The Black Chapel

VII

Bridgeville is peculiar of the cities of the kingdom of Stephen: it is the only one that lies directly upon a river.  Its bridge is old, but it has remained intact longer than even I can remember, and without the slightest repair.  I suspect magic, though the naïve fools of the city hardly give it a thought.  It is a stone bridge, of course, worn smooth with age but just as grey as if it were freshly carved from the quarry.
        The air is always cooler around the Bridge, something noticeable even before you begin your trip across the River Sern.  Dampness pervades everything, even on the driest summer days.  There are lamps placed every twenty paces or so, and tonight – to my chagrin – I find them all lit.  There was a time when hardly a lamp would be shining, if any were at all.  And there was a time when the City Watch closely guarded both ends of the bridge.  No more.  The city is truly dying; I did not want to believe it, but it so.
        Even at this late hour there are sparse couples meandering along the bridge, pausing occasionally to point to the stars gleaming brightly upon Nuin-Covl.  The night sky is always clear above the Bridge.  Even if it is cloudy over all the rest of the kingdom, it seems the gods must have their window to the mortal world.
I keep my distance from any others, which is not difficult.  They avoid me unconsciously, shrinking away from the scent and cold of death as I pass.  Finally, I find a place along the edge of the Bridge and lean against the ageless rampart.  I look to the sky and slowly distinguish each constellation.  Nicholas always had a great obsession with the stars, almost as great as his obsession with Kraz, or his beloved.  He believed they held some long-forgotten secret that perhaps even the gods did not know and that – to the right man – they would reveal their secret one day.
        Poor Nicholas.  Poor, naïve little Nicholas.  The stars hold no secrets, they hold only the fire of living souls.  As I look up again, one of Luna’s children flickers, and then fades.

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FICTION
copyright november, 1999 noah mclaughlin