The Dimming Sun

by Lana Nielsen

  Fallon despaired and refused to leave Darren’s side. Arithel had stealthily filched a small amount of food and supplies from the market square. Mira disappeared more often than not. Arithel hoped the girl would finally show some sense and go home, but she always returned.

  When Arithel checked on Darren, she found Widow White sitting at his bedside, talking in hushed tones with Fallon.

  “I thought you were just thieves and cutthroats at first, but now I know he is a good lad,” she said, holding Darren’s hand in hers.

  Darren groaned an incomprehensible string of words and slammed his free hand on the nightstand. He clumsily picked up one of the tiny figurines he had carved in his boredom. He placed it in the widow’s hand. He had made six of them, animals and people. The one he gave Widow White was a robed angel with a halo set about her head. She looked like a nun or a saint. Arithel thought again of Anoria and how she was supposed to save her.

  Perhaps she could sell her earrings, get a loan, and hire someone more useful than Fallon.

  “You want some coffee, child?” Widow White interrupted Arithel’s thoughts.

  “Aye,” Arithel murmured in surprise. Not many people had a supply of rich drinks like coffee since the dimming sun. She had not had any in so long and this smelled divine, like vanilla and earth and cinnamon. She closed her eyes as she sipped it, remembering how the Veseltes had always kept a fresh pot in their kitchen no matter the time of day.

  Widow White tossed a bag into Fallon’s lap. He examined the contents.

  “Orselus root,” she explained. “It may stave off the infection. But he needs the wound packed twice a day for about a week. This is all I have left of my husband’s supply.”

  “Thank you,” Fallon said, sniffing the stuff as he crumbled the herbs in his hand.

  “You’ll have to go to the inner quarter to get more. The Nureenians won’t let us sell it. Reckon they believe there are already too many of us here in the city.” Fallon nodded. “It is going to get very cold today. The almanac says a snowstorm, worst of the year. Bring the pot downstairs when you are finished,” she told them as she rose to her feet.

  “No problem, ma’am,” Darren croaked.

  Widow White squeezed his hand before she left.

  Mira quietly entered the house. Arithel noted she had a new gown—light and airy blue with a daring red surcoat. She wore black lace gloves that were too flimsy for the weather.

  Mira poured herself some coffee and handed over a purse to Fallon without saying anything.

  There were coins inside. Fallon counted them—ten gold cuplets.

  He counted them again, grinning. Mira stood over him with a satisfied expression.

  “How did you get this?” he asked.

  “Should be obvious,” she remarked. “I am from here; I still have plenty of clients.”

  “I can’t believe I didn’t think of this,” Fallon muttered to himself.

  Darren stirred.

  “What?” he said in disbelief, his eyes nearly swollen shut. “Mira… surely no, not in my name. My destiny is meaningless if built on such terrible acts…”

  “Be still, Darren.” Mira leaned over him and smoothed his hair. “It is no great ordeal, as long as I have protection next time.”

  Fallon nodded to her.

  “Arithel.” Darren weakly pointed at her. “You can’t let this happen—not in my name... not in your sister’s name.”

  “You’re not thinking clearly,” Arithel said.

  Fallon quickly stirred poppy paste into Darren’s cup. He brought it to Darren’s lips but the lad pushed it away.

  Darren painstakingly sat upright. He shifted back and forth several times before finding a comfortable position. He forced his bleary eyes open.

  “I haven’t been this clear in days.” He raised his shaky voice. “Mira, you are a free woman now; you cannot put yourself through tortures for my sake. Steal from the widow before you resort to this. She has plenty of silverware lying about.”

  Arithel was shocked that Darren would suggest such a thing. The old lady had shown them nothing but the utmost hospitality.

  “I prayed to St. Iona,” Mira whispered the name of the patron of female criminals and gave Darren the draught he had refused from Fallon. “I dreamt a great flood rose up from the River Thespolid and washed over the city. I was caught in it and nearly drowned, but the saint herself pulled me out of the waters. When I emerged, I was wearing white and I was born anew. The past was washed away.”

