The Dimming Sun

by Lana Nielsen

  Wulfdane eagerly followed her. Glorun left the King’s platform for the dull familiarity of Selka’s company. Wedges of spiced, roasted venison were placed before her.

  She stared into space, overwhelmed by all the talking and laughing and shouting. She dug her fingernails into the table.

  “What’s wrong with you, child?” Selka jolted Glorun back to reality.

  Truth was that her courses had started and that made her hatred of people even more potent than usual. But she would not be so frank with her handmaid.

  “I had a funny dream when I was napping,” Glorun remarked.

  “What was it, child?”

  “The Southron god. He rose from the ashes of Mt. Volkura and came to our city. He had golden hair, golden armor, and a golden sword—even piercing golden eyes. He rode through our gates on a white horse, holding a white standard. Flocks of white doves flew above him. He opened the doors to all of the houses and everyone was dead. He opened the door to the castle, and it was as usual. The god knelt before my brother, and his doves plucked Wulfdane’s eyes out and dropped them into my hand. I carried them down the hall, but Morden stopped me and snatched the eyes away. That’s when I woke up.”

  Selka frowned. “You should have kept that to yourself.”

  Before Glorun could answer, a young soldier asked her to dance. She had seen him around before—yellow hair, dark eyes, and a wisp of a beard. Vlad Sturmfelter was a few years older than herself. Who did he think he was, asking to dance with the princess?

  “Go,” Selka urged Glorun. “You’re young, be happy. Get all of the darkness out of your head.”

  Glorun accepted his hand, just to get away from Selka.

  Vlad complimented her eyes and dress, then spun her around. He was a good dancer, and she found herself whirling and twirling across the floor. He made her feel light and quick as wind. She giggled despite her best efforts to keep a solemn, noble face.

  She led Vlad to the corner of the room, behind flagons of ale, and kissed him. It was the first time she had kissed anyone. Vlad was taken aback, but grinned and returned the favor, running his hands through her hair and over the front of her gown.

  Selka reappeared and separated them.

  “What are you doing?” Glorun shouted, wresting the meddlesome woman’s cold fingers off her arm. “You told me to dance.”

  Vlad laughed nervously and excused himself.

  “The king has enough problems. I told you to dance, not comport yourself like a common whore in front of all court.”

  Selka grabbed Glorun by the ear when the princess refused to budge.

  Glorun screamed and pushed her away. “You shall not touch me again!”

  The music stopped and hundreds of eyes were suddenly upon her. Her brother appeared, Morden at his ear as usual.

  Wulfdane wrapped his arms around her shoulders, enveloping her in his cloak. “What’s wrong, sister?” he asked.

  Glorun didn’t answer, but allowed him to drag her along. She thought of their parents’ tomb, where the skeletons had been positioned so that they were locking hands. She glimpsed Vlad dancing with another girl. Her face burned.

  Wulfdane put his hand to her cheek and looked into her eyes. “Are you well?” he said.

  “No,” she answered flatly.

  The whole world turned black and white. Her body was not her own. She heard herself shrieking and cursing at the top of her lungs. The feast table flipped over, sending food splattering into the walls. Cups, candlesticks, and chairs levitated, and the whole room rattled, rocked, and swayed. A tapestry caught fire as a torch was flung into the fabric. People took cover and shouted for the gods, but it didn’t stop them from getting viciously struck and battered by all manner of flying objects.

  Wulfdane was lying on the floor, his head having cracked against the flagstones. Glorun felt as though she was floating away. Selka slammed into her waist, knocking her down beside Wulfdane. Glorun sent a fork flying prongs-first into her maid’s ribs. Blood seeped from her dress.

  “Seize her. Take her away!” Wulfdane ordered weakly.

  The approaching guards were tossed like rag dolls across the room. Their bodies slammed into walls; their weapons added to her collection of missiles. Even handsome Vlad received no mercy.

  Glorun chanted words she did not know.

  She narrowed her eyes as she saw Malina crawl under a broken bench.

  A pinprick pierced the back of Glorun’s neck. Her world returned to normal and she plunged back into her ice-cold body, falling backwards into Morden’s arms.

