by Lana Nielsen
“I believe you’re mistaken,” Fallon said.
She placed her hand on his shoulder and smiled. “Darling, I am an old woman. I’ve seen and done much. Your gentlemanly manner isn’t fooling anyone about your true nature. Not to worry, I’m not here to judge. Ye’re all much less despicable than most of your lot.”
“I see.” Fallon sighed. “In any case, we are grateful for your help. I hope we don’t impose on you too much this next week.”
“Week?” Widow White scoffed. “I don’t care that you’re raiders, but any guests start to stink after three days. Like fish, you know? If the lad isn’t well by then, you’ll need a priest.”
Darren threw his head back onto his pillow.
“I told you not to frighten him, madame,” Fallon whispered as he put his arm around her.
Arithel fiddled with a porcelain figurine of a black cat with a yellow ribbon around its neck sitting on the nightstand.
“I have a few poultices downstairs, but they are only for relieving pain. You’ll need to go to the inner gate to find the right medicines, the kind that will stop the infection. I wish I could do more,” Widow White said.
She smiled sympathetically at Darren.
“I suppose those medicines are costly,” Mira remarked.
“Well, naturally,” Widow White said. “But you are resourceful types, it seems.”
“Perhaps…” Fallon said. His gaze focused on the window and he scratched at his chin.
Widow White pulled fresh bandages from her apron pocket and dressed Darren’s wound.
“I’ve got it from here. You three go rest. I’ll see to your friend till he falls asleep.”
“Thank you,” Fallon said uneasily.
As they departed the room, Widow White called out, “The other two bedrooms are down the same hall. One has a double bed, one a single. Don’t worry about me, I stay downstairs.”
Arithel had seen no downstairs bedroom—just a cluttered parlor, a kitchen, and an old office with stretchers, scissors, and hammers lying about. Why was the old woman so generous?
“Good night all,” Darren called out hazily, his voice slowly drifting down the corridor.
“Sleep well. Try not to turn on your side too often,” Arithel shouted back.
As soon as Widow White was beyond earshot, Mira said, “Should we have left him alone?”
Fallon shrugged. “We are not in a position to argue with the good widow.”
Arithel looked at Fallon as they approached their rooms. She leaned in and whispered, “I’ve checked your bags. We only have enough cuplets for three day’s rent. Nothing left for food, much less medicine.”
Fallon lingered at his door. Arithel wished Mira would go away and allow them some privacy.
“What do we do?” Arithel hissed. “Go ahead and chop off his leg?”
Fallon’s eyed bored through her. “Don’t be ridiculous. He would be useless in such a state.”
“He would not!” Mira snapped.
“Go to bed, girl,” Arithel shot at her.
Mira’s cornflower blue eyes hardened. “Our friend’s value is not measured in use.”
Arithel found it perfectly rich that Mira would refer to Darren as a “friend” after what she had done.
“Mira,” Fallon said. “You are no fool. Surely you realize even the most exalted blood has no value if it pumps through the heart of a pitiful invalid.”
Arithel was taken aback. Had her friend gotten so lost in his thoughts that he forgot where he was and who he was talking with?
“A one-legged king isn’t going to inspire anyone or convince anyone of anything.” Fallon glanced back at Widow White, hovering over Darren.
Mira smiled a little and smoothed her skirts.
Arithel cleared her throat and nudged Fallon in the ribs. He ignored the gesture; she tried to make eye contact. He stupidly continued to stare at Darren’s room.
“King?” Mira said. “What’s going on with Darren? What is he to you?”
“Just a companion, an assistant,” Arithel said.
“I suppose we haven’t told you,” Fallon said and ushered them inside their room.
“Fallon, surely…” Arithel said before he could damn himself further. She had no idea what he was thinking. He had seemed daft since the river. Perhaps he had hit his head.
“Relax, Arithel,” Fallon said. “She has proven she can be trusted.”
Mira smiled.
