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The first sight of Novoro takes my breath away.
First there's nothing there—just more endless mountains and craggy, snow-covered peaks. Then, we round a corner and suddenly there's a massive fortress tucked high amidst the cliffs. It blends in so well it's impossible to see from afar, and if there wasn't a well-traveled road leading up here, I'd think I was imagining things. The stone city looks as if its hewn straight from the rock itself, and it lofts high, hundreds of windows carved into the side of the mountains. The longer I look, the more windows and fortress come into view, until all I can see before us is just one big stone anthill of humans. It's fascinating to see, and I wonder how many people live here. Two thousand? Ten thousand? How deep into the mountain does this go? Two massive doors that look as if they're made of steel bar the entrance, and each one is easily three stories high and wide enough to fit two lanes of traffic.
They're also shut tight. Of course they are. Dozens of tiny plumes of smoke tell me that someone's home, though—not everything can be hidden away.
Markos sidles forward on his woale, moving to the side of the land-hippo I share with Aron. He gazes up at the massive gates that dwarf our small party. His expression is downright indignant, as if he's been insulted. "They do not welcome us, my great Lord of Storms. Shall I let them know of your presence?"
I wrinkle my nose, inwardly wincing. Do we really have to a
But this is Aron, Lord of Arrogance. I can practically feel him stiffen with indignation. "Demand that they let us in."
"At once, my lord." Markos gives a firm nod and then spurs his woale into action. The thing gives a deep belly squeal and then trundles forward, grunting, and Markos approaches the gates.
The hair prickles on the back of my neck and I'm tense as I watch him move forward. He looks impossibly tiny as he walks up to them. Woales aren't tiny creatures, and yet Markos and his mount look like toys in front of those huge gates. I hear him shout for entrance, but his voice gets lost in the cavernous canyon, as if soaked up by the rock itself.
We wait.
The gates don't open. Eventually, someone leans out a lower window and shouts something back, gesturing at us while we wait. Markos puts a hand to his mouth and calls back, and then…they sit there and bicker for what must be a good five minutes.
"Well, everyone does say Novoroans are weird," I mutter to Aron. "Novorese? Novorians? Novoroni? What do we call them?"
"We call them fools for not welcoming our lord," Solat says, his hippo restless.
I just roll my eyes. If there was a suck-up in the group, it'd be Solat.
Something moves in one of the windows, and then another. Nothing big, just a small shift of movement, but both Kerren and Vitar immediately push forward, drawing shields and blocking in front of us. The tiny movement gleams again, and then something points at Markos.
Arrows.
Oh fuck. I stare, shocked—it didn't occur to me that we'd be turned away at the gates. "Is there another way through these mountains?" I breathe, my voice low.
"Climbing," Solat says. "But woale are not sure-footed except on flat lands. We would have to lead them and travel overfoot ourselves…and it would be dangerous for us, as well."
"No. We are not doing that." Aron taps a hand on my hip. "Get down, Faith."
I automatically slide off the side of the woale, all too happy to take a leg-stretch or three. Yule
Aron points at Kerren. "Wait here with them. The others, come with me." And he rides forward, his woale doing that grunting little trot like Markos's mount. I didn't even know woale could move that fast. It's almost a horse-gallop, complete with fat bouncing sides and the jangle of supplies as all three men ride forward.
"What the fuck are they doing?" I hiss, shocked. I clutch at the neck of my cloak, horrified as Aron boldly takes off his cloak and casts it to the ground, revealing his dark hair and noble features. Solat and Vitar ride next to him, but they're not close enough to protect him with those shields. "He's going to get fucking killed!"
"My lady," Kerren says gently, looking at me. "He is not the target."
Oh.
Oh, right. It's me that's the target. I rub my arms, suddenly glad that he left me behind. "It's still not safe for him to ride forward like that," I tell Kerren and Yule
"He goes to show them that he is who he claims," Yule
"Mmmhmm." They weren't with my Aron in Aventine, when someone tried to assassinate us. Or Katharn. Or at the Citadel. Or…man, we really get attacked a lot. That sucks. Maybe it's a good thing we now have bodyguards. I frown to myself at the thought and I wonder if the other Aron got constantly betrayed all the time or if we're just the lucky ones.