  She surveyed the damage. It was the worst fit yet. Wulfdane was shaking and crying like a baby. Just as sleep called her, she heard her brother say to Morden, “You were right. She must be locked away until she is well.”

  ***

  Fallon followed Arithel’s advice. They stayed at an inn rather than take the chances of yet more trouble in the wild. She was relieved to steer clear of the moors; she hoped she never saw them again. Arithel figured that monsters were afraid of people, civilization, and light. As awful as Elinmoorians and raiders and slavers were, she’d rather be among them than out there in the desolation with that… crookedness.

  Just as Fallon predicted, Darren and Mira had no memory of what had happened to them. Darren did remember the swim though and kept stupidly grinning and ogling at Arithel. Despite his annoying behavior, she kept her promise to buy him a pair of gloves. Of course, the only vendor open had been a suspicious-looking old tramp with wooden teeth.

  Traffic on the road increased. Soon, there were traders, soldiers, and peasants traipsing about all over the place. No doubt this was because the largest city in Elinmoor—Belhaven—was now only two days’ journey away.

  Mira fell asleep first, as usual. Arithel had no idea why the girl was always so tired. She wondered if it had something to do with the residual effects of Elspeth’s poison. It didn’t help that Mira didn’t eat much, especially for a cook. Arithel had to share a bed with her, which was irritating. Mira had obnoxiously continued to fawn over Fallon. He acted as if he was unaffected, but it was easy to see that he was flattered.

  Fallon walked out of the room and into the hallway, his pipe and jar of poppy paste in hand. Arithel sat beside him. A drunken man stumbled through the corridor, nearly crashing into the door to their room.

  “You weren’t kidding about your mission being dangerous.” She laughed a little as she leaned against the wall. “We’re not even a quarter of the way there.”

  Fallon took a deep drag from his pipe, his hand trembling as he did. He closed his eyes with exhilaration. When he opened them, the corners were watery. He offered it to her for the first time, but she refused.

  “You know,” he said slowly, “it is strange that you went swimming the other night.”

  “Oh, come on.” Arithel didn’t bother to ask him how he knew. She was not surprised that their noise awakened him. He must have felt that her hair was wet when he grabbed her, too. “It is hardly anything to write home about—just a bit of fun. I’ve swum with more people than I can count over the years.”

  “Darren must remind you of Ronan.”

  “Not at all.” She cleared her throat. Now was as good a time as any to show she knew the truth about Darren. “I never felt that Ronan was someone with secrets, someone important. Important enough to be hunted.”

  Fallon sighed. “This again.”

  “Elspeth recited a prophecy to Darren,” Arithel said and then repeated it verbatim.

  “Odd,” was Fallon’s only response.

  “Go ahead and admit it,” Arithel whispered. “Darren is your errand, isn’t he? He even looks rather Nureenian, aside from his hair. You’re a man of intentions and you wanted him to come with us all along. You persuaded him. An Ankarian boy would be a powerful weapon against the Empire. I’m sure Morden and the Padenites would like to use him.”

  Fallon nearly choked, covering that with a forced laugh. Someone in a nearby room yelled for him
to shut up.

  “Those creatures…” Arithel said darkly, “They wanted him for the same reason you do. They were sent by someone, perhaps a Sulierian by the looks of their dress. Did you know you weren’t the only one hunting him?”

  Fallon shook his head. “You really do fancy him, don’t you? I can’t believe you’d… you’d take every ridiculous word from his mouth seriously. Come on, Arithel, it’s a nice poem, but get real,” he said. “If there was an Ankarian out there, do you think he’d have made it to sixteen? Do you really think those hideous wretches on the moors would be the only ones after him? Treasure seekers, bounty hunters, generals—they’d all be in pursuit, day and night. They’d probably try to pass off boys that looked like him, too. Don’t you think that all the threatened countries of Linnea would be sponsoring such expeditions, and a little bit earlier than this hour, when we have Nureenian posts within a few miles of the Neldorin border?”

  Something about his long-winded explanation hinted that her musings had hit too close to comfort.

  “You’re probably right. Just consider it all speculation. I’m sure we’ll figure things out—in due time, as you like to say.”

