The Dimming Sun

by Lana Nielsen

  “I know why you refuse me,” Darren called with great urgency in his voice.

  Arithel hesitated before going back in the room and shutting the door.

  “Don’t go there,” she warned.

  “He raped Mira, you know,” Darren said. “Fallon raped her. I saw it… that night they left to gather mushrooms.”

  Arithel recalled the night and how long it had taken them to return. Mira had attempted to steal all of their belongings the very next day.

  Coincidences aside, Arithel did not think it was true. Though Fallon was surely flattered by Mira practically throwing herself at his feet throughout their journey, he had exercised considerable restraint around her. He had rarely interacted with the woman any more than he had to. While on the road, he had never once taken a second glance at a brothel; it seemed he was disinterested in whores. He probably didn’t want any distractions from his service to Morden. Arithel was halfway convinced his employer had forced him to take a vow of celibacy.

  She swallowed hard. “You’re lying.”

  “You know I am not.” Darren’s eyes met hers. “He stood before her in a clearing and ordered her to take off her clothes. When she refused, he said that she owed him, that he’d leave her in the wilderness if she didn’t do it. He ravished her, quickly and without dignity. Once he was done, he left. That is what kind of man he is.”

  Arithel’s stomach turned. She had expected Darren to spin some lurid, ridiculous tale of Fallon violently assaulting Mira. Instead, what he revealed was more unsettling simply because it was believable—some sort of ravishment by entitlement, a scene not wholly out of character for Fallon or the vast majority of men of his position. Color rose on Arithel’s cheeks as she thought of what Fallon had done to her in the alley. The worst thing about it was how much it had aroused her, how she had gone to bed still thinking about it. She would have let him take her then and there.

  Fallon was not an honorable man. He was an old friend, and that was all. Any yearnings she felt for him were foolish and she had to try and get rid of them. She understood him a little better now—he had truly done her a favor, in resisting her advances.

  Arithel closed her eyes, suppressing all thoughts of anger or betrayal. She was in control. She attempted to take a moment to pity Mira, but she hated her more than ever before.

  Arithel walked up to Darren and placed her hand upon his cheek. It was still moist where he had cried earlier. She kissed him lightly on the mouth. His bottom lip was much fuller than the top, especially on the inside. She sucked on it briefly. She looked him directly in the eyes, and instead of lust, she now saw some vague sense of astonishment.

  She slipped her hand in his and led him to his bed. She pushed on his chest, gently, to get him to sit down. He did as she bid him, in total silence.

  She quickly removed her clothing, sitting on a stool to unlace her boots. She had not removed them in days, and it was a chore prying them off. Her feet and ankles were swollen and her toes a little numb. Arithel stood before Darren, naked, and allowed him to appraise her.

  He seemed afraid to look. He stole a few quick glances, but kept his eyes fixed on the door. Arithel wondered what had changed in him. She unpinned her braid and allowed her dark hair to fall over her breasts. She recalled how at the hot springs, his eyes had lingered especially long on her hair.

  She thought of her meetings with Ronan in the Yavenwood, with the stars as their roof, the moss as their bed, the ferns as their blanket. This was certainly far less romantic. Darren blew out the candles, leaving a stark and utter blackness.

  “You,” Arithel commanded. “Take off your clothes. I want to see you.”

  She would have to squint in the unnecessary darkness. But she did not chide him for snuffing out the candles; she supposed it helped ease his nerves.

  “We can wait awhile to do this,” Darren said shakily.

  “We’ve both done it before.”

  He murmured in acknowledgement and stripped off his clothes. He lay back on the bed, pulling his sheets halfway up so that only his chest was visible.

  Arithel pulled the sheets aside and immediately slipped onto his erection. Darren let out a small gasp of surprise. It was somewhat painful; it had been years since she made love, but she moved atop him rhythmically nonetheless, grinding her body into his in an attempt to stimulate herself.

  It did little for her; she did not feel the aching and abandon she had once felt with Ronan. She was dry and her insides sore as he thrust. She felt like some disembodied entity, floating over the two of them.

