Dess had managed to grip Thran’s step, but his feet were still scrambling for purchase. It seemed he had half convinced himself, because the dew around his legs had become an almost jelly-like consistency, not strong enough to hold him but no longer water.
“It’s glass,” Thia said again. “Close your eyes and picture it.”
Dess did as he was told. “It’s glass–it’s glass–it’s glass.” He said it so fast he ran out of breath. Heaving a gasp, his knee found purchase on the step above.
And it held.
“It’s glass–it’s glass–it’s glass–it’s glass.”
Then the other.
And he was safe.
Thran let him go, sagging back, fingers purple from clutching Dess so hard for so long. Thia sent him a look she hoped conveyed her gratitude; he had likely just saved the boy’s life.
Dess scrambled to his feet, his cheeks dark red, yellow hair plastered to his forehead and neck with sweat. “It’s bloody glass,” he said shakily, as his hands found the rails. “Who in Sothis came up with this?”
Oskaren, who seemingly had been watching the entire event with nonchalance, now deigned to comment. “Do not insult our gracious hosts,” she growled.
The Losrohir said nothing, which made Thia all the more suspicious that they must have had another method of communicating. Or maybe human lives were just that insignificant to them.
Finally, they reached the bottom. Thia nearly collapsed onto the earth, never before appreciating how wonderfully solid it was. She could have kissed the soil.
But Lythia’s attention was on her, as lovely as a moonrise, as hungry as a wolf’s.
So Thia only forced a slow breath and raised her chin. “It’s beautiful,” she commented, tilting her face toward the enormous glass spires now rising in front of them.
“To see it is an honor few humans have been granted,” Lythia said. She was as pristine as she had been when she’d first appeared from the trees, not a drop of sweat or dirt on her, not a soil-brown hair out of place under her crown. She swept her delicate arms out as though she might embrace the city itself. “Welcome,” she said, voice soft as a breeze yet fearsome as thunder, “to Losrohiria, City of Stars.”
THIRTY-FIVE
THECITY OFSTARS WAS AN APT NAME, THIA THOUGHT,AS THEYmade their way between buildings. Mavrel returned to her shoulder, his weight a comfort as they chased Lythia’s purposeful strides. Moonlight winked off the towering dew spirals, and the glowing buds that floated between could easily have been mistaken for a galaxy, though one they were swimming in, instead of passing under. The ground itself was the softest grass Thia had ever touched, somehow as cushiony as a blanket and yet only a few inches long.
Losrohir watched them as they passed, strange green stares peering through translucent walls with guarded or intrigued expressions. While Thia couldn’t deny the beauty of the place, she wondered how they could stand the lack of invisibility, when there was no room to which you could escape, no door you could close to truly be alone, when anyone could see right through the walls.
Lythia’s voice sounded in Thia’s mind, and she nearly jumped out of her skin.Those who are never alone are never lonely.The voice turned wry.Do not fear. We know humans do not share our sentiments in this regard.
Thia looked up at her, but the Losrohiri woman’s back was turned. As eerie as it was, she supposed it was good the woman could read minds, because at least she’d know they were being honest.
As they walked, many of the Losrohir who had greeted them in the woods dispersed, until it was only Lythia and two others. She led them into a glittering spire to their left, and Thia reminded herself not to doubt the dew as they ascended a staircase. The world beyond was visible, but slightly blurred, like they were looking through water. Glowing buds floated beside them, and Thia reached out to touch one, only for it to swoop away before she could make contact.
They reached the top, and Lythia turned left, the final two Losrohir departing. She bid them farewell with a wave of her hand, then turned right into a large chamber. There was a crystalline table at the center, and hanging vines covered the ceiling, strung with the same glowing flowers. A Losrohiri man sat in a similarly sparkling chair on the far side, his skin the gray-brown of an ash tree, patterned with the same bright veins as the others. In stark contrast, his hair was pure silver, tumbling down his back to the top of his white trousers. His torso was bare and painted with gold swirls that glittered when he moved, emphasizing the broad shoulders and strong frame that gave him an appearance of youth, despite the deep lines that framed his glowing irises. Gold paint marked his cheeks as well, and his head bore a circle of silver flowers to match Lythia’s.
They reminded Thia of dryads, or druids perhaps, with the swirls of ink and obvious power. Something as ancient and wild as the earth.
The Losrohiri man rose as they approached, exchanging such a long look with Lythia that Thia presumed they were speaking mind-to-mind.
Then he spread his arms in welcome. “I am Myrdæth,” he said. “Luminaë of Losrohiria.”
Oskaren led them again, offering the same greeting she’d given Lythia, hand from shoulder to hip. “Myrdæth-Ël, it is an honor to meet the esteemed Luminaë. Legend says you have ruled for over a century with wisdom and light.”
Myrdæth’s eyes twinkled. Or maybe that was just their strange silver-green glow in the flickering flower light. “There is no need to recite my own history to me, human,” he said. “And we Losrohir do less of your ruling and a good deal more communing.”
Oskaren bowed again. If Thia hadn’t been watching, she would have missed the slight clench of the girl’s fists that gave away her nerves. “There is much with which I am unfamiliar here. Forgive me.”
Placated, Myrdæth smiled. “Come. Sit.” He returned to his seat, indicating for them to do the same. There were only five chairs, and Thia watched, mesmerized, as he waved his hand, singing a low note, and another sprung up from the floor.
Lythia sat first, then Oskaren, then the rest of them. Thia sank into hers, expecting it to be hard, but it seemed to curve around her frame, providing the perfect blend of stability and comfort. She stroked a finger down the arm, marveling at the cool, smooth texture, as firm as glass but somehow softer.
