Brotherhood of the Gemstone Chapter V: The City of Green-Thistles
Kenna's adventures
Sgain was a magnificent city. The grandeur of the city walls dwarfed all other cities throughout the north of the isle of Bretwealda. Not only did they dwarf most others in size however it was the eldest of holy-sites in the whole of the Lairdly-Isle. Centuries before Auldchester had arisen to the far south in Brittia, or Cryffard in Cymru, Sgain had loomed as the principal site dedicated to the gods.
Forty-meters high and ten meters thick, the great lion-walls of Sgain were the stuff of legends, built in the age of the Pechs long before the Caleds had overtaken the region. The high-walls had towers every five meters and arose two meters higher than the average walls were. They were made from fine marble, though they had long been painted over with dark-green paint that had never departed. They had carved into them the knots of Dara, given to men it was said in days of yore long since passed, by the good goddesses Saga, the recorder of all history and Scota. It was said that the first stone that had served as a foundation for the walls of the city, had been laid down by the thistle-goddess herself. The knot decorated every stone, every tower and even the gates, with the knots upon closer inspection revealed to be emeralds that had been engraved into the stone and walls, so that they shone in the light of the twin-suns.
The city did not begin within those walls but from without. It began in truth with thatch, wooden and stone houses dotting the landscape that led up to the hill upon which the great city dominated. There were other shrines and small mansion-houses here and there, some made of stones, some of wood, all were more opulent and amazing than the small two-floor house that her master had had built, a number of decades ago.
Nobody knew when the city had truly been founded; for one thing it was highly unlikely that it predated the conquest of the south of the Lairdly-Isle by the Principate of Roma. Yet for centuries it had stood there, dominating the whole of the realm. The houses of the peasants were small things, yet the great number of them amazed Kenna who had never been there before.
Accustomed as she was to the small village of Glasvhail, which housed no more than a few hundred souls to see thousands of people living so closely together, was a shock.
She had known somewhere deep within her soul that there had to be thousands upon thousands of people, alive behind the great Lion-Gates of Sgain. However, to bear witness to so many alive and thriving outside of those walls was a shock.
Most tended to sheep, pigs and cows, traded in wool, meat and in goat or cow-milk, or cheese outside the walls. All attempted to push their goods, behind them, as they revealed themselves to be every bit as pushy as Kenna herself could prove herself to be.
Dressed in a brown dress with a loose grey girdle about her waist, a traveling cloak about her person with the hood raised, in case of the threat of rain. Something that was an ever-looming menace for all the residents of the far-north of the Lairdly-Isle, and something that Kenna in this instant did dread greatly.
“How often do you journey up the path, to the interior of the city?” Kenna asked of her guide, who was though she was loathe to admit; it her only protection from the darker elements of those who may reside near or within the high-walls of the greatest city of the Caleds.
Having been silent for days (it was a two week long journey), her sudden question surprised Corin. His dark-blonde haired head having been bowed in thought since some time ago, he lifted it in order to study her with his grey-gaze, “Not very often.”
His accent as always was hardly one that she much liked, one that Olith had delighted in. As she did all things that Corin had done and accomplished in his life, which to Kenna’s mind was not very much. She did however have to concede that if there was one thing he had not done on this trip, it was to abuse her or deny her food and wine when she was hungry or thirsty.
Walking next to the carriage, which Corin had guided all along the thistle-road as he had explained it was called on their third day of travel. Pointing it out, when he noticed her amazement at the sight of it, he had explained that it was the pious Causantín II the Great, who had had it established throughout the north. According to Wiglaf who had recounted this knowledge to him twenty-years prior, this road had been expanded upon by Causantín’s son Sìomon the ‘Thistle-King’ as he was known by many. After his death though, the thistle-road which connected a great deal of the center of the realm and east of it, had fallen into such disarray and had never been rebuilt.
While she had certainly appreciated the tale and knowledge demonstrated by her traveling companion, Kenna had had little desire to hear him tell her more. So great was the disdain she held him in that she had after a time told him to be silent and to let her think.
“And why is that? Is it that the monks have no need of hammers, horseshoes and the like, or is it that smiths such as yourself have preoccupied yourselves for too long with the crafting of swords and forgotten how to craft proper tools?” She challenged mockingly of him.
Corin eyed her coldly, “You have a wicked tongue Kenna.”
“This is hardly something you did not already know.”
“Still, it is said in my country that a ‘wicked tongue comes from a wicked heart’, and I have done you a kindness by bringing you here. A little gratitude I think is in order,” He reprimanded her.
Her cheeks grew hot with humiliation that he should scold her so. The nerve of the blacksmith she thought to herself, disgusted by how he could treat her as though she were no better than a petulant child! Infuriated, she preferred to remain quiet and to ignore him than to speak any further with him.
He however was not done, though his eyes rarely wavered from the path that stretched out before them, “Stay close to the cart less you wish to be carried away by the crowd.”
Annoyed, and feeling condescended the seamstress nonetheless did as bidden, just as the crowd of people who were bustling about all around her came as a tidal wave might, quite close to carrying her away. By no means the most statuesque woman alive Kenna was nevertheless a woman who prided herself upon being quite fit for her age and yet the number of woman, men and children who appeared to be everywhere continued to swarm endlessly. Until she felt she had no other choice than to climb back aboard the cart.
The worst part of this, she complained shrilly from somewhere deep within her soul, was how she had yet to come within a hundred meters of the gates.
“There are so very many people,” She said in awe.
“Aye, almost thirty thousand here in Sgain alone, or mayhap more,” Corin said to her surprise for she had not known he could quite hear her above the din, of the crowd. “We shall first see to your entrance into the city proper, and then I shall depart for the festival.”
Despite herself, Kenna felt a flash of gratitude to him, for choosing to aid her in her self-appointed mission before he saw to his business. Her lips pressed together, when she saw the great swarm of people, and tried to keep her ears from buzzing with the din, due to all the merchants sought to press their goods under the nose of all passers-by.
They were not alone in favouring a cart, with Kenna all of a sudden all too aware of the troubles involved in traveling in such a manner herein Sgain. For there were so many people that they could barely do more than inch forward, rather than trot with Romulus the horse snuffing and grumbling. Sensing his growing frustration and anxiety, Corin leant over to pat him on the back.
“There, there old lad,” He murmured softly along with a few quick words in his native Gallian, “Il n’y’a rien de t’inquiéter de.”
Though she did not understand his words, the notion behind them was still apparent to her, in how he handled the nervous beast of burden. Inch for inch they traveled, until they at last reached the summit of the hill upon which the monastery had been founded, nigh on six centuries ago.
As they rode forth though, some of the locals had called out to Corin, that is to say those who recognised him from previous festivals.
“Corin! How are you?”
“Corin are you here to sell your wares again?”
“Who is that with you? A new wife?”
This last question was asked by an older Tigrun lady, plump and dressed in a beige dress with a bonnet upon her head she had large brown eyes that would remind anyone of a warm-hearted kitten. Tigruns if you must know are a sort of cat-folk who had long since trod across the whole of the world of Miðgarðr. They came in all varieties just as humans do, from those with dark-fur, to orange, red, yellow, some even had stripped or spotted fur, still others had leonine manes. This woman though, had the white underbelly, with spotted dark-yellow fur, feline-shaped pupils’ sharp incisors and hands that were slightly longer and plumper than Kenna’s own.