Ye Who Dare Not

MOTHER'S EXPECTATIONS, SUMMER, CHAPTER 9

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Damlin Tenfoot, Outside the City of Wick, Emerald Isle.

The dusty road wound towards the City of Wick, the ocean glimmering brilliantly beyond it's high towers. The billowing sails of longships and cogs filled the city's port. It's fabled sea-chain lowered, strung between two towers astride the harbor entrance, protecting the harbor from sea beasts and men. A second wall of defenses stand upon a hillock within the city, a refugee for the prosperous and powerful.

Convoys of pack animals and horse carts descend the steep hills, criss-crossed the surrounding valleys into the city. Merchants from the Frankia, Venica, Lithuana, Espania and Byzant carried silver, gold, copper, iron, tins, ores, leathers, furs, coarse cloth and minerals to Wick. The city's exchange houses filled with luxury goods, glass and mirrors, soaps and silks, dyes and satins from the far orient, sending them across the eight seas.

Damlin rode beside Mayor Tillerson at the head of the column, the men-at-arms, squires and wagons groaning and trumbling behind. The sun baked the people and streets, a muggy haze of heat, humidity, and sweat. Industrious denizens of the Isles, mingled with from across the world, as their column strode through the cobbled streets.

A shadow covered Damlin, breaking the heart for a moment. The Sea Gate loomed above him, as he smelled the stench of the near the harbor, a mingle of salty brine and sewage. A messenger with flowing locks, in royal blues of the Countess of Wick's livery, rode through the guards and merchants who parted before his pale gray stallion.

"Acolyte Damlin, my lady requests your presence immediately upon your entrance to the city." The courtier rode towards them and gave a low sweeping bow. His ruffled doublet billowed outward at the chest and narrowed at his neck, waist and wrists. "We await your arrival with great anticipation. Though personally, I wished you had more respect for punctuality."

Mayor Tillerson looked to Damlin, cocking an eyebrow at the imperious tone.

Damlin turned to the messenger, cool disdain in his voice. "The Battlemages stand above the laws of the Myriad Isles. Please return to the countess and inform her I shall arrive in good time."

The courier went pink and inhaled tightly through his nose. He rode his horse near to Damlin and leaned in next to Damlin's ear, biting out each whispered words. "Your mother demands you meet her. You impudent brat!"

Fear filled Damlin. All at once those horrible emotions came back. He was a little boy, not four years old, holding the hand of his nurse. His mother's distant disdain. The harsh words. You spoil the boy she said to his nurse. Damlin never saw his nan again.

"Have you gone dumb, boy." The messenger whispered, lacerating with each word.

"Very well." Damlin said defeated and shoved the emotions back into the blackness. He followed the messenger's horse through the dock, up towards the palatial castle, his mother's domain.

Dockhands carried barrels filled with molasses, wine and olive oil; locked boxes loaded with pearls, ivory, and gems; baskets stacked with peacock feathers, Aegyptian cottons, pigments used by artists and dyers; jars filled with spices such as cardamom, cinnamon, ginger, pepper, saffron, frankincense, myrrh from across Europa and beyond.

Damlin's heart raced. His palms sweat. His mother never cared for him as a child. He recalled her dark hair, pale skin, her brilliant lips twisted in cruel mockery of his feeble attempts at magic. Her words bubbled to mind, "Maybe Lightburn can make use of you. For I do not need a failure."

And he had failed Lightburn. He was a failure. A disgrace.

They rode through the towering and bustling inner city gates, unchallenged by the guards. The character of the people on the streets changed as they went deeper towards the palace. Ornate carriages and fine carriage horses moved though the streets, bearing elegant ladies and ostentatious lords. Maids, messengers, and bodyguards traveled the streets wearing the liveries of their liege. Tension filled the servants eyes and movements as they swept by the messenger and Damlin, bobbing their heads in respect of the Countess's livery.