The Ill-Made Mute Chapter 1/13

2/ THE HOUSE OF THE STORMRIDERS.
"Unremembered, yesterday is extinct.
Without yesterday, today has no meaning.
Who are you, if forgotten?
Who are you, but the sum of your memories?"
Ertish saying.

Despite being immured within in the dark, airless, walled spaces of the Tower, despite the fact that he was badly-informed and struggling to comprehend his plight, the foundling came to understand that in some way the existence of Stormrider Houses revolved around horses. The sound of horses echoed from unexpected directions in the dominite cavities, the warm scent of them wafted suddenly to the nostrils from Outside, along with a thicker, avian odour as of caged birds. Horses were hoisted up and down the towers in lift-cages and horses were kept in stalls in the upper storeys. When he began Outside work, the newest and most lowly menial of the House was able to divine their purpose.

On a morning when the first sunrays stabbing copper blades into the pink underbelly of the east, the foundling was sent Outside to a balcony, to trounce the dust from floor-rugs. Over a layer of convective air, flat-based cumulus clouds floated tranquilly like latherings of soap-bubbles on invisible water, their frayed rims gilded by the dawn. Viewed from high on the balcony, the clouds were almost at eye-level. This was the first time the boy had ventured into the open air, and excitement made him shiver.

Leaning over the battlements and looking far down, he could see the demesnes laid out like a map - the kitchen gardens, the neglected flower gardens, the stables and training yards, the wizard's hall and bits of the rutted road between the trees that overhung it. Horses roamed the meadows, hattocking tracks, training yards and stables below. They all seemed to be burdened with pairs of panniers slung on either side of their flanks, but what those baskets contained, the watcher could not tell from a distance.

On the other side, a wide, flat expanse of water - Isse Harbour, shimmering like rose and gold silk in the morning. From the shore projected a pier on marble stanchions, reaching far out into the bay, with docks and wharves set at intervals along its length. Still standing firm after uncounted centuries, Isse Harbour's wharves had proved a marvel of engineering, a reminder of the lost skills of glorious days long past. Here anchored Waterships of the sea - splendid lily-

THE BITTERBYNDE TRILOGY

Book One: The Ill-Made Mute

(c) Cecilia Dart-Thornton.