by Lana Nielsen
Aghi pleaded with the council. “Men, let us return to the issue at hand; what to do about Valemark!”
Without being asked, Casomir cast the runes a third time.
“Pull out, let the Nureenians have their way with the southern provinces for now. Pull all our warriors to Staska, prepare for the sack of Nureen,” he declared.
More arguments ensued. The cleric gave up on his cup-bearing duties. The room was heated. Nils threw his axe at the floor. Thagar was unable to rein in the squabbling.
Morden stepped up on the platform beside Thagar, his voice low and clear. “Padenites, are you not the bravest warriors in all Linnea? The whole world once lived in fear of your swords. You’re men of the north.”
A few ayes arose, with Nils’ being the loudest.
“Would your gods misspeak?” Morden continued. “Do you not trust them? Have they not already awakened the mountain for you? Have they not revealed their old city?”
Murmuring. No ayes.
“There is wealth in the south, just ripe for the taking. The Nureenians have never been attacked on their own soil,” Morden said.
Aghi laughed. “The doctor is as mad as the King.”
“Watch your tongue!” Glorun cried out without thinking.
The men turned to her, throwing their arms in the air and hissing in response. A few demanded Morden kick her out, but he refused.
“Hear me out,” he said.
“Order!” Thagar commanded. “He is right. We have never questioned the runes before.”
“The Nureenians will be hungry soon. They’re having to ship food from their colonies, even other continents. It’s expensive to run the empire. They need ever more slaves to avoid emptying their coffers to pay their own men. Let them take a few pieces of our southern lands. We draw back our forces to the Grey Mountains and trick them into believing we are as weak as them.”
“It’s all well and good,” said Thagar, “but how do we raise enough men to even have a chance at reaching Mt. Aerys?”
Morden flashed a gloating smile. “There is a way. I have been working on it for months. I am in possession of something very valuable—an Ankarian, of the old bloodline of Nureen. It’s a boy, sixteen or seventeen, son of the Princess Milisandia. She took him into hiding in Elinmoor, where he was raised as a farmer in total ignorance of his heritage. My servant, Fallon, has found him, collected him, and revealed the truth. He has sent word to me that the boy is strong and ready to claim what is his. The lad has already slain soldiers of the empire near the River Thespolid. He is coming here, to us. You know the Ankarians are said to be descended from Agron himself.”
“Who cares about the false god!” Nils cried.
“You should. This Ankarian boy may pull Agronian nations like Neldor and Ered-Linn to our side against Nureen. He may make the Nureenians themselves give pause when they are under siege. You must remember, I lived in Nureen, I know it well. Half the population supported the Ankarians during the revolution. They have not forgotten their old kings. This boy may be the key to open the doors to the golden city. You’ll have revenge, coin, land, women—the jewel of Linnea will be ours for the taking.
The lords of the council sat in stunned silence.
Aghi asked for the cup. “To the greatest doctor of all time! We are fortunate to have your counsel!” he toasted Morden.
The lords saluted Morden with one arm and said, “Hail, Morden!”
Morden’s face was bright; he had never looked more magnificent, more knowledgeable, more sure of himself.
In that moment, Glorun realized that no matter how much the Southron helped her, she still could not trust him.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
A week and two days after his injury, Darren finally started to recover. The wound on his leg sealed itself and he was able to remove the bandages and walk about normally. He and Arithel even sparred in the alley behind Widow White’s house; it amazed Arithel that Darren seemed only marginally weaker than before. The only indication he had suffered a brush with death was his thinness—his face was gaunt and his legs had shrunken. He looked to have lost at least fifteen pounds
When Fallon left to see about buying horses, Arithel searched for his traveling notebook. Just as she expected, it was nowhere to be found. She wanted to read the notes he was making for Morden, in hopes of better understanding the pull the Nureenian exile had over her friend.
Disappointed, she passed the time by reading. After about an hour of that, she grew restless. Her stomach was turning and she couldn’t stop picking at the skin around her fingernails. There was one task that was long overdue, a task that made her restless to even think about; writing a letter to her parents and Alarius. She supposed she owed them some semblance of closure. She could not tell them the whole truth, though—that Anoria’s disappearance was mostly her own fault.
Arithel cracked her knuckles with resolve and searched for stationery and ink to complete the task. She found some downstairs, after ransacking Widow White’s cupboards and the dead husband’s old office. Their host would not notice; she was hardly there. It was as if she had surrendered her house to strangers.
Arithel took the materials back upstairs and into her room, where she used her nightstand as a makeshift desk. She locked her door and closed the shutters. She needed total isolation.
With a heavy breath, Arithel unfurled a blank piece of parchment, smoothing out the crinkled edges with her fingertips. She dipped the tattered quill into the well of ink. The ink was clumpy from lack of use; Arithel spat into the jar in hopes her saliva would make it runny and smooth. She swirled the end of the quill in the jar several times, mixing the spit and ink together. She spat in it again for good measure.
