The Dimming Sun

by Lana Nielsen

  By the time Fallon was done with his spiel, the cords in his neck were distended and his eyes had turned wide and feral. It was a frightening sight.

  “Where’s your proof?” Meldane said.

  “Look at him. I know you’ve seen portraits of the old king. Darren, here, is the spitting image of his grandfather, only he has golden hair, I’m sure inherited from his Ered-Linnean father. He is the right age, in the right place, at the right time, and it has been confirmed by Morden—he gave me a sign in Aelfelm.”

  What sign? Arithel wondered. Fallon kept speaking of signs from Morden. It was driving her mad not knowing what they were or how he received them.

  “You really think this is clever,” Meldane muttered. He said something to Zander in Padenite. Zander guffawed loudly in response.

  “It’s him. He is an Ankarian. And I discovered him,” Fallon said, “with Morden’s guidance.”

  “You have not changed since we last saw each other. You’re still the most zealous slave on the continent, perhaps in all the continents.”

  “I choose to follow Morden and his vision. If you were smart, you would, too. He knows the way forward, out of the shadows and misery. He is a life-giver.”

  Arithel tried to picture Morden. What did he look like? Fallon had never said. The way Fallon spoke of him, it was more like he was some omniscient cloud of thought rather than a real person.

  “You’re an odd fellow,” Meldane remarked. “If I had your gifts, I wouldn’t be groveling for scraps beside some doctor’s footstool.”

  Fallon sighed.

  Darren attempted to get Arithel’s attention but she ignored him. He politely asked Zander what his name was, but Zander didn’t answer him.

  “Help me deliver Darren safely to Morden and I guarantee your redemption among your people.” Fallon said. “You’ll have your spot at court again; perhaps even a chance to get back on the king’s guard. Look at the sorry state you’re in now! What harm will come to you for taking this opportunity? You think it’s coincidence that you ran into Arithel, and me?” Fallon answered his own question. “No, it is not. It is fate, and Seersha’s fingers are working swiftly to weave all of our threads together.”

  Meldane swallowed hard. His demeanor softened. “It is a fine offer if there is any truth in it, but I can’t go home. The moment I ride into Paden, I will be arrested and executed. I should have already been killed. You know that.”

  Darren turned to Arithel for explanation. She mouthed ‘just listen’ to him. He nodded.

  Fallon breathed deeply and knelt low before Meldane. He closed his eyes and placed his hand over his heart. “I swear to you, Meldane Dusaldr, that I will redeem your reputation and clear all charges of treason. I will do this; I swear it upon my life.”

  Fallon pulled one of his knives from his belt and cut the palm of his hand. The line was deep. Blood oozed onto the delicate silver blade. Fallon stood up and stretched out his bloodied hand to Meldane. Arithel wondered if this was some Northern custom or if Fallon was merely being dramatic. Meldane stared at Fallon’s hand apprehensively.

  “If I fail you, Arithel will bring you my head. How about that? That is how serious I am about this boy. His blood will not fail us, I swear to you.” Fallon offered Meldane his blood-stained knife.

  Arithel scrunched her nose. She would not be toting anyone’s head to the Northman. Why had Fallon brought her into this?

  Darren spoke up, looking rather unsure of himself, “If you’ll pardon me, my lord. There is a prophecy, one made by an old hedgewitch in Wilderwood. The prince is always damned to die despite his servant’s watchful eye. The echo of a star returns to curse your race, as the errants wander, freed from time, freed from place. One forgets their name, but they all forgot his claim. A king in the shadow, true of heart but callow. I ask you, child, empty your foggy mind, rouse the sleeping and awake the blind. See what’s always been there, in the soil, in the air. Deeper than blood, darker than night. Soon, I promise, we can live without light.”

  Darren recited the words of the prophecy slowly and methodically, with only the slightest hint of its natural sing-song lilt.

  Fallon shook his head at Darren and sighed. Interestingly, Meldane’s eyes were alight by the end of the screed. Meldane cut his hand with his own weapon, refusing Fallon’s.

