That, I do not regret. But I do miss Terysos more than any other township. Terysos is the reason I’ve sacrificed everything to travel here, to a place of rumor that might not even exist, all on the word of a wayward bard. All on the hope that the South Star shines not as a grave marker for Eterellis, but as a guide, leading me to a place I might belong. Shining as a punctuation of the reading that a kind Cosmodian once gave me by my father’s woodshed, planting the first seed of hope in the gloom of my soul.
If the bard’s tale is true, then this is the one place my father will never look for me. If false, I will die here, overtaken by thirst. There is no other refuge.
Thick parapets gleam copper in the bright daylight across the bridge’s full length, clear to the other lip of the canyon. The bridge spans the canyon’s narrowest point, as far as I know, but surely it will take me half a day to cross it. I think back on the stories of Paca the woodworker and wonder how he got all the way to the end of this monstrosity without killing the trolls who stopped him.
My faith in the old bard wavers.
The bridge grows larger as I near, revealing detail work along its thick stone towers. The decking looks as brilliant as the parapets. If this is simply the bridge leading to Eterellis, then surely the ancient city itself is breathtaking, even in its death. It is said the drought started in that kingdom, its hold so great that nothing can live there, not even tarantulas or sagebrush.
I pause before the great architecture can fill my entire view, knowing I will not be able to run if I change my mind. I’ve traveled too long and too far. My rations are gone, and there is nowhere to replenish them, save for this place of myth and story.
Cagmar, the city of the trolls.
The gods made the stars, and through them made creatures in pairs: the fette and aerolass to rule the air, the merdan and gullop to rule the sea, and the humans and trolls to rule the earth. And so we did, before the earth changed and ruled us instead. According to the stories, in the time before, humans dominated, despite trolls being larger and stronger. War-torn brutes. Angry. Animals. Merciless. In all the tales told at bedside and campfire, trolls are always the enemy.
I could use the same words to describe my father. I know I should fear coming to Cagmar more than I do, but fear has been such a constant companion to me I hardly notice it anymore.
I take in the bridge. Legend doesn’t matter. Now, the humans and the trolls have something in common. We are all trying to survive.
I check over my shoulder, scanning the heat-curled horizon for shadows or pursuers. But I have kept ahead of them, as I always have. I am utterly alone and without options. Even if the trolls are as terrible as stories say, if I can keep even one thread of agency, they will be better than what I left behind.
Pushing one sore foot ahead of the other, I swallow against an arid throat. My pale hair is loose and flows around me as a gust of hot wind passes—better for keeping off the sun this way. The Empyrean Bridge grows as I approach, looming and magnificent.
I have a weapon, if my words fail me, though I’ve never used it on a troll. If Cagmar is a myth . . . perhaps it would be better to jump from the bridge than to be captured. I do not want a slow death. Or perhaps there is a township on the other side of the canyon, not marked on my map, that would take me in, if dehydration doesn’t claim me first.
Theories, theories, theories.
As I approach the canyon wall, I see darkness stretch below the bridge. The sun is descending but is not yet set. That darkness is not shadow but stone.
It does not look like a city, but I of all people know that looks can easily deceive. The dark mass is enormous, unlike any township I’ve ever beheld. It makes me think of a moth pupa.
Despite its majesty, the bridge is not as spectacular as it appears from a distance. It, too, has fallen to the elements. The centuries of drought. Rocks crack, wood splinters, iron rusts. Décor has chipped and worn. Yet the bearings still appear strong, as do the girders. As though they’ve been maintained.
Point one for the bard.
I offer a prayer as I stand before the bridge, only a pace from its first plank. I wonder if I am ready for death. I am almost thirsty enough to believe I am.
I wait to be attacked. To be robbed. I wait to see the beasts of legend. I stand at the edge of the broken path for several minutes, waiting, listening, tasting the air. Nothing happens. Neither bird nor cloud touches the sky. Not even a second breeze passes to stir the dust.
I step onto a thick wood plank. I expected it to creak beneath my weight, but it holds steady. A lock of hair sticks to the sweat along the side of my face. I don’t peel it away. I’m surprised I have anything left to sweat.