The Archshade

Twenty-Three

The streets of Jannah are empty as I tread the paved roads, slinking through the dirt alleyways in Daynar's wake. I remember the city by its sounds and smells when I was carried through a roaring crowd with the people chanting and singing. But the crowds are gone, and the streets lie still in the early morning darkness.

As Daynar slows to a clipping walk, I marvel at the buildings rising into the air with levels upon levels—houses built of clay bricks and strong mortar. Instead of the shacks and mud huts in the Lower, the city of Jannah has doors of wood, windows of glass, and sturdy walls to keep out the chilling, winter winds that descend from the north.

As Daynar walks, his hooded head swivels as if searching for something. The city begins to change as we enter a different district. The walls of baked brick begin to crack, their mortar crumbling with age. Many windows are shattered or covered with boards, and many more doors are locked tight or barred. Despite the light grayness spreading across the horizon as dawn approaches, a permanent darkness hangs over this part of the city—each building pressed up against the other with no way for sunlight to reach the narrow alleyways in between.

Daynar stops in front of a building that stands alone at the corner of two wider alleys. It has a set of double doors which were once painted quite intricately, but now, one door hangs half off its hinges, and the other has a broken window. Daynar raps on the door with his knuckle. In an instant, a lantern flares inside the dwelling, and a woman throws open the door.

I duck behind a stack of crates in the alleyway before her lantern light can expose me.

The woman's gown is tattered and worn, but a threadbare shawl wrapped around her shoulders keeps away the nightly chill. She squints in the dim light, but the moment she recognizes Daynar, her intimidating expression melts away. She steps over the threshold, falling to her knees.

"Thank you for coming, Archshade," she says in a huff of relief. "I prayed you would receive my summons. I prayed for it every night. I... I had no one else to appeal to."

In a gesture no prince would ever do, Daynar gets to his knees beside the woman and takes her hand. "I will do what I can," he mutters.

The woman's expression barely contains her torrent of emotions as she nods. "Please, come inside," she says. Letting the Archshade help her to her feet, the woman leads Daynar inside the dilapidated building, closing the door and shutting me out.

I step out from behind the crates, frowning as I look over the building. All the windows on the first floor have their wooden shudders crudely nailed shut. I scan the upper floor, searching for a way in. Most of the windows on the upper floor are missing shutters, but metal bars are in place over the opening, forbidding all except a cool breeze from entering.

My frown deepens until I catch sight of a circular window set just below the roof. There aren't any shutters or bars, but the window must've been covered in glass at one point as it now only has jagged bits lining its frame. It looks just large enough for me to fit through, but I'll be picking glass out of my skin for days. My fingers run along the scabbed gash on my forearm. Just a few more scars for the collection.

Taking a couple steps back, I scan the other roofs, searching for a way up. Nothing. Time is draining away. I scurry around the corner to check the other side of the building and find a cart sitting forlornly against the sagging outer wall and stacked high with soiled linens. Banishing any concern about what those stains might be, I climb onto the cart then scramble to the top of the linen pile. I reach up, trying to grasp the edge of the roof, but the corrugated shingles are just beyond my fingertips. Placing my feet solidly on the linen pile, I bend my knees, coiling my leg muscles.

Then, I jump.

Just before my hands clamp onto the edge of the roof, there's a sickening crack from beneath me. The cart's wheel breaks from the force of my jump, and the cart tips over, scattering all the linens across the alleyway. Kicking my feet, I struggle to pull myself up. With nothing to cushion my fall, letting go now would mean a broken bone or two.

With a stifled grunt, I manage to get my chest over the edge, but my hands scrabble for something to grab onto. I shred my fingernails against the shingles as I dig them in, hauling my torso even farther over the roof's edge. From around the corner, a door opens and closes. Footsteps approach.

Spurred by the sudden fear of being discovered, I swing my left leg up and over the edge, wincing at the burning pain that ignites along the inside of my thigh. Using my leg to heave myself the rest of the way onto the roof, I roll onto my back, panting and staring up at the daybreak sky.

In the alley below, someone curses beneath their breath, but the spilled linens must not be worth the trouble since the footsteps soon retreat back around the corner. A forceful sigh rushes from my lips, and for a moment, I just lie there, my arms shaking and my heart thrashing. Then, I get to my feet.

The city looks different from the rooftop—a peaceful and inviting patchwork of mismatched buildings. The slivers of early morning light fall on the faded bricks and crumbling mortar, but in the distance, the palace rises from the hillside, casting a shadow over the city.

Shrugging my robe back into place, I shuffle to the other side of the roof and kneel at the edge. I peek over and see the broken window set into the wall just beneath me. A knot twists in my gut at the thought of dangling from the roof again, but this is my only chance. Gritting my teeth, I check to make sure the alley is empty before easing myself over the edge. I manage to get my legs close to the window, but my upper body screams and shakes with the effort.

As I lower my torso down, the strength in my arms gives out. My left hand slips. A strangled gasp tears from my lungs as I dangle from the edge with one hand barely holding on. Panicking, I reach for the window frame. The broken glass crunches beneath my hand. Beneath my other hand, the piece of flashing breaks.

The sickness of free-falling jumps into my throat. My head tucks in as I fall fast. I pull myself towards the edge of the window with every ounce of strength I have. The glass grinds beneath my hand, but my head clears the frame as I fall through the window instead of down towards the packed dirt. My leg smacks against the window ledge, and my shoulder slams against a stone floor.

I don't even remember closing my eyes, but when I open them, I'm curled on the floor of a dark room with the piece of the roof still clutched in my hand. A soft, nervous laugh bubbles from my lips as I shakily rise to my knees. The laugh quickly turns to a pained gasp as I try to push myself up with my left hand and receive a hundred biting stings. Looking down at my palm, I grimace at the razor gash with tiny glass bits winking at me in the dim light. It's an angry wound, but there's no time to tend it. I stand up, cradling my injured hand against my chest, and look around the room.

It's small, and aside from a few pieces of broken furniture, it's bare. The ceiling slopes with the pitch of the roof, and an assortment of cobwebs decorate the shadowed corners. At the far side of the room, there's a narrow door with a mismatched handle, and as I move towards it, the hem of my robe stirs up a tiny hurricane of dust. Pulling the handle with my good hand, I open the door only a crack and peek outside.

The hallway is empty. There are only two other doors, and each one stands open, revealing rooms just as barren as mine. Swinging the door open wider, I step out and sneak to the end of the hallway, finding myself at the top of a broad set of stone stairs.

As I slither down each step, muffled voices and muted moans echo from the first floor. There's a pungent scent of herbs mingling with a choking stench of human filth. I cover my mouth with my uninjured hand to keep from gagging. When I reach the last step, I cautiously peer around the corner, my eyes widening at what I see.

Without any light coming in from the windows, only flickering candles cast a dim glow inside the single massive room the first floor has been converted into. The wavering red-orange light touches the silhouettes lying in rows of bedrolls laid out along the floor. Several dozen people have various limbs wrapped in bandages, others are swaddled in fever blankets, and a few are stripped nearly naked and covered in salve.

It's a Healing House...for those with nowhere else to go.