by Lana Nielsen
“It’s nothing. You just remind me of her.” His eyes softened a bit.
“I do have one of those faces, and I have a lot of unaccounted relatives,” she said.
After a moment’s reflection, she gasped, “By Agron!”
“What?” The man asked, furrowing his black brows together.
“Fallon,” she said in a low voice. “I remember your eyes now.” She grinned involuntarily.
The man unfastened the ends of the cloth securing his hood, and confirmed her suspicion.
“I thought it was you all along,” Fallon said.
“I never thought I’d see you again, and especially not here. I figured you were dead or living in the Empire forevermore,” she babbled, overwhelmed by the coincidence.
It was not every day that one rediscovered a long-lost friend.
Fallon smiled sheepishly and looked down. Arithel stared at him, and declared, “You look very different, you know.”
He was somewhat handsome now, in a way. The gaunt and bony features of his youth had matured into a more refined looking countenance. His blue-green eyes were smaller and somewhat better proportioned. His nose was sharp and aquiline, his cheekbones high and well-defined, and his brows were thick, black, and perfectly straight. His frizzy, once ash-blond hair was now a deep brown hue, darkened to the extent that she wondered whether it had been dyed. The one characteristic he retained was a boyishly narrow and pointed chin.
“It has been nearly six years. You look different, too.”
“That might be because I’m dressed as a lad,” Arithel joked.
“That could be it,” he acknowledged, smiling. She found it funny that once he removed his outlandish clothing he seemed rather shy. He had trouble looking her in the eye.
“Tell me—why on Agron’s green earth are you parading around Neldor in the guise of an Ialorian sellsword?” Arithel asked.
“It’s easier that way.”
“Easier to get women in your lap?”
“No,” Fallon flushed. “Easier to travel alone, unencumbered. The same reason, I presume, you are clothed strangely right now.”
“Perhaps,” Arithel said, eating the last bite of trout on her plate.
“Plenty of folk might recognize the son of Lord Faldros Veselte.”
“Not in your current form, they wouldn’t.” Arithel winked boldly. “You aren’t the same skinny and cr—” she halted, recalling how much the term “cripple” had once irrationally upset him, “—sickly sixteen-year-old boy as when you left these lands. By Agron’s good grace, you’re healed.”
She looked him up and down with wonder and curiosity.
“Not by Agron’s grace,” Fallon muttered darkly.
“One would presume. It’s a figure of speech and—”
“A man named Morden healed me in Mt. Aerys,” he interrupted.
“How? It’s a miracle. I’m so glad I get to see my old friend once more, considering we didn’t part under the best circumstances.”
Their friendship had been strained in the few months before he left. When she heard he was seeking treatment in the West, she had run to his manor to see about him, only to find that he was leaving that very hour. She had barraged him with questions and well wishes, and he only replied, tight-lipped, “Farewell, Arithel,” as he was lifted into his carriage. He had stared, silent and hollow-eyed, for just a couple of seconds before he drew the curtains to the coach’s only window. He had sent no letters from wherever he had gone, and his parents had spoken of him little. In all honesty, she had not thought of him much since that day, beyond some warm memories of his family’s hall; the fine furniture, the ringing clocks, the velvet curtains, and rich feasts. It was as if he was simply part of the scenery of her childhood—there one day, gone the next.
She swallowed and avoided staring at his changed appearance too much. Who would have guessed that one day he’d return a normal man?
“It’s difficult to explain how he does it. I was barely conscious when I finally arrived in Nureen; I don’t remember much. One thing is certain, though. Morden is the greatest healer of this century, perhaps even this Age. He might also be the greatest military genius in all Linnea. I owe my life and more to him.” Fallon’s eyes were ablaze with a seemingly religious fervor.
“In any case, I’m grateful to see you back in your own country at last. Perhaps we could continue to catch up someplace else, where it’s not so noisy. I rented a room upstairs. It’s comfortable enough, though there is a leak or two.”
