Bastion of Sun

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Fanfare or Something

The next day Zane stood in the courtyards of Vaster, surrounded by shiny white buildings and glass edifices, like translucent toothpicks, and looked over their mounts. The sun was glaring above, and there was a farewell parade crashing about him, but mostly he just noticed the sun. Zane squinted at it. He preferred the sun of Farbs—it was hot and angry. This far north the sun felt glaring and ever-present, like a light that wouldn't turn off. But really, Zane was distracting himself from what surrounded him. Moodiness. And excitement. But mostly moodiness.

Ayva had discovered what had happened—everyone had connected the dots when both Gray and Darius didn't arrive that morning to pack up the mounts. Zane had picked up on the small whispers and looks.

They were given a royal farewell, despite the strange moods lingering in the air like a fishmonger's day-old catch. As he tightened the strap on his mount, looping one end over to secure the favored black cloak Father had given him, he glanced up.

The courtyard was alive with hundreds of spectators, long lines of gleaming soldiers in silver plate, and even a row of golden-plated Lightguards on the steps beside the Lord of Vaster. Nolan watched them with an unsettling gaze. He recognized what swirled behind that man's eyes, those very familiar emotions. Need. Hope. Just like a Lost One. And just like a Lost One, the city of Vaster was an outcast, a refugee to the rest of the world. And their acceptance would only come in the form of a missing sword. It was ironic that for all the city's opulence and grandeur, they had so much in common with the dirty street urchins and lost waifs with tattered rags and sunken eyes. But as Zane looked around, he thought he could see another similarity.

Vasterians had dark-rimmed circles about their bright eyes, and several glanced behind them as if a shadow nipped at their heels, while others still clutched their children tighter than normal, glancing about fearfully. The sickness, Zane knew. Rumors must be spreading already. Nearly ten years ago, Zane had seen Farbs torn apart by plague rumors. He hoped Vasterians were wiser and calmer than most in the face of death, but doubted it.

Smells assaulted him—clean as usual for Vaster, but horse and manure mingled among the fresher scents. There was the smell of baked goods and of roasted vegetables on wooden skewers, some dipped in fragrant, colorful spices—though oddly, no meats. The sweet scent of cooked fruit drizzled in honey wafted from nearby lean-to stands of enterprising sellers who wished to profit off the impromptu event. Judging by their attire and looks, Zane figured not many of the sellers were actually Vasterian—instead they had the look of traveling merchants hailing from Great Kingdoms like Covai, Farbs or Median. Layered over the smells of food and horses, was the pungent smell of sweat from the crowds standing in the hot sun.

Zane finally saw the Council. They were stuffy old men, as he'd expected, standing beside Lord Nolan, but there was something strange about them. He couldn't put his finger on it but he didn't care.

The mood was oddly heavy, despite the cheer. Laughter from children sounded as they weaved in and out of the watching crowds. Flower petals fell from the air. Zane grabbed one as it twirled and danced its way down from the spires and glassy terraces overhead. His rough hands pressed it between his thumb and forefinger, feeling its silkiness. Pink. It crushed, turning a deeper shade where he pressed too hard.

Hannah's familiar sigh sounded at his side. "Must you destroy every pretty thing?"

He grinned. At least one person hadn't been such a melancholy mess. "I've kept you around, haven't I?"