Smoke and Rain

by V. Holmes

  “Milady, sit down.” Arman kept his exasperation in check. He pulled a cushion up for her. “And for fates' sakes, stay put.” He unwrapped the strip of meat he had bought on their way back, spitting it over the fire.

  Alea sat, then flopped onto her back and stared at the sky.

  Bren watched incredulously. “Arman, tell me I am very much mistaken in thinking my sister—the Dhoah’ Laen—is tossed.”

  “Wish I could.” Arman glanced over at her, watching her eyes roam over the stars. A smile twitched his mouth. “She had a hard day. I think she thought the numbness of alcohol is learned in one night.”

  Bren leaned forward with a wicked grin, “Sistermine, I’ve never seen a traditional Sunamen dance.”

  Alea sat up excitedly, but Arman put a firm hand on her leg. He glared at Bren. “Be nice.”

  Bren shrugged good-naturedly. “So, how do you feel?”

  “It tasted like fire and...ugh.” She shuddered.

  Arman laughed and after a minute handed her the meat. “Careful.” He watched her eat. “You’re lucky, milady. The first time I drank was with Kam and Wes. I think I drank my purse empty.”

  “You think?”

  “Well I don’t remember and couldn’t find it the next day.”

  She offered him her half-finished dinner. “I think I’m done with this.”

  Arman handed it to Bren. “I’ll get you into bed. Dawn will come too early.”

  When she stood her vision tunneled and the blood roared in her ears. She stumbled with a yelp and caught herself on Arman’s outstretched hand.

  Bren laughed. “Hurry, Toar knows which of her powers comes out with alcohol. Three coppers it’s not Creation.”

  “Five it is!” Alea shot over her shoulder as Arman half-ushered, half-carried her through the makeshift flap that separated her bedroll from theirs. She tugged off her boots before dropping her bloodstained jerkin and overskirt on the chest beside them.

  He handed her a dry cloth for her rain-soaked hair and wrapped a blanket over her shoulders. “I’m sorry I yelled at you.” He helped her slide into the bedroll on her cot. He pressed a hand to her shoulder and turned to go.

  “Arman?”

  He glanced back.

  “Can you stay until I fall asleep?”

  He sat at the foot of her cot and leaned back against the wall. She curled onto her side and rested her head in his lap.

  “Why were you scared?”

  “What you did tonight is unlike the Lyne’alea in my head. You are stronger and wiser than she, and I never expected her to drink to forget.” He sighed. “I forget that you’re human, sometimes. If you’re just a title, just a figure in a legend, you cannot drift somewhere I can’t reach, somewhere where I can’t protect you. Why did you need to forget?”

  “Guffe has me do more to help, asks me to tend the worse wounds. I’ve not seen violence like this since Cehn. I held a man’s hand as he passed today. I had not tended a stomach wound before. It brought the horror back.” She glanced up at him, “I never told you, but I was about to marry my foster-father’s second eldest son, Ahren.”

  Arman looked down. “What was he like?”

  “Kind. He would have made a good husband. We were friends.” She paused. “I saw him gutted. His last act was to cut down the man attacking me, while holding—” her breath hitched “—holding everything from spilling out through the wounds in his stomach.”

  Arman rubbed his thumb over her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

  “I had forgotten the details until today. I loved him. Not romantically, perhaps, but it was love.” She took Arman’s hand, pressing it to her brow. “Promise me something?”

  “Of course.”

  “Promise me you’ll be my friend—not just my guard. My mind won’t make it through this without a friend.”

  “Promise.” He was silent for a moment. “I don’t think I would have gone.”

  She hummed questioningly at him.

  “Home, I mean. Even if you stayed in Ceir Athrolan.”

  Her eyes fluttered open to look at him. “You were so sure you wanted to go.”

  “Wanted to, sure. It was desperation, though. Veredy said there was no place for me there, and I fear that. But I would not have chosen this path if I wasn’t certain I could see it through.”

  “You only chose to ride with me.”

  “Actually, that’s not true.”

