Smoke and Rain

by V. Holmes

  Arman recognized the pin as one he had made for her and his guilt intensified. “Do you want to walk?” He offered her his hand suddenly. They ducked out under the cover of Kam's ruckus, and if Wes saw them go, he said nothing. Veredy tucked herself under Arman's arm with practiced familiarity. “I missed you.”

  “And I you.” He squeezed her slightly. “How is business?”

  “Good.” She steered them down a quieter street, walking towards the Rattles. “I prefer selling in the stalls, though. Do you think she will stay?”

  Arman asked, even though he knew. “Who?”

  “Your strange noble woman.”

  “She's not mine,” he retorted. “And I have no idea. Ma enjoys her help.” He sighed. “I have not seen you, though I go out often enough. Were you avoiding me?”

  Veredy nudged him with her elbow, but she smiled. “Maybe. I was uncertain how to deal with your new lady guest.”

  Arman snorted. “You have never been uncertain in your life.” He kissed the top of her head. “Anyways, I do not think anyone knows how to deal with her. The Sunamen are odd.”

  “Would you like some tea?”

  Arman realized they stood before the door leading up to her room. “Tea would be perfect.” He followed her to the small space she called home. Like many, it sat above the store she worked. He had spent many evenings there and it was as familiar as his own home. He peered out the window, taking a deep sip of the liquor-laced tea Veredy poured. “You have lived here a long time, now.”

  “Several years.” She leaned against the tabletop. “When will you find your own place?”

  “When I have a woman to share it with.” He smiled at her and sat at the table. “Do you think you will take over the shop?”

  Veredy made a face. “I hope I can have my own. Mistress Hughen drives me mad. I can only imagine what it would take to buy the place from her.”

  Arman took her hand, rubbing his rough thumb over her work-worn fingers thoughtfully. “A lot has changed since we were young, you know.”

  She laughed. “We still are young by most counts. You still dance around subjects like a prairie hen.” She leaned over and kissed him.

  He smiled against her mouth. “You are not mad that I didn't see you?”

  She moved to sit on the edge of her bed. “You're here, aren't you?”

  Their tension lasted only until he toed off his boots and dropped his belt with a metallic thump. He crawled under the coverlet with her, smiling as she tugged off his shirt. She laughed softly, but Arman swore he saw sadness in her eyes as she pulled him against her.

  Φ

  The 10th of Valemord, 1251

  The kitchen was quiet without Arman's usual morning boisterous monologue. Alea peered into the kitchen curiously. “Where's Arman?”

  Kepra shrugged as she measured out cornmeal. “He went out late and did not come home.”

  Alea tied on her apron, alarmed. “Is he well?”

  Kepra laughed. “Neither Wes nor Kam blazed in here in the small hours of the morning. They always have when Arman finds trouble. I trust he's safe.” She gestured at a package sitting on the bar top. “He sent that over this morning for you.”

  Alea brushed her hands off and unfolded the bundle of cloth. The wool cloak was thick, the dark green newly lined with matching linen. Tucked under the new, wrought silver clasp was a note.

  I know you are used to the desert and it is getting colder. I had my best one cut down for you and I made the clasp myself. I am sorry for keeping you out in the cold the other night. I have something to ask you over lunch today.

  -A

  His abrupt writing echoed his frank speech, and she smiled. After hanging the cloak carefully by the door she set about the morning's tasks. She was so absorbed in her work that Arman's arrival at noon startled her.

  She flashed him a bright smile. “Thank you for the cloak.”

  He smiled back, but she could see the circles under his eyes. “I'm glad you like it.” He dug around in the pantry. “Ma? Where do you keep your ginger tea?”

  Kepra breezed in from the kitchen with a frown. “Arman you ought to bring some with you if you're going to continue to drink to excess.” She handed him the packet of herbs.

  “I'm not hung-over, I just got very little sleep.” He poured himself a mug and slid onto one of the bar stools. “How has your morning been, milady?”

  Alea perched next to him. “Good. I think I am settling in more.” She fixed him with a curious stare. “You said you wanted to ask me something?”