  “What…” Darren muttered.

  “So, do you see.” She smiled sweetly and straightened his blankets. “If there is any chance you are who they say you are, then whatever price—it is worth it. When the land is restored, we will all be born anew.”

  Darren had fallen asleep.

  “Watch him while we are gone. Change the bandages when you must,” Fallon said to Arithel. He handed off the Orselus root.

  “You’re leaving already?”

  Mira’s eyes were set.

  Fallon hesitated and removed his signet. He took Arithel’s hand and set it upon her middle finger. He pushed it past her knuckles, his hands trembling.

  Arithel marveled at the engraved dragon and its emerald eye.

  “Keep it safe,” Fallon said.

  Before she could ask why he had bestowed it upon her, he was gone.

  ***

  The afternoon passed slowly. Arithel watched snow collect on the windowsill as she lounged on one of Widow White’s couches, her feet propped up against the armrest. She stared wistfully at the flakes, thinking of the occasional snowfalls that occurred back in Portreath. She recalled sledding with Ronan, racing down the knolls and rolling around like pillbugs when they fell off. Distant warmth flooded her face and she couldn’t help but to smile.

  She absentmindedly flipped through a medicinal text she had found on the parlor table. It was a manual for doctors and barbers; there were many gruesome illustrations of various diseases and deformities, along with descriptions of symptoms and treatment. This volume mostly concerned injuries of the head. The remedy for at least half the ailments was drilling a hole in the skull to relieve pressure. Bored with it, she tossed it aside, and picked up a book about pregnancy. When she saw that it advised for women to prevent pregnancy by applying honeycomb to the inside of their canal, she threw it across the room. What idiot had tried that?

  She thought of Mira’s dream. Did she really have it? Probably not—the girl was a surely either a slumdweller or a serf, and they were all superstitious fools.

  Arithel looked over at Darren, who was still sleeping. He was just a lump beneath blankets. She noticed his cup was about to fall off the nightstand—he must have reached for it in his slumber. Arithel moved it to a less precarious spot. She caught a whiff of the draught—it was sickly sweet, a little like licorice. She considered taking a few sips to help wind down but decided against it, remembering how long it took to shake its effects when Fallon had given it to her back in Neldor.

  Arithel admired Darren’s miniatures. They really were lovely, in a modest sort of way. One of them, a young maiden, had been painted—white skin, black hair, blue dress. She was surprised Widow White had paints available. Arithel examined the figurine closely, and wondered which of the saints it was intended to be. Maybe it was supposed to be Inara herself—she was usually clad in blue—the color of serenity, of protection.

  Arithel glanced again at Darren, ensuring he was still asleep.

  She crept away to the corner of the room, where a stool was set beside a washing basin. It was still full, a dirty rag lying half-submerged off its edges, clouding the water.

  Arithel held Darren’s carving above the water, so she could see its reflection.

  “Show yourself, Mother Inara. Queen of Heaven, Shepherdess, Protectoress of Agron…. Tell your daughter what she may expect...” Arithel whispered to the statue.

  She felt a little ridiclous, but figured it was worth a shot. Perhaps if she gave Agron
a chance, he would remember her.

  “Show me the way to Anoria,” Arithel pleaded, trying to clear her head and unfocus her eyes.

  Nothing.

  “Remember how I loved you once, when I was young. How I illuminated the saints and their deeds? Remember how I prayed, and thanked you for my great luck?” Arithel told the object.

  It only smiled back, a little curved line under pinprick eyes.

  Arithel heard Darren stir.

  “Is there anything to eat?” he called lazily.

  Arithel sighed and set down the statuette.

  A vision appeared before her, but not the one she wanted.

