The two flying cities hung thousands of feet over the hilly shrublands between the eastern grass plains and the Baaltaran Sea. Their shadows merged into a great, dark splotch upon the last of the Khelt and the beginning of the rolling hills that flowed south off the Amethyst Mountains. Each city gave off an ambient hum the way any city does when observed from far away; many voices, footfalls, wagon wheels, bells, animal sounds, and children playing blending together into a strange overtone.

  Two streams of air skiffs flowed constantly between the haben, or human, city of Tristique and Nathnardisé of the Gnamil – who were often called gnomes. The skiff resembled exactly waterborne craft of the same name, and indeed they would float if set upon water.

  One airship in particular stood out to those watching from the ground, and everyone on the ground nearby was watching. One flying city in the neighborhood is a constant conversation piece; two such settlements in the clouds made a spectacle. The unusual airship sailed across the open air from Nathnardisé to Tristique, but instead of supporting square or rectangular sails it hung from a large, oblong balloon.

  The gnomish pilot, standing three feet and sporting the traditional waist-long beard of his people, worked the rudder and steered the craft between two piers. The skiff floated into the berth between the piers on either side then slowed to a halt. The bow of the vessel stopped inches away from the piling; a deckhand quickly lashed onto the stout post with a clove hitch knot; the other end of the rope was secured already via cleat hitch to an iron stud on the boat’s bow.

  Onto the dock head stepped a very tall man wearing a silk and scarlet wool cape with a high collar. His short hair was an extreme blond – nearly white – seen rarely in this part of the realm. Dressed expensively, down to the gold-trimmed, decorative scabbard of his arming sword he radiated a sense of assured superiority without saying a word.

  Gutherian nobility stood out right away in most parts of the realm. The families of Tristique had lived high above the mainland since well before the Guths arrived to conquer the northern lands of Merak Tiridium. The city’s inhabitants were largely the shorter, dark-haired Fzalts and the more robust – though still not as tall as the Guths – Umbriges.

  On the ground below, whether the Daverium Peninsula to the east or Middleshire just south of the flying city, most locals were Baaltari, Umbrige, a few remnants of the Lwain and some families of Glormish or Hugh descent. The tall, pale Guths and the ambitions of their monarch were not trusted by most thereabouts.

  “Welcome to Tristique.” said a greeter as the tall man strolled past.

  In response the Guth simply looked the other man over in passing, as if appraising him or weighing his relative value.

  On the far side of the city, opposite the air docks, a wide raised balcony stretched out over the edge of the floating landmass on which the city rested. A popular spot for viewing the realms below, the area was nearly empty late on this morning; a few locals and tourists spread out along its length of a few hundred yards.

  Kelliard leaned onto the balcony, her map tacked to a thin board which she laid atop the balustrade. A sharp pencil in her left hand and a ruler in her right, she scanned the north-south range of deep blue and blue-gray ridges far below. The shiny purple and violet peaks of the Amethyst Mountains ran in an almost perfectly vertical line from her perspective.

  The channels, rivers, pathways, evergreen groves, a couple of small tarns, and ruined structures abandoned in past ages all stood out against the reflective stone surface like a drawing by the famous pen and ink artist Hedo. She had always liked his drawings.

  The level of detail and all the little inclusions one would miss if they didn’t take the time to really study the picture fascinated her. As a little girl she spent hours scouring Hedo’s drawings of towns and cities and palaces. She remembered the first time she spotted the tiny pair of gloves with the little trowel in the garden of the artist’s rendering of the Somber Keep in Maer Mael. She had asked her mother who left them on the garden wall; little did she know this was the first of hundreds of similar discoveries to be made in Hedo’s drawings over the years.

  That quirky hobby had cultivated an uncompromising attention to detail in the adventurous Middleshire native. Her mentor at the temple, after she was ordained, had told her the quest to find the little items Hedo hid in his artwork was more than a game. He said the deep need to know the how and why of each new item found was evidence she was being called by Verum, god of truth, even at that young age.

  In the process of verifying the route on the mountains below, her sharp eyes – a gift from the gold elf patron who seeded her Alu-Haben-Ka clan – had spotted a campsite near the trailhead the party would use to get to the ruins. Wooden structures, multiple firepits, located adjacent to a handful of game trails, these were some kind of rustics – natives of the area and not travelers. Most likely whoever or whatever was down there was spooked by the two giant cities in their sky; she saw no movement and couldn’t find a single individual to help her identify the residents.