She began to write, starting with the date first. She pursed her lips as she penned the words:
Good day to you all, Mother, Father, and Alarius. I miss you dearly and send my love and gratitude. I miss our estate, too, and hope to come home for the Yuletide should the weather permit it. I apologize for not writing sooner. Anoria and I had to wait at the harbor for several days during a storm. Our voyage was long and arduous and we were blown off course for a time. Who knew winter would come so soon? I suppose we should not be surprised with the peculiar state of our heavenly bodies. Agron willing, in spring the sun shall return. My new estate here in the Lost Isles is lovely. It is as remote as expected, our nearest neighbor living about a mile away. There are only twenty families dwelling on this island. You would be pleased to hear that we have already made friends and gotten ourselves settled in. A small forest grows on our land, so we are never without firewood or wild game. The manor is in good condition, though it gets drafty as you might guess. I have a lovely view of the waves crashing against the cliffs, and in the shed there are plenty of seeds for spring. I hope to start a vineyard or purchase livestock, eventually—this is prime land for cattle or sheep. Do not worry about me. I am adjusting well to life here.
Arithel’s hand ached. It was a very easy lie; the tale was exactly how she had imagined her arrival in the Lost Isles.
Anoria, too, is enjoying life in the islands. You would be pleased to hear that she has discarded her nun’s habit. She spends most of her time reading and taking long walks. She has met a young man here, Flynn Walker, the eldest son of one of the local families. They are in the process of plighting their troth, and I expect a marriage will occur soon. It is sudden but I am happy for them. Do let me know how things are going in Portreath. How has it changed since the coup? We here hardly noticed it, having caught the last voyage to the Isles before it occurred. What luck!
Arithel threw the quill down. Ink splattered onto the page and she wet her finger in attempt to dab it away, but quickly gave up. She stared at the words. They were just so wrong. They were hideous. She laid her head down on the desk and slammed her fist twice. Why couldn’t she just tell the truth? It wasn’t as if she’d even be there to receive their anger.
She was startled by a knocking at the do
or.
“Go on. I am busy.”
She assumed it was Fallon. She had hoped he would be gone longer. She crumpled her letter into a ball and tossed it across the room.
She jumped from her seat as Fallon entered the room.
How did he have a key? Why hadn’t she heard it turn?
“Everything all right?” he asked. He picked up the ball of parchment and unfolded it.
“Fine. I’m just reflecting on things. In private,” she said.
Fallon looked over the letter and shut the door.
Arithel walked over to him and tried to wrest her letter back. He held on to it, and she tore it to pieces. She laughed harshly as she watched the bits of parchment float to the floor. She swallowed, felt strangely tired, and sat down on the bed. She took a deep breath for clarity, realizing she probably seemed insane to her friend.
“You were writing a letter to your family. I don’t see why you are so upset.”
He sat next to her.
“I know you read some of it. I’m a liar, Fallon. Avoidant, irresponsible, reckless… I’ve caused great harm to many people at this point, people who love me. And the worst part is, I don’t care nearly enough.”
Fallon stared at her for a few seconds, his mouth slightly open. He pushed a tangle of dark hair behind her ears and drew her body close to his. Arithel was a little surprised but didn’t resist. She allowed him to push her head against his chest. She shut her eyes for a moment and took a few deep breaths. He stroked her hair as she pressed into him. She noticed his tenseness; his arm twitched a little at first and his fingers were creaky and stiff. She wondered why his nerves were high. He clearly was not in love with her anymore. Perhaps it was simply the strangeness of the situation they both found themselves in. Her scalp prickled deliciously each time he touched her; she focused on that overwhelming, corporeal sensation rather than the grief knotting in her breast.
That was as far as it went. She figured he meant to comfort her.
They were both silent for several minutes before Fallon finally said, “You are too hard on yourself, Ari. I don’t know what else to tell you. Even if the things you said are true, so what? You’re resourceful, and that’s all that matters. Portreath—your family—it will all be irrelevant soon. We’ll have transcended our old lives.”
Arithel wasn’t sure what sort of transcendence he was alluding to.
“I’ve known you all my life,” he continued and held her a bit tighter. “One thing is certain—you’ve always had this uncanny ability to come out on top no matter the circumstances. Some would call it a kind of magic.”
Arithel gently freed herself from his grasp. “That may have been a little true once. Three years ago everything changed, in ways you couldn’t possibly understand.”
“Try me,” he told her.
She sighed and looked out the window, so he couldn’t see her discreetly wipe away the moisture welling in her eyes. “Let me put it this way. Agron, Mother Inara, the saints and old gods… whatever you want to call the capricious forces that rule our universe—they sent me a sign, a terrible warning, that in effect I was damned.”
“Don’t speak in riddles, Arithel,” he said. “What really happened?”
She laughed at the irony of that statement coming from him.
“Well, Fallon, reveal to me all your secrets and I shall reveal mine.”
He cleared his throat but said nothing.
“Thought so,” she whispered.
“I’ll settle the matter with your family and everyone else.” He changed the subject. “I’ll make it brief but to the point. With my signature, I’ll lessen your culpability.”
“Thank you,” she breathed. “What did you come here for in the first place? It must be important.”
He wouldn’t have barged in if it wasn’t.
“We need to find the Northman again.”
