Whispers on the Wind: The City of Clouds

Part 3: Dirla

In Shorvor we believe that when our souls depart their mortal caskets that they are protected by the scared spirits called Iortas. Legends tell that these Iortas are our first ancestors, the men whom the gods blessed with our green lands and hills. They exist now to bring departed souls to the arms of those who have died before, so that our families may unite in the afterlife and convey wisdom on those still labouring on the living soil.

The Iorta was above me as I opened my eyes. An incandescent halo around its head made its features indistinct, as if I regarded it through a curtain of water.

Tranquillity nuzzled me, like I lay on the beach with the warm sea flowing over my legs. I reached out my hand to touch my spiritual guardian.

My hand rested on feathers.

I jerked upwards. At the same instant the figure before me became distinct the pain of my collar bone returned. It stole my breath.

What I had mistaken for an Iorta was a Netreptan, although it was not Hirk. This Netreptan was shorter, and its feathers white and pale brown, rather than the gold and russet of Hirk’s. Its face was rounder, bringing to mind a dove not an eagle, and the talons which now rose protectively were decorated and painted.

I staggered from where I lay. A metal bowl clattered on the pale blue stone of the floor. The contours of the chamber were smooth, gentle, gracefully curving towards an archway which led to the exterior. My feet slid and slipped as I careened away from the hollow that had acted as my bed.

The Netreptan held its arms forth, its feathers rustling like the autumn wind. “Hold, please, Seryn-Jer of Shorvor, let me...”

There was a haze within my mind. Had I been poisoned by the avians? Panic scratched through the torpor—my sword, the legacy of my kin, where was it? Where was I?

I jumped through the arch.

An instant of terror preceded my fall. Far below me there was a carpet of cloud, the peaks of the mountains jutting through like sharks breaking the surface of the sea. I tilted forward and there was nothing before but sky.

My scream was lost in the wail of the wind around my ears as I fell. Then sharp talons gripped my back and once more the world around me yawed.

“Stop struggling, or we’ll both die.”

The voice was light and musical, like the sound of a forest at dawn. I could feel myself being slowly lifted in the air, and as we banked upwards I had my first view of the city.

It was constructed of pale blue stone unlike anything I had ever seen in my travels. The buildings were spherical in the main, with some slender towers created by globes apparently stacked one atop the other. They sat upon a gigantic stone cross, and at the tip of each of the four arms there was a vast copper disc. Whereas the sunlight glittered off the million tiny flecks in the stone of the buildings, the discs were surrounded by the shimmer of sorcery.

As we ascended towards the door I had fallen from I could see wreaths of mist embracing the contours of the city. Tiny figures flew around the exterior and in-between the buildings, like bees around the first blooms of spring.

My feet skittered on the threshold of the doorway and I scrabbled for something tangible to hold onto. Tremors wracked my body, and my head felt giddy.

The Netreptan stood regarding me, hesitant to approach. I could feel the sting of the talon marks on my back.

“The air is thinner here, Seryn-Jer. Do not exert yourself at present.”

“Or try to fly,” I said.

There was a curious cooing noise and I realised the Netreptan was laughing.

“Where is Hirk?”

The laughter stopped. “Hirk-mate is resting. He is gravely ill. His essence is close to union with the wind.”

I nodded. “That saddens me. It is no end for a warrior, the lesser-death of slumber.”

“Is there ever a good death, I wonder? Yet you are correct that Hirk-mate is a warrior first and foremost, at the expense of...”

The statement faded, and I could not catch the inference.

“You are his... mate?” I asked. I felt uncomfortable—a grip of sorrow had seized me.

“I have that honour. I am Dirla, of the Jelez Arc.”

Dirla approached me cautiously. Her movement was delicate, refined, seeming to flow within the smooth undulation of the chamber.

“Dirla, my sword... where is it?”

“It is in the next room, with your clothes. I have cleaned them all, as a token of my gratitude. You will have no need for such things here.”

“Clothes, or swords?” I asked.

“Either.”

With a flush of shame I realised that I was naked. My breasts, shoulder and legs were decorated with scrapes and bruises. I felt ugly and awkward in front of this graceful creature.

Seeing my discomfort, Dirla turned her head away. “Again, my apologies. Our ways are clearly opposite. I shall bring you clothes.”

As she stepped away, I grasped her wing. She hesitated, and then looked at me. I could see my face in the mirror surface of her eyes.

“Thank you, for catching me. For saving me. You bestow me great honour, allowing me into your house.”

A strange turmoil arose inside me as Dirla looked into my eyes. It occurred to me, at that moment, that I was sharing her emotion, in the same way I had experienced Hirk’s fear in the snow.

“It is not my house,” she replied. “It is his.”

Copyright 2013 Ross M Kitson