“We can go outside. It would be improper for me to go up to your room.” Fallon said.
“It’s not as if there is anyone here to judge.”
Fallon only shrugged, his eyes unblinking as he lit a long, curved pipe. The aroma was that of crushed poppies, not the emberweed leaves most Neldorins enjoyed.
The smoke thickened the air between them. Arithel coughed a bit and followed him outside. They stood together in the tavern’s muddy yard, beneath the low-hanging branches of an oak tree.
“Tell me what Nureen was like. You must have seen some things in your travels.”
“Where does one begin?” He laughed nervously.
“Doesn’t matter. You know I’ve never been anywhere.”
“Not much to tell, really,” he said. “The land is dry and old, marked by red cliffs that have been twisted into strange shapes by the wind, and the ruins of pyramids. But it’s not barren; canals keep the farms lush, and succulent gardens abound with any fruit or flower you can imagine. There is a hot bath in every home, too, filled by pipes carrying water down from the mountains. The capital city, Mt. Aerys, is incomparable. Iron walls surround it, palms line the streets, and the domes of the palaces are capped with lapis and gold. The temple, too, is gilt and shining, so tall its bell tower is sometimes shrouded by clouds.”
Arithel stepped back and breathed wistfully, trying to picture such an exotic place.
“Don’t be fooled.” Fallon’s eyes darkened. “All that beauty was created long ago. There won’t be any left soon. Most of the countryside has been stripped bare. Refuse runs through the rivers and streams. The Nureenians have become a corrupt people who hate any kind of work aside from soldiering. That’s why their borders keep expanding—they need workers, they need business, they need slaves. Court is ridiculous, filled with thugs and schemers. Back-stabbing is the national sport. Since the revolution, money-lenders and fanatic two-faced priests rule the roost. Tiresias has men hanged on a whim and enjoys leaving their bodies in the streets for weeks to rot. He’s a low-born tyrant, an usurper.”
“Many on the continent would agree,” she muttered.
Truth was, there had to be some good in a man who managed to rise from cobbler to Emperor—nobody would have followed him otherwise. Had anything like his story ever happened before? Not since the days of Agron eight hundred years ago. That is if Agron had actually existed.
“I’ve actually spent the past two years in Paden, at King Wulfdane’s court in Staska. I followed Morden when he was unjustly cast out of Mt. Aerys.”
“Is that so? Why would such a great healer get cast out?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I clearly have time.”
Fallon silently drew smoke into his mouth, staring up at the starless sky.
“How was Paden?” Arithel asked.
“Paden is a beautiful land, set amidst dramatically high snow-covered mountains. The people are warm, hospitable, and hardy—everything that Nureenians are not. Their court is steeped in admirable and ancient traditions, even if their capital is humble. In short, they are a Northern people with a Northern spirit—like us.”
“What?” Arithel laughed at the comparison. “They still cling to the old gods.”
“Aye, that they do. They prefer to call them the true gods, though. To them, Agron is a false prophet.”
“I see,” Arithel said, glancing about to ensure that no one had heard him. “Since you speak so fondly of it, you must h
ave found something of a home there. Does your allegiance now lie with Paden?”
“No,” Fallon said. “My allegiance lies with Morden, first, and the Southwestern Marches of Neldor, my birthright, second.”
Arithel lifted an eyebrow, intrigued by all these new developments.
”Why’d you come back?” she whispered as she glanced up at him.
“My sister is getting married in a week.”
“Oh.”
“I figured you already knew that.”
“I haven’t been home in some time.”
“Where have you been, Arithel?”
“Northglade. I clerked for a tax collector. Very fascinating work,” she quipped, bringing the slightest of smiles to his lips.
“How long had you been in the capital?”
“Three years.”
“Ah. You left because of Ronan.”
“How did you know that?”
“Corinne is wedding him, and he left for the military three years ago. It only follows.”
Arithel was dumbstruck.
“How the hell is Ronan marrying your sister?”
