, fearing we might pitch over. He chuckles as he settles us onto the cushioned bench seat.
“We’ll have to work on your sea legs.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “I’ve not spent much time on boats.”
“Definemuch.”