The Dimming Sun

by Lana Nielsen

Glorun glared at him.

  “I ask you—when you knew him, did he seem very sick, near death?”

  “No,” she admitted, recalling how he had demonstrated to court the curious custom of shaking hands. “He seemed strong enough for a Neldorin.”

  Morden nodded and smiled.

  “I don’t see how. I never saw him use any powers.” Glorun thought aloud.

  Morden said, “Long ago, before Nureen even, there were many people like you, like Fallon. Maybe two or three in every village. They were respected, loved, and honored. They could see all things, sense all things, and call upon the gods to vanquish their enemies within the blink of an eye. The world was more just then...”

  Glorun wondered how he knew all of this. She was afraid of the answer.

  “Trust in me and your powers will be at your beck and call in three months’ time,” Morden continued.

  The thought of being normal, of returning to court and not being stared at—it was tempting. She was tired of her episodes, especially since the older she got, the more unpredictable they became.

  Then again—she was dealing with Morden, and he was a liar who had doomed her dear Meldane. Morden was a Southron. His fascination for their country made no sense. The more medicine and advice Morden bestowed upon Wulfdane, the weaker the king became.

  “I don’t want or need your help. The gods will find a way to deal with me,” Glorun said.

  ***

  Around twilight, Arithel and company reached the gates of Belhaven. The walk had been long, dull, and crowded, through flat, parched wastes so inhospitable that even scrubby weeds could not take root. It looked as if the Elinmoorians—or perhaps the Nureenians—had utterly exhausted the soil. There were still some rotting remnants of fences and grain silos.

  Belhaven was immense; the city stretched for miles, ringed by a half-dozen cobbled roads. Its gates were tall and formidable, jagged at the top and flanked by stone turrets. Wooden walls encompassed the entirety of the city, even the sprawling and putrid slums. Like the roads, the walls looked relatively new. Clouds of peat smoke hung over the buildings—the smolder was dark and sooty, much harsher than normal chimney smoke. It made the air dry and harsh. Arithel wondered how it would affect Fallon’s health.

  Traffic came to a stand-still when they approached the gates. There were too many people seeking entrance. Foreign merchants complained loudly as Nureenian soldiers pushed everyone into line. Arithel briefly pondered how destructive a fire would be, how quickly it could eat up the city. With all the smoke about, it was surprising that such a tragedy had not already occurred.

  After a tedious hour of waiting, the companions passed through the gate. Arithel held her breath as one sentinel took a quick peek inside her bags. She knew it was paranoia, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that somehow he knew about his fallen comrades in the forest.

  As Fallon, Mira, and Darren were all patted down in quick succession behind her, she bit her fingernails. Her heart raced and her palms and armpits became slick. She was afraid they’d question Darren about his limp and take a look at his wound.

  Thankfully, the guard said nothing to Darren. Perhaps wounded men were not an uncommon sight, with the slave trade so active in the area and Altinsayah so near. No doubt the rough men of Elinmoor fought amongst themselves constantly.

  The guard asked Fallon how long they planned on staying in Belhaven. He warned that the city was crowded and there was no room for yet more refugees from the countryside seeking work or shelter for the winter.

  Fallon replied: “We are weary pilgrims on a long journey south. We’ll need only a week to gather our strength.”

  The guard nodded and waved them on.

  “That was easier than I expected,” Arithel said.

  “Aye. Now to find a decent inn. Agron knows that will be a hell of a task in this place…”

  “You haven’t been here before?”

  “No. What business would I have ever had here?” Fallon coughed a little.

  Darren and Mira were a few steps behind them. He was walking slowly, half-supported by her. He looked to be in pain, though he was trying his best to mask it.

  “How are you feeling, Darren?” Arithel asked.

  “Just ready for a bed. That’s all.”

  “We’re working on it. We’ll find a place soon,” she replied.

  “We need to get out of the slums first,” Mira advised.

  “Please. We have proven that we can handle ourselves so far, have we not?” Fallon said with a twinkle in his eye. Arithel supposed this was his way of gloating about the slaying of the Nureenians. If only she felt so cheerful about it—all she could picture were Eranos and the changeling woman, lying side by side.