  She was there again—the day and place she had stumbled into a piece of hell itself. She saw Ronan pacing about the yavenwood glade, eyes opaque and face bewildered, beams of red moonlight dancing strange trails across his shirt and coat. The changeling-woman was lying on the mossy earth between them, her chest shuddering with ragged breaths as she clutched one of the strands of pearls about her neck. Pipes and drums from the Beltane festivities in the village, their sounds arcing and echoing through impossibly black, foggy woods… All was distorted.

  “We’ve got to get help, take her back, for her son.” Ronan took no breaths as he spoke. “I can’t believe what we have done…” he said, though the knife that felled the monster was his.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. She is someone important. They won’t understand. There will be no mercy for the butcher’s brother. Everything we have worked for will be gone. All you and I have will be ripped apart,” Arithel told him, authority and assuredness in her voice.

  She tried to touch him, to calm him, but he pushed her away.

  “You can explain it if I can’t. The Veseltes used to favor you. Arithel, we cannot leave her here to die.”

  “We must!” Her voice was shrill and loud. “Does what we have mean so little to you? We are blessed.”

  He wavered and continued to pace, nearly tripping over a rotten log.

  “Don’t be a coward for once!”

  Ronan took the knife, and cut the thing’s throat. It did not change back into a monster, but it did glow. He stormed away, leaving Arithel alone with the body. She took a hard look at the woman—the gauzy dress, even brows, flint-dark eyes, and tangled, waist-length hair.

  Arithel blinked away the memory, imagined that the woman turned back into a ghoul, and she sat up, throat still bleeding, and said:

  “I’m the only one who ever cared for you, girl.”

  ***

  Eventually Glorun was freed from Castle Flambard. She had no more episodes during her imprisonment, and it felt like the longest period of time she had gone without one. Morden escorted her back to the capital, taking one hundred of Alfhild’s men with him.

  Glorun was unsure how long she had been stuffed away in that tower—perhaps a little over a month? There was a foot of snow on the ground, and the days were now very short. Morden told her that on the way back, they were to meet Wulfdane at Mt. Volkura, where the high cleric would be conducting a ceremony to honor the mountain god. Morden told her that they wanted her to play a role in it, that if she did well the high cleric and his priestesses would consider training her.

  Glorun had never heard of a princess being made into a priestess, but she was willing to do whatever it took to go home.

  Along the road, the Southron god haunted her steps. She would see him in the face of shepherds, of hunters, of thralls hauling firewood. She even saw him when no one was around, sitting on a roadside cairn, waving and smiling before vanishing in the blink of an eye. Once he startled her, singing and leaping on the crags above their trail like some elf-sprite. He always beckoned for her to join him. She told no one and prayed to her favorite goddess, Seersha the Weaver, to get him out of her head.

  At Volkura, half of court had gathered in temporary longhouses built beside hot springs near the base of the mountain. At the center of the makeshift village was a stone altar that had been there for as long as anyone could remember. Metal runes no one understood were etched into the steps and columns. A fire, tinted blue by some rocks unearthed in the city of the gods, kept the site perpetually illuminated.

  The ceremony was to be a bull sacrifice. Normally, it was held on the winter solstice, but Wulfdane decided to have it early because the mountain was rumbling. The high cleric hoped it would erupt again and give the Southrons more trouble. Glorun had been granted the honor of slaying the bull. It was an unusual request, but the cleric had this idea that her violent powers would fully arouse the god.

  She wondered what they would do if she disappointed them. She feared she’d get sent back to the tower. She tried to go to Morden for advice, but he was gone, headed back to Kaldemar less than an hour after he’d delivered her.

  Before the sacrifice could be made, everyone had to cleanse the impurities from their body and mind. They lay down in the longhouses, sweating near piles of hot rocks. They consumed some rancid, gelatinous red goop that was supposed to help them empty their stomachs and bowels. They ate only bear fat, and drank only melted snow—just enough to sustain themselves and let them stand without fainting. This went on for three days until the High Cleric judged them ready to commune with the mountain.

