The Colorless Land

Chapter 38: The Deserted Throne

"Are you sure you don't want us to come with you?"

Saryana's voice was hushed, soft and full of concern as her dark eyes shifted up to meet Aithal's own. "Any of us," she added, her hand closing around his arm. "Or even just me."

She was worried, Aithal knew that. Saryana always worried so easily about everyone under her care. And truth be told, he was inclined to indulge her. Today's journey was one he had looked forward to as long as he lived, and now, under these circumstances, he was suddenly dreading it. Part of him did not want to do it alone.

Still he resisted the temptation. Smiling, he pulled away, avoiding her expressive gaze to steady his own resolve. "Thank you," he said gently. "But this is a journey I have to do alone."

"It could be dangerous."

"I won't be long. We have been through worse dangers, you and I."

Saryana's jaw clenched, but she gave a nod. "If you're not back by noon, I'm coming to look for you."

"Keep an eye on the others for me in the meantime. Knowing Evariel or even Jolette, they might just go after me otherwise."

He kissed her, hoping she could not feel the way his lips trembled, then he turned away and pulled the hood low into his face. Under the first light of dawn his feet carried him outside, out of the sleeping inn and into a city he had never set foot into and yet knew like the back of his hand.

For all his life he had been obsessed with coming here. For all his life he had latched onto anything to do with Elodia, with Emgar, the place where he had been born, the place he could not remember and was not allowed to enter. Even as a child he had spent countless hours poring over maps, drawings, descriptions, anything he could get his hands on. Now he was here, and his feet found the way on their own.

The sea breeze was on his face. Behind the ocean the sun began to rise, casting a pink and orange light onto the walls of the city and falling onto the mountains far beyond, making the snow-capped peaks look like they were on fire. All around him the city began to come alive. Merchants and craftsmen opened their shops. Fishers set out for the day. The voices of children carried into the street from open windows.

They were speaking the language of his childhood, Aithal realized, the language of his foster-family. But their accent was different. This was the accent he had been painstakingly trained to speak, in case he ever needed to take up the throne.

For now, though, he was no king. He was no prince. He was only a traveler in a weather-stained black cloak, climbing up and up along the sloping roads and steep stairways of the city.

At first he took the official paths. No one would stop him or question his identity or errand before he came to the inner city, the royal quarters, and he knew all the secret paths to pass by the questioning guards. Close to the guarded wall he took a turn away from the gate, through the gardens surrounding it, and found the trap-door hidden between the bushes exactly where the descriptions had told him it would be.

Pulling a ring of heavy keys out of his pocket, he unlocked it and slipped into the staircase that opened beyond. It was dark down there, but smooth and dry. He could feel his way along as if he had been through here a thousand times before.

The stairs ended. A low passage. A sharp turn, right, left, then right again. Another ten strides, and he arrived at another flight of stairs. Ten—twenty—thirty steps. Then his extended hand brushed against a cast-iron door.

All as described.

Aithal pulled out his keys again, searched for the right one. The plain one, they had said. He groped along the door in search of a lock. Then he opened the door.