Ronan was nothing more than a butcher’s son—not quite a peasant, but certainly of lower standing than she. Yet, he was now somehow worthy of a noblewoman, a Veselte bride?
“The world is changing,” Fallon admitted with a shrug. “Father must craft new alliances to make sure our affairs are in order. Ronan has become a favorite of Commander Arderon,” he said, referring to one of the highest-ranking generals in Neldor. “Since he saved the commander’s son from pirates a few months ago. You could almost say Ronan is becoming a pretty important fellow now—at least militarily.”
“It’s absurd, but I’m not surprised. Ronan has always had unusually good luck,” Arithel said in a slightly defeated voice.
“I’ll say.” Fallon met her gaze directly for the first time. Her face burned with the implication.
Fallon walked towards her assuredly, looking like he was about to kiss her. She was not yet particularly attracted to her old friend, but it had been so long since she felt anything that she would certainly not protest.
Instead he briskly grabbed the leather thongs of her necklace. She stumbled in surprise. He pulled her necklace from beneath her shift and eyed the round smooth ornament that had come from the changeling woman.
The creature’s gelatinous eyes flashed in Arithel’s head. She tried to blink away the image, but she felt as if she were there again, back in the Yavenwood glade with Ronan under the eerie light of the red Beltane moon. What have we done? What have we done? he had howled, shaking uncontrollably as the thing drew its last breaths and morphed from a clawed, silver-skinned wraith into a normal, albeit emaciated, human woman. My son. My son, she had shakily whispered through waxy, bloodstained lips. Ronan cast his knife before Arithel’s feet, wildly charging that it was her fault. The woman lay still, and began to glow again, light emanating from the hollow between her collarbones, right below her throat. Arithel had taken up the knife, desperate to prove to Ronan that the monster they had seen in the shadows was still there. She dug the blade into flesh, and wrested out a stone of clouded glass. It stopped glowing as soon as soon as Arithel touched it. Just an ordinary stone, no different in size or texture from a marble. Ronan cursed her and compared her to Tifalla, the keeper of the otherworld, and all her devils. He had even invoked the most awful oath he could, calling out the name of Marduk, Lord of Death, King of Hell, Devourer of Souls. Spinning on a heel, he tore through the trees, leaving Arithel alone with the body.
That was the last she had seen of him.
“Where did you get this?” Fallon asked, interrupting her memories.
“I found it in a dried creek,” she lied.
“It’s unusual,” he said simply, turning the stone to examine it. His behavior unnerved her.
“It’s getting a bit chilly now,” she remarked. “I’m headed to bed. I’ll see you in the morn, I hope.”
“Certainly,” he said.
She walked away.
“Arithel, wait,” he called.
“Yeah?”
“How are you getting back to Portreath?”
“Walking,” she answered softly.
“You’ll ride with me. I’m leaving shortly after dawn.”
Chapter Three
Glorun walked beside her sister-in-law, the queen consort Malina.
“What does Morden call this place? It’s incredible,” Glorun asked as they descended the twisting stairs that led to the ruins under the mountains. The stairs themselves were remarkable—hewn from the roots of the mountain, each step plated with a kind of metal that was like silver, yet bluer and harder. Glowing gems were set into the rocks, illuminating their way.
“The city of the gods,” Malina said as she rested her hands upon her swollen belly. “They revealed this place to Morden in a vision.”
“I can’t believe this place has been lying under our noses this entire time. If we dig deeper, maybe we will find people living and working down here, not knowing anything else.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Glorun.” Malina clucked.
Glorun didn’t know why Malina laughed. Little men under the mountains wouldn’t be any more incredible than the city of ruins itself. The slaves hadn’t finished the excavations, but they had dug out several chambers off the main path and behemoths of stone and metal were taking shape. There were great statues of warriors and scholars and queens, taller than castles, more detailed and life-like than even Nureenian sculpture. They were all unique, made from different materials—crystal, iron, granite, something like amber but more rugged. Some had windows and doors, lined with strange silver runes, as if people had once lived inside the statues.