  She turned to look at him, forcing her eyes to focus. This was important. “But my mother—”

  “Forced me to do nothing. She asked. She asked and I agreed. It was a choice. You are wonderful and powerful and precious and I chose to protect that.”

  There was nothing to say to that. That he had chosen this was more terrible in her mind than being forced. The trust and faith that choosing her took was terrifying. She buried her face against his hand and closed her eyes. She would take care of them. If nothing else, she would make his choice worthwhile.

  Φ

  The 9th Day of Llume, 1252

  Bren slumped against one of the reinforced banks, not caring that he was as damp as if he had swum in the river. He had relieved Arman an hour before, more out of force than need. The Vielronan man’s stamina and devotion bordered on eerie. Had it not been so useful, Bren would have been nervous. He pulled the amulet from under his tunic, staring.

  “Ey! Barrackborn!” The shout drifted along the barricade. “Guard change on the edge of the Vale camp.”

  Bren pressed the charm to his lips before rushing after the others. They took full advantage of the confusion of guard-change. Bren crouched at the foot of the ladder that led up and over the barriers. A volley flew overhead, allowing the Athrolani to surge over the embankment with less danger. Bren skidded down the rough wood and onto the partially submerged rocks and sandbags in this shallower stretch of river. He lifted his sword with a growl as they smashed into the Vale guards. The enemy camp responded, soldiers rushing to defend. Within minutes, bodies were underfoot and blood covered weapons and armor. The fighting pushed into the river, half the wounded drowning before injuries claimed their lives. Bren shoved a man down and thrust his blade into another when the call for retreat sounded. He stumbled back when a hand gripped his booted ankle in a vise grip.

  “Lieutenant?”

  He glanced down to see a pale face and bright red hair under the helm. “Doric?” Bren lifted the man’s shoulders from the water. He had hoped to never see the men he led under Azirik. Now one of his best lay at his feet. Bren could very well have put him there.

  “You defected?”

  “You would never believe the story.”

  “You could have let us come with you.” Blood leaked from the young man’s mouth, smearing on his freckled cheek.

  Bren ignored the shout for him to get behind the embankment. “You would have been killed, Doric.”

  “I have been anyways.” He winced. “Get out of here. My men will come get me.” He shoved himself away from his former officer, dragging himself up on a rock.

  Bren stumbled to safety, but he watched from behind the shield of the barricade, cursing his luck. Doric had followed Bren as if he was a hero. Though irritating, the earnest boy had a quick humor that grew on Bren. He deserved better than this. Better than death by a treacherous officer he worshiped. He could have told himself the boy’s wound was not from his sword, but it would be a lie. He felt sick, cowardly as he waited for the Miriken to retrieve their wounded and dead. It was stupid to wish he could have brought the boy back. He would face torture here, be a prisoner if he lived at all. He deserves to die a battle death.

  When Doric was finally hauled out of the water, his brown eyes were empty and Bren turned away. He knew how soldiers were buried during war, with their brothers-in-arms. There would be a short ceremony, maybe a call for silence, or a salute.

  At the campfire, Bren avoided Alea’s questioning look. His personal pack rested at the head of his bedroll and he drew it over. Tucked in the front
pouch was a battered and tarnished brass disk along with a small jar. He laid the disk on his bedroll and poured a dollop of the dark, oily contents of the jar onto the brass. He made a small slice on his forearm; as blood dripped into the oil, Bren began to whisper.

  “From the earth of your land, from the oil of your temples, from my blood, I beg you to listen, Toar. I may not be a gods’ man any longer, but I do not pray for myself.” His words were soft, but he did not hear the divider between their beds rise and fall. “One of your soldiers passed today. Many did. This man, Wellir Doric, was young. He was a good man and tried to live a blessed life, as well as he was able. He does not deserve to roam without purpose, with only memories to haunt. Let him find peace in your halls.” He pressed his fist to his brow, then wiped the liquid from the disk with a cheap cloth before burning the fabric in his lantern.“Do you pray for all of us?” Arman leaned against the tent pole, his face unreadable. His arms were crossed.

