A heavy hand gripped his shoulder and spun him around. The Fandredd loomed, eyes glowing red in its marble face. A Glyph blazed in its forehead as well.
"There is no use for the Lost here. Only the Sects may enter. You have come this far only to die."
Gile wished he had come armed, though steel would hardly do against such foes. There was always the Crafts, but he'd been strictly warned against inciting any violence. "You don't understand. The king needs to hear the news I have for him."
"News? If it's important, convey it to me. Speak, dog!"
Despite himself, Gile felt the fingers of fear clutch his spine. Either of the stone creatures could crush him like an overripe melon. Yet to fail would result in a fate even worse. Masiki had assured him of that.
He stiffened his back and looked up at the Fandredd. "Begging m' lord's pardon. I have to deliver my message to the king in person. Not to his golems."
The Fandredd's red eyes glimmered when it lowered its reptilian head even closer. "You dare—?"
"Hold." The manticore tilted its head to one side as though listening to an unheard voice. It studied Gile as though seeing him for the first time. "It appears you shall get your wish after all, O-privileged guest of the King. Enter."
The beast sat back at its post on its haunches, instantly frozen as a cast statue once again. The reptile returned to its place as well. Gile exhaled a shuddered breath. It appeared Masiki had spoken truly. He would gain entrance into the Forbidden City after all.
The wall in front of him silently opened. Instead of swinging out, it slid to the side. What could move all that weight so easily? He noted it took five paces before he cleared the thick door. Once past, it slid silently shut behind him and locked in place with a gentle click.
"Welcome, master."
He turned to the owner of the voice. The lass was golden haired and beautiful with luminous sky-blue eyes, creamy skin, and a slim but supple figure. Her garb was a simple sleeveless white gown banded by a golden sash.
She reminded him of the last wench he'd raped. Just a peasant girl in Bruallia, but he'd spread her across the table and took his time while her father cursed and wept with a sword in his belly. Gile couldn't hear his threats or her screams over his own laughter.
He shoved the memory aside. Those were good times, but he was no longer that person. No longer shackled by his weaknesses and governed by his passions. His former pleasures were distant fires, allowing him to focus on the matter at hand.
The lass curtsied gracefully. "I am Gwyneth. You are just in time. I will take you to the Hall of Gathering, where you will assemble with the others and await the King."
She waited for his nod before leading the way. He noticed other white-garbed men and women going about various duties. They were all human. Despite being so close to the outside, none bothered to even glance at the gate. Yet they had to be prisoners.
Could they all be under Coercion?
That seemed doubtful as well. It took a great deal of focus and time, something unnecessary for simple servants. The simple answer was they were born and bred in Aceldama, raised in captivity.
Like sheep. He grunted at the notion.
The palace doors opened of their own accord when his guide approached. The inner hall was massive, the floor matted with tiles of embossed gold and silver. Nothing hung on the walls, for they were works of art. Some were murals, lifelike carvings of exotic and outlandish places or depictions of events long past.
As they passed into the heart of the palace, he paused at a lifelike monument. It was carved from the walls and floor as if frozen upon emergence, forever immortalized in an ode to memory. The scene depicted a lone warrior facing seven hulking, armored figures. The man was cherubic, the paradigm of a conquering hero as he fearlessly stood against his horrific foes. Gile studied the ornately detailed sword, which had to be Mothros, the Devourer. Everyone knew the legend of Alaric destroying the Reavers, but the detailed scene made the story much more potent.
Gile smiled at the thought of Alaric's reaction to his news.
"If you please, master." Gwyneth beckoned politely.
They passed by many rooms, some of which had the doors opened. He gazed at a great library, with more books than he thought existed. An armory with a collection of weapons and armor dating back to lost Ages. He jerked in surprise when he noticed rain falling in one of the greenrooms.
Bloody rain indoors? What in the hells of Narak have I gotten into?
The hall abruptly ended in a sheer wall.
"We are here."
Gwyneth walked right through it.
Gile hesitated. He had limited skill with the Craft of Vizardry, but according to his knowledge it could only be performed to change one's appearance. Yet it must have been used to create the facade. He felt a stab of frustration. There was much he had to learn, and Masiki only taught what she wanted him to know.
That was a concern for later. He could not help but close his eyes as he took a deep breath and stepped forward. A slight chill rippled through him.
He opened his eyes.
The hall was so grandiose it seemed a minstrel's tale come to life. Richly lacquered tables and chairs were arranged on a shimmering floor of crimson and gold. The room was rounded, with rows of seats arranged in lifted rows beyond the floor like a theater. The walls were lofty and soaring, separated by great columns carved in depictions of trees and animals. A bedazzling chandelier hung from a ceiling of pressed gold, a cascade of mirrored glass that reflected light from a glowing orb in its center. More orbs were arranged about the room on pedestals or hanging from the ceiling, though what illuminated them was a mystery.
Gile was so caught up in calculating the expense that he almost didn't see the tall man who beckoned with a gem-encrusted hand from the rows that extended from the floor. Strong features chiseled his dark, stony face, and his hair was long, hanging past his shoulders in luxuriously oiled coils. His long, thick beard was similarly dressed. He stared with irises so dark that the whites of his eyes glowed.
His deep voice boomed. "You are Aberran. It is fine. I too am Aberran, which is why I wait here instead of being housed like the Sects. Please, sit. The Sects will sit at the tables below. We are not allowed there. I am Orabon, from Jafeh."
He wore finely spun baumwole robes of ebony and dark green. Pointed wooden shoes peeked from the fringed hem, and a heavy, intricately carved medallion rested against his thickly muscled chest. He seemed at ease, confident, and extremely powerful. Gile reached out with his senses and immediately determined Orabon's strength was greater than his. Power radiated from the man like heat from a desert sun.
Gile assumed his diffident persona. "I am Gile Noman. From…all over."
Orabon laughed. "Of course. You are Aberran. Naturally, the name has a different meaning for us. Never think of yourself as lost, an exile or an outsider. We are the free people, Gile Noman. We live our lives as we please. Let the others become wrapped up in their secret societies and bound to their rules. True strength is found in solitude, in being able to step away from the mob."
He folded his fingers under his chin and studied Gile as though measuring his worth. "I am curious, Gile Noman, as to how our mistress got you invited here."