by Lana Nielsen
Even in the castle, the earth briefly swayed beneath them. It was a short quake, and the only damage was a candelabra tipping over and clattering atop the flagstones.
Glorun pricked her finger. She sucked on it to draw out the blood.
“My goodness. That is the seventh aftershock in two days. Volkura may awaken again soon,” Selka said, referring to the mountain god.
“It may have something to do with Morden’s projects,” Glorun stated, wondering if there was a better way to describe his many peculiar endeavors. “He is disrupting something in the earth by digging so deep. The mountains had not spoken in years until he tried to find the gate to the otherworld. And now the excavations…”
“You shouldn’t blame Morden. He is all we have. There is purpose behind all he does. If it weren’t for him riding into Staska two years ago, we’d already have been overrun by hordes of those vile southrons and their usurper king.” Selka refused to mention the names of either Nureen or Tiresias. It was understandable; her first husband had been killed fighting them.
“That is true,” Glorun admitted. “My brother was a poor ruler until Morden came along.”
Selka’s eyes widened at such a bold statement, but she nodded silently in agreement.
“Think of this, Glorun, since you seem uncertain of Morden’s methods.” Selka put her needlework into her lap. “Perhaps he failed to open the door between worlds as was prophesized. But—” she emphasized. “—his attempt did cause Volkura to spew ash and soot into the sky for ninety days straight. As a result, clouds and mist have shrouded the sun for nearly a year. We northern folk are used to long winters, but the southerners are not. In fact, the usurper even uses a golden sun on his standards. Is this all just some coincidence, Princess?”
“I suppose it is not. The gods must be pleased,” Glorun said.
“Of course, they are. We alone have remained true to their memory. They see all things. When the night is long enough, they will return to us. In the meantime, they have sent Morden to do their bidding, to prepare us.”
“How would you know?” Glorun asked softly as she looped one of her silver threads into a five-pointed star. She had heard many praises to Morden, but she had never heard him called a messenger for the gods.
Selka cracked a wide smile. “Because women, highborn and lowborn, fling themselves at his feet, yet he refuses them all. That, dear Glorun, must be a holy man.”
***
Arithel and Fallon headed due south, through open woodlands towards the Neldorin border. It was a two day journey and they intended to stop at the town of Lindelwood. There they could purchase supplies for the road and rent a room for the night at an inn. They wouldn’t arrive until several hours past dusk, but the other three villages they passed along the route were small and rustic, consisting of just three or four hovels surrounded by cow pens and vegetable patches.
The terrain became progressively hillier as they edged away from the Black River. The border was marked by a physical boundary of low mountains shaped like rugged table-tops. They were supposedly the oldest mountains on the continent and thus were called the ‘Old Ones’ by the folk of the borderlands. On a clear day, one could make out their shadows on the horizon all the way from Portreath.
The two of them rode together on Fallon’s horse, Madroste. Arithel found it fitting that the red-brown mare was given the name of the earth goddess from the old days, as her hide was the color of the Neldorin soil.
She found it strange to wrap her arms around her friend’s torso for hours. She expected that riding two to a saddle would make her inner thighs even more sore than they had been after the journey into Portreath. She mostly thought of Anoria as they rode. Thirst for blood and vengeance rose in her chest. She felt not even the slightest inkling of guilt for stabbing the blond raider. The image of him curled on the ground bleeding pleased her.
She briefly rested her head upon Fallon’s shoulder. It didn’t seem to bother him.
“You never told me what you’re collecting in Aelfelm,” Arithel said.
He glanced back at her. “The content is secret.”
Her eyes grew wide with curiosity. He elaborated, “I’m supposed to receive further correspondence when I arrive in Aelfelm.”
“Instructions?” she asked.
“Of a sort, yes. I suppose you could think of it as more of an errand than a package.”
“An errand that spans a thousand miles and many months of travel?”
“Is it so difficult to consider? My employer can trust few people. It is no surprise that my travels are extensive.”
“All right, all right. I won’t ask any more questions. I was only teasing. Well, halfway, at least.”
