Firebrand

Approaching from the seaside the capital of the former Aquilan Empire, precursor to its Asterian inheritor, Martel could appreciate the grandeur of the city. His familiarity with Morcaster blunted the experience to some degree; he was not left speechless as their Tyrian vessel sailed past the towers that guarded the harbour, the same way he had been when first entering the gate of Morcaster.

Still, it was clear that in all of the Imperial continent, only Aquila might come close to rivalling the current capital. The harbour had the same size, though containing fewer ships than Martel would have expected. Trade with the Western Isles and beyond could not compare to the commerce conducted with Sindhu and the southern continent.

Once they moored, the Asterian passengers bid the Tyrian crew farewell; they had been treated well out of respect for their status as not only mages, but dragon slayers, and Martel’s only complaint was that his seasickness had pursued him for most of the journey.

After finding a roadhouse where they might have lodgings for the night and leave their few belongings, the travellers entered Aquila proper. Walking down the main thoroughfare made an eerie impression on Martel. The insulae reminded him of Morcaster, though the Asterian spoken on the street was of another dialect. On occasion, they passed by great houses, probably owned by wealthy merchants, but many of them had faded painting and cracked ornaments. A fountain on a town square was decorated by a weathered statue; a legate, judging by the uniform, who had lost his sword only Stars knew how long ago.

The city boasted plenty of tavernae, offering food much like they were used to. After days of eating ship rations, the pair indulged in all manners of fresh meat, greens, and bread. Their most pressing needs settled, they ventured deeper into Aquila.

First, they went to the Temple of the Moon. Martel had expected something similar to the basilica consecrated to Sol in Morcaster, but the two structures had little in common. Rather than tall, elegant spires, the Aquilan shrine was dominated by an enormous dome. Magic had to be involved to keep it from collapsing on itself, Martel imagined, as they entered the temple to stand underneath it.

He was immediately reminded of the Dome of Stars in the Imperial palace, seeing a starry night with a crescent moon painted upon the ceiling. However, the image remained stationary; no enchantment lay upon it, perhaps besides fortifying it.

In the very centre of the temple, a tall statue stood. Supplicants could approach and kneel from all sides, leaving their offerings. The carved woman had a staff and a blue dress that Martel had seen similar to, and he could guess this was a depiction of Luna. Exquisite work, and unlike other statues he had seen in Aquila, no sign of decay upon this one.

Eleanor approached, made her obeisance at the altar, and left a small gift before returning to Martel. He saw no need to do so himself; his years of war had given him the impression that the gods did not care for the affairs of men nor deigned to intervene. Far more reliable to trust his own power than hope for divine assistance. He saw no reason to impose such beliefs on Eleanor, however, and was happy to let her retain hers; as she walked up to him, he gave a smile with a closed mouth. “All done?”

“I am. Here, at least.”

“Let’s continue, then.”

They did not venture far from the temple, staying in the same district. Asking for directions, they found the nearby graveyard, surrounded by walls and tended to by a chapter of the Black Brothers, who allowed them entry after learning their purpose.

The vast majority of Aquilans were not buried here, of course; the burial plots would have filled up within a matter of days. Instead, commoners and even many patricians burned their dead in the Archean tradition. A few still interred their deceased relatives in the mausoleums that filled the enclosure, and while some families no longer added to the number of the dead, their burial sites remained under the tender care of the monks. This included the House of Fontaine.

Eleanor and Martel entered the small structure to be surrounded by sarcophaguses on all sides. The open space barely allowed them to stand side by side, and engraved writing revealed that lots of dead Fontaines lay in every stone coffin; Martel guessed they lay in a deep grave dug into the ground, letting the dead be stacked on top of each other. It felt strange, almost irreverent; Nordmark also buried their dead, but never two in the same grave. They did have a lot more room up north, admittedly.

Eleanor took her time, reading each inscription. Martel hung back, waiting patiently. He let his own eyes glance over a few of the carvings, noticing that the latest burial had taken place more than three centuries ago. The oldest, from what he could tell, was twice that long ago.

Finally, his companion turned around and signalled she was ready to leave. Silently, they made their way out of the graveyard, only pausing to leave a donation to the Black Brothers for their continued work looking after the mausoleum.

“Did you learn anything of interest?” Martel asked as they strolled down the street, idly making their way back toward their roadhouse.

“Nothing as such. We have a book of the family history at home in Morcaster, and I would be curious to compare it with the inscriptions. Alas, not an option at present. I did recognise a few names, including that of my forbear Decimus, a legate in the Aquilan legions.”

“It runs in the family,” Martel jested. “If your house has such ties to Aquila though, why do you now live in Morcaster?”

“Same reason we came to Aquila.” Eleanor shrugged with a wry smile. “We hailed from the eastern provinces before that. Morcaster became the new centre of power, so we followed.”

“Perhaps one day, your house will move to Nordmark.” Martel was rewarded with laughter. In the ensuing moments of silence, he thought about Eleanor’s separation from her relatives, indirectly his fault. “Have you – have you thought about contacting your family?”

“What would be the point?” she replied in the neutral voice she used when suppressing her emotions. “We are far from Morcaster. I do not assume the road will take us in that direction anytime soon.”

Martel glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. She stared straight ahead, and he could not tell if he should press the issue or let it drop. He decided on the latter, for now, changing the subject. “Speaking of that, are we still determined to set course for the Western Isles?”

“Yes. Why? Are you having second thoughts?”

“No, not at all. Just wondering the best way to secure passage. It’s a long journey – not many ships that sail those waters.” ᴜᴘᴅᴀᴛᴇ ꜰʀᴏᴍ novel·fiɾe·net

“We can make arrangements tomorrow. For now, I need sustenance.”

Martel felt his stomach growl. “Aye to that.”