Chapter 36

Sorcia

Because of course.

I can already smell the briny scent of the ocean breeze.

Sorcia is one of the largest conurbations in Urium that is situated on high land right by the sea. It bears one of the most lucrative ports and harbours, with inter-realm trade junction points where various modes of transport interchange; loading and discharging the transit of goods. Their economy thrives on the commodities of both exported and imported supplies.

I look down at the head on my lap. Vince slumbering serenely.

Cannot have that now, can we?

With a flattened hand, I beat it on his forehead lightly, tapping incessantly. Frustration reaching its peak, he swats my hand away, heaving his eyes open. Thick brows collide.

The carriage jerks from side to side. "What—" his arm snaps out to grip the headboard for stability, "are you doing?"

"We are here, my love," I say with a dry smile.

Solaris stirs beside me, moving himself to an upright position, running both hands through his tousled yellowy mane. "Where's here?" he asks through a yawn.

"Sorcia."

A thrill brightens Vince's face. Mirth gleaming in his eyes, hauling himself up to sit straight. My back presses against the headboard as the carriage travels up on a line of ascent. He rubs both eyes, scarlet fades beneath them.

"Sorcia?" Solaris's voice is tight. "We...arrived at the High King's Dominion at the second equinox... moons have passed since then." Calculations flit through his eyes. "Which means we should have reached the fons equinox."

Remembrance strikes me, my face slackening. "The cycle nears the median, so it must be the time of Rathul. The time of their barbaric sports."

Vince lets out a chuckle that lasts two heartbeats. "Something I can actually look forward to."

I give him a sidelong glance. "Do such sports intrigue you?" My hand flies up to interject. "Right, of course, you are of Emikrol. I am certain that the Empire hosts such events periodically."

Without looking at me, he says, "You are wrong, Hera." His tone is rough, words brusque. "We host them more often than that, with designated edifices for such barbaric entertainment." A distinct note of affront in his voice.

My face eases into a neutral look, crumples unfolding. "I never meant to offend nor to judge."

Still shunning my gaze, he says, "And yet you did both. There is a reason why Emikrol and Sorcia are great allies. Both in trade and combat."

The Emikrol Empire is an independent domain, nevertheless, it respects the reign of the High King, but they are not bound by the edicts and laws issued by His Majesty. As well as the decisions both vetted and congealed by the High Tribunal. Whereas Sorcia is under the High King's banner.

Eventually, we reach the inside of the city. All the roads are congested with riders, carriages, and throngs of people filtering through. I deem it quite a paradox that beings with morbid inclinations that are capable of crafting such supreme beauty. With an ancient panache grafted into their designs. The architecture comprises columns and lintels based on massive walls, punctuated by arches and domes and tall orders with the marbled floral decoration. The grandeur of their buildings is both in the interior as it is external that relies on the post and lintel system.

Sorcian architecture is an impressive exploitation of ivory volcanic stone, corbeled arches and vaulting. I am practically perched on Solaris's back, watching the rolling scene. Sorcia has evolved since the last time I was here. With the innovation of true arches composed of wedge-shaped blocks with a keystone in the centre, holding them in place. True arches span a greater distance than the post and intel, which creates expansive and captivating interior spaces.

Sorcia's layout is focused on the forum, large open courts surrounded by buildings also among important religious altars. One of the prominent buildings is the Curia, a place of law. Vegetable markets and stalls have sprung up amidst the bustle of the city, lining the pathways with framing gateways. Sorcia's connective architecture entails porticoes and grandiose fountains. The holy temples are raised on platforms, meters high with stepped entrances and columned porches on tall four sides with mainly polygonal forms.

The Capital favours monolithic columns with a volute of acanthus leaves on the Corinthian pillars. Edifices erected from either marble, travertine, or different coloured limestones.

