Weekly Drabble #226: Within the Streets (Patreon)

I've got a fairly large personal event coming up, so I'm afraid I won't have time for a drabble this next week; I will be able to post the month's third update with chapter eleven of Scars next week though, so stay tuned for that.

This week's prompts are 'abandon your quest' from Peter Armstrong and 'statues of my gods' from N3R0 with a drabble that... doesn't actually have either of those. In my defence, it was going to, but the scene with the shopkeeper ran long and we didn't get those parts. They're coming, though!

In any event, we return to the previous side story with Khy-kala on her own, well before she met up with Justir and his hearty band of mercenaries. Inside the city of G'halai, a place where dreams come true, the elf woman has come to see if such things are indeed true.

Enjoy!

~

Within the Streets:

G’Halai smelled like incense, waste, sex and humans. Khy-kala kept her hood up as she walked through the streets, the cloak concealing her horns, pointed ears and other elven features. The place they called the City of Dreams was as fine a testament to human architecture as she’d ever seen. Its buildings were tall and well-made, rounded parapets and balconies looking over the white, walled city. Even the slums and hovels seemed to fit within the aesthetic rather than detract from it. At least, mostly. She’d heard it said that the masters of G’halai demanded their subjects paint their homes so as not to stand out as filthy brown wastelands amidst the rest of the city’s splendour.

Her escorts had departed once they had slipped her through the gates. That was fine with Khy-kala; she’d paid for their ability to get her into the city without causing a stir, not their companionship. They’d accomplished that task and she had no further need of them.She had asked a few questions, finding to her satisfaction that her voyage to this place hadn’t been wasted.

G’halai was a wealthy city, but its wealth flowed towards the towers and homes of the powerful. The lower classes still lived in squalor within their ghettos, kept apart and away from the visitors and unceasing revelries that filled the glistening city. They were there to serve, not to be seen and dampen the mood of those who spent their coin so freely. That was, when they were not being harvested for those revelries. G’halai hungers. That was was what she had heard, and the city would devour its own just as remorselessly as it did those who passed through its gates. Blood sports, unseemly and deadly fornications and even scientific experimentation beyond the ken of other nations could all be found here and to fuel those, human firewood was often necessary.

Recently though, there had been a change in the city. A stirring of resentment at the way G’halai’s elites and visitors hoarded their wealth and exploited those beneath them, a resentment brought from back alleys and alehouses by a single man, the Father of the Red Lilies. Word of this man and all he was doing had even reached across the ocean, and Khy-kalahad travelled to G’halaito see the truth for herself. She would miss Azinea. Its wild, untamed lands reminded her of the home she’d left decades ago. She could never go back. There was nothing to go back to. Suicide Night had destroyed everyone she’d known across the entirety of the elven lands. Nothing remained of her people but scattered wanderers like herself, those fortunate enough not to be at home when the pact was made, the spell was forged and the elven people traded their lives for the world.

She would miss the Haalin. They’d become surprisingly dear to her, but her work there was done. The Tower of Desire had fallen, the Joyspeaker and all of his acolytes dead by her hand. He’d thought an ocean was far enough to hide from her. He’d been wrong.

She had more to do, though. Much more. She’d spent too time with the Haalin. She wished she could stay longer and burn the fear of ‘the Pale Stalker’ into the Uor-Kin’s very blood. Once she’d killed the Joyspeaker and slaughtered his cult, she very nearly had. Until word from across the ocean reached her of a gleaming city in the desert, its never-ending hunger, the suffering of its serfs and the man who spoke for them... the words he used when he did.

Street vendors and shopkeepers hawked their wares, offering fine goods – or so they claimed. If they had anything worth buying, they wouldn’t be relegated to doing business in slums. People in dirt-stained, bland clothes passed Khy-kala by, only briefly glancing up at her before continuing on their way. Visitors to the less reputable parts of the city were not uncommon. A bad end often awaited the unwary, but even the simple predators that lurked in alleyways and watched for the careless might hesitate when they saw the cloaked figure pass by, some deeper sense telling them that this was one to let pass. Or they jus tweren’t stupid enough to try anything in the bright of day, even to a lone wanderer.