  She wondered why Fallon was hiding his plans from her, especially since she was committed to journeying all the way to Paden with him. Was he afraid she couldn’t keep a secret? Or did he just wish to amuse himself? She sighed and briefly contemplated whether Fallon’s opium might calm her feverish mind.

  ***

  The next day they walked on a new road, one that Fallon said extended across almost the entire span of the continent. It started in arid scrublands outside Mt. Aerys, cut across the rivers and marshes of Ered-Linn, wove through the icy peaks of the Great Dividing Range, and stretched through the steppes into South Elinmoor before heading into Altinsayah. The road continued two hundred miles beyond Altinsayah to remote eastern outposts, all the way to Ialori and its forests of stone, finally stopping at the shores of an inland sea. It was impressive to consider—Arithel assumed one day the road would meet the endless horizon of the Eastern Ocean.

  Around nightfall, they entered a dense forest in a wide river valley surrounded by steep hills on either side. The trees were hardwoods, similar to those in the borderlands. The earth was dry and the air was still. All of the leaves had fallen off their branches, forming a slippery mat across the forest floor, half-obscuring the road.

  Arithel was annoyed that hardly anyone on the road spoke the Central Tongue of Neldor, Elinmoor, and Ered-Linn. Instead, they babbled in Nureenian, Ialorian, Minaran, and in some cases even Sulierian. It was overwhelming to see all of these foreign faces. She wondered where all of the Elinmoorians were, since they were still in Elinmoorian territory. The only natives she had seen all day were an old beggar driveling about redemption before the end of the world and a gaggle of serving maids trailing behind a wealthy Nureenian lady’s carriage.

  Of the foreigners, Ialorians and Sulierians stood out the most. No women whatsoever traveled with the Ialorians. They tended to wear simple, dark clothing and wide-brimmed hats. They spoke little, even with one another. Arithel was familiar with them; most of the pirates and mercenaries stalking about Neldor were of Ialorian origin. The Sulierians wore long white robes with high collars and tucked their hair beneath colorful, often jeweled turbans. Few women traveled amongst them. Those who did shrouded themselves from head to toe, only leaving tattooed hands and black-lashed eyes visible. The ladies also wore beautiful strings of gold coins across their veiled brows.

  Nureenians and Minarans acted and dressed rather similarly—loud and arrogant, sporting rigid, richly patterned tunics, with their cloaks draped across only one shoulder, even in cold weather. The only difference between them was that Minaran men were bearded while Nureenians were always clean-shaven. Wealthy Nureenians of both sexes wore elaborate, curled hairstyles beneath impractical-looking conical headdresses. The women sometimes powdered their faces with a sheen of gold dust and dyed their long tresses impossibly bright shades of yellow, blue-black, and red.

  One thing all the foreigners had in common was that they glared and gawked with impunity. Arithel responded by staring right back.

  “You think we’ll be all right camping by the River Thespolid? The only town between here and Belhaven is wholly made up of Nureenian settlers,” Fallon said.

  “That’s fine. We don’t have to venture too far off the road, do we?” Arithel asked.

  “No. It should be safe. These parts are well patrolled.”

  “Aye,” muttered Arithel. She glanced at his leather pocketbook in his hand, the pages recently creased. How had he managed to write while walking? “What is the exact date? I haven’t asked in a while, but I see you’ve got your calendar at hand.”

  He flipped to a page quickly. “It’s the twenty-second of October.”

  “A month from tomorrow is my birthday,” she declared. “It’s further into October than I thought.”

  “The journey isn’t going as fast as I expected. But we’re close to our destination, quite close. We need a good plan before we get to Altinsayah. I figure we can stay in Belhaven until we come up with something.”

  “That works,” Arithel said, not wanting to contemplate the difficulties she would face in retrieving her sister.

  ***

  Arithel was morose as Darren sparked the kindling for the fire. Her chin rested in her hand and she poked at the ground with a stick. Darren wondered what was wrong but thought it would be rude to ask. She had seemed so joyous the other day, when she invited him to swim. Hell, she hadn’t even been mad at him for watching her take off her clothes. Most girls would have shrieked and rightfully so.