  “It’s different when you’re surrounded,” Mira whispered.

  “Surrounded by what—Elinmoorians? We’ve been in this land for weeks.” Arithel laughed.

  Fallon crossed his arms. “We have hardly any money left. We will seek lodging wherever the rates are lowest.”

  A crippled beggar on the side of the road was ranting and raving to himself. When Mira passed, he whistled and lunged at her, reaching out for her legs. He managed to lift her skirts and reveal one calf, but Mira kicked his hand away and stepped over him. He scowled, cursed her, and put his flask of whisky back to his lips before collapsing in apparent exhaustion.

  “Just trust me. These people—the slumdwellers—they know outsiders easily. The likes of you would not last longer than fifteen minutes off the main road. You’d get robbed, beaten, raped, stabbed…” Mira rattled off a list of unpleasant fates. “Just be thankful there are so many Nureenians on patrol. We need to go to the middle quarter of the city.”

  “If you say so. It seems rather counterintuitive if we want to avoid attention, however…” Fallon remarked.

  “You’ll attract much more attention in the slums. For Darren’s sake, I hope you change your mind.”

  Arithel frowned. Darren would not need a “sake” if Mira hadn’t staked his leg.

  Fallon gazed at their surroundings. “I suppose it would be hard to find the proper medicine out here.”

  The slums were foul in both appearance and smell. They had only been there a few years, having grown out from the original city after the Nureenians built Altinsayah, and their Elinmoorian subjects consequently revived the highly lucrative slave trade. The quality of construction was poor and hasty; walls leaned, roofs buckled, daub crumbled, and shutters were barely attached to their hinges. Only cesspools separated the rows of ramshackle buildings.

  “City folk are wretched. All these shops but not a single temple within sight,” Darren lamented as he hobbled along.

  “This is your country,” Fallon said.

  “Not my city.”

  They soon arrived at another gate. This one was not as tall as the other and was made of stone instead of wood. It seemed a little more secure, with more guards walking atop the ramparts. There was a fee. They were subjected to a brief inspection before they were allowed to pass.

  The scene beyond the second gate was quite different than that of the slums—buildings were sturdier, and streets tidier. There were fewer people wandering about aimlessly. The zone was anchored by four pinnacled temples whose stained-glass windows were the only real color punctuating the sad grey haze. In the distance, beyond a third gate, pale limestone structures rose six or seven stories high. Arithel supposed the inner quarter of the city was where the governing went on, where the Nureenian colonists dwelled and where the best guilds were stationed. It was somewhat remarkable that the buildings of this backward country—now a mere colony of Nureen—were taller than any she had seen back home in Neldor.

  The first tavern they sighted was titled simply ‘Ye Olde Inn.’ Arithel chuckled. Fallon told them to wait outside while he asked what the going rate was. She leaned against the building’s brick exterior, shivering and rubbing her gloved hands together.

  Fallon charged out of the door sooner rather than l
ater.

  “Thirty gold cuplets a person! Can you believe that? And they won’t let us share one room. Misers!”

  “Did you haggle it down?” Mira asked.

  Fallon looked dumbstruck. The slightest hint of color rose in his cheeks. “I…I didn’t know that was option.”

  “Usually is… we are in the Nureenian Empire, after all.”

  “A dishonorable, duplicitous practice,” he muttered.

  Mira shrugged.

  The four of them proceeded to the next available inn. This time, they all went inside. Fallon made Mira do the talking. They were kind to her upon hearing her accent and seeing that she was a local, but they still claimed there were no vacancies.

  “A likely story,” Fallon remarked as they walked out the door. Arithel sighed and led the way to the next place. She ventured down an alley, passing by crowded bath-houses until she reached a broader street. It ended at a market square, where some of the roadstones were painted blue to create a floral mosaic. There was a fountain in the center of the square. It was rather small and simple; the waters were freezing along the rim.

  The next inn was ‘The Dancing Bear.’ It was graced with a hideous sign of a twirling bear-woman, clad in poofy pink skirts. The curving, lipsticked smile painted on the bear’s snout was downright disturbing.

