Smoke and Rain

by V. Holmes

  “Fates! The women-folk are outnumbering us!” He was seated on the back of a bench, his boots propped on the table.

  Alea hung her cloak by their table and turned to Wes with a smile. “This is quite the place.”

  “Quite. I'm impressed Arman convinced you to come. You did well” He nodded to her kerchief. “You could pass for a local girl.” His own hair was slicked back and his shirt was undone at the top. "Care for a drink? We have strict instructions to make sure you enjoy yourself.”

  She laughed. “I think I'll start with something light. We don't normally drink unless it's a ceremony. Not to mention your tales warn against the effects of Vielronan alcohol.” She slid onto the bench beside him. “Where's Arman?”

  “He's collecting our next round.” Veredy replied, sitting beside her with a bright smile. “You look lovely! I've always admired dark hair.” Her deep brown eyes crinkled at the corners. “Do you dance?”

  Alea's brow rose. “We had many household dances – ring dances and the like. Do you do those here?”

  Veredy's laugh was kind. “Gracious, no. We jig, and have many a skipper. All are paired though. Did you ever learn them?”

  Alea shook her head. “I'm afraid I don't know a single step.”

  “I don't think Kam knows them either, but that doesn't stop him. It's more important to enjoy yourself and move quickly so your toes aren't trampled than to get the steps right.” She broke off and greeted Arman with a kiss.

  He handed her a heavy glass and passed Kam and Wes their mugs. “You two better not thank me the same way.”

  Wes grinned wickedly. “How else do you expect me to pay you back?” He took a deep sip of his drink. “Our dear Alea fears her dancing skills are not good enough for the noble patrons of Cat's Run.”

  Arman snorted. “I'm certain her actual dancing skills surpass all of ours.” He fixed Alea with an impish look. “However, what we do here cannot fairly be called dancing.” As if called by his mention, a flurry of notes cut through the conversation. Two musicians stood in the opposite corner. One held a brass pipe, the other a set of lap drums. After a second flurry of notes they began what Alea assumed was a song. It sounded closer to a lilting scale, a series of skips. It was strange and hardly dancing music, but it was delightful. The drink Wes had offered arrived and she tentatively tried a sip. It was heady and sweet, but warmed her stomach.

  “It's mead.” Wes explained. “Honey wine.”

  Chairs were pushed back and dancing sprung up in the center of the room. Veredy had been right – there was little skill involved, but much enthusiasm. Kam was up in moments, putting the other dancers to shame with his cavorting. Alea laughed aloud and began clapping in time. Her drink was finished and her body was tingling pleasantly. Arman and Veredy seemed lost in a conversation.

  Wes nudged Alea gently with his elbow. “What say you? I'm not a very good dancer, but apparently we'll be well matched.”

  Alea felt her cheeks flush and she looked down. She was as panicked as she was flattered. I had no idea he was interested! “Oh, Wes, I didn't know. I'm afraid I hardly know you.”

  His laugh boomed. “Alea, my dear, I'm afraid you have deeply misunderstood.” He leaned closer. “Though your company is charming and you're quite pretty in an exotic way, I would be far more likely to proposition Arman than you.”

  Alea frowned, then understanding dawned on her. She giggled in surprise and found herself taking his hand and allowing him to pull her to her feet.

  Φ

  Arman was not a dancing man, but the lively music had a habit of making his feet tap. He leaned back against the wall, one arm slung over Veredy's shoulders. He had worried inviting Alea to a tavern would be a mistake. Instead of withdrawing nervously, however, she was laughing. It was her second dance with Wes and her face was flushed. Granted that might be the mead.

  Winter was normally a dark time, but during war it was often the only season that guaranteed peace. The relief was tangible across the city and he felt his own heart grow lighter. He still felt the dark ice and heat that came from the Laen, but he had be able to ignore it since their guard had left. Alea was learning how to be Vielronan and Kepra needed his help less, now that Alea was working. He glanced over at Veredy. Her brown eyes were alight, and one hand clapped in time on her leg.

