Ikelos (The Ephemeral: Book 2)

Chapter 47

Shooting the messenger wouldn't do us any good—our protests would bounce off these men like pollen cones. So, with buried refutations searing our throats, we followed the sentinels into the City of Origins.

Inside, the cobblestone streets lay empty, almost silent, save for mountain birds and the distant school bell. Streetlamps and picket fences embellished the walkways that bordered the lake, and every fifty feet or so was a seating area and a bronze statue of our Patrons. 

Brightly painted shopfronts boxed us in, each built on the bottom floors of narrow multistory buildings—architecture modeled after the Ancients' apartments. Like Holly, the city couldn't expand laterally or accommodate more suburban homes, so they'd built themselves skyward instead, cultivating a proximity that demanded amicability and communal spirit.

Attributes foreign to Belgate.

Still, when a city shone as brightly as this one, it had to harbor shadows twice as dark. Back home, our socioeconomic divide was distinct, and in Holly, the fallout of stagnant industries had collected in its folds and creases. But here, I could only see a spattering of buildings skirting the lake, a few neighborhoods stitched of townhouses, and a couple striking estates in the distance. I couldn't spot a single shred of poverty in this colorful, clean world. Not a single scuff mark.

So where had the filth gone?

Had it been swept beneath the carpets of Havenbrooke? Or eradicated?

We descended a path that cut toward the lake, and through the trees, I could make out the giant, hook-shaped body of water. It spanned a half-mile across, glittering like silver under the ashen sky, before veering left toward the Rim's lodgepole pines where it reflected a deep, brilliant green.

Several fishermen tied their boats to a dock, and I wondered how many trout this lake harbored, how many mouths it fed. I could only imagine swimming in a space this deep, experiencing the weightlessness of total emersion, the unbearable water pressure. Public bathing was probably banned in the citadel, but that only fueled my desire to do so.

"Here we are," the constable declared, and we stopped before the perron of the city courthouse—the palace of our democracy. It reminded me of the drawings in our history books with its brick exterior, elaborate clock tower, and thick white columns barring the entrance.

My spine itched as we passed through the wooden doors, as if my alien spirit could sense a different breed of demon inside. We entered a warmly lit lobby, cut left down a narrow corridor, and then followed our escorts into an enormous square chamber.

I nearly tripped over my feet taking in my luxurious surroundings. I'd challenged enough demerits to recognize a courtroom when I saw one, but I'd never stood somewhere as grand and bumptious as this.

The floors, the wainscot, the pews, the railings, the tables—all of it had had been sourced from burnt mahogany. Above the wooden paneling, black curtains hung between three marble pillars, each representing a core Ellsian value. On the second floor, spaces with extra seating had been built for open viewing, like the stage box of a theater, and I had a feeling we were about to witness quite the production.

Our group faced the justice's bench, where the High Court sat in tall cushioned chairs, garbed in black robes and red and gold soles.

"Thank you, Constable," the chief justice announced from the center of the panel. Ugly sideburns patched his cheeks, as if his facial hair was trying to make up for its poor performance up north.

At the dismissal, Button-Up bowed his head and backed out of the room, leaving us huddled before the five disciplinarians like convicts, not soldiers.  Like wartime externalities, not citizens. It ate at me how quickly the government could turn on its glorified pawns.