  Darren, too, seemed uncomfortable. He kept asking if she was okay, which irritated Arithel. He caressed her hips and buttocks uneasily and fondled her breasts methodically, predictably not daring to squeeze or suckle them.

  He grabbed her and flipped her on her back as if it were nothing. Arithel felt momentary arousal with his muscular body pressing against hers, but it faded as he kissed her, excess saliva from his mouth dribbling onto her lips.

  He was breathing faster and paying less attention to her. She pushed him off despite his mild protests. He finished into the sheets. Arithel scrambled to the other end of the bed, pulling a pillow over her body.

  “Why did you do that?”

  “I don’t want children,” she said flatly.

  “It’s not the natural order of things.”

  “According to Agron, neither is tumbling around before you’re wed.”

  “That’s natural, it’s just not proper,” he mumbled.

  “There is no reason to follow that other rule either,” Arithel told him.

  Darren breathed out, tossing the wet sheets onto the floor. He sat next to Arithel and stroked her hair. She felt like batting his hand away, but figured it was inappropriate given the circumstances.

  “Was it—good?” Darren asked tentatively. “For you?”

  “Yes,” Arithel said stiffly. “Quite good. I enjoyed myself.”

  “Was your Ronan the only other man you had been with?”

  “It is none of your business. I’m not asking you how many milkmaids you pulled behind the haystacks...”

  Darren embraced her. His chest was sweaty. It was distasteful; Arithel felt dirty and stroppy. She announced she was going to bed. She hated the frantic look in his eyes as they had fucked; the foreign feeling of his hands upon her breasts. Why? Darren had tried to please her as much as any pious farm lad could. He was a little annoying, but he had a good heart, a generous soul.

  No—it was her own fault, and she knew why she was upset. She had wanted to a feel a kind of victory over Fallon, but she hadn’t gotten it. She did not feel empowered, only strange.

  “Night, Arithel,” Darren told her weakly as she dressed.

  She picked up her boots and sighed, walking barefoot towards the door. She held onto the frame in disbelief for a few seconds.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Arithel awoke to a fierce pounding at the door. It seemed as if only two or three hours had passed. She groaned and pulled her covers over her head, wanting to forget the prior night.

  “Damn you, Arithel…” she mumbled. “You’ve made a huge mistake.”

  Fallon opened her door, clad in new finery; Nureenian silk breeches, a leather jerkin, and a long, high-collared coat.

  “This is no day to sleep in,” he told her.

  “Aye, aye...” she muttered. As he closed the door she dressed and put on her sword-belt.

  After breakfast, and after Widow White left for the market, they met in Darren’s room. Fallon presented a hand-drawn map of the city, with several targets marked on it.

  “What is this plan?” Meldane asked.

  Fallon explained the basics, claiming that he had spontaneously hatched it last night. Arithel had her doubts—she was sure it had been in his head, or in his notes, for some time.

  Fallon wanted to stage a small-scale attack on the city using the explosive powders. They were going to blow up two grain warehouses, the Nureenian barrac
ks, and somehow simultaneously assault the western gate. The event would occur after spending the next two days talking up Darren in the slum taverns. Fallon was confident they could take full advantage of Elinmoorian anger over the riot.

  “Is there some way to make this little less risky?” she asked.

  Stupid is more accurate than risky, she thought. Even with Meldane and Zander’s aid, it seemed unlikely they would get away without being caught.

  She wanted to see Paden. She wanted to understand why this faraway land had so beguiled and changed her friend.

  Fallon shook his head. “Some risks are worth taking. The more we make a name for Darren, the easier it will be for us when he marches on Mt. Aerys.”

  “How many Nureenians are in this city—three thousand?” Arithel speculated.

  Fallon flared his nostrils and stared at the floor.

  “I’m not suggesting this is a bad plan, just think it through a bit more,” she said. “Detonate the blasts at sites closer to the western gates. That way we’re guaranteed more time to reach the mountains.”