  He knew his absence had hurt her, but she was a resilient woman. She's as strong as I am, but far more steady. She has tolerated my single-mindedness since we were children. Kam had not exaggerated about Arman's antics as a younger man. He had been driven to never stop moving and exploring, to leave Vielrona behind. That same determination now focused on building the best life he could. He twirled a lock of her hair around a blunt finger. The best life would have her in it.

  He leaned down and nudged her cheek with his nose. “Thank you, Ver.”

  She pulled away to peer at him curiously. “Whatever for?”

  “For being here. Always. Even when I've not been. You're a remarkable woman.”

  “And you are remarkably drunk if you're speaking that way.” She grinned, jostling him with her shoulder. “I suppose I still can't convince you to dance.”

  He made a face. “Go take a turn.”

  She rolled her eyes and rose, skirts held away from the dirty floor. It was a two-pair dance, and she and Alea traded partners several times as the music continued. She was a good dancer, as Vielronan dancing went and her long legs were as quick as they were strong.

  “You are ogling, my man.” Kam's chest was heaving, but his smile was broad. “This is Celly.” Kam flopped down in Veredy's vacated seat and patted the bench beside him.

  A woman stood a pace behind him. Her face was flushed, but expression reserved. She sat and held her arm out to Arman. “Celly Orean.” She was several years older than Kam, and had the confidence that lent beauty to her simple features.

  “Well met Miss.” Arman grinned, recognizing her as one of the Guild's headmen. “I'm impressed Kam was able to interest one as intelligent as you.”

  “Perhaps I find his difference intriguing.” Her smile was witty. “May I buy your table a drink as thanks for letting me steal your most entertaining friend?”

  “If I expect to make it home I should start drinking water, but I'm certain Wes will gladly accept.” He rolled his shoulders. The warmth of alcohol was comforting, but he wanted to be sober when he spoke to Veredy. Kam leaned closer to Celly and began another elaborate tale. Arman scarcely listened. The music tittered to a halt while the musicians accepted their own drinks and took a minute's rest. When Alea bid him a breathless farewell he only smiled and wished her a good night. Veredy returned to perch on Arman's knee and introduce herself to Kam's admirer. Arman rubbed a hand down her back. I have thought about this enough, I have made every excuse I could and Ver has been patient through everything.

  “Do you want to stay later?” Veredy smiled down at him.

  “I'd like to walk. I have something I want to talk to you about.”

  One brow rose. “The air would be nice, I suppose.” She slid off his legs and he rose to grab their cloaks.

  The streets were quiet compared to the din of the tavern. Arman slid an arm around her easily. “It seems Kam has found his latest lover. I'd worry about a dalliance with someone in the Guild.”

  Veredy laughed. “Well, she seems as much a handful as he, albeit in a different way. Perhaps she'll settle him a bit. Fates know he could use it.” She leaned her head against Arman's shoulder with a sigh. “It is such a journey, to see all of us change and grow. Kam has only gained confidence – perhaps too much – and Wes is now open about his choice of lover. Even Alea has changed in the month she's been here.”

  Arman realized it had been almost a month and shook his head. It seemed like everything had changed in those several weeks. “What about me?”

  “Conceited are you?” Her grin lent warmth to the gentle barb. “You went from violent boy to brooding man within a few days. I think only lately have you
begun to understand that you cannot fix everything.”

  “That is in part why I wanted to talk to you.” He let the statement hang in the air for several moments while he gathered his thoughts. The cold and walking had certainly cleared any alcohol from his mind, but his nerves helped little. “You are strong, and have a clear head when I get lost in my thoughts. You keep me centered. Fates know you're familiar enough with my moods.

  “Ma no longer needs me about the inn as much, and Wes said the rooms beside his are empty now.”

  Veredy stopped and pulled away. She took his hands and peered into his face. Her expression was puzzled, but a smile curled one corner of her mouth. “What are you saying, Arman?”