  Whoever used those firepits also took the time to cut a symbol into the ground next to every pit she saw. A simple rune, like a diamond that extended lines to the left and right past the lower point, or an “x” with two lines from the tops of each crossbar meeting at a point above it.

  Many tribal cultures and magical systems had similar symbols. The fact that it appeared next to the firepits must have meant something, but no immediate correlation came to the cleric’s mind.

  There shouldn’t be anyone there. According to the naturalists the Amethyst Mountains have no indigenous tribes of any race.

  Of course, the Alu-Haben-Ka settlement of Naris Chol sat on, and partially within the northern face of the mountain range. Kelliard knew that community well, having been there many times. The campsite did not belong to the descendants of the half-elves Narissam and Cholitar in their comfortable town to the north; she felt sure of this.

  The cleric made a note on her map in the area where she saw the campsite and included a sketch of the symbol. This could be a hazard – maybe the symbols were warnings – either way it would certainly be an interesting discovery to document if she had the chance.

  After stuffing the board with her map stuck to it into her shoulder bag she took a good look at the realms below her. To her left the vast Khelt grassland stretched hundreds of miles west and south; she could just make out the transition of the grassy flatlands into the steppe that preceded the scrub plains beyond. To her right she could see all the way to the Gulf of Ulrik and Pistrix Bay with the throat of the Daverium Peninsula between them.

  As she craned her neck to look back to the south she could easily make out Middleshire and Vorrigon’s Wall protecting the east and south of that region. Just before Middleshire sprawled the Otium Basin, a lake running thirty miles north-to-south and nearly that east-to-west; Kelliard marveled at how that lake, easily over fifty miles away from the mountains below her, could still cast a pristine reflection of those same mountains across its surface.

  The city behind her bustled with people, much the same as any large city would on a pleasant day. The air was surprisingly warm this high off the ground. Tristique usually floated off the Maer Dane coast far to the north but often joined its fellow airborne settlement Nathnardisé in these southern skies during the fall and winter.

  The latter was the largest Gnamil city in the realms. It generally stayed in the sky between the Amethyst Mountains and Middleshire but occasionally it would venture out over the ocean to the east or north. The gnomes had been the second race to take to the skies, following the silver elves who raised an entire mountain called Barozadandum with their citadel of Eos atop it.

  Kelliard looked to the sky where the daughter moon was visible; she would be absent from the sky tonight as she was in her new phase. The mother moon would rise later, but she knew it was up there somewhere, and on it the same silver elves who once resided in Eos now kept watch over all the known realms.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  I suppose they also watch the unknown places we aren’t even aware of down here.

  She shook her head to rid herself of the urge to follow that last thought. If unchecked, her desire to ponder things unknown, or even unfathomable, would take her out of the present and into the realms of “what if” and “I wonder”; she loved both of those places but spent too much time there already.

  She turned and took in the city of Tristique with its pre-imperial architecture. Large round buildings in the center where legislative bodies met and trials were held were surrounded on all sides by steep triangular roofs and an occasional tower. Most of the towers had battlements on top – a relic from an era when the city might need to be defended from an invading force; some had conical spires or roofs like the buildings below. Small stone bridges arched over busy streets or ran between towers, providing two and sometimes more levels of traffic. The unseen tunnels below the streets held more shops, residents, and official structures. Her keen eye for detail and quick intellect tallied an estimate of around four-thousand for the residents and tourists moving along the avenues and causeways at that time.

  She had verified the route her party would take once they reached the Purple Forest. Her work in the flying city was finished; now to find Chol’m and get back to Middleshire.

  “A pity after all these years of running about the realms you still can’t read a map.” The overly refined male voice startled the Alhaka, but more than that it sent a shudder down her spine.

  “Sir Reshald.” Kelliard turned, brushing aside a lock of her unruly, sandy hair that blocked her right eye; she wanted both metallic green eyes on the knight.

  “So formal.” The tall Guth spoke with his left hand behind his back and his right fist in front of him at chest level.

  Kelliard asked him many times in the past why he stood like that, what it meant. She never got a straight answer so she decided, until the truth could be known, it was either a paladin thing or a habit of the snooty.

  “You are a Paladin of the Shining.” Kelliard pointed out.

  “And it’s not that I can’t read a map,” she added. “It’s that I don’t trust them.”

  “Yes,” the straight-backed towering warrior replied dismissively. “Lack of trust in the conventions and standards the rest of us rely upon. An endearing half-elven trait I suppose.”