We watch, and I hold my breath as Aron approaches the fortress, his long hair waving like a flag. He makes a wonderful target, and I cringe inwardly when Markos and the others move to his side. I'm torn between watching Kerren for reactions and watching Aron, because I have a feeling Kerren's going to know something's wrong before I do. As I wait, I see a small door—inset in the much, much larger ones—open below and someone comes out to talk to Aron and the men. They all stand there, distant dots, and I wish I could hear their conversation.
The newcomer drops to his knees before Aron’s woale and stacks his fists over his heart. I release the breath I didn’t even realize I was holding. There’s a great shout, and as I watch, the people in the windows retreat. The man gets up from his knees, and then there’s a massive groan as the gates slowly shudder open.
“Looks like we are welcomed,” Yule
Kerren glances over at her. “Give Faith your cloak and switch mounts with her.”
She nods. “At once.”
I want to protest, but I’m ashamed to say that I don’t. He’s setting up Yule
“Do not be. I know I am expendable.” Her smile is bittersweet. “At least this way, I can be of service.” She tugs the hood over my head and then pulls my cloak around her shoulders, pulling my hood over her long, curling hair.
“Well, I hope it’s all not necessary.”
Kerren dismounts, his armor jangling. “We all hope it is not,” he says easily, and then offers his hand to Yule
“I can do that.” For once, I’m glad that Yule
Kerren grabs the reins of the woale, and Yule
The walk across the rocky field feels as if it takes forever, and a thousand eyes seem to be staring at us, even if the windows remain dark and empty. The gates continue to groan their way open and I watch them with fascination. I bet the Statue of Liberty could stroll through them and not have to duck her head, they’re so tall. As we move forward toward the gates, armed soldiers arrive, flanking a man in a swirling black cloak lined with white. They pause.
Then, to a one they kneel before Aron and bow their heads, waiting to be addressed.
Aron doesn’t speak to them right away, though. He watches us as we approach, his eyes narrowed. His gaze lingers on me for a moment, flicks to Yule
“Rise,” Aron says finally.
The man in the cloak gets up, and the others flanking him follow suit. He’s a tall man with a grim face, a thick black mustache and salt and pepper gray hair. His eyes are alight with excitement, though, and he reaches out to Aron. “It is the greatest of honors for Novoro to host a holy Aspect, my Lord of Storms. You are well loved here. I am Secuban, lord of this stronghold and all that dwell within. Let us host you and your servants.”
Aron ignores the outstretched hand. “We require private quarters.”
“You shall have mine,” Lord Secuban says immediately, and doesn’t look upset that his handshake was ignored. If anything, he just looks thrilled to see Aron, and the glee on his face makes him look like a freaking fanboy. “You bless all of Novoro with your presence here. We shall celebrate the honor of your company—”
“Later.” Aron gives an impatient flick of his cloak. “I wish to go to my chambers and bathe, and my anchor will have needs as well. My soldiers and my concubine”—and this time he gestures at me—“will also need to be quartered close. Our mounts must be taken care of as well.”
“Anything,” Lord Secuban says fervently. “Anything and everything you desire will be yours.”
Aron grunts approval. “Good. Show us in, then.”
The lord of Novoro moves to Aron’s side and speaks to him in a low voice, giving him a tour as we head inside. Stable boys rush forward to take the reins of our woales, and then Yule
I'm fascinated by Novoro. This place, more than anything else, looks like something out of a Game of Thrones set. The entire place is one big fortress, and inside I expected to see hundreds of little houses tucked behind the walls, but it opens up into a muddy courtyard and then lifts high up into row after row of windows. Everyone lives in the castle carved right out of the rock. Everything's gray, too, and people lean from stone windows and peek out of turrets and watch us. They wear heavy fur-lined cloaks in dark colors, and soldiers are all over the place. Someone leads away our woales, and Solat follows them to get our gear. Aron is led forward by the lord of the place, who talks a mile a minute, eager to share his home and its splendors. People bow as they pass, cloaks flopping onto the wintry cobblestones, and we follow a short distance behind. There's awe and pleasure on the faces of these people—which is a relief. I don't think they'll be betraying Aron, and I start to feel a little better about things.
To my surprise, Yule