Noam follows the sound of music, the bark of laughter that coalesce from the palace. The heavy scent of beer and spices that begin to accumulate, assaults his sense of smell. The taste of equine lays thick in the air, heavy and crude – it feeds into the nausea that sticks behind his throat.
Reminds the stallion of iron and copper, of the earth.
He knows not why he follows the tail of the flute, or the cadence of the drums. Or why the light irritates his eyes when the sun has fallen several hours ago. The streets are filled with foreigners, just as much as they are overflowing with citizens. But there is a calling that brings him closer to the castle’s gates. A phantom touch, that places an unusual, gentle nudge forwards.
The air remains heady and energized with a familiar fervor within. Fills him with adrenaline, for an enemy he cannot see – and shadows that mean to do more, than bite his ankles or pull his hair. He mistakes his beating heart for the drums that ground the music. Takes refuge beside a column and leans a shoulder against the cool brick.
He can focus on their movements at least. The dancers, as they sprawl across the floor ahead. They smile, others grin while a few are entirely lost in the motions. Some fumble, while the practiced dancers contest with each other – and in a flurry of motions, be it grace or raw ineptness – they are elevated to a higher place. Is it joy that shines past their eyes? Or is it merely a result of adrenaline, the physical labors pressed against each other that results? There are pairs who delve into some other world, where their breath consumes one another, and their limbs entangle in a coordinated embrace. Not unlike the entanglement of soldiers, seeking purchase of flesh and the draw of blood. There was rhythm to the chaos – if one could fathom the technique, the game.
The sparrow steals himself away before he can catch any lingering eyes. Avoids being drawn in, for the creeping fear he might lose his footing – and reach for a dagger instead of a hand.
There is something wrong with these halls. With the jovial nature of the festival, and the foreigners that bloat the streets; the wears and trinkets that are traded or purchased. Some might have called it progress, a steppingstone into Solterra’s future. Noam did not have a name for it yet.
He passed by a stand and grabbed blindly for an ale. An arched opening led out to the starlit sky, offering a way out of the stifling cage behind. Noam pressed his chest up against the barrier of the stone lookout. The sparrow’s eyes sharp, as they regarded the various lights flickering in the distance. Hints of where the other parts of the castle led further on. Perhaps a barracks of rotating men and women, just as blind, just as deeply invested in the sands and the stifling heat of the summer.
Did they revel in their king? Did they adore him, too?
Were there secrets still – chaining men to their ideologies, and keeping children silent by the whip.