  Fallon held the door open for the other three. Arithel nodded and hoped the folk inside wouldn’t ask too many questions about Darren. He had sparked more than a few whispers at the last tavern when Mira used his injury to plead for a room.

  Fallon pursued the same strategy, whispering to Darren, “Try to appear especially wretched.”

  Darren clung to Fallon’s arm and stooped his back while coughing. He allowed his eyes and mouth to droop. Arithel figured it wasn’t entirely an act.

  The innkeeper stood behind the counter, ladling spoonfuls of offal and slop into small bowls. She smiled at the four of them, her gaze resting longest upon Mira. Mira shrank back behind Arithel.

  “Lookin’ for a hot meal?” the innkeeper inquired. She was very thin, with loose skin beneath her forearms and neck. “We’re out of butter, just so you know.”

  “Lady…” Darren said after Fallon nudged him. The woman chuckled and set her washcloth down. She leaned on the counter.

  “Aye, boy?”

  He hobbled towards the bar, dragging his foot across the floor and coughing some more.

  “I have been hurt quite badly today. I was chased by raiders while walking back from visiting my sister’s new baby. As I escaped those brutes, I tripped over a fence and the owner’s hound got at me. My friends and I are in desperate need of shelter. We would be so grateful if you’d rent us a room, anywhere, it doesn’t matter… We’ve been turned down twice.” Darren pleaded in a voice that sounded far younger than his sixteen years.

  A red-haired man seated at the bar laughed as he plugged away on an emberweed pipe.

  “Boy or girl?” the innkeeper asked him with a genuine grin. There was a spark of amusement in her shifty eyes.

  “Er, excuse me? I am obviously a man.” Darren muttered in confusion. A few other patrons of the tavern joined the red-haired man’s cascades of laughter.

  “I meant yer sister, ye oaf. Did she have a boy child or a girl child?”

  “Oh,” Darren said. “T’was a girl…”

  The old woman’s face hardened. “Pity. That won’t do much good in these times, will it?”

  Arithel glared in disdain. Mira nodded meekly in agreement with the innkeeper.

  “Do you have a room or not?” Fallon demanded.

  “No. All filled up for the night, even the cubby behind the kitchen. It’s a busy time of year.” She shrugged. “The merchants are pourin’ in to dump their goods before winter.”

  “Nothing at all? This place doesn’t even look that full…”

  “The customers are already asleep. They have had very long journeys, some all the way from the provinces of Suteiron and Minaras. I’ll rent you my own bloody room for forty gold cuplets, though. That’s just double the normal rate.”

  “Twenty gold cuplets is the normal rate?” Fallon asked incredulously.

  “Aye—you going to take the offer, or no? You look like you’ve got a few to spare.”

  Fallon’s hands drifted down to the purse hanging from his belt. For a moment, Arithel assumed he’d take the offer.

  He shook his head. “I’m sure we’ll find other accommodations.”

  The innkeeper cackled. “Don’t freeze before the night is over.”

  A strong wind blew a cloud of soot onto Arithel’s face as she stepped outside. The fine grains stung her eyes and prickled her throat. She spat a few times and rubbed out her eyes, but it didn’t help much.

  Someone tapped the back of her shoulder. Arithel turned around. Standing there was a short, elderly woman, who unlike all the other folk of Belhaven, was plump.

  She shut the heavy tavern door behind her. “You need a room?” she muttered to Arithel. The lady pulled a black shawl tightly across her shoulders. Her gown looked to be of high quality. It was bright indigo and had silver buttons below the collar with pink stripes woven into the skirt. Tiny buckled shoes peeked out from beneath yards of pleated fabric.

  Arithel immediately assumed some sort of ulterior motive despite the lady’s harmless appearance.

  Fallon rushed over to Arithel and the fat old woman. He bowed before her. “We would be most grateful to stay at your place, Madame.”

  The old lady made a humming noise and tentatively glanced at Fallon. Arithel wondered if his eagerness would cause the woman to retract her offer. Was accepting the offer even a good idea in the first place? After all, had Elspeth not been a harmless-looking old bitty? Why did this woman wish to help when other strangers did not?

  “Er… good, glad to have you all. But you do have to pay,” the woman said.