  Arman frowned, then his expression brightened. “Ah, yes. You have seen violence, and though you are safe here, I thought I could help you feel safer.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Have you thought about learning to protect yourself? Archery, hand-blocks and the like?”

  Alea stared. It is wrong to bear weapons. “It is wrong to use weapons. If I carried a weapon it would be seen as a challenge and I would be attacked. My ihal taught us that. None of his family ever learned combat.”

  “What?” Arman looked incredulous. He drew a breath. “Milady, with all respect, they did not carry weapons and Cehn was still attacked. Perhaps if they had they would be here now.”

  Alea's chin was set in a stubborn line. She picked at a splinter on the bar top. “It is childish, but I'm disappointed. I think part of me thought the hero would rush in and save the innocents. If I cannot hold onto that hope, what is left?

  “You're thinking of the wrong part of the story. In the beginning the innocents are not saved, the hero is not the hero. He is a child, ignorant of the world. He loses something dear to him and that sets grief into his heart. The fruit of that grief is borne in the mind. Depending on the story, that fruit is vengeance or justice or hardened resolve.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This story has just shattered you. You must wait for the pieces to be gathered and the flames kindled before you are reforged.”

  “Reforged into what?” Curiosity warred with culture and made her heart race.

  Arman just smiled. “There are training halls in the Lows where many of us practice defense and weapons when we may. You could meet me at our stall tomorrow afternoon.”

  “I suppose I just think it is better to use our minds and our words to fight, not our hands.”

  “And you’re right in that, but it takes a long time to train our minds to fight that way. Learn to protect yourself with your hands until you can fight with only words.”

  “I will learn. I’ll let you teach me,” her words were little more than a whisper, “but I do not think any weapon could have saved them.”

  Φ

  The 12th Day of Lumord, 1251

  Alea followed the glint of polished steel through the market. She recognized Wes sitting in the rear of the stall, watching Arman with amusement. He tossed three daggers in the air, juggling them in a silver blur. After a few turns he laid them aside with a flushed grin. His eyes caught Alea's and he raised a hand in greeting. “I am glad you did not change your mind.”

  “Were you expecting me to?”

  He grinned at her barb and nodded in the direction of the Lows. “Shall we?”

  Alea was grateful the speed necessary to keep up with his strides warmed her muscles. The barns that served as training halls lay behind the market, bordered by the stone walled fields to the north and east. She followed him through the door nervously.

  The floor was covered in sawdust and a shed in the back held worn weapons. A row of targets hung on one wall, a line of straw dummies stood at the other. Arman beckoned her over to a small bench where a bow and wrist guard sat. “I thought we could start with the bow. You need not be close to do damage.” He showed her how to fasten the wrist guard. “When the string snaps back it can catch your skin, so you ought to wear this. I will go slowly.” He handed her the bow and sat beside her to explain how to string the weapon. “Loop it over in a fluid motion.”

  Her smile was
broad when, after several attempts, she succeeded. The motion was awkward and far from fluid, but it was a start.

  “Now again.” Arman instructed her several more times before finally pointing to a target. “Are you ready?”

  Alea's heart pounded in her throat. She took a steadying breath and rose. Arman stood next to her, another bow at his belt. “Which is your strong hand?” When she held up her right, he gestured to her legs. “Stand with your left leg forward, right back. They should be the same distance as your shoulders. Toes farther forward.”

  She felt foolish. “Arman, my body is not made for this.” Her face flushed at his amused look.

  “Having a slight build is better for archery.” He paused, his gaze suddenly concerned. “Do you wish to stop?”

  Alea looked at her hand. The wood was warm in her palm. The world you adhere to is gone, she reminded herself, This is your new one. She resumed her stance, turning her head to face the target.

  “Good. Hold the bow in your left hand – it is more precise and your right has the strength to draw the string.”

  She pulled back the string a few times, letting Arman adjust her grip to her first two fingers. Her arm ached. After an hour her arm shook, but she could draw the bow smoothly.