  He swallowed hard and squeezed her hands. Suddenly cold slammed into him. It shook his bones and clenched his gut. His breath stopped in his chest and he fell to his knees. The sensation swept through him, only to be erased by burning heat. Blood filled his mouth, hot and sweet. His jaw ached. He could hear his own groans faintly, like they were another's. Veredy shook his shoulders, but he could not hear her words. His vision was dim and he focused only on his fingers clenching on the cold cobbles. The screaming in his ears was not his. It was Alea's. He staggered to his feet. “I'm sorry, Veredy. I have to go.” The words tore from his throat. He stumbled into a jog then an outright run, leaving her to stare, incredulous, behind him.

  Φ

  The crisp air burned refreshingly in Alea's lungs as she made her way along the quiet street. It was close to midnight, but many lanterns still glowed in the surrounding houses. Dancing had been more fun than she would have ever expected, and dancing with Wes was safe. Even if she and Ahren had only loved each other as friends, the wound from his loss was too raw for her to consider any romance. Though it was cold, she was enjoying her new freedom. The city was peaceful, open for her exploration. She trailed her fingers along the cool stone of a cobbler's shop, humming the last dancing tune absently. Perhaps I'll have Arman show me the gardens soon. Though perhaps they're all brown in the winter.

  The sound of boots as she passed an alley made her turn. The street was as deserted as before. “Hello?” The sound of metal against leather made the small hairs on the back of her neck rise. “Who's there?”

  Two men emerged across the narrow street. They were dressed in dark clothes. Alea was certain the scarves over their faces were not to protect from the cold. They were still a few paces away. She stepped back until she felt the wall behind her. Whirling, she dashed towards a larger street several buildings down. She collided with the hard chest of a third man as he stepped from behind a workshop. His hand clamped over her mouth as she tried to pull away.

  She bit down hard and skittered away when he let go with a curse. “Help!” She pitched her voice to carry, something Merahn had done when she wanted her way. A fourth man had arrived. Their clothes were unmarked, and she was certain their eyes were Vielronan green. “I will not have her on my cart.... you endangered the city bringing them back.” Tomas' words echoed in her head. They are fearful enough to attack me? Drive me out? She wondered what she would have done to save her own city. She understood them. She watched them advance, frozen with indecision. Perhaps they just wanted to frighten her. “Please, I know you're scared. I don't mean to threaten your city. Let me go and I'll leave. I promise.” She hated the fear in her voice.

  “We can't afford that, girl. You get out, so does word that those women were here.” The speaker drew his dagger. It was a curved, wicked looking thing, and Alea realized she had seen it at Arman's stall.

  Strange, what one thinks of when they're about to die. They intended to kill her, and her skills at hand-combat were serviceable, but not against four men armed with blades. Suddenly another man burst onto the street. His run was frantic and she barely recognized his features behind the snarl that twisted his face. He threw himself blindly onto the closest man. Surprise froze the others only for a moment. Arman landed a blow to his opponent's temple and slammed the palm of his hand upward into his nose, driving bone and cartilage back. He whirled to face the next man. His arm came up to block, but he was too slow. The attacker's fist landed on Arman's chest. He staggered, but rushed forward, fists raised. His steps faltered and he stopped, staring in confusion at the deep stain growing on his shirt. “Dammit.” His knees gave out and he fell face down in a culvert.

  Alea stared. She knew she should have run at the diversion, knew she should have used the surprise of Arman's attack to overpower one of the men. Instead she was still frozen in place. Arman shuddered once in the gutter, then lay still. A darkness churned in her mind. It was angry and roiling. It was despair. It was the loss of something as familiar as her soul. The world trundled past without knowing, without seeing the force building inside.

  Now that darkness grew. She had spent weeks wishing to die, but this was different. It was anger. It was hate. And hate gave her something to live for. They are monsters.

  Φ

  The ground hit Arman like a second blow. He gasped, but gutter water rushed in instead of air. He could taste the slime from the butcher's lard tub and the manure from the gardens. His whole body burned, except for his left arm and shoulder. Those he could not feel at all. He was dimly aware that the water running away from his body was awfully dark. He stabbed me. That's my blood. He felt bile rise at the thought of dying in a gutter. Muscles convulsed, but he did not know if it was from fear or shock.