  “The first child of my clan’s matron and patron was half-elven,” Kelliard sighed. “That was centuries ago. I am Al-Haben-Ka, after the nature of my maternal haben and paternal alkar ancestors.”

  The knight watched her every move, ran his eyes from her head to her feet as he stood there, looming over her. Obviously he had watched her for some time, for she had put her map away before he startled her with his comment.

  “You must know I am well aware of all this,” the Guth scolded. “Is it a Temple of Truth thing that you must go over the specifics of your ancestry any time someone uses common vernacular to refer to your heritage?”

  “I can’t tell that you’re aware of something when you speak as if you aren’t.” Kelliard smiled.

  The paladin shrugged. The high collar and long sleeves of his expensive waistcoat, trimmed in gold and red stitching, made him look even taller. Along with the knee-length silk tunic inlaid with gold and pearls and his scarlet wool, gold-embroidered cape, the man’s outfit cost more than every garment Kelliard had ever owned.

  Two hells, the scabbard on the man’s arming sword must have a gold prince laid into its furniture. The cleric thought.

  Kelliard was not poor, nor did her temple speak out against material wealth. Nevertheless, she failed to see the point of wasting gold in the name of flamboyance.

  “I saw your rotund conjurer in the bizarre; at a bakery cart of course.” Sir Reshald’s tone dripped with condescension. “Off on another little adventure?”

  “We’re going to collect the tablet of Iros from the Amethyst Mountains.” Kelliard couldn’t help herself; she knew Reshald or anyone else would understand the monetary value of such a piece.

  “Oh!” the knight laughed. “Just like that?”

  “Yes.” Kelliard decided she was comfortable being petty for the moment, and added, “I expect the temple will hand us a fortune for it.”

  “Excellent!” Reshald clapped his hands together. “You can get yourself some proper clothes and stop hiding that amazing elven figure behind those rags!”

  Oh that’s funny you pretentious son-of-a-bitch. These breeches and tunic cost me ten silver and are in style from Maer Dane to Baaltar thank you.

  Kelliard smiled but held her tongue. She always regretted sparring with Reshald; he always got the better of her by the end.

  “éclair?” Chol’m called from the staircase leading up to the balcony.

  Kelliard was glad to have the reinforcements but displeased with herself for allowing two people to startle her within a matter of minutes. She wanted to attribute this to the noise of the city beyond the patio leading to the staircase, but the ambient noise of Tristique was actually pretty quiet for a large city.

  I just have my head in the clouds, no pun intended.

  Chol’m took each step deliberately. Despite his large belly and generally broad dimensions the mage was not unfit; he was simply careful. Just under six feet and likely weighing around two-hundred-forty pounds, he wore a purple velvet robe styled after a monk’s habit.

  “Yes thank you.” Kelliard took one of the pastries and devoured it; she had skipped breakfast.

  The tray Chol’m carried had three more pastries. Crumbs and smudges of cream remained where another half-dozen had not survived the journey to the balcony.

  “I see you’re maintaining those high fitness standards,” the knight remarked to the mage. “I thought the Hughs were a small people.”

  “Most are,” Chol’m replied cooly. “I am both taller and fatter than most of my people.”

  “You’re not fat,” Kelliard lied with her mouth full of a second pastry. “You’re big-boned.”

  The familiar pang in her core arose; a moment of guilt washed over her. Then, as she always did, the cleric of Verum stuffed the guilt she felt for breaking her vow of sacred speech deep within to be forgotten.

  Dishonesty and deception were neither the way of Verum nor the habits of his servant Kelliard. She had always broken the sacred speech she had vowed to uphold when it came to the feelings of her friends; and she always felt guilty – not remorseful - thereafter.

  Reshald reached for a pastry, knowing full well the oversized Hugh didn’t intend for him to have one. The instant the knight’s fingers touched the chocolate glaze a loud pop sounded off and sparks flew.

  “Ah!” Sir Reshald jerked his hand back and shook it vigorously.

  A tiny wisp of smoke curled up and away from the successfully protected pastry.

  Kelliard laughed out loud.

  “You fat bastard!” the Paladin of the Shining snapped; his right hand unconsciously touched the hilt of his sword.

  “Reshald!” Kelliard scolded sharply; bits of chocolate glaze flew from her mouth.

  The knight half-flinched, then composed himself, moving his hand away from the hilt.