With a bit of a glare, he said, “You’re in remarkably good spirits, considering everything.”
“I’ve got to keep my wits about me somehow,” she answered.
They arrived at the gates of Lindelwood soon after. Like many border towns, it was heavily fortified. Barbs protruded from the city walls. The wall had probably been there for generations; the wood was rotting and rust coated the metal parts of the gate.
“What business have ye here?” the one-eyed gatekeeper asked.
Fallon displayed the Veselte insignia on his ring. The sentinel squinted and held his torch dangerously close in order to see the dragon engraving with a tiny emerald eye.
“My father is the Lord of Darothmere, to the northwest of here,” Fallon said hastily as the man continued to examine the ring.
“Lindelwood lies directly on the border of the southern marches, not the southwestern. Gwendole the Mayor is our protector, not Veselte, the Lord. This city belongs to neither Neldor nor Elinmoor.”
Fallon rolled his eyes. “I know that. Are you suggesting I’m not welcome within your walls?” he asked.
“Oh, sure ye are, if ye pay yer fee like every other miserable tramp.” The man cackled, revealing several missing teeth. As Fallon opened his purse, Arithel heard him mutter something to the effect of “nobility means little these days.”
***
Lindelwood was the most depressing place Arithel had ever seen. Animal dung lay festering everywhere and many of the villagers walked barefoot atop it. Idle children loitered in the streets with their toys while pigs ran freely between them, nibbling at rotten apple cores and other bits of trash. The buildings were all dilapidated and squatters had set up rickety lean-tos and tents on every available unclaimed space. Even the courthouse was in sorry shape, with long trails of mildew staining its brick walls.
“The closer you get to Elinmoor, the worse it stinks,” Fallon declared.
“Aye. To think I believed the famine must be the worst in Northglade.”
“These folk aren’t this way because of famine. There is a contract to supply plenty of grain here. These folk are simply uncivilized because of their Elinmoorian blood.”
“They do live in squalor.” Arithel eyed her surroundings again. The torches on street corners cast eerie shadows over the drab townsfolk.
Fallon leapt off Madroste near the entrance of the inn. He offered his hand to aid her dismount, but she refused. She helped Fallon unharness his heavy traveling pack. The horse neighed with appreciation when the weight was removed.
Fallon told Arithel to purchase a room for them while he found a place for Madroste in the stables. She cautiously entered the tavern. Its door was thin and sorry, lacking even the basic necessity of a knob or knocker. The floor on the inside consisted of pressed dirt covered with a thin layer of rushes that reeked of old drink and decaying food.
The tavern was quiet. Emberweed smoke thickened the warm air. Only a few men sat at the bar and they all glared at her with impunity. Unlike Neldorin men who kept their faces clean in the Nureenian style, these wild half-Elinmoorians sported full, disheveled beards that looked to be coated with weeks of old crumbs and spittle. She wondered whether they spoke with the same slurred accent as the raiders. A whore near the counter grinned, reminding
Arithel of a hungry cat.
“Miss? You all right? You’ve been starin’ into space for a full minute or two,” the tavern keeper said as he wiped off his skillet with a faded brown rag.
“I’m fine,” Arithel answered, her gaze once again wandering towards the outlandish appearance of the Elinmoorian men. “I’d like a room a room for the night. For my husband and I,” she lied, fearing the savagery of these border ruffians. Her mind flashed back to the terrible scene of Anoria’s skirts being pulled up, her white legs squirming helplessly about.
“All right, one room for the Neldorin lass. That’ll be four bronze cuplets,” the tavern keeper said. She handed over the monies.
“An honest price,” she remarked.
“Aye, we’ve heard some news from the North, and it ain’t pretty. We’ve heard of babes starvin’ cuz they mum’s milk ran dry, disorder and mayhem overtakin’ all the cities.”
“It isn’t quite that bad,” Arithel declared. She was uncomfortable being the object of these people’s pity. “The severity depends on the region. The capital is miserable and Lochwynne worse. However, in Darothmere, their lord has provided handsomely for his subjects in spite of the famine. But thank you, certainly.”