  “Alea.” His voice was nothing more than a gurgle. He expected to see her dead, to see an empty street. Alea was pressed against the wall. “Stop,” she whispered. Suddenly her features relaxed and she forced herself up. When her eyes swiveled to the tall man they hardened. Her hands went up and she spoke again, clearer. “Stop!”

  One man rushed forward, blade raised, and Arman's world exploded into darkness. It was not unconsciousness that wrapped around him, however, but roiling black fog. Fighting broke out and he heard a shout, pounding feet, then silence. She's gone. They've taken her.

  A gentle hand brushed dirt from his face. He was rolled over and the scummer cleaned from his nose and mouth with careful fingers. “I won't let you die in a gutter, Arman.” Alea's voice was different, and he blinked his vision clear to look at her.

  She crouched above him, her expression calm. Her gray eyes had darkened to silver-black, glowing in the dark, like an animal's. Black veins marbled her skin. He glanced over at the street. The men lay there, black fog drifting from their open mouths where it had choked them. Alea turned his face to her again. “You're safe.” Her palm pressed against his wound, achingly cold. He groaned and he felt his stomach roll at the pain. It felt like ice crystals were growing in his chest. Then suddenly it was over. Alea sat back on her heels. Blackness streamed back into her, twisting under her skin before disappearing. Her eyes lightened to gray again and rolled back. She gasped once, then fell.

  He reached out, but stopped short of touching her. He could see her quick breaths misting in the cold air. The Laen have the wrong woman. It was his last thought before shock drove his mind from consciousness.

  Φ

  The 37th day of Valemord, 1251

  Blood and muck dripped across the floor of the Ruby Cockerel. Arman scarcely noticed. Kam caught him as he sagged against the banister. Wes banged in after them, Alea cradled in his arms. Arman glanced over. “Hush or you'll wake my mother.”

  Wes looked thoroughly chastised. “Where is her room?”

  “Last on the right. Below mine.” He glanced at Veredy, who was standing silently by the door. “Can you go with him, get her cleaned up?”

  She wordlessly followed the smith upstairs, leaving Kam and Arman in the common room.

  “Arman.” Kam's voice was low.

  Arman went to hang his cloak, only to realize it was ruined. He bundled it into the hearth. His movements were emotionless, his face blank.

  “Arman.” The word was closer to a bark. Kam pushed the taller man down into a chair by the sputtering fire. “S
it.”

  Arman slumped, watching the damp, brown wool burn. “There's ale if you want.”

  Kam's words were strangled. “We find you both unconscious, covered in blood, and you offer me a drink? Like its midwinter and I'm selling chestnuts?” He made a disgusted noise and stomped off into the kitchen. He returned with two thumb-glasses and a bottle of tar-whiskey. He drained his glass twice before finally sitting back. “Tell me what happened.”

  “I can't.”

  “You can't or you won't?”

  “I won't because I can't. I don't know what happened, Kam. I don't understand it.” Arman frowned. “How did you know to come?”

  “Veredy. She said you were talking, then you went a bit mad. You ran off. She came to get us and we found you.” Kam handed him a glass.

  Arman stared at it, but did not drink. His body should have been shaking, he should have been frozen halfway to death. Instead his skin itched and his chest burned. His stomach was clenched with nausea. Do I really not understand it, or am I simply refusing to admit what I saw.

  “Whose blood is that?”

  “Mine.”

  Kam stared at him. “What?”

  “I said mine. Kam, I appreciate the concern, but I can't handle your questions right now.” Arman sank his head into his hands. Exhaustion was creeping in. Perhaps if he slept everything would be clearer.

  “What about mine?” Veredy stood at the bottom of the stairs, Wes just behind her.

  Arman looked away from the hurt in her eyes. “Ver, I'm sorry, but no.” He stood shakily. Leaving his drink untouched on the table, he made his way to the stairs. He ran a finger down Veredy's cheek. “Thank you for coming.” He waited while they filed out, then stumbled up the stairs to his bedroom. He stripped off his ruined clothes and washed the blood from his body. The wash water was cold, but it soothed his fevered body. At his shoulder, he paused. The mirror by his door was small, but he angled it down. There was no wound, only smooth, red scar tissue. His breath hitched. It was the shape of a handprint.