The Witch of Lurago

City of Man~ Redan Connor La Gracia, Larad Ochmoon, 4416 Redan pulled the cowl up and over his head. His robe’s loose weave was mercifully cool in the heat of the day but of little use in keeping the morning mist from dampening his skin. He crossed the Passo Sacrificio footbridge, and others crossed with him, lonely figures with their heads down and sandals shuffling against the bricks, each intent on reaching his or her post before the appointed hour. Most wore saffron-dyed novice robes like his own, though an occasional blue-robed acolyte or brown-robed monk broke the uniformity of their silent procession. No one disturbed the illusion of solitude by speaking. They passed beneath rows of marble statues perched on pedestals along the railings. Their sculpted faces stared down at them with expressions of benevolence, disdain, or utter indifference. Without exception, all La Gracia’s art depicted the pious men and women of the one true faith. Frozen faces of saints and martyrs watched the living with a thousand unblinking eyes. The footbridge took him across the Beato, the gentle river meandering through the holy city. Crisscrossed by arched bridges, the Beato kept politely within its banks, too humble to encroach on La Gracia’s sanctity. A mist rose from the river this morning, softening the prickly horizon of spires, domes, and pinnacles rising above the city. La Gracia was a city of cathedrals. Even a modest tavern boasted a spire on its roof. The myriad spikes and peaks were meant to portray arms raised in supplication to heaven, but Redan imagined them as lances held ready in case heaven decided to attack. Beyond the footbridge, he cut through an alleyway. Faded red bricks paved every inch of ground. Those who walked La Gracia’s hallowed ground were too pure to allow the earth to soil their sandals. The only vegetation to be found in the city were potted palms, orange and lemon topiaries, and urns of rosemary and lavender. On lesser-used paths, sparse patches of grass tenuously crept between cracks in the bricks. The Orthodoxy’s faithful the world over kept the holy city supplied. La Gracia’s denizens did not sow, did not tend sheep. When Redan first arrived, it had puzzled him. The dogs, goats, and chickens he grew up dodging, the familiar animals he’d seen in every village, town, or city he’d ever visited, were conspicuously absent here. La Gracia was a city of man. Redan walked alone by choice. He kept to himself and watched for opportunities to pursue his search unnoticed, never forgetting he balanced on the rim of a cauldron. One lapse in his accent, one monk catching him in a room where he had no purpose, and the cauldron would bubble up to claim him. Spending his days, and often his nights, in the libraries helped him avoid unwanted attention. Redan accepted his assignments with dutiful humility, and his crisp pen and linguistic accuracy garnered the senior librarians’ approval. He had moved from simple transcription to the increasingly challenging translation assignments that gave him reasons to haunt the archives. Redan might never find the texts he sought. La Gracia’s labyrinth of libraries was so overwhelming that he’d taken to sorting them into categories in a feeble attempt to make his goal seem less hopeless. First, there were the libraries for show. The cavernous structures designed to awe visitors with their grandeur housed the books chosen for their covers, not content. Redan seldom saw anyone on the balconies girdling the towering walls of books or on the spiral stairs winding through endless tiers of gilded shelving. Second, were the libraries for use. Located deeper within the city where visitors seldom ventured, these held acres of books collected for research or enjoyment and served as gathering places for conversation and companionship away from the martyrs’ unblinking eyes. Equipped with stepladders, tables, and reading lanterns, the clerical libraries were never empty. Hovering librarians kept inkwells and parchment bins replenished. Last, were the libraries of dust. Underground grottos visited only by scribes, plus the occasional scholar in search of an obscure text, the archives had no hovering attendants. One was expected to bring one’s own lantern and to shelve one’s own books. Not surprisingly, that left a great many books waiting in musty, disheveled stacks. Within the many acres of the dusty catacombs Redan had explored, searching for Aurelic lettering on tattered leather spines, he’d found naught but instructional texts on farming and smithing, and a treatise on the climates of Rhynn. Excellent reading for sleepless nights. He could spend a lifetime here, sifting through ancient books with crumbling yellow pages and never find the answers that had drawn him into the heart of the Orthodoxy. Redan heaved a sigh and climbed the stairs to the master librarian’s office, resigned to taking yet another meaningless assignment and trudging through yet another night of fruitless searching. With every day that passed, he questioned why he had come and wondered how he would ever find his way back home. Chapter 2