Blackhand Read Free Page B

ones. His eyes fell open, and around him he saw a half dozen women ranging from teenagers to grandmothers. They pulled him into a seated position. Two of them held shears and cut his ragged clothes from his body. Another administered a thin broth to his lips. When the mixture touched his stomach, he almost vomited. It was delicious.
    They produced a large wooden tub and placed him inside. He was aware of what was happening, but unable to either assist or resist. The women brought buckets of hot water and emptied them over his dust-caked body. When the tub was nearly full they scrubbed him with rough pieces of cloth until his hide tingled. Throughout the process the women never spoke.
    After they were finished, Quintel took in more droplets of broth and fell into a deep sleep.
    He awoke hours later, his body stiff with pain. Beneath him was a firm straw mattress. The room was dark and the air cool. He turned to see out the narrow window. Blackness now filled the frame. It was the middle of the night.
    He thought of Zurah, gone from the world. He thought of home. A thick sense of loneliness made his stomach turn. He would be dead soon and no one was left in the world to care.
    He turned his thoughts to Aran and their journey to Vaer for the Winterlift.
    Vaer rested on the edge of the world west of the Abanshi kingdom. Although a small nation, its accomplishments in engineering and science were magnificent. Quintel’s first view of Vaerian capital was from a mountaintop looking down upon its entirety. He and Aran had crested the last Abanshi peak and Vaer exploded into existence in the valley before them.
    Spread across the edge of the world, the city-state was flanked on the east by severe pink mountains, and on the west by a vast, moving ocean of white clouds roiling from the abyss beyond. Its intricate streets connected arenas, bazaars, factories, farms, inns and dwellings with a mathematical precision that illuminated the grand craftsmanship of the people who lived there.
    Its gold and violet spires pierced the clouds and clung to the rim of the world like the teeth of an ornamental comb. The inhabitants of Vaer were a dark-skinned folk who had resurrected many forgotten technologies from the Pastworld. Allied with the Abanshi, they were a bane to Sirian Ru.
    In the western lands, the Vaerian celebration of winter's departure was nearly as well-known as their scientific achievements. The Winterlift was an annual festival that marked the passing of the frigid time from the west.
    Winter revolved around the convex surface of the earth like the hands of a great clock. Ru had created it to emulate the seasons of the Pastworld. When winter arrived in the mountain lands, the freezing temperatures and choking snowfall smothered travel and trade. Inhabitants had no choice but to wait for the thaw. When that time arrived, the celebration lasted a month.
    Aran had rescheduled his entire year to take Quintel to the event. On horseback, it only took a week to get to Vaer. Without an entourage, the two bastard princes had spent an entire month among the Vaerians, never telling anyone who they were. Food, festival and sights beyond imagination made the days go by too quickly for Quintel.
    Then he thought of Aran. His eyes closed and sleep took him to nothingness.
    Sometime later, three soldiers stormed into the room and grabbed him by his feet and arms.
    “Wake up, Abanshi prince,” said one. “We have some questions for you.”
    They carried him down the stairs and through another hallway. The smell of cooking food hung in the confined quarters. Servants paused in their duties to watch the spectacle. Down another flight of stairs and into darkness.
    At the bottom of the stairs, the front soldier dropped Quintel's legs and opened a heavy wooden door. Its iron hinges protested. With a combined grunt, they threw him to the floor. His hands searched for leverage and he touched something metal set flush in the floor. It was a drainage