Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 137226 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 686(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137226 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 686(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
I was wrong, plain and simple. And though I’ve already given Brynla a way out of this mess—which she declined—part of me hopes she takes me up on it.
And part of me dreads the idea of her staying here for good.
Finally, they pull apart, Brynla’s eyes meeting mine for a moment. In the darkness of the tunnel I’m not sure that she can see me but I can clearly see her, the way her eyes glisten with tears, the furrows in her brow. She looks away, squaring her shoulders as she steps back, that firm set to her jaw coming back again. I know she has to be tough, how it’s been demanded of her, probably since she was born. But seeing those glimpses of softness inside her—whether it be in her aunt’s embrace, in a cave while I healed her pain, or when she leaned against my shoulder last night and gazed at me with larger, adoring brown eyes, asking if I wanted her—makes me want her more. Like she’s letting me in on a secret, a part of her no one else sees.
“Come on,” Ellestra says, giving Lemi a thorough pat and a scratch behind the ears. “We better get going before we attract attention. I imagine you’ve had quite the journey.”
She’s addressing Brynla more than me, so I let her do the talking. “We’ve fared well so far,” Brynla says to her as they start walking down the tunnel in the direction we were originally going, with Lemi behind them and then me. “The guards were touch and go, but other than that we had a smooth journey over the Burning Sands.”
I hold back a laugh. As if our crossing could have been described as anything but arduous. I might have enhanced physical prowess, but I struggled to keep up with Brynla in the dunes. I’m unused to the sensation of wayward sand burning my legs, and even now I wonder how long it will take for my eyesight to go back to normal after being exposed to all that glare.
I follow them down the tunnel, lit again by intermittent torches, and listen to their conversation while taking in what I can. The Dark City is nothing like I imagined. I envisioned a pit of the uncivilized filled with miserable cretins, those who were deemed too unsavory for Esland—a place that already had a bad reputation.
But I had been wrong, at least from what I can see with my own eyes. Walking down the grand staircase that descends into the city is like stepping into another world, one with color and light and life inside all the darkness. There were patches of farmed greenery beneath the beating sun that shone from the cavernous hole in the ceiling, butterflies and hummingbirds in the air, people who were more refined than I imagined. Sure, they cast a wary eye toward me and their clothes were by no means new, but they were cleanly attired, wrapped in layers of linen, and their faces didn’t harbor any malevolence. There were smells that wouldn’t seem out of place in the markets of Menheimr: spices, fried meats, sweet wine, and the sounds of laughter and chatter in beguiling accents.
I wouldn’t trade my life at Stormglen for one underground, but I can see why Brynla wasn’t jumping at the chance to escape. And no matter what, a life of relative freedom here in the Dark City offers more than one under the fanatical tyrants of Esland.
Ellestra and Brynla’s conversation stays light, talking about their neighbors and whatever else Brynla has missed while she’s been away. I have a feeling the deeper questions will be brought to me later.
We walk for another fifteen minutes or so, through winding tunnels and down narrow clay stairs, occasionally passing by other people. Most of them nod politely at us, me included, though the ones who seem to know Brynla and her aunt personally are more apt to give me a disparaging look.
Finally we come to a wide passageway that’s lit by torches with a few makeshift doors on either side. Outside each door is something to sit on, like a dilapidated chair or a tree-stump stool or a rock affixed with a sheepskin rug on top. One even has an orange cat sleeping in a wooden box, which takes a lazy look at Lemi before going back to sleep.
“Here we are,” Ellestra says, stopping outside a door with two tree stumps outside it, a chipped cup and saucer on one of them. The door is flimsy and seems to be made from some combination of frayed wood and dried palm fronds. She pushes it open and we step inside into a dark cavern.
“Give me a moment to light things,” she says, taking a torch off the wall outside and walking around the room, lighting sconces and lamps at different intervals. In glowing orange flame, their house reveals itself.