A Dream of the Heaven

Chapter 25 (Part 1 of 2)

Chapter 25

Isendrin

*

A nagging pain ate away at Isendrin's arm. He let Menentor take his brother and Temith on ahead, and rolled up his sleeve. Blood trickled down his skin: the wound he had taken in Pekderzhun had come open again. The Ferals had not touched him. It was his own violence that had done it.

He smiled. Before the encounter, he had feared the power of an arcanus. It had been shown to be feeble. He was strong, he knew he was strong, and by God he had proven he was strong to his companions. Duels, knife-brawls, and rushed escapes were one thing, but battle, real battle, had no equal. His heart still thrilled with the rhythm of it.

The slump that followed was inevitable. Five days of hard travelling, interspersed with four nights of sleeping on rocks, caught up with his creaking back, his burning feet, and his groaning stomach. He hardly noticed the road that had appeared beneath their feet and the lonely farmhouses springing up in the fields. Deep into the night, lights appeared in the distance, gathered up on a bleak hillside.

"Myssir Astronae," said Menentor. "Almost there."

Exhaustion clawed at Isendrin's eyes. Almost there. They were admitted at a small gate, passed through darkened streets, and arrived at the base of the hill. The next thing he knew he was lying down to blessed rest. The battle was done, the journey was over, and the bed was the softest he had ever known.

*

He awoke in a haze of light, to the smell of jasmine. It seemed a shame to rise. He turned over, swaddling his naked body anew in the crisp white sheets. As he dozed, he remembered that he was in the guesthouse of the Night Caste. The bronze seal that Theano had given to them in Pekderzhun had won them the hospitality of the arcani.

A gentle knock at the door stirred him back to wakefulness.

"Yes?" he said, raising himself up. A maidservant entered, carrying a steaming bowl of water.

"Good morning, sir," she said, averting her eyes. Isendrin looked at himself: he was showing his bare chest above the sheets. He chose not to cover it.

"Good morning."

"The morning meal is to be served in half an hour, sir. I hope I have not disturbed your sleep."

Isendrin smiled. She was a comely girl. "Not at all. Thank you."

Once the maid had departed, he looked more observantly around the room. He lay on a large feather bed opposite glass doors filled with morning light and draped with fine curtains. There was an impressive table in the centre, fresh rush matting, chests and wardrobes of dark wood by the open stone walls. He breathed in the scent of crushed flowers placed in little bowls around the room, before rising from the bed.

His every muscle and bone ached unceasingly. He winced and stretched his limbs, walked to a mirror and immediately felt unsuited to his surroundings. Bruises and red blotches covered his grime-streaked body, and the wound on his arm was red raw, in need of stitching. His face was hollow, his unshaven cheeks were a mess, and his hair was slick with dirt and sweat.

After washing in the basin and dressing in fresh clothes laid out for him, Isendrin made his way towards the smell of morning cooking. He entered a high, elegant refectory, its pillared walls burnished white by the sunlight. The long tables were occupied by about fifteen men, mostly in robes and formal dress, their conversation bubbling up through the room. They could have been scholars from Monruath, but for the ornate swirling decoration on their clothes.