  “We have a deal, sworn in blood. You best deliver,” Meldane told Fallon.

  “I will.” Fallon’s nostrils flared. “Before this is over, every soul in this room—” he pointed at all individually “—will have everything beyond their wildest dreams. We have an opportunity to be part of history, to make myths come to life, to forge new truths…”

  It took a lot of composure to keep Arithel from rolling her eyes or smirking at him. There he was again with his vague and arcane ramblings, no doubt imagining himself someplace far grander than an old widow’s house in Belhaven.

  Yet as Fallon turned his gaze to her, he did so with such conviction that she felt her armour of bitterness and cynicism melting away. She could not look away from him—the room faded and his face became bright as the candlelight began to take on an impossibly silver glow.

  “I want to swear to this cause too. I have nothing else,” Mira spoke up in her shrill voice, interrupting Arithel’s daze. Arithel immediately glanced at the woman, and noticed the gloves she had been stitching earlier clutched tightly in her hands. Meldane nodded grimly to Mira, and she accepted his knife with cool, set eyes. She slit her palm quickly, and briefly clasped hands with him.

  Zander cut himself next—the knife looked tiny in his hand. He quickly handed the knife to Arithel without a word.

  Arithel supposed it was best to participate in the ritual. She turned her hand over so that the palms faced up and said: “For Darren. For my sister. For everything. There is no turning back now.”

  She dealt a shallow cut, little more than a scrape, with Meldane’s somewhat jagged and dirty blade. She briefly worried about the possibility of infection.

  She looked over at Darren. He wore an expression of mild horror. She motioned towards the knife.

  “I’ve sworn to Agron many times. He is the one that has put me here. I won’t partake in the occult or invoke false gods,” he said, not daring to look at any one of them.

  Fallon closed his eyes and exhaled.

  “I am not cutting my hand or swearing any oaths,” Darren continued.

  They all glared at him, Mira’s gaze the most intense of all.

  “We just swore undying loyalty to you,” Meldane said. “A little pinprick is the least you can manage for us.”

  “Undying… no one said that,” Darren muttered, looking a bit green.

  After some more feeble arguing, he finally stretched out his hand to please his new allies. He preferred someone else cut him. Arithel sliced his palm quickly. Darren winced and dabbed his bloodied hand on the bedsheets. It seemed as if he wanted to atone already.

  “It is done,” Meldane said. “We shall honor and protect each other as we would ourselves. Each will fulfill their duties to help the whole. We will do whatever it takes to see Darren Ankarian claim what is his.”

  Arithel’s palm itched.

  “Are we leaving tomorrow?” She scratched her hand. No matter how much pressure she put on the cut, the itching would not cease.

  Fallon shook his head. “No. We must make a name for Darren before leaving Belhaven.”

  “What do you mean?” Meldane asked.

  “Spread rumors and information about Darren. Connect him to the slayings of the soldiers in the forest. Create a spectacle.”

  She assumed he was referring to the powders he had bought in Lindelwood.

  “Shouldn’t we get going instead? Doesn’t Morden have a timeline?” she asked.

  “This won’t take longer than two or three days.”

  “Wait.” Meldane half-laughed. “That was you in the forest? Everyone in the slums says a wood-cutter and his son did it.”

  “Of course it
was us. Did you not see the bounty notices? There was mention of four people, two men, two women, not some wood-cutter. And one of the four was listed as golden-haired.”

  Fallon pointed at Darren. Darren beamed and nodded so eagerly it looked like his head was bobbling.

  “I can’t read your language; I don’t pay attention to notices,” Meldane answered, arms folded across his chest. “But it makes sense.”

  Meldane eyed Arithel directly. No doubt he was referring to the incident when the Nureenians had followed her near the temple.

  “This better be some spectacle,” Meldane said. “Better than today. The riot will be the talk of the city for months. I doubt the slumrats still care about a few dead patrolmen near the river.”

  “What would you do?” Fallon asked.

  Meldane looked confused.

  “I’m asking for your advice. How would you create a spectacle?” Fallon clarified.

