A Dream of the Heaven

Chapter 4 (Part 2 of 2)

The road north was wide and straight.  Isendrin kept his horse at the canter, watching as the lights high on the edge of Mount Dominant moved to his left.  Every few moments an impulse would turn his head to look behind – he couldn't hear Imlon – but then his stubborn reason would bring it forward again.  He wasn't sure if the watchmen could still see him, but if they could he would not allow them to see him turn. 

Then he was out of sight.  He stopped, looking back.  There was no sign of Imlon.  It was terribly dark; Isendrin pulled his coat more tightly over his shoulders.

After a few minutes, he heard the trot of a horse.  His brother appeared from out of the gloom.  Imlon held the reins of his horse in one hand, but the other was hanging at his side, holding something.  Isendrin peered closer: he smiled as he saw Imlon drinking from the bottle.  When he had caught up, the astronomer offered it to his brother.

“Good health.”

Isendrin took it, holding it up.  “Better fortune.”

He drank - the wine tasted as dark as the night, rich and earthy, the best of the Lakeland vines.  They'd have plenty more in Monruath, he thought, draining the bottle.  He made to pass it back, but an idea crossed his mind.

“Do you still want this?” he said.

“Not particularly,” said Imlon, who clearly knew what was coming.

“Good,” said Isendrin.  He turned in the saddle and flung the bottle into the trees.  The crack of shattered glass rang out and Isendrin laughed, digging his heels into his horse and setting off at a good pace.  Father would have laughed with him at the old Tysider practice, only indulged in when they had no Roethennan guests at table.  Mother would have scowled.

They rode on through the night, seeing only a single shepherd watching his flock on the hills to their left, buttresses of the giant Silver Mountains.  After a few hours they came to a fork in the road and took the eastern path rather than the broad route straight to the city.  Isendrin didn't doubt that Berreso would learn of his entry soon enough, but arriving with the Haruyese rather than the Emmaressian traffic might buy him a little privacy.

 A few hours later there was a fabulous sunrise; all the land to the east seemed gold and green.  The road grew a busier and the villages sprang into life.  Labourers worked in the fields and fathers watched over their sons in the workshops, producing the goods that fed the markets of Monruath.  There they would be sold on to merchants bound not just for Haruyen and Emmares, but to lands and cities flung far across the vastnesses of the continent.  The very bravest would take ship and try their luck on the western waves, eager for the wealth of the distant continents beyond and for the goods they might bring in return: sugar and spices, fruit and fragrance, the furs of mythical beasts and the dreadful alchemies that men most feared.

“I'll have to go to the Hillsmarket,” said Imlon, spearing a square of bacon with his knife.  The two of them had stopped at a tavern and sat on the long benches inside, breakfasting on eggs, meat and bread with small beer. “I'll need tools, equipment, lenses, paper.  There was enough work when I was a student there, being a fellow will be that much harder.”

“If the College even admits you,” said Isendrin, keeping his voice down, “They may be wary of anyone by the name of Held.”

“It can’t be helped.”

Isendrin looked away.  Sometimes he wondered whether his brother’s seemingly endless grace would eventually run dry.  Sometimes he wished it would.

“Regardless, it’s not that that concerns me,” continued Imlon, “They may not take a liking to my research.”

“Why not?”