that a pair of horses could’ve drawn a cart along the length of it. There were four gates: three were the end point of highways leading west, north, and south, and the fourth led to the harbor, which lay outside the confines of the wall. The harbor itself was smallish but was the only breach in the towering white cliffs. The palace sat on the edge of the cliffs with a wall of its own separating it from the city. And in the center rose the seven towers of the god circle, the faces carved into them seeming to watch her and Killian as they walked, making her shiver.
The land surrounding the city was brown and barren, broken up by copses of trees almost large enough to be called forests. In the far distance, mountains loomed, so tall as to be capped with white despite it being summer. Yet it was the veins of black running across the landscape that drew her attention, and she remembered stepping into one not long after she’d crawled out of the stream. How it had been slimy and smelled of rot. Even as the thought crossed her mind, the wind blasted her in the face, carrying that remembered stench with it. “That smell.” She pressed a hand to her nose. “What is wrong with the land?”
“There’s a blight spreading down from the mountains. It’s rotting the earth, and with the tenders all working to feed the King’s army, there’s nothing to be done about it.”
“What’s causing it?”
“Depends on who you ask.”
“I’m asking you.”
Killian turned his head to regard the blight. “If you believe the King, it’s a punishment for our lack of faith in the Six. But…” He gave a slight shake of his head. “I don’t think it’s that. The gods don’t interfere directly like this; their work is done through those they mark.”
Like her. And him.
“We’ve always known about the corrupted, and it’s believed that their powers are the only mark the Seventh bestows. But maybe that’s not the case.”
Lydia frowned, recalling what she’d read in Treatise of the Seven. “You think the Seventh has different marks? Ones no one has seen before?” Pointing to the blight, she added, “You think a person did that?”
“It’s a theory.”
“If that’s true, couldn’t someone marked by Yara stop it? Couldn’t they drive back the blight?” The goddess Yara had dominion over the earth and all the things that grew upon it, those she marked able to make plants grow and thrive even where they should not.
“It’s possible.” His gaze shifted to the palace. “But we’d need one willing to try.”
“How many of them are there?”
“There used to be close to three hundred in Mudamora.” This time his gaze flicked west to where the war was being fought in the shadow of the mountains. “But not anymore.”
It wasn’t long before they passed over the south gate, but instead of taking the stairs down into the city, Killian kept going, his eyes on the dozens of miniature palaces in the district below. Like most of the structures in Mudaire, they were built with a dark grey stone, their faces elegant but austere. Compared to the airy and open patrician homes of Celendrial, these structures seemed grim and claustrophobic, entirely closed off from the elements by glass and stone. All the properties were walled and gated, but no smoke rose from chimneys and all, as far as she could see, were devoid of life.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“The Calorian manor. My brother is in Serlania, so the place is empty and therefore a good location for us to chat without unwanted listeners.” He leaned over a parapet. “District was under guard until recently, which is why there are no squatters. But it’s only a matter of time.” Then he slung both legs over the edge and dropped out of sight.
Sucking in a sharp breath, Lydia leaned over the edge and saw Killian standing on a rooftop below, hands shoved into his pockets as he tapped one foot impatiently. “Madman,” she muttered, then eased out onto the ledge, lowering herself until she dangled from her fingertips before letting go. She stumbled as she landed and would’ve fallen if he hadn’t caught her by the elbows.
“You’d make a poor burglar.”
“How tragic,” she snapped, pushing her spectacles up her nose. “Is this it, then?”
“That one.” He pointed across the distant street at a stately structure, galloping horses wrought into the gate barring the entrance. “Follow me.”