  Meldane shrugged. “I don’t know. Ransom an official, someone close to the mayor. Kill more Nureenians, or better yet, use your magic. That’ll get people talking.”

  “It’s about making a name for Darren, not me. It’s best not to put my abilities on full display.”

  “You know,” Mira hesitantly interrupted them. “There are two mayors here, an Elinmoorian and a Nureenian. The Elinmoorian mayor is often out and about. He would be easy to kidnap.”

  Arithel shook her head. “No one cares what happens to a puppet,” she remarked.

  “That’s not true. He’s one of the richest Elinmoorians in the city. He negotiates with the colonizers for us,” Mira said softly.

  “Why are there two mayors?” Darren blurted.

  “A fire was my original plan,” Fallon said to Meldane.

  Darren and Mira looked at one another in shock. She dropped one of her gloves. He quietly made the sign of Agron.

  “You are right.” Fallon cleared his throat and looked at Meldane. “We will need something ambitious, probably more ambitious than that.”

  “What part of the city did you intend to burn?” Meldane muttered. He too looked a little troubled.

  Hopefully the part that includes the Walker house, Arithel thought.

  “I need time to think,” Fallon said. “We’ll come up with the specifics tomorrow morning. Let us rest, for now.”

  “Tell me whatever it is I must do,” Mira said. “I am ready. I can start spreading word of Darren tonight, if you’d like. Just tell me where to go, which taverns to frequent.”

  Was she deaf? Fallon had clearly stated he was done talking for the night.

  “Tomorrow,” Fallon whispered to her. He briefly put his hand on her shoulder.

  Mira nodded and bowed to Meldane once more, before leaving the room.

  Meldane watched Mira walk away with amusement. She glanced back one last time, coquettishly flashing her great blue eyes.

  “You’re lucky man,” Meldane said with a wink towards Fallon. “She’s the best-looking tart I’ve seen in all these sorry Eastern lands. Will you share her?”

  Fallon was red-faced. “Er, she’s our cook…”

  “Let her cook for me,” Meldane said with a chuckle.

  “Mira is a woman of Agron,” Darren declared stalwartly. “She has been through more than you can imagine and has done nothing but help others. Watch your filthy tongue.”

  Arithel laughed. Darren was just so… good.

  “Don’t think ill of me, princeling,” Meldane said and reached over to pat Darren’s head in an almost fatherly manner.

  “Just Darren,” he croaked. “It’s all right, just watch yourself.”

  Meldane bowed and walked off. Fallon followed him, saying, “You and I need to talk.”

  “I was about to suggest the same. Some things must be cleared up.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Darren rested his head in his hands. Wisps of bronze-colored hair hung over his fingers.

  “This is all so overwhelming,” he muttered. “Pinch me.” He gulped. “That rusty pagan knife better not have been infected.”

  Meldane had left it behind. It was lying on the bed. Darren flung it onto the floor.

  “I’m sure it’s fine…” Arithel said, gazing down at her palm.

  “Why isn’t your sister here? I thought we weren’t supposed to leave until we found her.”

  “She’s on her way to Nureen. She wedded her captor, imagine that. Pregnant with his spawn.”

  “At least you know that she is alive and not enslaved. That is a happy ending compared to most kidnappings. She must have been a gentle woman to move the heart of her captors to kindness.”

  “That is not at all how it is!” Arithel snapped. “She was raped, invaded, taken. It is not cause for some damned celebration. This is serious suffering we are talking about, me being torn asunder from someone I love. You push some of your treacly virtue again and I will slap you so hard your teeth will rattle.”

  Her vitriolic words surprised her.

  Darren’s face sank further into his hands. “I am sorry to have upset you, Arithel. I just didn’t know what else to say. I thought it would cheer you up; I didn’t mean any harm.”

  Through the gap between his fingers, Arithel saw that his eyes were red.

  “Damnit,” he cursed, attempting to hide his sensitivity.

  “I’m sorry. I was a bit harsh. It’s just that everything feels so… pointless. I don’t know how I will explain any of this when I, you know, return to the real world. It’s nice to be living in your dream for now.”