  “Well of course!” Fallon handed over five gold coins. She cleared her throat and he reluctantly placed three more in her wrinkled hand.

  “That’s a very good rate, you know, especially for all four of ye.”

  “Thank you. What is your name, Ma’am?” Arithel asked.

  “Mrs. White.”

  “I’m—Irina,” Arithel lied.

  Mrs. White shrugged. “I don’t care who ye are right now. I just care that we get that poor boy by a fire for the night. He’s got an infection. I can see it in his eyes. That hazy look.”

  “How would you know that for certain?” Fallon asked.

  “My husband was a physician before the plague took him last year, the saints bless him.” She made the sign of Agron. “He’d take some of the slum dwellers as patients from time to time, all rough men. They’d come in with stab wounds and whatnot. Half wouldn’t make it even if the cut wasn’t that bad. They’d get that look right before the infection, then the green color spread over the wound…”

  “I don’t feel too bad,” Darren said.

  “You don’t look good. Trust me, boy. If you know what’s coming, you’re better prepared to face the ordeal. Finding the right medicines might prove well-nigh impossible. Cutting off the limb might be the only way to save ye.”

  Darren swallowed hard. Mira drew a deep breath.

  “There is no reason to scare him like that,” Fallon told Mrs. White. “We’ll do whatever it takes to treat him.”

  “Sorry,” the lady muttered, and led them to her place.

  Darren tripped over a loose road stone. Mira caught his fall. His weight teetered dangerously on her tiny frame. She whispered something to him as he steadied his feet. She looked very grave and pale. Rightfully so, Arithel thought.

  Mrs. White lived near the market, in a handsome two-story brick townhome. The trinkets on her silver key ring jangled musically when she unlocked her door. A sign for her husband’s practice was still posted above it. Arithel found it strange to keep the advertisement for a dead man’s services aloft.

  As Widow White let them inside, she hes
itated. “You all are Elinmoorians, aye?”

  “Aye,” they answered, practically in unison.

  “Where from?” Widow White pressed.

  “Aelfelm’s where I grew up,” Darren said.

  Arithel didn’t think it was a good idea to reveal that.

  “My brother and I,” Arithel pointed at Fallon, “are from Lindelwood near the borderlands.”

  “I’m from Suffhold,” Mira said quietly. Arithel wondered if that was true.

  Widow White threw back her head and laughed. “Excellent. I hate foreigners.”

  ***

  “Go ahead if you must,” Darren said.

  Fallon gingerly unwrapped the bandage, exposing the wound to the air. He took his knife and cut Darren’s breeches, so that the rough fabric would not chafe at the tender reddened skin around the gash. The gaping wound revealed the tattered muscle fibers beneath the outer layer of skin. The underlying flesh appeared little different than that of an animal soon to be carved up at a butchery.

  Arithel had never seen such a terrible injury up close.

  Widow White entered the room, bearing a cup of hot honeyed water. It had a little slice of lemon floating on top. Arithel was surprised. Lemons were such luxuries in Neldor. The widow handed the cup to Darren. It trembled in his hands as he brought it to his lips.

  Widow White moved to the other side of the bed to get a better view of his wound. She held her breath upon sight of it and placed her hand over her nose.

  She cleared her throat, “You said in the tavern that he got that from trippin’ over a fence and being mauled by dogs. That doesn’t look like a mauling or a fall.” She laughed nervously, her fuzzy eyebrows moving up and down.

  “What kind of wound does it look like?” Mira whispered.

  “A clean cut from a good blade.”

  “Wounds can be deceptive. You’d be surprised.The dog had these massive jaws…” Fallon said.

  Widow White was too savvy to buy such a pathetic explanation. It would only garner suspicion. “The raiders actually did catch up with him for a bit,” Arithel said. “This is the result. We didn’t want to say so at the tavern as we didn’t want to alarm anyone.”

  “There is little you could say that would alarm me. I know there are thugs and slavers about. I don’t really care one way or the other how you folk crossed them.” She cast a sharp eye all around. “I’ll keep quiet if you promise to keep your dealings away from here. Ye all are young yet, young enough to find some other life, an honest life…”