The Dragon Bridge supported a wide and thick stone span that sprang from the earth near the piers on Long Arm Lake to rise in a diagonal line all the way up to the Sky District. The Dragon Bridge was named for its supporting arches, each of which took the form of a sculpted, sinuous stone dragon. Each successively larger stone dragon bore the weight of its span section in a unique fashion-some on arched backs, others in wide maws, and even one, who stood closest to Nathlekh's stone column, in clawed hands raised high above its head as it reared on its hind legs.
A series of three massive, gated checkpoints along the bridge's span guarded against attacking ground forces, or, as happened on occasion even more than a decade after the Spellplague, groups of homeless refugees. Each gated wall contained barracks for a company of bridge guardians commanded by a gate captain.
Raidon Kane ascended the Dragon Bridge in the back of a cart drawn by two donkeys, driven by an old Shou farmer. Raidon silently wondered if he were, in truth, being brought to Nathlekh as the farmer claimed. Last time he'd been here, there'd been no Dragon Bridge.
It seemed impossible that such a dramatic change could overtake the city in little over a decade. Then again, the changes that occurred while the blue fire raged defied reason. In comparison to what he'd seen in Starmantle, Nathlekh's uplift hardly seemed worth mentioning.
His foot cramped suddenly, as if to rebuke him for recalling the awful image of Starmantle and the ghoul-like aberrations that inhabited it. He wondered if the wound would ever completely heal. Even now, wrapped in linens provided by the kindly farmer's wife, his foot seeped fluids.
Each new day, he concentrated all his healing ability on the limb, attempting to re-knit more of the lost skin and sensitivity to touch. Each day, he convinced himself he made a little more progress.
In truth, the wound was much improved. Raidon might have walked this final distance into Nathlekh today, probably with just a minor limp. But the solicitous farmers, who'd found him crawling amid their turnip beds a tenday earlier, who'd nursed him back to health in their modest dwelling, wouldn't hear of him walking so soon. They offered to take him up to Nathlekh by donkey cart. In the end, he'd gratefully accepted.
The biggest mystery of all was his location. He was far closer to the city when the farmers found him than he should have been.
The last thing he recalled was falling asleep in the rain on top of a hard-won bluff near Starmantle. Even upon reaching the safety of the bluffs top, he half suspected he would never see another day.
But he survived. When he opened his eyes next, it was to a cool sunrise. There was no bluff, no burning forest, and no rain. He lay in a turnip field. He couldn't recall anything between falling asleep and waking along the edge of a farm. A turnip farm that turned out to be nearly two hundred miles west of his last location just outside Nathlekh!
Raidon wondered again if he were going insane. It could be he was losing his memory before his mind.
Or perhaps the Spellplague described to him by the ghouls had so altered the landscape that cities and other previously fixed points had become unstuck from their old foundations. He didn't have enough information to rightly judge.
A new thought struck him. Perhaps the Cerulean Sign had something to do with it. Had the symbol, now spellscarred into his flesh, somehow contrived to move him toward his unconscious goal while he lay at death's door?
Sometimes it seemed he could almost discern a voice speaking his name.
Raidon pushed these speculations from his head. Right now, all that mattered was finding Ailyn. He tried to imagine in what circumstance he'd find her. His anxiety over what had become of the girl was more painful than his throbbing foot.
They ascended the great dragon-supported bridge. As the cart approached the third and final gate, a gate guard signaled the farmer to stop his cart.
Words penetrated Raidon's apprehension. The gate guard was saying… only. Turn around and take your cargo with you, I said. Be glad I do not fine you."
"What is this nuisance?" Raidon spoke up. "Why are you holding us up? This man has no cargo today but me. He is due no merchant fees."
The guard sneered and returned, "In these dangerous times, non-Shou who wish to enter Nathlekh can only do so with an invitation."
"But this man…" The guard's implication struck home. The guard referred to Raidon, not the farmer.
Raidon began again, "My father is a son of the east, and he raised me in Telflamm, some thirty… nay, forty years ago. But disregard that; I am a resident of Nathlekh. I kept my residence here before the Spellplague. My daughter lives here even now. You cannot deny me entry to my home."
The guard tried to meet Raidon's gaze. And failed. Apparently he was unused to opposition from people in donkey carts. He scowled. "Stay here. I'll get the captain." The man stalked off.
Raidon usually passed as Shou, but sometimes strangers noticed his fey ancestry. His long-absent mother's blood manifest in him only faintly, but was visible to those sensitive to such differences. Raidon's ears were ever so slightly pointed, the shape of his skull was perhaps narrower than other Shou, and his bearing was straight, though no straighter than any other practitioner of Xiang Do. He thought of himself as Shou. Usually, his mother's blood didn't cause any problems… except sometimes among other Shou.
The farmer ventured, "The city folk have seen too many horrors during and after the Year of Blue Fire. They outlawed refugees and fey from entering the city five years ago. Xenophobia and nationalism grip even those who were once counted as wise."
Raidon grunted.
Normally when he suffered such slights, he imagined his mind a depthless pool of water in which insult, injury, and pain were feeble pebbles, easily swallowed.
Today his foot hurt, and he was worried about his daughter.
His focus was askew, and without its calming influence, he anticipated the possibility of the captain proving difficult. Raidon imagined what he might do in response. The teachings of Xiang Temple stirred, scolding him for holding himself beyond their guiding principles. Raidon clenched his fists, and then allowed them to relax a finger at a time, exhaling as he did so.
The captain strode up with the hateful guard in tow. The captain was a tall Shou in laminated mail. He gave Raidon an extended look, and then said, "Allow these through." He turned and stomped back to the commandery.
The original guard's frown deepened and he muttered, "You don't fool me. Don't think this is over." With that, he stepped aside and allowed them to proceed. The man's hate-filled stare followed them until the side of the gate blocked Raidon's view.
Once inside, the farmer let Raidon down from the cart. The farmer wished him luck in finding his child. Raidon nodded, thanking the man. He did not dishonor the man's generosity by offering payment. Sincerity was enough reward for those raised according to eastern traditions.
As the sound of the creaking cart diminished into the distance, Raidon studied Nathlekh's vista. But his thoughts were on Ailyn. What had come of a child so young, left alone save for paid servants, in the face of the greatest calamity of the age without a parent's guidance?
Nothing good, his apprehension insisted.
His worry proved unbearably accurate.
Three days later, Raidon's search concluded at the foot of a four-foot-high, hardened clay structure resembling a beehive. All around him were similar structures. Clusters of clay markers of various dimension protruded from the ground, though the largest ones were central, and the smaller ones spiraled around them.
Raidon stood in Nathlekh's "city of the dead," where the deceased were interred.
He stood before one of the smallest clay markers, a desolate and broken man.