“What for?” Arithel lifted her eyebrow. “Do you not recall his parting words? That we should all avoid each other?”
Arithel recalled the mad glint in Meldane’s eyes as he had choked her—not an experience she was keen on repeating.
Fallon drummed his fingers against his leg. “Doesn’t matter. They are the missing pieces of the puzzle. You—you brought them to me. It was fate.”
“It was coincidence.”
“The, er, prophecy. The prince damned to die, the servant’s watchful eye…. Arithel, don’t you see —”
“I do see,” she interrupted him. “You want them to join us, to strengthen the weight of Darren’s prophecy. Which means you must take stock in Elspeth’s mutterings after all.”
“It’s all perfect, really,” Fallon said, pacing around the room. “Meldane and his thrall are very good warriors. They can be very useful to us.”
“There’s no arguing with that. What makes you think they’d be willing?”
“Meldane has lost his honor. I can offer it back to him, should he help deliver Darren to Paden. All of Paden will be impressed with his redemption.” Fallon smiled. “He has nothing to lose by accepting the offer. I know he would do anything to go home. As for Darren, completing part of the prophecy will give him resolve. It seems he’s lost some over the course of his injury and recovery.”
The idea made sense, but he made some generous assumptions.
“I hope you change the wording of the prophecy when you plead our cause to Meldane. I don’t know that he is going to be so eager to jump on board when it says he is doomed.”
Fallon snorted. “Are you kidding? Northmen eat that sort of stuff up; they’re a fatalistic people. There is no greater accomplishment to them than a good death.”
“You realize we must actually find him before he somehow agrees to this scheme? Belhaven is an immense city.”
“You recall their place. You have a good memory. You’re just making excuses. Let’s do this, Arithel. Morden will be most pleased if we do.”
She pressed her lips together and shifted her mouth to one side. “Fine. I swore to help you, after all. Be honest with me, because I haven’t entirely decided what I believe myself. Is Darren an Ankarian? Or is this all just some elaborate ruse?”
Fallon looked at her thoughtfully. “Morden has said that he is. Morden is never wrong. The prophecy removed any doubt.”
Arithel raised her brows and made it a point to nod.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Arithel and Fallon made their way towards the slums. The snowfall had turned into a gentle rain accompanied by a sinister wind blowing from the south. Arithel garbed herself in one of the new cloaks Fallon had bought for the journey over the mountains. She reveled in the softness of its folds and admired the glimmering jet and silver pin that fastened the front. She tried not to ponder how much it cost or how often Mira had been working. She reminded herself that Mira had pledged to support Darren, just as they all had.
They reached the slums after a twenty-minute walk. The streets were crowded; groups of men and women bustled about in all directions, carrying rolls of food and cloth. A lot of the folk, even those wearing fine clothes, appeared to be loitering, ambling about in front of taverns, sloshing drinks as they conversed in hurried voices. Arithel wondered if it was a holiday, or some saint’s day celebrated only in Elinmoor, yet there were no decorations about.
She supposed people were out simply because of the improvement in the weather. The streets were not soggy and the temperature was a little warmer. Maybe they were making up for lost business.
Arithel found her way through the slums easy. She used landmarks to guide her—an abandoned cobbler’s shop with broken windows, a tavern with a placard reading “The Grey Lady” above the door and a balconied limestone villa that stood in stark contrast with the hovels and lean-tos. Slum royalty, no doubt—slave traffickers or gypsy lords.
“Are we lost?” Fallon asked in as cordial a tone as possible
Arithel stopped and collected her bearings. She sighted the temple where she had first run into Meldane, diago
nal to their current position.
“No. It’s just a long walk,” she answered, and without further hesitation she headed straight for the Northmen’s apartment. On the way, she had the displeasure of passing by the Walker shack once more. Their dogs were no longer out front. Perhaps they had eaten them, she mused.
Arithel found the building. She walked up the staircase, past the other units, and on to the Northmen’s quarters. She noted that the door was cracked and pushed it open.
The Northmen had left; most of their belongings were gone, including all the weapons they had hoarded. All that remained were dirty dishes, half-melted candles, and a broken table. There was still a pot over the hearth, with some leek soup festering inside. Arithel tasted it, tentatively—very bland, but not yet cold.
Fallon was having a fit, violently ransacking the few items left behind.
“Is this the right apartment?” he demanded.
“Yes. Positive.”
Fallon let out an unintelligible string of curses and kicked one of the stools. It sailed into the wall. The clamor shook the room.
“This is terrible,” he said, breathing heavily, his hands pressed against the table as he leaned over it. “What are the damned chances?”
“Relax,” Arithel said in a low voice. “We may still find them yet; you’re jumping to conclusions. They ate not too long ago. We can be sure of that.” She slapped at the cast-iron pot and watched it teeter dangerously on its hook. It clanged into the bricks of the fireplace, the commotion stirring up particles of soot from the chimney.
“They are probably far across the plains by now, on their way to Ialori. No doubt they fled the city after running into me. Meldane didn’t want to be found,” Fallon said and muttered, “Let’s go.”
He seized Arithel’s hand and dragged her out of the room. Did he completely ignore everything I just said?