Khy-kala stopped at one stall purporting to sell rare items. She saw a mutant cow fetus in a pickle jar, Korsallian sand monitors’ teeth being passed off as dragon’s remains, the jawbone of a Uor-Kin mislabelled as from a cannibal from the Rainbow Islands and other forgeries and trickeries.

“Ah, good day to you,” the shopkeep said as he approached, trying to look under the shadows of Khy-kala’s hood to discern whether his visitor was a man or woman. “...sir?”

The elf smiled.  It wasn’t the first time her height had made her mistaken for a human male. “Not quite,” she replied.

The human was quick to grovel away his mistake. “My apologies, dearest lady.” His eyes darted up and down the street. Khy-kala’s clothes were well-worn, but of good quality and certainly not from any local seamstress. It was unusual for a woman of wealth to be unescorted. The she-elf idly wondered if he was planning to rob her. “What can a man such as myself do for a visitor to our lovely city among the sands?”

“I’m looking for something,” she told him, dipping a hand under her cloak into her moneybelt. The human’s eyes widened as he heard the soft clink of coins. “Something very special. Perhaps you can help me.”

“I am a well-known purveyor of antiquities and curiousities,” the man said. “If I do not have it, then I can find it.  If I cannot find it, then it is not worth having. What is your desire, dearest lady?” He gestured to some of his wares. “I have potions made from the sweet essences of ice nymphs who dwell far beyond the World’s Edge Mountains, said to bring long-lasting relief to anyone on even the hottest days. Surely a balm for a visitor to our warm city. Or perhaps would you care for perfumes made from siren-fish, its aroma said to entrance those who spend too long around it. Or,” his voice dropped and he leaned forward conspiratorially, producing a small vial from a pocket inside his shirt. “Perhaps the lady would care for some elf-horn powder. Mix it in the drink of your lover and he will have the energy of a sand lion in rutting season.”

Khy-kala’s smile held in place. The contents of the vial smelled faintly of ox blood. The shopkeeper and others like him probably got this ‘elf-horn powder’ straight from the nearest butcher shop and passed it off to unwitting fools who’d never seen an elf in their lives. That was good for him. She’d never before heard of such a use for her people’s horns before, but if what he’d offered her had actually been the powdered remains of one of her people’s horns, she would have killed him. Others might just for the mere suggestion. “None of that,” she said, pulling out a pair of silver coins. One was worth anything in the shop. “What I desire is nothing so material.”

The man’s eyes were fixed to the coins as they turned over one another in Khy-kala’s gloved palm. “What can I tell you?”

“I wish to know,” she said, “about the Church of the Red Lily.”

A shadow passed over the man’s face. “There is not much to tell,” he said after a moment. “They preach among the servants and the slaves, promising a better tomorrow for those who follow them as all the devout are wont to do.”

Khy-kala let the coins dance in her hand. She hadn’t chosen this stall randomly. This man might be a charlatan and liar, but he was smart enough to know what he was lying about. No simple shopkeeper from this city would know of things like ice nymphs. In all likelihood, he was a disgraced member of the upper classes, cast down from selling true rarities to discerning clients for some slight to the wrong people, real or imagined. He worked in this small shop now to retain some measure of dignity, even if his goods were intended to fool only the most uneducated and gullible of his customers. Still, he would know what was happening in this city, from the upper levels to the lowest dregs and if he didn’t – it was as he said. He’d know how to find it.

“I am interested in knowing more than that.”

“They hold sermons and services in the Eastern Quarter Temple twice daily;sunup and sundown. If you attend, you would learn much directly from them. But I will tell you, the guards note those who visit such gatherings. The Church of the Red Lily does not enjoy the patronage of the city’s ruling council.”

