The Lily stands on Floral Lane in the heart of the Buskin,
Juniper’s worst slum, where the taste of death floats on
every tongue and men value life less than they do an hour of warmth
or a decent meal. Its front sags against its neighbor to the right,
clinging for support like one of its own drunken patrons. Its rear
cants in the opposite direction. Its bare wood siding sports
leprous patches of grey rot. Its windows are boarded with scraps
and chinked with rags. Its roof boasts gaps through which the wind
howls and bites when it blows off the Wolander Mountains. There,
even on a summer’s day, the glaciers twinkle like distant
veins of silver.
Sea winds are little better. They bring a chill damp which gnaws
the bones and sends ice floes scampering across the harbor.
The shaggy arms of the Wolanders reach seaward, flanking the
River Port, forming cupped hands which hold the city and harbor.
The city straddles the river, creeping up the heights on both
sides.
Wealth rises in Juniper, scrambling up and away from the river.
The people of the Buskin, when they lift their eyes from their
misery, see the homes of the wealthy above, noses in the air,
watching one another across the valley.
Higher still, crowning the ridges, are two castles. On the
southern height stands Duretile, hereditary bastion of the Dukes of
Juniper. Duretile is in scandalous disrepair. Most every structure
in Juniper is.
Below Duretile lies the devotional heart of Juniper, the
Enclosure, beneath which lie the Catacombs. There half a hundred
generations rest, awaiting the Day of Passage, guarded by the
Custodians of the Dead. On the north ridge stands an incomplete
fortress called, simply, the black castle. Its architecture is
alien. Grotesque monsters leer from its battlements. Serpents
writhe in frozen agonies upon its walls. There are no joints in the
obsidian-like material. And the place is growing.
The people of Juniper ignore the castle’s existence, its
growth. They do not want to know what is happening up there. Seldom
do they have time to pause in their struggle for survival to lift
their eyes that high.
The Lily stands on Floral Lane in the heart of the Buskin,
Juniper’s worst slum, where the taste of death floats on
every tongue and men value life less than they do an hour of warmth
or a decent meal. Its front sags against its neighbor to the right,
clinging for support like one of its own drunken patrons. Its rear
cants in the opposite direction. Its bare wood siding sports
leprous patches of grey rot. Its windows are boarded with scraps
and chinked with rags. Its roof boasts gaps through which the wind
howls and bites when it blows off the Wolander Mountains. There,
even on a summer’s day, the glaciers twinkle like distant
veins of silver.
Sea winds are little better. They bring a chill damp which gnaws
the bones and sends ice floes scampering across the harbor.
The shaggy arms of the Wolanders reach seaward, flanking the
River Port, forming cupped hands which hold the city and harbor.
The city straddles the river, creeping up the heights on both
sides.
Wealth rises in Juniper, scrambling up and away from the river.
The people of the Buskin, when they lift their eyes from their
misery, see the homes of the wealthy above, noses in the air,
watching one another across the valley.
Higher still, crowning the ridges, are two castles. On the
southern height stands Duretile, hereditary bastion of the Dukes of
Juniper. Duretile is in scandalous disrepair. Most every structure
in Juniper is.
Below Duretile lies the devotional heart of Juniper, the
Enclosure, beneath which lie the Catacombs. There half a hundred
generations rest, awaiting the Day of Passage, guarded by the
Custodians of the Dead. On the north ridge stands an incomplete
fortress called, simply, the black castle. Its architecture is
alien. Grotesque monsters leer from its battlements. Serpents
writhe in frozen agonies upon its walls. There are no joints in the
obsidian-like material. And the place is growing.
The people of Juniper ignore the castle’s existence, its
growth. They do not want to know what is happening up there. Seldom
do they have time to pause in their struggle for survival to lift
their eyes that high.