  “The Nureenians fear the mountains. They won’t even venture into the foothills,” Meldane said. “Once we make it past the western gate, we are in the clear. We may as well be in Ered-Linn.”

  “Ered-Linn pays tribute to Nureen, but they are not quite a colony of the empire, they are not wholly under its control. Morden’s spies say Nureen is very becoming very unpopular there, as the tribute becomes more difficult to afford. By the time we reach Ered-Linn, we will probably be greeted as heroes.” Fallon smiled.

  “We’ll see. Perhaps we can gain audience with the High Governor of Ered-Linn—I met Emrhys long ago,” Meldane said.

  “That would certainly add a whole new level of credibility to our cause,” Fallon said.

  “Which is needed,” Meldane said.

  Fallon shrugged in admission as Darren glared.

  Zander and Meldane exchanged a knowing look. The giant was once again standing in front of the door.

  “If you know the Governor of Ered-Linn so well, why didn’t you go there when you were banished?” Darren asked.

  “I wanted to disappear, to punish myself.”

  “I don’t know why. There was clearly some misunderstanding concerning the charges of treason…” Fallon said, regarding Meldane carefully.

  Arithel knew he didn’t believe that.

  “I didn’t want to punish myself for that. I wanted to punish myself for what happened to my supporters, and to Sabiyah.”

  “Who is Sabiyah?” Mira asked, barely above a whisper.

  Arithel resisted the urge to roll her eyes. The demure demeanor, the fluttering eyelids… Did Mira not understand she was not working? It seemed the only people she could be herself around were Arithel and Darren. And she got the nasty side.

  “She was to be my wife,” Meldane added, his eyes distant. “She was delicate, elfin… a bit like you.”

  How could a Nureenian lady be anything like Mira?

  Mira smiled. Meldane turned his gold band around his wrist

  “You know,” Fallon said quickly. “You’ll have plenty of time to talk inanities in the mountains.”

  “These are our positions?” Arithel asked, pointing at the marks on the map.

  “Right,” he murmured. “You will stay close to Darren; you work well together. You two will ride in the cart, Meldane will walk ahead and act as if he does not know you for a time. You will meet him at the gate where he’ll take care of most things.”

  “All right,” Arithel said, bemused by the last part. Fallon apparently believed Meldane to be a one-man army.

  Darren’s face had brightened at the suggestion he and Arithel would work well together.

  “You all will wait for our signal to attack. Three explosions. I don’t know if you’ll be able to see them, but you will certainly hear them. I will lay waste to the barracks. Zander and Mira will set fire to the granaries. When the Nureenians realize what is going on, they should empty the gates, leaving only a few retainers,” Fallon continued.

  “I’d prefer Zander and I to stay together. It will be difficult for him to blend into the crowds after he sets off your powders,” Meldane said. He pointed at Arithel. “Why not let her take Zander’s place? It’s probably safer for her than battling at the gate.”

  Zander protested in Padenite, asserting that he was in agreement with the original plan; he didn’t want special accommodation, he did not fear the Nureenians so long as he had his axe. Meldane shushed him.

  “Arithel has a good eye and a clear head,” Fallon said. “It is absolutely essential that she and Darren stay together. And that you are with them. You are the best warrior; you have commanded men, you have dealt with Nureenians before in your homeland. You three must be the main face of this plot; you must make your stand with flourish, as if you are before all the world—you will be.”

  Arithel was surprised Fallon would voluntarily give up the chance at renown.

  He explained, “Once the gate clears, you tell the guards you are the prince of Paden, out for revenge against Nureen for all the harm they do your country. Improvise, say what you like. At that point, Arithel, you ensure his safety by employing the hand-cannon against any who raises arms against him.”

  Fallon related this all too casually. How many guards would be left at the gate? How many would they need to kill? As Fallon himself once pointed out, even the hand-cannon wasn’t powerful enough to hold back a legion. The Nureenians had suppressed a fairly large riot with only few cannons and thirty or forty men.