  Arman stopped her as she raised the weapon again. “You're shaking. I think your body has had enough. Starting slow is best, and you're doing well. Do you want to try again tomorrow?”

  A tiny smile flitted across her face. “I think I would. Are you coming back to the inn?”

  Arman helped her unstring the bow and put it away properly. “I'm meeting Kam and Wes. I can meet you here at the same time tomorrow, though.”

  Her steps were sure on her way back to the inn. Her mind felt stronger from the aching muscles in her arms and back. Her forgotten, neglected pride uncurled in her chest. She smiled, lifting her face to smell winter on the wind.

  Φ

  The 26th Day of Valemord, 1251

  In the two weeks since Alea had begun her training the bright gold and crimson leaves had turned brown and fallen from the branches. Even the sunlight was cool, and Alea had to arrive at the training hall early to warm her muscles from the walk. As she doffed her cloak she noticed a circle of men at the opposite end of the hall. Two in the center grappled at each other with bare hands. She watched from just inside the door, curious. After a moment she recognized one fighter's blonde curls. Hand-to-hand combat was something she had never seen, though she had heard brawls from her rooms.

  Arman's forearm came up to sweep into his opponent's neck. How do they not kill each other? The heavier, older man ducked under the swing and drove a fist between Arman's shoulder blades. Arman rolled with the blow and came up spinning, hands already guarding. He allowed the next strike to pass then swung an arm across to unbalance the man, a punch going to the lower ribs. When they stepped apart, Arman saw her watching. He shook arms with the man and stepped from the circle, another taking his place.

  Arman grabbed a rag from a bench, wiping sweat from his face and neck before going to her. “Afternoon.”

  She greeted him, looking at the floor. Sunamen men and women were never seen out of day clothes by any but their spouses. The bare chests and backs of the combatants made her uncomfortable.

  “Are you all right?”

  She nodded, her gaze not moving from the sawdust. “I was not prepared for so much...” she waved her hand in his direction “...skin.”

  He choked back a laugh and pulled on his shirt, rolling the sleeves up. “Forgive me, milady. Our women often see us in various stages of undress. Most of our swimming is done nude.” He nodded in the direction of the men still wrestling. “There are a few holds and hold-breaks you could learn, you know.” He grinned wickedly. “Clothed, of course.”

  She glared at him. “I'm sorry if my people's choice to protect themselves from the desert sun offends you.”

  He held up his hands in surrender. “Of course, milady. Jesting aside, though, not all attackers are considerate enough to stay in bow range. Every woman I know has certainly used hold-breaks to dissuade persistent advances.”

  Memories of many of the household women's last minutes flashed through her mind and she winced. “Teach me, please.” She followed him to a cleared section of floor.

  “They will likely grab you by the arms or hair.” He moved slowly, showing her where an assailant might grab. He made her act as the attacker first, show how he could loosen her grip long enough to pull free.

  When she mimicked him, her movements were indecisive and she winced each time she twisted his arms.

  “Be firm.” He showed her how to form a good fist. “Use their weight and balance to your advantage. Move forward, as if your block was a blow itself.”

  She felt foolish when he moved her fingers into a better position, but her blow sent him back a pace. She smiled and returned to a ready stance.

  “Confidence is everything. Try again.” Arman's hands flashed forward, grabbing both her wrists and tugging slightly.

  Suddenly she was no longer in the training hall. The oasis was dark and the smell of blood filled the air. The hands on her arms were not Arman's but a soldier in leather armor. Merahn laid a few paces away, eyes wide and blank. Alea's head spun and a voice shouted at her, though she could not hear the words.

  Suddenly she was aware of gentle arms holding her shoulders and a low voice. “Milady. You are safe. You are here with me. It's Arman. You're in Vielrona.” His murmured litany wormed through her panicked thoughts.

  She opened her eyes. She was on the training hall floor and Arman crouched before her, holding her. After a moment she pulled away. Her breathing still hitched and her heart raced. “I was in Cehn. There was a soldier, and Merahn—” Her voice broke and Arman shushed her gently.