  “You had every right to react that way,” he said.

  He removed his hands, and gawked at her.

  “It is just sentiment. Selfish sentiment. You can say what you like about me, Darren, but I know my own demons,” she said.

  A vision of Godwin Walker’s soulless, roving eyes flashed in her head. She could practically taste the awful stench of the pus beneath his dressings.

  She shook her head.

  “Relax,” Darren said. He walked behind her and kneaded his fingers into her shoulders. She was startled by his sudden touch and laughed nervously.

  “That feels pretty good,” she admitted.

  “Sit down. I can ease your burden.”

  “Aye.” She allowed his steady hands to ease the knots in her neck and upper back.

  “I had practice doing this for my grandmum. She was very ill, remember.”

  “Of course.” Arithel breathed, thankful for his help. She could hardly imagine Fallon doing the same.

  She could, when Darren’s hands slid down her back to either side of her waist.

  “That’s enough.” Arithel stood up and brushed off her clothes. On the other side of the thin walls, she could hear Fallon and Meldane talking loudly in Padenite.

  “Sorry,” Darren mumbled.

  Arithel headed for the door. He ran after her.

  He spun Arithel around and pressed his mouth against hers. Her teeth knocked into his. Arithel recoiled immediately, her teeth ringing. She smacked her lips together and frowned, wondering how on earth to respond.

  “I love you!” Darren cried, sounding childish.

  Arithel laughed. “No, you don’t.”

  She gently brushed him aside. Darren seemed to believe the gentleness marked some sort of consent. He embraced her tightly, grabbing hold of her arms and thrusting his tongue in her mouth once again. Arithel spit it out and pushed him off, hard.

  He staggered back a few feet in surprise. She cursed him and clenched her fists, prepared to hit him if need be. Darren finally got the message. The expression on his face immediately changed from that of confidence to remorse.

  “I said for you to cut it out,” Arithel spat. “I don’t want to get into all of this. You don’t love me. You are my friend, my companion. That is all.”

  Darren retreated to his bed and slammed his fist into the pillow as he let out some incomprehensible grunt of frustration. Arithel coolly watched him fume, her back against the door.


  “I knew you’d respond like this,” he declared after he calmed down.

  “Why did you try it?”

  “I don’t know.” Darren once again sank his head into the familiar comfort of his own hands. He muttered to himself. He pushed his hair back and briefly glanced up at Arithel. She was breathless and silent, watching him, trying to get inside his head so she could diffuse the situation without offending him so much it jeopardized their mission.

  “Why can’t you love me?” Darren groaned. “Why not? I want you, Arithel, every bit of you. You are just so pretty that I can hardly stand it. Every time you enter the room, I feel like jumping out of my skin. And those looks, your expressions… I can’t explain it, other than to say you’re driving me mad!”

  Arithel should have been flattered. Not even Ronan had been so frank and open in his affections. But she wasn’t happy to hear Darren’s pining confession. It disturbed her and caused her to see him in a darker light. Arithel knew the look in his eyes; he thought she was rightfully his. No doubt he would not have been bold enough to reveal these things before a blood-oath was sworn on his behalf.

  “Stop, Darren. You’re so young; you have no idea what you’re saying. You’re saying these things because I’m the only woman around who’s literally not a whore. Of course you think you’re in love with me; it’s the law of proximity and opportunity at work. One day you’ll get to a real city, a real court if Agron wills it, and beautiful, charming, well-heeled women will surround you at every turn. You’ll forget all about this passing fancy.”

  “I could never forget you! You are wrong, so wrong. I will love you always!” He jumped up, smiling at her, his eyes trembling like those of an over-enthusiastic pup. He came close to her once more and reached for a lock of her hair. Arithel stood there, stone-faced.

  “Good night, Darren,” she said, as she noticed the dusting of freckles across his nose for the first time. “We will put this all behind us by tomorrow, yes?”

  She turned the knob, creaking the door carefully. She hoped Fallon had not heard anything. She should have kept her voice low. Blast Darren! He had driven her mad with his presumptuousness!