News to me, Arithel thought. She certainly looked forward to his explanation.
“What is it?” Mira asked.
“Darren,” Fallon said. “Is more than he seems. He is the reason we travel in the first place. That we are also looking for Arithel’s sister is coincidental, a debt I have taken on for my dear and old friend.”
Arithel closed her eyes and sat down, wishing he hadn’t brought it up, not when they were so close to Altinsayah. It seemed so daunting to come up with a plan to rescue Anoria, and having a plan was obviously up to her, considering Fallon had said nothing specific about the matter in weeks.
“My employer,” Fallon said. “—a year ago. his spies discovered that Darren is the lost son of a Nureenian Princess, one of the daughters of the deposed Emperor, Phillip Ankarian. She was a nun and fled her convent when Tiresias set his men upon her. On the road to Neldor, she became lost and met an errant-knight from Ered-Linn, Sir Kelser. She kept her identity hidden from him and bore him a child. She stopped her journey when she gave birth, in the village of Aelfelm right here in Elinmoor. A few years later, she vanished off the face of the earth, leaving the child in the care of an old couple who had sheltered her for a time. Morden,” he said, “sent me to retrieve Darren. Of all his supporters, he trusts me the most, and I happened to hail closest to Aelfelm. So here we are; en route to Paden.”
Mira twisted her mouth. Arithel could tell she thought Fallon either deluded or a liar.
“That is some revelation…” Mira said.
Morden’s spies, thought Arithel. Who were they? How did they know Darren was the right boy—Some pagan ritual? Scrying? Old portraits or letters of the Ankarians?
“Do you believe this?” Mira looked at Arithel.
Arithel took a deep breath. “I have no reason not to.”
“Darren,” Fallon said, “is the key to unlocking all the doors to Linnea’s future. He will allow the pieces of fate to fall into their proper places. It was foreseen long before any of us were born.”
“If Darren is meant to stick a finger in the eye of the Empire.” Mira furrowed her brow. “Why not just go ahead and tell the people of Elinmoor? They’re tired of Tiresias; they would welcome this news.”
“No. Absolutely not. We keep the information to ourselves for now, until it can mean something. For my plan to work, everything must occur in due time. My employer will send me a sign.”
Another oversized crow, Arithel thought, rolling her eyes.
“If this plan works,” Mira said, “would there be some reward for me?”
Fallon placed his hand over his heart. “More treasure than you could ever dream of.”
Arithel scowled. He had never made such a claim to her.
Mira was grinning.
“Time to retire,” Fallon said and moved towards the door.
“I can keep you company, if you want,” Mira offered.
Arithel glared at her. What the hell did that mean?
“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ll be fine, really, I can assure you.”
He did not look Mira in the eye. Arithel recognized the same odd sexual undertones that had existed on the road. Why was it every time she began to begrudgingly respect Mira, the woman would act out in some bizarre and nauseating manner? Could people ever really change? Not in one day, they couldn’t.
Fallon slipped out the door.
Mira lay down on the rug, placing only her cloak over her body for cover.
“There is enough room up here, if you stick to your side,” Arith
el muttered.
Mira sleeping on the floor like a stray dog annoyed her. It was as if the woman was trying to make a show of looking abject.
“I prefer it down here.”
Arithel tossed one of her quilts to Mira. Mira wrapped herself in it, leaving only the top of her head exposed.
Chapter Twenty
Morden visited Glorun every afternoon. She still refused his offer to help with her condition, but she did open up to him out of boredom and loneliness. He brought her the sort of food she was used to—honey cakes, roasted potatoes, braised beef, and mutton.
“Why aren’t you at court? I know my brother won’t like you being away so long.”
“Wulfdane understands. He is clear-eyed of late and does not need me as much. I am waiting on a message from my servant in Elinmoor. It will get here first—you know how slow the going gets in the Dalgarang.”