  The image of Arithel’s body had returned to his mind more often than he cared to admit to Agron. Her form had been sturdy, yet feminine. Her back was toned, her legs well-shaped and her waist slender, with a belly flatter than that of the other girls he had seen. Her breasts were heavier than they seemed when she was clothed, and her lush dark hair had rippled over her shoulders in such a lovely fashion. Darren was entranced by Arithel. She was sophisticated and worldly, with a thoughtful, expressive gaze. If it really was his destiny to become a king, she would be the type of girl he’d like to marry, the kind who would look poised wearing a crown or with a scroll in her hands.

  “I need to go find some mushrooms. Shouldn’t take too long,” Mira announced as she dumped various ingredients into the pot.

  “I’ll accompany you,” Fallon told her in a tone of noblesse oblige. “It wouldn’t hurt me to help. Everyone else has so far.”

  She smiled broadly, her small and crooked teeth contrasting oddly with her full lips. “I’d appreciate that very much.”

  ***

  Arithel stared at the ground and rolled her eyes. She let her hair fall over her face so they wouldn’t see her displeasure. The two of them walked off together, chatting politely about absolutely nothing. What did Fallon have to say to that woman? She glumly watched the pot boil, not bothering to contribute in any fashion. Darren tentatively stirred the unfinished soup every couple of minutes.

  Nearly half an hour passed, and Mira and Fallon still hadn’t returned.

  “Er, it’s been a while…” Darren said.

  “Of course!” Arithel spat.

  “I think we should go look for them. Something could have happened. It isn’t like Mira to wander around.”

  “But it is much like Fallon.”

  “I am going to look in any case. Not least because I’m damn hungry and don’t want to eat a watery soup.” He glanced at the mostly clear liquid disapprovingly.

  “I’ll go with you.” Arithel stood up quickly. She got a little dizzy from the sudden change in position.

  “Someone has to stay here, to watch over Madroste and our things,” Darren said.

  “Right you are.” Arithel pulled her sword from her pack and unsheathed it with mock readiness. “Happy?”

  “I’ll be right back,” he told her. He nuzzled Madro
ste before departing.

  ***

  Darren followed their trail until it came to an abrupt halt. Mira and Fallon were opposite one another in a glade. Darren ducked behind a bush for cover. Fallon was seated atop a stump, his legs crossed as always, pipe dangling in his mouth and the point of his black hood resting atop the back of his head.

  Darren strained to hear what they were saying to one another.

  “Take off your clothes,” Fallon said. Darren reflexively scrambled back for a second, unsure if he heard him correctly.

  “Excuse me?” Mira laughed, and glanced back up at Fallon. She was on her knees, still rooting around for mushrooms.

  “You heard me. You are in my debt, are you not?” Fallon said matter-of-factly.

  “I’m repaying you by helping, cooking and the like…” Mira scoffed, although she was smiling a little too.

  “I’m a lord, Mira. You’ll repay me on whatever terms I choose,” Fallon said. “Undress.”

  Mira raised her brows, and slipped an arm out of her dress.

  “Why are you asking this of me?”

  “I think you are well aware.”

  Mira slipped her other arm out. Her dress collapsed around her ankles. She was clad in only her stockings.

  Other than her generous breasts and how much softer she was than Arithel, the one thing that struck Darren about her appearance were all the dark scars streaking across her naked flesh. She had a semi-circle running over the lower half of her stomach, and the skin in that area was a little loose. Darren’s best guess was that she had borne a child already, and the midwife had cut it out of her. Mira also had several purplish welts gouged into her back. Darren knew immediately they were the lines of a whip. He had seen many men in Aelfelm punished by the Nureenians in that way. Never women, though.

  He said a quick prayer out of pity for Mira’s physical deformities. He continued to watch her and Fallon, transfixed with both curiosity and mild disgust.

  Mira kissed Fallon, but he seemed disinterested. He simply ordered her to lie on the ground, pulled down his breeches, and entered her. There was no rhythm between them whatsoever. He hardly touched her. After a brief sigh, Mira lay there motionless until he was finished. Darren had seen many couples old and young go at it behind the haystacks in Aelfelm. This certainly marked the most depressing encounter he had ever witnessed.