  “There is no harm in asking for another to be put to rest.”

  “When you pray to those who wish your sister dead, I think there might. And you did not answer me.” Arman’s voice was low, but not angry.

  “I do not pray like this every night. I pray in my head. I ask for peace when our allies pass and touch the symbol around my neck. You have seen me do this.”

  “You just invoked the god of death. I think this is a bit different.”

  “Arman, today I killed someone I used to lead. A boy.”

  The fight left the Rakos’ body. “I find it difficult to imagine how you can support milady and still pray to the gods. But I understand your need for solace.”

  Bren looked down. “It’s a habit. They have never answered me. You never prayed?”

  Arman shrugged. “Not truly. Vielrona had all sorts, but we’ve always been a Laen city. My mother would often appeal to the fates, or our ancestors, but it was usually to make me mind.”

  “Now what do you worship?” Bren found it hard to imagine a life without faith.

  Arman’s mouth quirked, “I would think it would be obvious.” He jerked his head at the tent flap. “Alea is making supper. Join us.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The 23rd Day of Llume, 1252

  The Athrolani Camp at Fort Shadow

  A SOLDIER THUMPED DOWN onto the stool beside Alea with a sigh. “You’re the last person I expected to find here.”

  She glanced over and smiled. “Narier.” She gestured to the dirty bottles behind the counter. “Might I buy you something?”

  “Allow the Dhoah’ Laen to buy my drinks? There must be a law about that.”

  “If there is such a law, I could probably change it. And I only offered the one.”

  He snorted. “Blood-ale then, if you wish.”

  She ordered two then made a face. “Blood-ale? I’m trusting you, but it sounds atrocious. Please tell me it's from the color.”

  “Probably. We use juice now, I think. It comes from the Northlands, though, so all bets are off about what made it red originally.” He was a simple looking man, with fine features dotted with pockmarks.

  She eyed the deep red liquid curiously. “Does one sip this, or throw it down their throat?”

  “I’m of the school that no alcohol should be ‘thrown.’ That’s a sin. If it tastes like Toar’s arsehole, then it's your duty to appreciate every horrid burn.”

  Alea’s brows rose. “So if one were of the other schools, would they throw this?”

  He laughed. “No, I don’t suppose so.” He clinked his glass against hers, “To your health.”

  “And to yours.” The drink was served warm and burned like too-sweet honey as it slid down her throat. The nutty, bitter aftertaste rolled on her tongue. She smiled, eyes still narrowed. “I think I like your school better.”

  “You didn’t drink much before this?”

  “No. In Cehn we only used it for ceremonies, and it wasn’t strong or good enough for any casual purposes. I did try some Vielronan mead. And several nights ago I found myself tossing back something that smelled like a swamp. That neither began nor ended well.”

  Narier shook his head. “More accomplished than I had expected, milady, I’ll be honest. I forget you weren’t raised… you know.” His eyes flicked back to her and warmed. They were the rich brown of worn wood. “Scum-runner. The green drink you had.”

  She pretended to retch. “Fates, that’s one I don’t think I could ‘appreciate’ regardless.”

  “Shall I buy you another? Blood-ale, that is.” His grin was wicked.

  “I wouldn’t mind a hot cup of tea. Our camp ran out four days ago.”

  “I doubt you’ll find any here, but we’ve got some at the officers’ mess.”

  “Then might I walk you back? Or was your night just beginning?”

  “Just beginning, but I had few plans.” He rose and handed her cloak over. “Besides, finding tea for the Dhoah’ Laen is a worthy task.”

  The officers’ mess proved less grand than implied, but they had a heavy chest full of dry goods. He rummaged through it for several moments. “We’ve the traditional Athrolani bergamot, and some spicy thing that only Metters likes.” He held up a green tin triumphantly. “Ha! I can’t pronounce the name, which means it must be a fine blend.”

  Alea laughed. “Athrolani is fine.” She watched him put the kettle on the fire and ready two mugs. “Where are you from?”