Sorcia itself encapsulates the ethos of historic splendour. And the most famous edifice is the fully enclosed coliseum, an amphitheatre with a highly embellished construction, with seats over a network of barrel vaults. The sprawling complex is a spectacular constructive feat: a bowl shape over six hundred feet long that can fit over seventy thousand people with seats resting on a honeycomb structure of arcades with walkways for spectators. There are also underground cages and barracks to conceal both animals and fighters until they are needed for spectacles.

How is that not morbid? Mainly because the fighters are not volunteers.

A medley of smells and heat stirs the air. Unfamiliar spices stinging my nose. On the flanks, vendors extol their produce, many bear bolts of fine fabrics in bright colours that mute the leaden sky. Vessels finely carved in stone sit on exhibition.

Everything booms with the chatter of the crowd, the vendors hollering prices like auctioneers with an ensemble of laughing children. The people of Sorcia loiter around, dressed in billowing sirwal with loose-fitting trousers that hang low below their waist. The city is well-guarded with innumerable soldiers that ride astride on mares, armed in leather jerkin armour, dyed a deep blue with matching breastplates that flaunt veiny arms.

In due course, the sounds of the globetrotting throngs ebb with the growing distance. The series of buildings and structures fall away as we approach the Xercra's palace, which is basically an enormous fortress. Soon the carriage stills, and I can hear the mechanical sound of a portcullis being raised before the carriage lurches forward and proceeds ahead. The palace has at least sixteen towers projecting from the western, northern, and eastern facades facing the city.

Promptly, everything comes to a halt.

A vexing groan tears through Brennon's chest. "Finally, civilisation."

The carriage door opens and the Herems leak out one by one, hunched over, stumbling towards the exit. Then Vince, Solaris, and I follow out. I step down the portable steps, shielding my eyes from the stabs of sunlight. Once the intensity dissipates, and my vision clears to a high resolution. My gaze skims past our guards still mounted on their stallions, armour glistening burgundy. I glance at Duce Merian strutting towards us from his carriage, shaking out his legs exaggeratedly. My gaze sifts through our surroundings, soaring colonnades with long sequences of columns joined by their entablatures which form part of the palace's erection. Palace guards stand perfectly equidistant, fortified in full armour suits of stunning dark blue. With tall spears that match their height.

"Welcome to Sorcia," Duce Merian says with contrived enthusiasm. Attired in his full white emissary suit with the gold and red knotted sashes. "In particular, Xercra Aelemond's palace. The Xercra is not as... receptive as the other leaders. I implore you to be on your best behaviour." His gaze pointedly punctures Brennon, Markiveus and Rimnick. "However that may look like."

A clamour of marching boots upsurges in tempo. A troop of two-rowed guards makes their way to us, led by a gorgeous woman. Her skin is autumn brown adorned with a pale pink, ankle-length dress that is fastened at the one shoulder, held by a golden brooch. Her piles of dark curls are coiled in braids. Her most arresting feature is her glittery blue tattoos. They are mainly linear, long lines on her arms, interspaced with symbols of the moon and sun. She also has one on the centre of her forehead; a bright crescent moon.

"What a blessing to be in the presence of the future High Ruler among you," she says in Torin.

By the tell of perplexed faces around me. It seems I'm the only one that knows the language. Torin is one of the native languages of Sorcia, one I learnt from Macie and her family. They are Sorcian, but they relocated to Armathis. And that made the Prime all the more richer.

Duce Merian steps forward, shining a charmer's smile and replies in fluent Torin, "I carry the High King's regards with me. I am the Duce, but you may call me, Merian. Unfortunately, the candidates—"

"—are the ones that are exceedingly humbled to be welcomed into Sorcia. And are honoured to be in the Xercra's palace," I reply in Torin.

The woman's light eyes set on me with a twinkle of intrigue. "You are familiar with our tongue?" she says in Arkian. One of the universal languages in Urium, a bridge between foreign counterparts.

"As you are with mine," I say back in Arkian for all to hear. I bow my head back to her royally.