  The ritual itself was a blur. Glorun remembered her brother standing behind her, his arms outstretched. All the men sang their praises to the gods, while the women whooped and yelled. She had been handed an obsidian blade with a whale-bone hilt. She pricked it on her own palm first. The bull was led to her by a rope, its breath visible as it snorted. Its muscular, white back rippled as it pawed at the ground. It stared at her, the otherworldly altar fire reflected in its great black eyes.

  She sliced its throat, exactly as the High Cleric instructed her. The singing and shrieking ceased, and the bull fell forward. The High Cleric collected some of its blood in a drinking horn. Glorun took three sips. The blood was warm and soothed her empty belly. She placed the horn in her brother’s outstretched shaking hand.

  When he grasped it, the god awakened. The world came into focus as the noise rattled her ears. The mountain blew part of its top off, sending silver clouds of ash spiraling towards the heavens. The ground beneath her feet trembled. Nearby vents in the rocks expelled plumes of steam that burned the hairs on the inside of her nose.

  Wulfdane laughed ecstatically and cast down the horn of blood. He embraced Glorun and kissed her on the forehead.

  “Sweet sister, I knew one day your dark gifts would do us some good.”

  Glorun was confused. She had not had a fit. She had remained in her body the whole time. That the mountain decided to stir was pure coincidence.

  The High Cleric led their company to a cave, where they would wait until the smoke cleared and the rocks stopped tumbling down the slopes. Their slaves brought them clothes, along with baskets of rye bread and pitchers of milk. She was glad to break her fast and felt her strength return as she ate.

  Wulfdane sat beside her, far away from Malina.

  “I am so proud of you,” he said, throwing his arm about her shoulders. “The Southrons will soon find themselves in an eternal winter.”

  “They will suffer greatly. Their sun god will be helpless.” Glorun smiled at her brother as she took note of Malina’s rather annoyed expression.

  “I may live up to our father’s name after all,” he said.

  “He would be happy to see what we have done to the Nureenians,” Glorun stated.

  “Yes,” Wulfdane said, “But I’m afraid he’d ask why I have no sons to continue his line.”

  He glared at Malina. When his eyes met hers, she looked away and conversed with a group of women.

  “Have you ever thought,” he continued. “That the gods want us to keep our bloodline pure?”

  “What?” Glorun said, frozen still.

  Her brother pulled her closer and ran his hands through her hair. He held it out in front of her with his fingers. It was the same platinum blond as his own. The same color
as their mother, who had died in childbirth with Glorun.

  “Perhaps all of our misfortunes were a sign that we need to do right by the gods, like mother and father. Like Eben and Madroste, sky and earth….”

  Glorun swallowed and shook. She looked about the cave, to see if anyone was listening to her brother’s madness. They were all absorbed in their own affairs.

  “I don’t think,” Glorun started, her voice weak.

  “You are becoming a very lovely girl,” he observed, looking down at her legs.

  She wished she were back in the tower, back at Castle Flambard with its cowering servants.

  “Glorun!” Selka shouted, weaving her way through the crowd.

  Glorun breathed a sigh of relief, and broke free of her brother’s grasp.

  “Aye.” The princess stood up, stooping so she would not hit her head on the crystals hanging from the cave’s ceiling.

  “The High Cleric wishes to see you,” her handmaiden said.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Mira and Fallon were gone most of the time. As the snow piled higher, so did the cuplets. Arithel was left at the house to entertain and nurse Darren as best she could. She found dressing his leg an extremely distasteful task, but she did enjoy ordering him about, telling him when to take his draught, when to eat or rest or stretch his leg. He didn’t protest or ask about the others so long as she told stories.

  Sometimes she made them up, sometimes she read Widow White’s books, but most of the time she just told him about her life. Perhaps it was the opium, but the farmboy relished every account, even the mundane ones. Arithel enjoyed having an audience.

  “Knock, knock,” Widow White called, her eyes twinkling as she walked in, bearing a tray of hot currant scones. She placed them on the nightstand.

  Darren immediately devoured two of them and licked his fingers.

  Before Widow White left, Arithel asked, “Where do you keep going during the day?”