Luminous

45 - The Black City

The entourage of Hadrian clip-clopped along the seemingly never-ending road, its passage heralded by the blare of a lone shawm, which might sound to a particularly imaginative ear like the melodic passing of bowel gas.

In the loving hands of Lady Fione of Cristoria, the shawm swung its tail to the jolly rhythm of her song. To complete the image, the lady was also perched astride a brown horse tethered to a supplies wagon.

All around, yeomen sneaked scandalized glances at the blissfully impervious Lady. At long last, Sir Christopher could stand the sight no more.

"Fione, you know it's improper for women to play the shawm and straddle a horse, don't you?"

The shawm's song petered out mid-note. Fione whipped around to the stern young squire, comically wide eyes glazed with faked innocence.

"Why so?"

"You know perfectly well why!" Christopher snapped. Fione hitched up a seductive smile. Tilting her head, she ran her hand slowly down the length of her shawm. Despite himself, Christopher found his eyes glued to the titillating movement, and his pulse quickening.

"Would you rather I blow on something else, then?" Fione's night-blue eyes sparkled with stars, as her tongue slithered around the shawm's double reed, "A bass shawm, perhaps? You know I love big shawms. The bigger the better."

Christopher's complexion deepened to the exact replica of Hadrian Red. Amidst the gawking yeomen, Simon hollered over a word of wisdom,

"Leave it, Chris. You'll never win."

As Christopher slumped back in his saddle, massaging his temples in defeat, Fione's shawm resumed blaring its triumphant march. Zier raised an eyebrow at Coris, who pointedly avoided his insinuating gaze and urged his horse away from his brother. Sir Jarl rode on at the far front, pretending not to have heard.

Meya stifled a roar of laughter as she lowered her face to the journal—Coris's journal—she had been scribbling and doodling on, hoping to hide her burning cheeks. She loved shawms as well, though she doubt she'd ever be as outspoken about it as Fione.

Meya's eyes swept the surroundings as she tapped her quill on the parchment, seeking a way around the figurative fallen tree on her path. Her gut was sure it had found Agnes's sister, but the nagging voice in her brain (which sounded very much like Coris) insisted she figure out a way to prove it first.

The scenery remained pretty much the same. Hillocks low and high covered with heath. A silent fox emerged from behind boulders, eyeing a doomed red grouse, who was still pecking obliviously, croaking ow ow ow. Gray hares pranced and scampered between the numerous entrances to their warrens. Seas of deer legs moved in the shadows of the forest. Overhead, a peck of skylarks flapped by.

Meya peered into the carriage behind her. Lady Agnes was sound asleep, her head on Gretella's lap, exhausted from all that crying. Gretella was knitting and humming. Arinel was embroidering silver thread onto a blue handkerchief. She shone Meya a quick smile, then refocused on her pastime.

Over in the next carriage, young Lord Frenix had a canvas propped up against the window, his tongue between his teeth as he sketched the landscape, with Lady Amara as his admiring patron. Behind them, Bishop Riddell sat with his head thrown back, snoring.

Across from the alchemist, Lady Heloise's hand reached out from the shadows, flipping the page of a novel. Her bracelet caught the beam of sunlight and gleamed rainbow.

Nothing new here as well.

Meya sighed and slumped back against the carriage. The dreary journey didn't provide much inspiration, and Fione's quirky shawm song wasn't helping her concentration. Deciding to put it aside for now, she turned to the nearby Jerald.