Six blocks from the keep’s main gate, we came to the banks of the river that divided the city. A smooth wall ran at waist height as far as I could see in either direction. Light danced over azure water as the river rushed along its trough. Recalling the size of the waterfall plummeting from the cliffside, I’d expected the roar this close to the river to be deafening, but it was hardly a whisper as it raced with frictionless ease through the polished chute.
“The river Algana,” Mica said. “This river feeds the lakes and waterways throughout the forest below, all the way to the eastern marshes.”
A grand bridge that looked to be spun from spider silk arced over the thirty-foot span of water. Fine white threads that seemed to glow with an inner light wove an intricate pattern that extended from both banks and twisted into ornate spires along either side of the paper-thin walkway. I paused with my foot on the lowest of three concentric half-circle steps that led onto the bridge, marveling at the sheer impossibility of the construction.
“Don’t worry,” Mica said. “It may look fragile, but a clan of cave trolls could dance a jig on this bridge and it wouldn’t so much as wobble.”
I wasn’t worried the bridge would break. I’d witnessed enough magical miracles to know better than to judge strength by appearance alone. What gave me pause was the sheer alienness of the city through which I was walking, where even something as simple as the physics of a bridge or the way water sounded was different from anything I was used to.
A flood of homesickness overwhelmed me. I hugged myself, trying to ease the ache in my chest as I crossed the river. I want to go home.
Beyond the bridge, other pedestrians appeared on the streets. Just a few at first, but more and more as we continued on. Soon the crowd became a river that swept us up in its current, their voices creating the din I’d expected from the Algana. Sidhe seemed to make up the majority of the city’s population, easily identifiable by their elvish features, though their skin came in every shade from moonlight white to deepest indigo. Likewise, their fashions ranged from medieval suits of armor and courtly dress to Bermuda shorts and Hawaiian shirts. But sidhe weren’t the only race in attendance.
A green-skinned creature who stood barely as tall as my knee barreled past in what looked like a poncho made of couch upholstery. I twisted to avoid the little fellow and bumped into someone else. When I turned to apologize, I found myself looking up and up into the face of a ten-foot walking tree wearing a three-piece, pinstripe suit. A two-person rickshaw clattered by, pulled by a being who seemed to be made entirely out of bundled twigs, and a gnome cruised past on a bright red bike modified with gears and pulleys so the three-foot woman could work the petals.
As the crowds became more colorful and cluttered, so too did the scenery. The elegant manors of the elite gave way to smaller buildings, still four and five stories high, but narrower and packed close together. Wooden stalls and carts lined the streets. Some looked as if they moved from place to place, while others gave the impression of long-standing structures despite their slapdash appearances. Artisans and merchants shouted to the passing horde, offering their wares. Billboards made of paper, wood, or in some cases floating lights advertised everything from wishes granted to musical recordings from the Mortal Realm. Buskers walked the crowd or staked out intersections, trading entertainment for shiny baubles.
Haru danced a few steps ahead, did a little twirl and spread his arms wide, narrowly avoiding slapping a pink-skinned woman in a translucent bathrobe who fluttered by on iridescent wings. “Welcome to Abonaille’s night market,” he said with a sharp-toothed grin. “Where you can get nearly anything your heart desires.”
“For a price,” added Mica, as if I needed the reminder not to make impulsive deals with fae.
A dozen different aromas mingled in a gluttony of smells—some sweet, some savory, some rancid. The noise of a hundred conversations, the chime of bells, the holler of the vendors, and a dozen different songs being played on a dozen different instruments bombarded me. I locked my knees to keep from stumbling under the onslaught and turned my attention every which way, gaze jumping from oddity to oddity, trying to take it all in. Traffic split and swirled around us like water flowing around a rock. I found myself gripping the sword at my hip hard enough to turn my knuckles white.
I don’t belong here. The statement echoed through my head, beating in time to my racing pulse. I’d gotten used to seeing strange things, accepting that people came in all shapes, sizes, and talents . . . but those had mostly been in small doses on my own turf. This was everything all at once. There was nothing familiar here at all. It was too much.
“Come on, I promised you dinner.” Mica tugged my arm, pulling me toward the market stalls. Stopping in front of an open grill, he traded a handful of what looked like shards of colored glass for three wooden skewers, each piercing four dark spheres. He handed one to me. “They’re called crasta.”
I examined my spheres. Steam wafted off of them, carrying a smell like pie crust mixed with curry.
Mica bit one off his skewer. Haru pulled all four off his stick, tossed them in the air one at a time, and caught them in his open mouth. I took a tentative bite. Flavor exploded on my tongue—tangy and savory, with a texture like fried dough. It tasted like nothing I’d ever eaten before.
I continued to nibble as we waded through the market. Nearly naked people draped in gauzy scarves promised a good time from the upper stories of what I could only assume was a brothel. Haru nudged Mica and directed him toward a vendor whose cart was piled with bolts of cloth in everything from pressed flowers to woven gold. Beside the cloth merchant, a flicker of motion caught my eye. Colored lights darted around the insides of small glass globes suspended on strings. For some reason, looking at the flashing lights made me incredibly sad.
“Looking to trade?” A goblin behind the cart rubbed his knobby-knuckled hands. He wore a Grateful Dead T-shirt crossed with a beauty pageant sash and a diamond tiara.
“What are they?” I leaned forward, extending a finger to touch one of the dangling globes.
Rhoana was suddenly there, gripping my wrist. She gave a small shake of her head, and I withdrew my hand. I had no idea what might have happened if I’d touched the glass, but I was suddenly very glad Rhoana had insisted on following me.
“He’s a memory merchant,” she said. “I assume you don’t want to lose any of yours.”
All the warmth seemed to drain out of me. I looked again at the trapped lights. Those were people’s memories?
Mica slapped me on the back. “See anything you like?”