It was funny. When Morden had first announced excavations were to take place, everyone assumed he was only referring to the old stone pillars in the middle of the ravine between Mt. Volkura and Mt. Hrantharan.
“If I had it my own way, you’d have been shipped off to some Agronian convent already. You are lucky Wulfdane is fond of you,” Malina said.
Glorun had no idea why Malina always started with her. Ever since she had turned thirteen, it had been incessant. Glorun was no threat to Malina’s position. The only explanation was that Malina was jealous of Glorun’s beauty. After all, the Queen was plain, with dull eyes, a sallow complexion, and mousy hair. Glorun had hair like flax, eyes like a stormy sea, and skin like fresh snow, its purity marred only by the rose of her cheeks.
“You’d have me blaspheme our gods and our people?” Glorun said.
“Would it even be blasphemy for you, princess? Perhaps you are already a traitor—like your dear Meldane,” Malina murmured even as she smiled at a passing slave.
“You watch your tongue, Queen consort,” Glorun shot.
“Don’t think I don’t know that you tried to help Meldane’s Nureenian woman and her spies escape. I have no proof, but I know. I could see it in your eyes at the trial,” Malina hissed.
Their conversation was interrupted when Morden, Wulfdane, and Nils, one of her brother’s favorite warriors, greeted them. They were at the bottom of the staircase, standing in an empty, seemingly boundless cavern. There was a free-standing door in the middle of the chamber, made of a thin sheet of rose-colored quartz. Morden stood on the other side, his figure distorted by hazy glass.
“One day this door will be opened. The otherworld and our world will be as one...” Morden said, stepping out from behind it.
Wulfdane was beaming with pride as Morden spoke. He skipped around the door.
“I summoned you because I wanted to show you our latest finding. A bestiary.” Wulfdane addressed Malina and pecked the top of her hand.
Malina looked more appalled than impressed. “It was a long walk.” She touched her belly again. “But I am pleased you wish to share your accomplishments with me.”
Wulfdane giddily placed his hands over the bulge beneath her yellow kirtle. He leaned closer and whispered
to the unborn child.
“My prince, let us show you the new world you can expect to rule.”
Morden led them to a break in the rocks. They squeezed through the crevice and walked down a dark and narrow tunnel until they reached another cavern, this one about the size of Staska’s Great Hall.
A lamp hung from the roof of the cave and there were several glass panels inlaid into the walls. Beyond the glass were cells holding all manner of strange beings. The creatures were either sleeping or dead, floating in their chambers as if they were suspended in water.
Morden urged them all to veer closer to the cells. Malina prayed the whole time. Glorun heard her complain that this was not a good place for an expectant mother.
Morden described some of the creatures as they circled the chamber.
“A Dasolik.” He pointed at a great black lizard, with mangy feathers clinging to its leathery hide and a single, protruding red eye that took up half its face. It had claws as long as a man’s head, feet like a bird’s, and teeth too big for its lopsided mouth.
“It can rip flesh from bone in a matter of seconds,” Morden said. “They smell blood from two miles away. They’re like vultures; they eat the dead.”
Nils rapped on the glass, stupidly trying to get the creature to stir. Nothing, though there were some ripples in the clear, gelatinous substance the beast was trapped in.
“A Baranchuk,” Morden introduced the next monster. “Ten feet tall, nearly a thousand pounds, capable of squishing brains between its fingers.”
It was an ugly, misshapen mass of a man, with an extra set of arms sprouting from its ribs and fangs projecting from its lower jaw. Blue veins and red muscle fibres were visible beneath its taut, translucent skin, along with odd, pulsating purple growths that contained some dark swirling substance.
Malina covered her mouth and nearly retched upon sight of it. She retreated to the stairs, refusing to continue the strange tour.
“It looks like a troll but with thinner skin,” Glorun observed.
“Yes, sweet sister. Morden made that comparison himself,” Wulfdane smiled and smoothed her hair.