“Yes.” Glorun recalled the frigid, uncomfortable journey out of the capital. The cliffs were so steep and the path so narrow that she had been forced to walk half the route.
“May I ask you a question?” Morden nodded. “Do you swear to answer honestly?” He nodded again. “Why did you turn in Meldane?”
“I take my oaths seriously.”
“Do you not think Meldane would have made a good king?”
He laughed, and his eyes took on a peculiar cast as the hearthlight shone on them. “I had no quarrel with Meldane’s ambitions. I had issue with him summoning the Nureenians to further them. Your brother—brave, passionate fellow that he is—had no idea what he was getting himself into.”
“Meldane told me he only wanted peace,” Glorun said.
“Peace will never be had with Nureen. They own most of the continent and won’t stop until they have it all. Only Paden, Ilsey, and Neldor are still beyond reach of their garrisons.”
“Meldane said they didn’t want Paden. They think it’s too poor and cold and wild. He said they’d stay on their side of the Shadow Mountains if we stopped raiding.”
Morden shook his head and grinned.
“Meldane was a brash, gullible man.”
“You’re a Nureenian,” Glorun pointed out. “What is so bad about them? Why have we been at war with them since the days of The Eifardane?”
“I was young and hopeful like you once,” he said. “Many moons ago.”
Glorun wondered how old he really was. He told so many stories of the time before Nureen—an extraordinary concept. The ruins amidst Nureen’s countryside were thought to be many hundreds of thousands of years old, built by peoples who had emerged from some sunken island kingdom in the Southern Ocean. He spoke of dragons, of ships that sailed between stars, of towering crystal cities. He rattled off the deeds of sorcerer-kings she had never heard of: Acthelion, Olena, Valatrix. Who had taught him such things?
“You must understand how your enemy thinks,” he told her.
He tapped her on the forehead. A chill coursed from where he had touched her.
“I know Nureen,” he continued. “They believe they are their god’s chosen people, that they are destined to conquer all nations before the end of days. They won’t speak of this openly—it’s in sacred texts other Agronians aren’t allowed to look at. Once they are powerful enough, they will slaughter and enslave all non-Nureenians, to unify and purify the world. It has already started in the East. “
“Why?” Glorun breathed, thinking of her dream of the Southron god. He had been so beautiful.
“They believe all other peoples of the world were placed here to serve them. You—the Padenites—they hate worst of all. They call you barbarians, pigs, cattle.”
Glorun’s face burned. She squeezed her hands into fists.
“Where were you from, before Nureen?” she muttered, finding it hard to believe a real Nureenian would say these things.
“Everywhere and nowhere. I have spent most of my life in Nureen. The rest is not important.”
“I always knew you were a wanderer,” Glorun said. “Why did you come to us?”
He placed his hands over hers. Again, she felt a chill, then a more pleasant, soothing sensation. She felt at peace when he touched her.
“A cataclysm is coming. This will be the only land that endures,” he said.
***
Fallon roused Arithel in the morning. She stretched and yawned twice. She glanced at floor, noting that Mira was already gone. The air smelt of pancakes. It was the best thing she had smelled in weeks.
“Our host is making breakfast,” he said and offered his hand to help her get out of bed. She tossed the blankets off her body and tentatively accepted his hand. She noted it was somewhat shaky and damp as their fingers interlocked. Her feet were quite worn out. As she stood up, she felt as if spikes were being driven into the balls and heels. She had a terrible knot on her head.
Arithel put on her socks and laced her tattered boots. Fallon waited on her.
“Have you figured out a plan yet?” Arithel asked.
“No. We may have to steal what we need if nothing else.”
“No, Fallon, I’m talking about my sister—the whole reason I’m here to begin with. What is your plan?” she demanded. “What should we do?”
“Oh,” he said, standing still.
“I thought so.”
She envisioned finding some way to sneak inside Altinsayah, or perhaps earn enough money to buy Anoria back herself. If that failed, she could always just burn the blasted city of Belhaven to the ground...