  “You trust me to use it?” Arithel whispered. “Right there in the open?”

  “It will add to the spectacle.” He continued discussing the plan.

  “Once the guards have surrendered, Darren, you reveal your true heritage to all present. Show no mercy to the Nureenians even if they beg for it—allow just one soldier to live, and send him into the slums to tell everyone what happened. We should reach the gate shortly thereafter.” He glanced at Mira and Zander, “We will destroy the gate, set it alight with what remains of our materials. That will be the final touch to our statement.”

  “I don’t think this is going to be so simple,” Darren spoke for the first time in the meeting. He was nervously whittling a figurine of a bird.

  “What’s important is that we are seen, we are known, and we do heavy damage before we leave Elinmoor. There’s always the chance things will go awry, but this is our plan. There is no reason to assume it won’t work nicely.” Fallon raised his cup to Meldane. Meldane did not respond.

  The Northman was deep in thought.

  “It is a good plan,” Arithel said, although she still figured at least one of them would be hurt or killed. There was no point in bringing that up—it would be done.

  “We’ll execute it at dusk, of course. For maximum effect when we light up the city.” Fallon grinned wickedly. “In three days.”

  “I’ll be ready tomorrow. Zander doesn’t like to wait around,” Meldane said.

  Zander grunted his approval.

  “Perhaps we should get it over with,” Arithel said with a shrug.

  Fallon swallowed and pushed his hair back from his face. “Very well...”

  “I will set off immediately to spread the word,” Mira said with a suspiciously broad smile. She put on a coat and headed for the door. As she left, Meldane told her to be careful about whom she talked with. She answered “This is my city, I know it well.”

  Arithel was glad to get moving again, even if the tasks before her were dangerous. It would help keep her mind off the disappointment concerning Anoria. The less she thought about Anoria and the Walkers, the better. Those thoughts were reserved for the darkest recesses of the night, when she was too tired to keep blaming herself.

  “I don’t like any of this.” Darren was whittling faster now. The knife thumping against the wood was obnoxious.

  “What is your quarrel now, lad?” Fallon groaned in exasperation. “We’re
going to make you famous.”

  “Just seems like there will an awful lot of fallout for the bystanders. Setting fire to warehouses, slaying guards to make some sort of statement? It’s madness. If I’m to be a king of some sort, I don’t want to be remembered for such things.”

  “The Elinmoorians are left out of this. They will be glad for our deeds,” Fallon countered.

  “It is for a greater good, Darren.” Arithel spoke to him directly for the first time since the previous night. “Don’t you believe in your destiny?”

  “Killing innocents was never part of it.”

  Meldane interrupted him, his voice low and harsh. He narrowed his eyes at Darren, staring disdainfully at the wood shavings all over the table: “We are at war. Nureen’s empire covers half the continent. The sickness of Tiresias spreads further every hour. Do you think he worried about killing innocents when he cut off the heads of your grandparents, your aunts and uncles?”

  “Why should I care how he acted? I’ve got to do right by my own name. I’m not doing anything that would disappoint the good and humble people who raised me.”

  Arithel sighed. If Darren really became a king, he wouldn’t last long.

  Fallon put his hand on Darren’s shoulder: “You need to understand. The sun is blotted by dust and ash—a new age is beginning whether we like it not. Anything is possible. People are looking now more than ever for something to believe in, something to breathe life into their dreary existences. They want to live in a fairy tale. Would you deny them that opportunity?”

  “Well, uh, no but…” Darren stumbled with his words and gathered his courage yet again: “This is all getting quite ridiculous, quite out of hand.” He looked at each of them. “If I’m really a king, you’ll respect my wishes, end of story. Otherwise I’m nothing more than a prisoner to a pack of vultures!”

  Meldane drummed his fork against the table, smiling ever so slightly as he gazed upon Darren. It was clear the Northman was inexplicably impressed.

  “The mountain roads will be treacherous enough.” Meldane cleared his throat and propped his feet up. “If the boy is so adamant, perhaps we should take a vote...”