“No problem, miss. It’s a pity yer people haven’t invited Tiresias in yet. Mayhap ye’d have more bread and cuplets were it not for your king and nobles in the way. Elinmoor and the bordertowns have only grown better off under Nureen, y’know? As long as we pay our taxes, the Nureenian captains cavorting about are no issue. And the settlers—they keep to themselves.”
“Is that so?”
The tavern keeper gave her the key to her room. “Aye, miss. Maybe you could spread the word when ye go back north o’ the border, save your people a bunch of heartache? Ye Neldorins can’t stay isolated in yer shady forest forever.”
“Probably not, thanks to the trouble caused by Elinmoorian reivers…” Arithel muttered without thinking. The tavern keeper gave her a blank look. All show, she figured. This town surely served as a haven for raiders.
“I don’t want to talk politics.” He grinned through his bushy grey beard. “You ‘ave a good night, miss, I’ll keep an eye out for yer man.”
“Thank you. But I have one more question. What do you know about Altinsayah, down south? What is the quickest route to get there? How many people are taken there? Do you have any idea?” Arithel asked. The man’s grin disappeared. Several of the louts at the bar turned towards her with narrowed eyes and grim mouths.
“Stick yer nose to yer own business, ye greenie lass. All someone like you needs to know is that it ain’t a place you’d want to go,” a man with a long tawny mustache told her. He had an axe at his back. Arithel wondered if he was a slaver himself.
Fallon burst through the squeaky tavern door. A draft blew in and snuffed out a few of the candles burning on the dinner tables.
“Is there a problem afoot?” Fallon demanded pompously upon hearing the mustached fellow’s gruff words to Arithel.
“No,” she answered flatly as she fidgeted with the key to her room.
“Yer wife and I were simply discussin’ current affairs. No reason to worry, sir.”
“I see,” Fallon said. He cast an acerbic look in the general direction of the diners. “Come, Ari, time to retire.”
He grabbed hold of her wrist and pulled her upstairs behind him. Arithel was stunned by her old friend using even the mildest bit of force. She still couldn’t stop thinking of him as the knob-kneed cripple boy.
“Have a good night, ye two. I start servin’ breakfast at seven,” the tavern keeper called after them.
Arithel thrust the key through the lock. Fallon shut the door behind them. He seemed annoyed and whisked the key from her hand.
“What is your issue, Fallon?” Arithel said, trying and failing to snatch it back from him. She huffed and situated herself upon the moth-eaten pallet that was supposed to pass for a bed.
“What were you telling them? Other than the ridiculous lie that we are married, of course,” he asked, methodically pulling out the contents of his travel pack.
“I had to lie about that, I figured they might not leave me alone otherwise,” Arithel explained. “Sorry if it somehow offended you. I didn’t think you’d mind. It’s not as if it means anything.”
“It could. What if someone recognized the son of Lord Faldros? They’d spread word that I am married to some commoner. We aren’t quite out of Neldor.”
“I can assure you, Fallon, not a soul in Lindelwood is concerned about the affairs of the younger Veselte. Your duchy is Darothmere, the most insignificant and unpopulated of all the provinces, not known for anything other than lobster-fishing and frog-catching. These people don’t know who you are. Even if they did, I doubt they’d care,” Arithel said, bitterly deflecting the fact that he brought attention to her lower station. Nobles just couldn’t help themselves with that sort of talk. It was nothing personal, yet it irritated her nonetheless.
She thought of her conversation with the tavern keeper. Mayhap you’d have more, were it not for your nobles…
She frowned. The Veseltes treated her family well, but only because the Nicoses had done their bidding as bailiff for as long as anyone could remember.
“Maybe you’re right,” he conceded. “Even so, it’s still improper to share a bed like this, is it not?”
She lifted an eyebrow and laughed. “Why are you so concerned about virtue these days? This is the second time you’ve complained about impropriety. Are you planning to be a priest? Does Morden demand you stay upright?”
Fallon sat on the mattress beside her after he prepared and lit his pipe.