  “Lucky for you we’re in this liberalist, pacified city.” the knight assured the mischievous magician. “Were we in the crownlands I’d cut you in two.”

  “I know.” Chol’m said calmly.

  Entirely unphased by the knight’s anger or his threat, the magician nodded towards the tray while looking Reshald directly in the eyes. A pastry lifted off the plate and slowly floated towards the jilted paladin.

  “It’s safe, I promise,” said the mage; he hadn’t intended his pastry ward to pack such a pop.

  After a brief hesitation and with a sideward glance intended as a warning the knight reached out and allowed the éclair to settle in his palm. “Thank you.”

  Turning to his cleric companion the magic-user asked: “You got what you needed?”

  “I did.” Kelliard wiped a smudge of errant pastry from her lips.

  The rotund conjurer nodded towards the last pastry and raised his eyebrows toward Kelliard, who shook her head. Smiling broadly Chol’m scooped the baked treat from the plate and devoured the whole thing in one bite.

  “We should get going.” he said after swallowing the last of his breakfast. “Don’t want to leave Leopold at the pub for too long.”

  “So good to see you Reshald.” Kelliard lied again; somehow it had never occurred to her before that she lied each time they ran into each other.

  Maybe that’s why I have such disdain for the man. She knew this too was a lie and shook her head to end the stream of thought; she had enough penance in store already.

  The knight smiled with a mouthful of sugar and chocolate, gave a reverse nod, then walked past the young alhaka to look over the balcony at the mountains below. As Kelliard and Chol’m turned to leave, he spoke over his shoulder.

  “Good luck on your hunt. That tablet has been sought for two-thousand years; even the empire tried to find it twice when they controlled the region.”

  He turned and with an atypically condescending smile added, “Perhaps you’ll bring to the search something scholars, kings, temples, heroes, and emperors of the past could not.”

  “Already have,” Kelliard announced. “We found a grimoire in some old ruins in the Dombahu Mountains last year; turns out one of the entries is a copy from the diary of Iros.”

  The knight raised his eyebrows and leaned back for effect. “Well, well. Good on you.”

  “Thanks.” Kelliard said as she turned to leave.

  She nearly floated down the steps onto the patio and made a beeline to the streets beyond.

  “Hang on Kel!” Chol’m called after her as he carefully took each step.

  She didn’t slow down until she had walked twenty feet into the foot traffic on the main avenue. She stopped and turned, waiting for her friend to catch up.

  “You in a hurry?” the magician laughed.

  “Just excited and ready to get underway.” Kelliard lied yet again; in truth she wanted to end her interaction with the paladin on a high note, while she had the upper hand for once.

  I have been a petty and dishonest cleric this morning. This trek into the mountains will give me the chance to clear my head and find some solitude. I’ll seek forgiveness from the Lord of Truth and ask for guidance towards the sacred speech and path of honesty.

  “I thought Gutherians were hung up on blue,” Chol’m pointed out. “Ol’ Reshald sure was decked out in red this morning. Didn’t you once tell me there’s a penalty he has to pay for that?”

  Reshald was wearing red; kind of strange.

  Kelliard laughed. “Actually yes. If a knight or noble wears red to a formal affair or in the king’s court they are fined or reprimanded; it has something to do with the banner of the monarch’s family.”

  “Probably something to do with the colors on the Tree of Orthim; something along those lines.” the mage reckoned aloud.

  “That’s right.” Kelliard remembered. “The colors represented degrees or levels of attaining Gizander’s fruit or…”

  “Gzandri’s fruit,” Chol’m corrected helpfully.

  “That’s the one.” Kelliard punched her friend’s shoulder encouragingly.

  “Dynasties from the Old World got pretty crazy over that whole mythos.” The mage looked at his friend. “Somewhat surprises me actually that you’re not more familiar with it; seems like your cup of tea.”

  “I know.” Kelliard knew what her friend meant. “I think the source of the tale spoiled any interest in how it might turn out, do you know what I mean?”

  “I absolutely do,” Chol’m affirmed. “I am furthermore baffled anew each time I am reminded that you almost married that troll wanker.”

  “Me too buddy.” The cleric of Verum closed her eyes and shuddered. “Can we not talk about that right now?”

  “Sure is good to be working again after the long break.” Chol’m expertly switched topics. “I even miss Gerlod and Hesettyia’s constant arguing.”

  “Oh my.” Kelliard laughed. “I’ll ask you on day three if you still miss that.”

  The pair of adventurer’s laughed and made their way to the air skiff docks.