A Dream of the Heaven

Chapter 22 (Part 2 of 2)

It was not the problem of gaining entry to Templeheart that troubled Imlon as he walked through the busy morning streets, keeping an eye on every guard and every concealed alleyway.  It was the nature of the arcanus he hoped to meet.  Few people in Emmares talked about the city of Pekderzhun, but that was because it was dull and backward, of no interest to a Tysider or Roethennan.  People said little of Anthornadia, however, because it was a blank space on the map, an emptiness populated by myth and secret ways.

Anthornadia was a place where monsters roamed, where men built downward from foundations of cloud, where the arcani toyed with the nature of the world in whatever way seemed fit to their fancy.  He had seen the power of an arcanus at the theatre in Monruath, but that was the work of a journeyman conjurer.  The man he now went to meet, whoever he was, would surely be far mightier, by whatever measure one used to assess the prowess of an arcanus.  Imlon did not know whether such power could turn a man to dust, as Menentor had said.  He hoped that he would not find out.

The palisade surrounding Templeheart loomed out of the fog.  The streets were busier the closer he came to the district’s gate.  Soon enough he found himself being jostled by large crowds, far more numerous than he would have thought a group of worshippers to be.  There was fury on their faces.  When he reached the square in front of the gates, the reason became clear: a Temple priest was stood on a wooden platform, surrounded by numerous guards.

“Do not doubt the wrath of our God!” cried the priest over the baying of the crowd.  “Two hundred heretics were brought down by his hand yesternight, two hundred heretics who would have seen you all condemned were the Temple not there to stop them!”

Derisive cries met his words.  The people around Imlon were picking up stones.  He backed away.

“The city will be opened!” continued the priest.  “Keep your faith!  Do not shame the martyrs, do not call down the anger of the drowned men!  Our enemies will be caught and punished!  Our city will be...”

The priest collapsed with a cry: a rock had struck him on the forehead.  With a cheer the crowd surged forward toward the guards.  They drew their blades.  More citizens rushed in from the surrounding streets, drawn by the commotion, but then the gates to Templeheart opened and guard reinforcements rushed out, with crossbowmen manning the wall.  Just as Imlon turned and ran he heard the first loose of bolts.

The astronomer’s heart did not pound with fear, but excitement.  Guards from across Templeheart would be drawn to the riot.  The walls would be left unmanned.  The north side, Menentor had said.

He ran through the streets, always keeping the wall in sight, until he saw what the Haruyese had mentioned: a row of tall, flat-roofed buildings running close to the palisade.  Bizarre images flashed through his head of himself, in his old college robes, leaping roof to roof at Crown’s or in Monruath, the absurdity of this scholar jumping and rolling and muddying his knees.  It did not stop him.  He spied a path up to the highest roofs over coops and sheds and scuttled up it, heedless of being seen.  He gained the summit, and looked down at the leap.  

The stakes of the palisade were fearsomely sharpened.  Guards were running towards the besieged gates.  None watched this section.  Imlon did not hesitate.  He stood, he jumped, and he landed in Templeheart.  His ankle gave him no trouble.

“All of you, to the gate!  Keep the mob out!”

The voice belonged to a captain down on the street.  The astronomer strode past in open view, though close to the shadow of the stocky stone buildings.  He went unnoticed.  To his left, he could just see the Templeheart gate through the mist.  The guards were retreating under a hail of stones, but the archers on the wall were responding with sharper missiles.  He walked away from the screams.