THE CITADEL WAS AN IMPOSING STRUCTURE, a tall and impossibly narrow spire that erupted out of the earth to soar skyward until it stabbed the heavens. During thunderstorms, it was not unusual for the spire to be struck by lighting and lightning rods ringed the upper walkway. They reminded Madrid of a multiple pointed crown, only this crown collected great amounts of energy that he diverted to his own uses.
The air was thin this high up in the Citadel, and the city below shimmered in the heat of the midday sun.
Pathetic. They scurry about like ants thinking their lives matter, Madrid mused. But they exist to serve me. They are my army, the army I need to build in order to reclaim my birthright. I will have their obedience and their allegiance.
Madrid pulled a pair of heavy black leather gloves onto his hands, tugging till they rested just below his elbows. He buttoned up his long, black coat until he was encased from head to knees in protective leather and then began his inspection of the lightning rods. Silver tipped, they were covered in a sticky insulating sheath embedded with stone chips. He placed his hand on the shaft of the closest rod and felt the familiar hum of power coursing through it. He pulled it out of its bracket and took it over to a pool of water set against the wall of the staircase and touched the tip to its surface. Electricity raced through the pool, sparking and crackling. Satisfied, Madrid returned it to its bracket then double checked the rest of the rods.
The rods glowed after the touch of water, throbbing with stored energy. They were not made from simple silver, common in the realm, but were made from spelled silver. Spelled silver was very rare in this age, due to the decline of the magical population during the Great Purge. The largest concentration was located in the Citadel. He had Gaia’s largest collection of spelled silver, worth an emperor’s ransom, under his feet. It was kept safe from theft by its very location as a lightning rod on the top of the tallest spire. The lightning rods connected to the core of spelled silver that formed the heart of the Citadel. The Silver Heart was the focus of the magic that coursed through its length. It powered the magical shield that formed the barrier between the provinces and also the bridges that connected the Citadel to each province.
Spelled silver could only be made from spelled silver. In other words, a small quantity of spelled silver was required to act as a catalyst to the change and vast quantities of energy were required to jumpstart the conversion. The lightning rods supplied an excellent but infrequent source of energy. In times of old, a dragon would have been used to spell the silver. The heat of the dragon’s breath was said to cast the purest spelled silver and was favoured in the forging of weapons.
Finishing his inspection, Madrid re-entered the stone tower and descended ten twisting levels to where the broad chiseled steps leveled out onto a landing of smooth flagstone that ended at a door. The arched door was painted a garish red and heavily carved with vines and flowers, painted in vivid hues of green and yellow. The door made his eyes water, but at least he could always make out the right flower to push on to trigger the door to open. He reached out and pushed on a blush pink hibiscus with a yellow center that sank under his touch, into the wooden frame. He heard a click and the door swung open.
The far wall of the room was made of curving glass panes set between melted lead joinery, which curved over to form half of the ceiling structure. The other half was made of snowy stone buttresses that that arched back to the floor like the great bones of the sea creatures that occasionally washed ashore from the ocean. The ceiling was easily ten stories in height. On the floor between each white rib, a nest sat and in each nest a coloured egg was nestled, glowing softly in the light streaming through the windows. Beside each nest, a young woman sat, murmuring softly and stroking the egg.
At his entrance, ten pairs of eyes swung his direction. Ancient and knowing, they followed him as he walked over to an alcove off to one side and slid behind a curtain. There, lying on a filthy pallet lay a man, bound and gagged. A lurid bruise was swelling on his cheek, and his puffy upper lip was crusted with dried blood. His nose was broken and one eye swollen shut. The other eye glared at Madrid in open hatred.
Madrid took his time unbuttoning his leather coat, sliding it off and placing in on a peg affixed to the wall.
“Well, Gaitain, are you in a cooperative mood today?” He rolled up his sleeves with precise, economical motions. “As much as I enjoy our sessions, I can only spend so much time here. It would be much simpler if you just told me what I want to know.” His eyes fastened on Gaitain’s mangled face and he smiled, flashing straight white teeth. “Where is your wife, Gaitain?”
Gaitain spat red-tinged spittle at the emperor’s polished boots. It connected with a wet squish and then slid down the side leaving a smeary trail. Madrid lifted his foot and kicked Gaitain in the face. His head snapped back and blood gushed anew from the partly closed wounds. With a snarl, Madrid pulled a short knife from its sheath at his waist and grabbed Gaitain by the hair with the other.
“I would have let you live, you know. I only wanted the witch. You could have returned to Bastion and lived the rest of your days with the concubine of your choice from my personal collection. Why did you have to go and fall in love with her?”
Gaitain’s good eye was now swelling shut.
“Go to hell,” whispered Gaitain. Forgive me, Cherise. I go to the grave with your secret in my heart. He knew the thought would not reach her, but he prayed anyway. The ways of magic were beyond his understanding.
Trembling with rage, Madrid bent over the body of his former friend. “If you will not tell me, I will begin carving away pieces of your body and cast them over the side of the Citadel for the ravens to eat. You will beg for death before we are finished. But you will tell me where she is.” With that he grabbed Gaitain’s left hand and began sawing at his wrist. Gaitain screamed and screamed until he blacked out from the pain.
On the other side of the curtain, the chanting voices of the young women rose in pitch, then changed to a crooning song that drowned out the screams. The dragon embryos trembled and their shells rocked with fear. As the crooning overtook the sounds of torture, the eggs settled back down in their nests.
Silence fell within the hatchery. The curtain swept back, and Madrid stalked from the alcove, wiping his hands on a bloodied towel. His black eyes, pitched with anger, swept the room as he walked over to a window in the glass wall. Unlocking the window, he pushed the casement open then flung the severed hand out the window. Before it had dropped ten feet, the ravens descended, screeching and flapping to battle over the fresh meat. With a last glance at the birds, Madrid dropped the towel at his feet and left the hatchery through the secret door.