She bows back. Then her gaze wafts past us all. "Xercra Aelemond is a very pious monarch, and before you can obtain an audience. You must cleanse yourself of any and every impurity you might bear. The imperial bathhouses are sequestered with a ready supply of water. And the grand gymnasium bath complexes are well-guarded."

Suddenly it feels like someone cranked up the heat of the sun tenfold. Too many emotions filling my airways at once, quashing my breaths. I glance down at the cobblestone beneath my feet, my vision quivering. I rapidly blink the haze away.

"I am Zulan," she introduces. "I am the Xercra's Hische. His guards will escort, where each of you can bathe in privacy and ready yourselves to be presented before His Holiness."

She steps aside and does a hand signal to the guards, then nods with finality at Duce Merian.

Soon I feel a gentle, guiding hand on my back, leading me to the interior of the colonnade. My gaze ambles ahead of me, and as it always does. It finds Primus Kelan. Swiftly, he dismounts from his stallion, his eyes never leaving mine. Zulan steers me down the centre of rowed columns. The warm sunlight washing the mineral floor, walking past giant marble sculptures, some even pretending to hold up the ceiling of the sun-drenched colonnade.

"Are you alright...?" She drags out expectantly.

"Adalia," I throw out. "I am well, thank you. It is just...hotter here than I anticipated."

Her light eyes are bright with suspicion but thankfully, she says nothing.

***

Dressed in a virgin-white stola decorated with royal blue ribbons bound around different parts of the dress, tight around my body: under my breasts, above it, and crisscrossing around my waist. Zulan herself escorts me to the Kiliandra—the Xercra's throne room. On our way there, she educates me about the architecture of the palace. I have learnt that the subterranean portions of the palace feature barrel vaulted stonework, all imported from the lands of Dawegelia where Dario's Regnum is from. The outer walls of the palace rise directly from the sea.

The elaborate architectural composition of the gallery on its upper floor with a monumental gate in the centre of each of these walls leads to an enclosed courtyard. The northern seaside gate is one of the four principal gates into the palace. The east gate faces east towards the Sorcian town of Lankece. Above the gate in the sentry corridor, the Xercra's private place of worship was built.

The west gate is a military gate from which troops enter the fortress. The south gate is a sea gate from which the Xercra enters the fortress by way of crypt rooms in the imperial palace. The inner layout derives from the luxurious design of a villa with transverse roads that link all of the gates. The southern half of the imperial palace is the epitome of extravagance, which has the most sumptuous structures in the northern sections, both religious and private buildings. Including the Xercra's exclusive residences which he has loaned out to us for the duration of our stay.

In due time, we reach the closed entrance of the Kiliandra that occupies a vast swath of the eastern wing, with soldiers that guard the entry. We linger at the entrance until all the Herems arrive, along with our Avangard squadron. All the Herems are garbed in voluminous all-white togas, the long garments whisper to their cream sandals. Only their right shoulder and arm are bare.

On cue, they open the byzantine, mammoth-size doors. A guard pushes each one open until it reveals the colossal throne room which is entirely built from white limestone, sparkling and pristine. It has queues of iridescent agate columns that flank the huge pathways. The throne room splits into two long halls with apses, one on either side. Straight ahead, there is a throne in the distance. So far it is merely a speck. The Avangard are ordered to stay behind whilst only the Herems and I may enter. Not even Duce Merian.

Together, we travel down the opulent breadth, stretching out the further we walk. The creation of the throne is entirely made of a pearlescent mineral, encrusted with shimmering white gemstones on the profuse, semi-circle back of the throne. The Xercra himself is an awe-evoking being. He's clothed in a long, draping garment, a flaming blood orange colour. His skin is midnight black with electric blue tattoos that run down his arms in thick bands. A bedazzled crown bedecks his bald head, ornate with tall, gleaming carnelian jewels.

His eyes are so light and bright, they look translucent, like a lustrous white.

In unison, the Herems bow in deference, and I dip into a curtsey.

