The wyrm gasped in delight. The amber nectar was sweet on her tongue and soothing to the caustic burning of her throat that had been plaguing her since her injury. She drank in more of the thickened sunlight, swallowed it in desperate gulps, feeling its sustenance fill her, strengthen her, cooling the fire in her belly, bringing her peace. She rolled onto her back in the stream and exhaled slowly, then fell into dreamless, healing sleep.
29
Before leaving Sepulvarta in secret to meet with the Lord and Lady Cymrian, the Patriarch had ordered the city sealed. Being the central location of all holy orders within the Patrician faith, as well as a place of pilgrimage to those of other practices, even as far back as the polytheistic religions of the continent that preceded the Cymrian era, Sepulvarta had a long reputation of religious tolerance and free access. The road that led from the trans-Orlandan thoroughfare south to the city, known as the Pilgrim’s Road, was always teeming with human and animal traffic, pilgrims and clergy, tradesmen and merchants, all making their way for their own reasons to the independent city-state. On normal days it might take as little as an hour to traverse the road and enter the city; on holy days, or days of heavy import at the time of festivals or famine, the wait could be the better part of a full turn of the sun. On rare occasions visitors to Sepulvarta could pass more than a few nights, sleeping in the street or at one of the many hostels and inns that lined the roadway, waiting to be allowed entrance through the one gate in the enormous wall that circled the entire city. Sealing the city was a precaution that was not unheard of. Occasionally the flow of visitors to the sacred spots and shrines overwhelmed the places of hospitality within the city’s walls. With the inns and wayhouses full, the taverns and pubs gained more guests and patrons than they could accommodate, leading to long lines for food and ale, ugly dispositions and threats, and often violence, all of which was deemed unacceptable for a holy city. The previous Patriarchs, rather than removing the hospitality, as had been done in the oldest days, chose to keep the ale and remove the patrons, at least temporarily, until the holy days were over and the flow of traffic returned to normal.
So when the city was ordered sealed, no one thought the better of it. As it turned out, it was the one thing that prevented its immediate destruction and that of the farming settlements around it. Sepulvarta had the worst of both lands that it bordered. North of mountainous Sorbold, south of the wide-open plains of Roland, it was a city perched on a small hill on the edge of the low piedmont and in the midst of the flattest part of the Krevensfield Plain, which served to make it easily visible to travelers and all but indefensible. Fortunately, as the holy See of both nations, there had never been any reason for it to mount a defense. Even in the seven hundred years of the Cymrian War, as the Krevensfield Plain burned with atrocities and the mountains rang with horrific battle, the holy city remained untouched, though, as Anborn had informed the Council, that had merely been by coincidence. By the time his army had taken the farming settlements in the region, it had been far easier to quarter the soldiers in places of plentiful food where they were dispersed, rather than making a headquarters in an obvious place that was just asking to be laid siege. So Sepulvarta remained intact, unspoiled and untainted by the horror that took place all around it.
Anborn’s assertions of its lack of strategic value for quartering troops notwithstanding, many citizens of Sepulvarta chose to attribute their good fortune and safekeeping to the beneficence of the All-God and the protection of the Spire. The Spire was a tower with a base that took up an entire city block, reaching a thousand feet in the air to the very top, where it was crowned with a single piece of elemental ether, said to be a fragment of the star Seren that once shone over the Lost Island of Serendair half a world away. That single piece of star illuminated the city by day as well as night, blessing it with light even in the fiercest of rainstorms, or on the cloudiest of days. Pilgrims approaching the city could make out its radiance for almost a week before reaching it, guided not only by the light of the beacon but by the power emanating from it.
The Spire reached to the clouds above the great basilica that was the cornerstone of the city of Sepulvarta, the cathedral dedicated to the element of ether known as Lianta’ar. Each of the five primordial elements, sometimes called the Paints of the Creator, had a basilica dedicated to it, but Lianta’ar, which was believed to mean in the old language of the Cymrians Lord All-God, Light of the World, was by far the grandest, as well as being the youngest. It was me seat of the Patriarch, the leader of me faith, as well as the place where the yearly rituals that protected all adherents to that faith were celebrated. The prayers of me faithful were eventually channeled to this place, and offered to me Creator through the Spire, as close as one could conceivably get to placing one’s request directly at the feet of God. The fourteen-foot-thick wall mat surrounded me city was more for pomp and circumstance, as well as for decoration, man for realistic protection. Being unscathed had led the elite soldiers of Sepulvarta to become primarily ceremonial as well. Their uniforms were no longer the armor of men that had to do battle, but rather grand colorful regalia which displayed the many liturgical symbols and colors of the Patriarchy. They checked the visitors coming in and out of the city, maintained a watch on the wall and a guard at the manse of the Patriarch the changing of which was one of the most sought-after spectacles by pilgrims to the city, the defenses in place were woefully inadequate to withstand anything more than an initial assault. They had never had to be more than that. The captain of the city’s guard, a man named Fynn, was wandering the wall, checking on the archery mounts and enjoying the breeze that was heavy with hints of spring when he happened to gaze off to the south, where the mountains of Sorbold blackened the horizon in the distance. He blinked in astonishment. What had always seemed to be a fairly distant horizon appeared to have moved noticeably closer. After a moment it became clear that it was steadily moving closer still. The captain cleared his eyes and looked again. Spread out across the dry plain to the south an army battle line was approaching in columns, clad in the regalia and flying the colors of the emperor of Sorbold—mounted cavalry, infantry, and great cavalcades of wagons bearing ballistae, catapults, and other weapons of siege. At quick count, the captain thought there might be as many as five divisions of several thousand men each, all moving forward across the steppes to the plain, relentlessly but with no particular hurry. There was no mistaking their destination. Had he been more battle-hardened, more accustomed to the need for readiness in war, the captain might have gained a few seconds in his response. Those extra seconds would ultimately have made no measurable difference in outcome. When he finally overcame his shock, he ran to the nearest guard tower, the one to the left of the gate, which unlike the portcullises preferred by other cities was comprised of two enormous wooden doors in which the holy symbols of all five elements had been carved, crowned with the silver six-pointed star of the Patriarch. The gatekeeper was sleeping, his attention unneeded with the city sealed. Fynn shook him violently awake. “Ring the alarm! Ring the alarm, damn you! Look!” The gatekeeper shot to his feet and almost fell from the wall. He lurched out of the shelter of the tower and began ringing the call to arms. The clanging bell sounded harshly over the city, which was accustomed to the musical ringing of hourly prayer bells from the towers of assorted houses of worship and the great carillon of the basilica, which played hymns and calls to prayer with the rising and setting of the sun each day. In spite of the city being sealed, there was always morning traffic within the city walls and without, as merchants plied the streets, women went from shop to shop, tent to tent in search of foodstuffs and goods they needed, children ran about, and members of religious orders passed from one sacred place to another. The tinny shout of the warning bells brought that traffic to a standstill, that muted noise of ordinary life faded into shocked silence. “Get to your houses!” the captain of the guard shouted from atop the wall. The people in the street below stared up at him, not moving.