  “Can you stand?” When she nodded he helped her up.

  “Wardyn, you set?” one of the men called.

  “Set. The heat is getting to her,” he called back.

  She heard mutters about noble women, but Arman's excuse helped her ignore the worst. She let him keep his arm over her shoulder until they were out of the hall, then stepped away. After the violent memories, contact made her skin crawl. She followed him wordlessly back to the inn. The crowd in the common room was beginning to grow, but Arman tucked her into a corner booth.

  “If you can't eat that's fine, but I think Ma's tea would settle you a bit.”

  “Tea would be good. And maybe one of those meat, bread things I helped her bake this morning. A small one though. My stomach is flipping.” She closed her eyes and willed the calm Sunamen mask onto her features.

  Arman returned a minute later with a tray of meat pastries and two mugs of tea. He sat across from her and set the tray between them. After she had taken several deep sips of her tea he peered at her. “I have been fighting since I could run, practically. Kam is damn near the only man in the city who is smaller than I am. I was always the littlest and it goaded me, so I picked fights with any lad – the bigger and wider the better.”

  A small smile curled Alea's mouth and she began to pick at her pastry.

  Arman grinned. “At any rate, I picked the wrong man one night. I usually had Kam at my back, but he was working, and this man had friends. I thought they would never stop. My ribs cracked, my nose broke so badly I couldn't breathe through it. One forearm bent the wrong way and my leg was fractured. I don't remember most of the blows. Lying in a gutter, with the rain and scummer from the Upper privies, though? I remember that. I was certain I'd die there.”

  Alea had forgotten about her food. The irregular line of Arman's nose showed where it had healed crooked. She stared at him, surprised and touched. Men usually told of their bravery, not being beaten into sewer run-off.

  “My Pa found me, finally, and brought me home. It took me a long time before I stopped having dreams of dying in the streets. I still dislike the dark.” He pushed his hand across the table to rest beside hers. “What you experienced wa
s a thousand-fold more terrible. It will haunt you, even when you're awake.” He looked down. “I just wanted you to know you're not the only one.”

  She smiled. “Thank you.” Nervous determination creased her brow. “I want to learn, Arman. I need to. Today showed me that I cannot be weak.”

  “Cehn's attack does not make you weak.” He interjected. “But I would love to continue teaching you. Tomorrow we will go slower.” After a moment he smiled. “You know, I'll never speak to you again if you tell anyone that story.”

  She laughed. “You have my word. I am sure you have never been bested since then.”

  He straightened and stuck out his chest dramatically. “Not even by giants!” The conversation was lighter after that. Arman asked careful questions about her life in Cehn. The foreign words rolled from her tongue, but the light in her eyes was new.

  In the days that followed Arman added half an hour of hand defense to her lessons. He did not grab her. Instead he showed her how to align the bones and muscles of her body to move him farther. He explained how most defenses she learned could become attacks. She grew accustomed to the patrons of the training barns and their gruff advice. They respected her will to learn, despite her strange background. The work was hard and quick, but Alea's body was stronger for it. Strange exhilaration came with strength and some unnamed thing, deep within her, grew stronger too.

  Φ

  The 28th Day of Valemord, 1251

  Alea glanced around at the myriad lanterns. "What exactly is this a festival for?"

  Arman frowned. "You know, I can't remember." Wes was already at their stall, Kam and a young woman perched beside him. Arman grinned and ushered her over to the others. "You know Kam and Wes. This is Veredy Cordyn."

  Alea's smile was nervously wide as she hurried over. She offered her hand to the pretty blond. "Well met, Miss Cordyn."

  The other woman laughed softly. "Please, Veredy is fine. Now that we're all here shall we find some supper?"

  They stepped into the street, leaving Wes to mind the stall. Veredy fell into step beside Alea. The air was thick with wood smoke and the smell of cooking meat. The cobbles were sticky with spilled ale and sauce. Alea pointed out a vendor selling roasted shell peas, but Arman made a face.