"Rise, purebloods," he says with a god-like echo in his voice.

We all straighten our spines, hands clasped in front of us respectfully.

"How the Almighty is the perfect architect of our lives. You all have arrived in the time of Rathul, the symbolism of Sorcia's existence, its drive and heartbeat," he says with an aloof gaze. "Tonight, we will honour your advent with a feasting festivity. All the senators and members of my conclave will be in attendance." He lifts his chin. "In two days, at the noontide. The Blood Games will begin. It is a significant event in our history. And I am pleased that you all will be present to witness it."

***

The grand feast is held in the banquet hall with tables and tables of choice food: fire-roasted pork, venison, seasoned chicken on a collection of silver-gilt plates with baskets of bread rolls. Not to mention, finely made wine. I breeze through the assembly of senators and lawmakers alike. Most of them wear tunics, intricately woven fabrics with vivid embroideries.

Since fading discoloured patches still stain my skin. It forced me to choose a long-sleeved gown with a high collar. A red-hot dress that trails after me with metallic strings for straps and a plunging open back, with layers of slim gold chains that loop down until my hip. I am sure by now, I have eaten an entire boar by myself, slabs of spice-infused meats. I stopped counting after the third round.

Despite all I have already eaten. I can wolf down a lot more.

Honestly, I have grown weary of feasts and banquets. This one in particular is tiresome, an alternate replay of all the ones I have attended. The aesthetic and erection of the hall is irrefutably exquisite with glass-shrouded gemstones. Stock-still palace guards rim the interior as well as our Avangard soldiers, but of course, all but Primus Kelan is present. Even the Xercra has made himself scarce, I have not seen him since our advent.

Something must have come up.

Everyone else dawdles about in the banquet hall. The other Herems are ingratiating themselves with the Sorcian aristocrats. The senators and other dignitaries all have elaborate tattoos, boasting prestige and rank. I, however, lack the determination to feign diplomacy and jubilee to be a sop to their vanity. And my resentment towards the Vasilias Imperii itself lengthens with every day. I still do not understand these tests, these locations.

Why did High King Urus take such an unorthodox approach to the Shalem protocols?

How does any of this prove the worthiness of one to rule?

On instinct, my mind directs me out of the banquet hall, through the huge Ionic archway to the free-flowing, connected balcony that showcases an unobstructed view of the Capital. I step onto the blue iridscent floor that glistens under the moonlight. The balcony is unrailed with only pillars that are my height to punctuate the brink with fire bowls that crown their heads, all lit with a flaring blaze in each. Quite a captivating scene.

The night is perfect for stargazing; the air is cool with not a single cloud in the night sky.

Despite the magnificence before me, my heart is torn, despair grips one half and aggravation has the other. I yearn for my family; I miss my Regnum; I miss Seliah's jovial attitude, my father's wise lectures. And I even miss my mother's moaning and meddling.

And how I mourn Primus Kelan's absence, which I cannot help but feel that it was my own doing. Our last encounter plagues me the same as the Black Death has been a blight to all who have suffered on its account.

Why does it ail me? Why does he ail me?

"You look so pensive."

I refrain from flinching.

Vince appears. I look at him sideways. Annoyingly handsome in a black, long-sleeved tunic, beautiful silk brocade with an off-shoulder crimson cape. He holds a chalice in each hand, both reflecting a radiant blue on the shiny inside.

"I hope one of them is for me," I say jokingly.

But I am genuinely serious. I can use a drink or ten.

He offers a chalice to me. "You look like you need it more than I."

I receive it with a jeering smile, sampling a taste. My diagnostic palate analyses it for me. Blue Vinum—well-matured, earthy, yet a complex taste of floral notes. It reminds me of my father's rebbenburg bottle. His is superior. Alas, this is liquid heaven compared to whatever was served by the Terra.

I tip the chalice higher, only to realise that it is finished.

I look back at Vince, and his bewildered gaze carries more concern than shock.