“Why is that?”

The shopkeeper’s eyes darted up and down the street again. His heart beat faster. “The Church of the Red Lily preaches things that are not... altogether in line with the creed of of Sartuuma.”

“You mean they pray to the One that is All?”

The merchant grimaced. “Not entirely.”Many centuries ago, the creed of the Pantheon of Twelve had spread across the continent of Pacis Ara, displacing and supplanting many of the existing faiths of the human nations it had entered. Some countries, such as Jherland with their gods of ice, had resisted the promulgation. Others had – willingly or otherwise – swept all trace of their original faiths aside in favour of the Pantheon. A few like Sartuuma officially accepted the Pantheon as the true gods of humanity but in actuality, the worship of their native deities continued to this day. Sartuuma had a single god: known by many names, the most common were the Many-Faced Truth or the One that isAll.

Khy-kala felt her heart beat a little faster. The stories she’d heard of the Red Lily suggested that their god was neither one of the Twelve nor Sartuuma’s old deity. “Then what?”

“They speak of a divine woman, my lady. Chained and bound and in her suffering, she understands the small folk as others never will. I only repeat what I have heard,” the merchant cautioned. The hooded woman before him unsettled him, though he could not have said why. He thought he knew every dialect on the continent, but her accent was unlike any he’d heard before. Her poise and manner was subtly different from Sartuum women and the visitors G’halai received. As the conversation passed, he grew more uneasy and wished to end it sooner. “The first to speak of the Lady in Chains was a cobbler named Jalleh Fuurasoi. He claimed great visions of her and spoke loudly and often enough that others began to listen. He preaches every day, though the city rulers would – I have heard – prefer to have him silenced. They say there have already been two attempts on his life, one by a strange foreign man. They say that the rulers hired these assassins, but I cannot speak to any truth of that matter. These are, my lady, merely rumours that I have heard.”

“What does Fuurasoi preach?”

“Dreams, my lady. He preaches dreams to his flock. I suppose it is not terribly awful to have dreams, particularly here in G’halai, but the dreams he speaks of clash with the way of things. There are rumblings of discontent among the small folk, and discontent may grow into more. That is what they say, anyways.” He pursed his lips, having given his visitor all the information that he could – or was safe for him.

The elf put the first of her coins on the merchant’s table, hesitating before adding the second. “Do you know anyone from the Church?” Khy-kala asked. “Someone who would be willing to discuss their faith in greater detail?”

“Such a thing can be arranged,” the human said with a nod. “I know someone who would gladly do all that. I will speak to them. If you return before the evening service, they will be waiting.”

Khy-kala tossed the second silver coin down. “Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate that.” She turned to go, and then paused. “You said you sell elf-horn powder,” she told the merchant. “I would recommend that you decide it is from unicorn horns, the antlers of white stags or something else instead. Otherwise one day, you may have a visitor that takes issue with it... and you.”

The merchant smiled. He didn’t seem at all bothered by Khy-kala effectively calling him a fraud. Rather, there was a little bit of respect in his eyes. “Perhaps so, my lady. But there are no more elves, are there?”

“There are some.”

“Indeed? None have passed through G’halai’s gates in a generation. Even if what you say is true, Ido not expect that any ever will.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Khy-kala said. “You never know with elves. They may be closer than you think.” She offered the shopkeeper a smile, just wide enough to show off a brief glimpse of sharp white teeth. “Before sundown, you said?”

The merchant’s face was drawn. He wasn’t sure what he’d just seen and wasn’t sure he wanted to, either. “Uh, yes. Yes. Sundown, and I shall have you a guide.”

“Thank you. May the city of dreams fulfill yours.” Khy-kala departed and in moments, she’d vanished in the teeming crowds of G’halai’s slums. The Church of the Red Lily was a mystery that had drawn her across an ocean. Now, she’d solve it.