“I’m sorry, Arithel. You cannot blame me for being preoccupied, with Darren in his current state.”
“Don’t worry about it. You focus on conning the Empire. I’ll go to Altinsayah myself.”
“Give me some time. I’ll keep my promise. I’ll go to the inner quarter. I’ll get some official to show me all the city records, all the slave purchases.”
“We shall see.”
“Trust me,” Fallon said; his voice suddenly rich and distant. The change in tone startled Arithel. She lost track of her thoughts.
He walked towards her and placed his hand on her shoulder. His hand felt heavy, seemingly locking her in place. Arithel glanced up at him. He was staring at her intently. His lids were lowered and his lips were pressed together, thin but not tight. She was both perplexed and amused for a moment but those sensations quickly faded. All she could do was stare back at him, struck by the sudden clarity of his eyes, which gleamed like keen blue diamonds, the only light and life amidst a dim, suffocating haze. His pupils widened and swept over the contours of her face, across the swell of her breasts, and down the length of her body. His gaze came to rest on the area where her neck met her jawline.
She felt rather exposed.
He slowly moved his hand up, eyes unwavering. Arithel quickly looked away as his fingers grazed her cheek. Instead of drawing her into his arms and kissing her deeply as she wished, he caressed her earrings. He thumbed each dangling gold hoop for a few seconds, barely touching her lobe. The contact sent a wave of yearning through her body—a painful, overwhelming feeling that settled deep in her bones as she desperately tried to ignore it.
“Those are nice.” Fallon pulled his hand away and returned it to his side. He stepped back several feet. Arithel noticed his neck had broken out in red splotches. He wiped his hand on his tunic. The gesture irritated her.
Arithel should have known better. She had to control her passions and make it clear she was not to be trifled with. Any longing for Fallon was merely the natural result of various misunderstandings coupled with the isolation of the road and the dangerous experiences they had endured together.
“Arithel!” Fallon snapped his fingers very close to her eyes, pulling her back into reality.
Arithel sighed with embarrassment. “What?”
“You looked like you were in a trance. You were staring at my elbow.”
“Sorry,” she muttered. “What did you do that for?” Her hand instinctively drifted towards her earrings; she touched the same
place he had.
“Do what?”
“Touch my earrings like that then say they were nice. What is your problem?”
“I was just thinking—they are of fine quality and could fetch a good price. You should sell them.”
“That’s it?”
Fallon nodded with a slight smile, “I thought that was obvious. We had just been discussing how to release Anoria. We’ll need money, no doubt.”
“Of course…” Arithel said, still unsure what exactly had happened.
“I know the earrings are dear to you, but we do what we must.”
“Oh, please.” She pointed at his wrists. “Why don’t you sell those? With that etching on the silver, they are far finer than my plain old hoops. Those braces must be worth a small fortune.”
Fallon glared at her.
“These have been passed down to Veselte sons for three hundred years, since we sailed into the Bay of Tunin from Ilsey. They’re not just ornaments; they’re family artifacts. It is not as if my father bought them from some peddler off the streets.”
“It was a jeweler, at a jewelry shop,” Arithel said.
“Have you forgotten it is your sister and not mine we are looking for? There is no reason for me to sell anything,” he said in a low and exasperated voice.
Arithel wasn’t sure why, but her stomach dropped and her chest felt tight. “I can’t, I won’t. I don’t have many reminders of home left—good reminders.”
“Fine,” Fallon ceded. “There is some other way. I’m sure.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Darren grew worse with each passing day. His wound festered; it turned a rotting yellowish hue and red streaks had taken shape beneath the skin of his thigh, spiraling out from the cut like a spider’s web. Pus oozed through the dressings. He sweated and rolled about his bed, mumbling conversations to folk from Aelfelm. He was dying, Arithel reckoned — just as Widow White had predicted. The only saving grace was that his leg had not turned green yet. There might still be time for an amputation.