The lost city of Trollus.
“Stones and sky,” I whispered.
“Just stones here,” Luc commented from behind us. The troll’s hand balled up into an angry fist, but Luc spoke the truth. Darkness cloaked the cavern and solid rock formed the ceiling. No stars shone through, no moon.
“This way, mademoiselle.” He took my arm, and pulled me to my feet. The three of us started down a flight of granite steps lit periodically with crystal lampposts glowing silver. The sides of the valley were terraced, the white stone buildings lining each level. Most impressive, though, was the waterfall cascading out of the blackness to form the churning river below. The roar of water echoed ceaselessly through the cavern. It was enough to drive one to madness, and I wondered how the trolls abided the constant din.
Realization struck me. “That’s the Devil’s Cauldron!”
“We call it Heaven’s Gates,” the troll murmured, and I did not miss the irony in his voice. I had heard the legend of the Cauldron. It was said that the Brûlé river flowed between Forsaken Mountain and its southern neighbor, but where it met the rock fall, it disappeared into a hole in the ground. It was said that a past duke had paid a beggar man to brave the Cauldron in a wooden barrel, and that a dozen years afterward, he had appeared in Trianon hale and healthy, but unable to account where he had been.
“Good evening to you, Lord Marc.”
The approaching voice startled me and I jumped, then peered into the darkness. A glowing orb moved steadily towards us – a faintly visible shape moving awkwardly across the ground. The troll rolled into our pool of light, and I had to bite my lip to keep from gasping at the shrunken, useless limbs attached to the creature’s torso. Rolling to its crippled feet, it reached out to touch a crystal lamppost, the light flaring brighter.
“Good evening, Clarence,” the Comte said, his voice soft as he tugged me towards the next set of steps.
“Is she the one?”
“We’ll soon find out, I suppose,” Marc replied. His tone indicated that no further questions would be appreciated.
The thing called Clarence looked me over with glowing silver irises, as if wondering whether I was good enough to eat. I turned away, cringing. When I found the nerve to glance back, the troll had resumed its rolling progress.
“Am I the one for what?” I asked, darting a look at his face. But the Comte did not answer. My mind raced with possibilities, but none seemed to justify the effort that had gone into procuring me.
An impeccably clean cobbled street snaked down the side of the valley, but the Comte led us instead down the long flights of stone stairs towards the river below. The masonry was unlike anything I had ever seen, no surface left unadorned. It would have required centuries of work, but I supposed that centuries they’d had. Fountains and statues graced every corner. In place of greenery stood gardens of glassworks sculpted into trees, bushes, and flowers. The delicate displays would not have lasted more than a month exposed to the elements above ground. Then again, hailstorms likely did not trouble Trollus.
But it was an empty beauty. With the exception of ourselves and Clarence, I had not seen a single sign of life within the city. “Where is everyone?” I asked in a low voice.
“It is past curfew,” the Comte replied. “They are inside.” He gestured towards a building, and I noticed a set of curtains twitch shut, but not before I’d glimpsed a set of luminescent eyes staring out at me.
“That’s new,” Luc muttered, and I looked around with unease at the dark windows lining the streets. Now that I knew they were there, I could feel eyes on me. The Comte gripped the hilt of his sword with one leather clad hand, tension cloaking his shadowed form as he scanned our surroundings. “We should not linger,” he said, lengthening his stride so that I had to trot to keep up.
He relaxed only when we reached the palace rising up next to the misting river. Although the darkness prevented me from ascertaining its total magnitude, I suspected it was enormous. Passing through gilded gates guarded by armored trolls, we walked up a long drive flanked with marble statues and glasswork. The entrance to the palace loomed ahead of us, white and glittering gold in the Comte’s approaching light. It was more opulent than even the Regent’s palace in Trianon, but it was the silence that struck me most. No horses’ hooves, no barking dogs, no voices. Only falling water and the ever-present silver glow of troll-light.
“This way, please,” the Comte said, leading us through an unguarded entrance into the palace.
It was much darker within than without, illumination limited to the small orb dogging the troll’s steps. “Do you all have one of those lights?” I asked. “How do they work?”
He glanced up at the orb and it flared brighter and larger, split into three little orbs, and then reformed into one. “Magic,” he replied, “defies explanation.”
And I had no chance to ask for one as we reached a set of doors guarded by one troll. No… two? I tried not to stare at the troll as we walked by, but I’d never seen a man with two heads before. Both heads saluted and said, “My lord,” to the Comte, so I settled on two.
“I’d advise you to speak only when spoken to,” he murmured as we marched down the long hall. Looking over his shoulder at Luc, he added, “You as well.”
Our boots thudded against the tiled floor, the sound echoing throughout the cavernous room. Mirrors lined the walls, reflecting my terrified expression back at me. Next to each of the columns supporting the roof stood a golden floor lamp carved into a fantastical creature, troll-light glowing from its eyes. The ceiling above was painted in a fresco, but the details were obscured by the dimness.