"Adalia, are you well?"

I free a long groan, almost a replica of Brennon's one. "Why does everyone keep asking me that?"

Vince quirks his well-groomed brows, raising his shoulders so that they almost meet his ears. "I have no idea," he says, sarcasm drenching his tone. "Rough day?"

I cut him with a sharp look. He yields immediately, lifting one hand to expose his palm.

A strange silence descends. After a long while, I finally part my mouth to speak. But the words are slain by my surprise when I see Vince already staring at me. The same way I was looking at the venison when I first arrived.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

He shakes his head goofily, casting his gaze heavenwards. "Just pitying the stars."

A frown puckers my forehead.

"For how they must covet you. The way you shine brighter than them all."

I step over his enigmatic fawning. "Should you not be present at the banquet, befriending senators and legislators of Sorcia? More support the greater the odds."

He pulls his full lips to one side in mock thought. "No, I think for this night, my company belongs to the lone Hera."

I look upon the bright gold lights speckled throughout Sorcian edifices. "Wonderful."

"How the Almighty favours you," he says with unbound confidence. His gaze returns to the heavens. "What a perfect night for a midnight swim. On that note, when the time arises, and you wish to bathe..."

Disquiet strikes at my nerves, nearly sundering the threads.

"I can always join you in the bathhouse." He looks over at me and a sly grin carves itself on his face. "For protection, of course."

I defeat a laugh, but a smile conquers my face. "And who will protect me from you?"

His grin perseveres, and something ravenous exposes itself in those beguiling eyes. "I would never harm you."

I rotate fully to face him— an abrupt rush of biliousness swirls at the top of my head—I almost stagger back. I forgot, though my tolerance is commendable. Blue Vinum is awfully potent. I step closer to him, suddenly the ground beneath me torques in like there's a pothole—I falter but remain arguably steady. They should really maintain their floors.

I make it to him unscathed. And with a wobbly finger, I stab his chest with every syllable I utter. "And how—," stab, "—will I ever—," stab, "—know the truth—," stab "—from you." Hard stab.

I look up into his eyes to see him grinning at me. Grinning? What an odd, Herem.

"What do you want from me?"

Vince's grin washes away like a retreating tide. "Something impossible." His voice is hollow, robbed of hope.

My head slants deeply to one side. "Amuse me."

Vince shakes his head as if to banish whatever he was feeling. He sobers up and a solemn look befalls his expression. "As you may know, Blue Vinum is a very potent drink, and when I offered. I did not expect you to drain the entire thing as you have. It's meant to be sipped."

A childish, high-pitched giggle echoes from somewhere. But it could not have been me. I certainly do not giggle. I turn the chalice upside down, theatrically shaking out the invisible contents.

"Well... you did not stop me either."

A smile cracks his solemn facade. "You are blaming me for your actions?"

Wordlessly, I hand him back the empty chalice. He takes it.

"Actions done by your offer. Therefore, you are the culprit." I decree as if I made a lawful verdict. I then square my shoulders, feigning poise. "If you will excuse me, Herem Vince. I think I will retire early this night. I will reunite with you tomorrow and prepare myself for whatever absurdity awaits. Hopefully, my... wit will have assembled by then."

I move to depart.

"Wait."

I pause, glancing back at him with a quizzical look.

"You have twilight eyes," he announces out of nowhere.

I snort a laugh. "Not very perceptive of you. Primus Kelan noticed the moment he looked into them."

And why did I say that?

An unkind look deforms his handsome face. For a moment I don't recognise him.

"Primus Kelan?" he repeats aggressively. As if the words left a rancid taste on his tongue, quite like the drinks of the Terra. "What does Primus Kelan have anything to do with this? With you?"

A frightening panic runs over me. "Nothing," whispering, I add, "unfortunately." Louder, I say, "I need rest, will you pardon me, Herem?"

Not that I need his permission.

His lips in a terse line. He nods brusquely.

I swivel around, resuming my departure.