“Oh, forget I said anything. It’s nothing.”
“It doesn’t seem to be nothing,” Arithel pointed out. Fallon blew out a long plume of smoke. It coiled about the room like a dragon. He stoically gazed at the floorboards.
“If it’s taking advantage of me you’re worried about, which is of course a laughable—” Arithel made a point to laugh loudly, “—thought in itself, you could always elect to sleep on the rug.”
Fallon chuckled at her suggestion and uncrossed his legs.
“If that offends your noble sensibilities, then I’ll take the floor.”
“You’ve made your point already, Ari. No one will sleep on the damned floor. Sorry for even raising the question. You’ve convinced me that my reaction was fairly foolish,” he said nonchalantly.
Arithel was taken aback. His behavior was erratic at best, contrived at worst. She wondered if his opium was at fault or if perhaps it was the influence of his apparently omniscient employer. More likely it was just the example set by his awful parents.
“All right,” she said softly as his eyes met hers. The shadows under his cheekbones were heavy in the dim candlelight.
“What troubled me earlier was the fact that you were discussing details of our journey to the innkeeper, in earshot of all the men and women downstairs. I figured you would have known better.”
“Oh,” Arithel said. “I wasn’t discussing details, really. I just asked him what he knew of Altinsayah. I thought he might give me useful information. He started the conversation with me.”
“Even if he did hold any information, you’d be the last to know. You’re practically giving yourself away as an outsider, making yourself a target for marauders.”
“They were already well aware we were outsiders. You gave yourself quite the introduction at the gate, if you recall. You were expecting the royal welcome.” She snorted unintentionally. “Besides that, my accent, my dress, my manners make it obvious I’m not from this godforsaken place.”
“It’s fine to announce one’s presence to a gatekeeper or constable and the like, just not within earshot of every rough-looking sellsword in town, understand?” Fallon offered up a poor excuse for the dissonance.
“I promise you, I don’t know what you may have heard, but I didn’t say anything I shouldn’t have. It was small talk.”
Fallon sighed. “If you say so, Arithel. I’m just warning you in advance; don’t discuss even the vaguest detail of my dealings with complete strangers. Especially strangers in hostile places.”
Arithel furrowed her brow. “That’s fair. But what incriminating details could I give when I know nothing about what you have planned? You won’t tell me.”
She despised the way Fallon was talking to her. Arithel figured he was simply looking for something or someone to criticize.
Fallon seemed annoyed that she continued to defend herself. He set his pipe on the nightstand. She avoided his gaze and stared at the smoking poppy seeds crushed in the pipe’s bowl. Arithel noticed for the first time that he seemed to possess a nearly endless supply of the valuable drug.
“My stomach is grumbling.” She changed the subject as she continued to gaze at the polished ivory pipe. “Perhaps we should grab something to eat downstairs, have a hot dish while we still can. I’m sure we’ll get tired of dried food once we hit the road.”
Fallon nodded.
He stood up and put out his pipe just after taking a final drag. He didn’t blink much after he smoked; it was the only obvious effect.
Before he headed for the door, he said, “Let me do all of the talking this time. I mean it.”
Arithel rolled her eyes as he turned back around. “Very well, my friend,” she said under her breath as he unlocked the door. She decided to keep an eye on Fallon. His unsettling behavior indicated that he had much to hide. She would learn what it was soon enough.
Chapter Seven
Arithel and Fallon dined on beef stew served in narrow trenchers. The food was hot and hearty, but a little stale. Fallon ordered a pint of ale for each of them. The warmth of the alcohol relaxed her body and eased her hard feelings from their spat. Fallon, too, seemed to be at great ease as he ordered a second frothing pint. The liquid spilled into his lap as one of the tavern girls set it on their table. He only laughed in response. It was strange to note the contrast between how seriously he had addressed her earlier and how carefree and light-hearted he seemed now. He gave Arithel a fascinating run-down of all the strange characters he had met in Nureen and Paden. She asked him about Morden, noting that in his scathing observations he had neglected to mention his own employer, whom he was likely closest to of all.