  “Ceir Felden originally. My parents own a little sheepfold there. I was never one for the flocks, though. Luckily they had four boys before me, so my joining the army wasn’t much of a loss. It’s beautiful in a gray way. Much of the coast is. I don’t think I’d mind settling there, though. Maybe when I’m too bent to walk straight.” The kettle squealed and he shook his head ruefully. “Look at me, prattling on like a hen.” He poured her mug and handed it over. “We ran out of honey a week ago, I’m afraid.”

  “I prefer it this way.” She smiled, “It should be appreciated, even when bitter.” She stared into the tea thoughtfully. She missed conversation.

  “Are you still with me?”

  She nodded. “I was thinking how much I’ve missed talking to people. Arman and Bren worry about me too much to let their guard down.”

  “I’m far from tired. Would you like to talk?” Narier grimaced, “I suppose your guard will be worried for you.”

  “Arman’s got shift and Bren is wrapped around Reka.” Though the words sounded harsh she was not sure why. “I’d be happy to talk.”

  He smiled and raised his tent flap. “I promise to not mention sheep for the rest of the night.”

  She stepped in, peering curiously around. It was roughly the size of hers, but he was well used to the space and knew how to use every corner efficiently. A stack of missives lay forgotten in a pile on his desk. They were wilted from the rain and some had begun to grow mold.

  “So was Cehn very different?”

  “In many ways. It is odd how it’s not the obvious things, but the little things. How one combs one’s hair or expresses love. Those are the things I miss the most. It’s lonely, despite—or perhaps because of—what I am.”

  “You don’t seem like the Dhoah’ Laen right now. You seem like just a woman.”

  Alea’s chest ached at his words. She was suddenly human again, allowed to be afraid and happy and drunk. She glanced at his camp cot and at the tent flaps to the empty officer’s mess. “Would you mind if I stayed the night?”

  His eyes widened, following the path hers had taken. “With me, you mean? Here?”

  She looked away. This was a bad idea! “I’d like to be ‘just a woman’ for a little while longer.”

  His expression softened and he set down his tea. “Of course you can stay.” He stepped closer and reached out to brush her face. His touch was careful, but not fearful. He moved past her to roll down the thick tent liner over the inside of his door. When he returned, he was smiling, “May I call you Alea?”

  She smiled back, “I’d like tha
t.” She doffed her cloak and hung it beside his before turning back. He was unlacing his jerkin. She rested a hand on his. “Could I?” Her fingers hummed as she untied the leather. When she was done, her hands followed his movements as he unbuttoned the back of her dress. His hand was cool against her bare shoulder and she jumped.

  He paused. “Is this all right?”

  “Yes, just cold. I’m not used to this. But I like it.” Her words were a jumble, so she glanced back with a smile.

  Realization dawned on his face, “Oh, Alea, I didn’t know.” He continued unfastening the buttons with new focus. “We’ll take our time then.”

  It was not exactly as she had expected. The tent was cold and the air damp, but they burrowed under his blankets. She had expected the pain, but not the smiles and certainly not sharing laughs. Afterward, she lay on her side, blanket pulled over their heads for warmth. “This is much better than drowning my thoughts in drinks.”

  He laughed. “I would agree.” He cocked his head at her, “Though I could argue the drinks brought us here.” His tawny skin was peppered with dark hair.

  She gestured to her own pale skin. “Do I look like the Dhoah’ Laen now?”

  He pretended to examine her critically. “I’ve never seen one naked.”

  She flicked him. “Silly, you still never have.”

  He frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve seen me unclothed, but naked is different. Few people are ever seen naked.”

  “Ah, you mean the soul-bared honesty part.”

  She nodded. “In Cehn one was never seen naked by anyone, save for their spouse. I always thought they meant the clothes. Now, I think it was more likely the emotions. It was rare anyone was seen without masks in place.”

  “Do you think anyone will see you naked?”

  She shrugged. “I hope that is in my distant future.”

  “Well,” he pulled her closer, “In the meantime, I’m happy to see you unclothed.”

  Φ