Lightning and Flame

by V. S. Holmes

“Actually, it’s ‘king’ now.” It wasn’t exactly true, but Bren’s anger and wariness shoved the boast from his lips without thinking.

  “I heard.”

  “I thought we’d see you sooner.” His clipped words were pointed. “You were too busy studying?”

  “Somewhat. I leave with a naval fleet for the north soon, and then on to Vielrona.”

  “More men?” Their tones were equally biting, though the words polite.

  “And Rakos.” It was the powerful answer to Bren’s assertion of king.

  It made the latter frown. “And you avoid my sister?”

  Arman shrugged. “I saw her arrive.” He glanced to the side, but Bren guessed it was as much to hide the confusion on his face as to appear nonchalant.

  “The whole city did, you arse!”

  Arman’s face darkened and his voice lowered into quiet danger. “You never heard what happened to that man in the tavern, did you? I tore his throat out. With my teeth.”

  It was as blunt a threat as possible. Bren threw his hands up in exasperation. “Whatever this game is that you’re playing, stop. Play it with your barmaid whore, your thrice-tupped lass from home. For what I care, play it with your mother, but, Toar, leave my sister be!”

  Arman shot to his feet and shoved Bren against the wall. “Bastard!” His voice was a hiss and smoke curled from between his bared teeth. “She spoke to you, but never gave me a word. I guard her. I fight for her. I died for her.”

  Bren frowned. The smell of burning cloth rose with tendrils of smoke from where Arman’s hands gripped his tunic. “For such a perfect guard you were easily swayed into infidelity.”

  “We never made promises.” His face lost its malice and he stalked back to the bench.

  “What’s going on, Arman?” The argument had clearly run its course. “You’re a stranger.”

  Arman scratched absently at his shoulder. “I don’t know. My feelings have changed, but not in the way you might think. I can’t make up or down of it. My power changed how I see her. It’s as if something crawled inside me and took over. If its nature were the opposite of mine perhaps I could live with it. Instead, it’s more like me than anything has ever been. Before all of this I was just a smith who found a strange woman in the desert. I was beneath her. Now I wonder if I’m her equal. I’m so angry all the time. At myself, at Eras, at you. Fates, sometimes I’m angry at her.” His face was etched with agony. “Barrackborn, I want her like I’ve wanted no other woman and I’m so angry she doesn’t see me.”

  Bren just stared. For the second time that day he was lost for words. Finally he scrounged up a piece of history he had read in Mirik. “The Rakos were as old as the Laen.”

  “Our powers are opposites. Hers are balance, mine are chaos.”

  “You are everything she is not and she is everything you are not. Arman, you’re closer to her equal than anyone. No one, if not you, is worthy to love her.” His mouth quirked. “If you stop acting like an arse.” He stepped away and turned toward the door. “I’m going to read.” He glanced back in the doorway. “You need to talk to her.”

  “I’m angry.”

  “You’ll regret it if you don’t. Besides, so is she.”

  Φ

  The 45th Day of Lineme, 1252

  Purposeful knocking drew Alea from the heavy book on her lap. “Yes?”

  The steward poked his head in. “Dhoah’ Lyne’alea, Lord Daymir wishes to pay you a visit.”

  Alea laid her book aside with what she hoped was a smile. Her mind was rarely truly present. “Show him in. Thank you, Valadai.”

  Daymir stepped in on the tail of her words. When she did not rise, he faltered, then bowed. “Good morning, Dhoah’ Lyne’alea.”

  She gestured to the seat across from her. “Good morning. Care to sit?”

  He took the place she offered, his pale eyes watching her. “I trust your journey was good?”

  “It was uneventful. That is the most we can hope for, during war. To what do I owe the honor?” Despite her agreement to see him, she was impatient and tired of court speech.

  He laughed ruefully. “I get your meaning. I was curious about your time in Le’yan.” He paused as Giire brought in a tray of tea. When she had gone, he poured Alea a cup. His movements were careful and it was obvious he rarely waited on people himself. “Her Majesty said your return heralded the war.”

  Alea took the cup wordlessly, stirring in a small lump of sugar. She took a sip and stared at the liquid absently. “I wish Athrolan had yilj for the tea. My birth heralded the war, Lord Daymir. The rest is just formality.” She sat back, eyes meeting his. “Le’yan was different from what I expected, but served its purpose.” She tilted her head at him. “Will you have a part in the campaign?”

  He either did not notice, or allowed her easy flip of the conversation. The intelligence in her eyes told her it was the latter. “I studied for Gallantry for a time, but my status as Head of the Royal Treasury prevents me from actually being on the fore lines. I’ll have a hand in the planning.” His voice was somber. “Shadow showed us we need to prepare for anything.”

  “Some things we can never anticipate. It’s clear that Shadow was just a diversion while Azirik moved from Mirik.”

  Daymir nodded. “Speaking of Mirik, your brother’s declaration came as a surprise I look forward to reading that document.”

  Alea’s gaze narrowed. “Do you wish Mirik was under Athrolan’s flag?”

  Daymir flashed her a wry grin. “Athrolan has far too many obligations without dragging a city from the mud. Guiding a new king, commissioner—whatever he calls himself—who has no experience, a bad example, and too good of a heart will be a hard enough task. When I take the throne I do not want to inherit a floundering ally whom we once needed for morale.”

  Alea allowed the ferocity bubbling in her stomach to sharpen her smile. “It is clear you have not yet read his words. I look forward to your apology when you have.”

  He stared at her, as if trying to determine how far he had overstepped his welcome. “Perhaps you’re right.” He sat back, placing his cup on the table. “You said you wished we had something for the tea. Yeel?”

  “Yilj. It’s a spice the Sunamen add to almost everything. I thought it was best with sweet things—tea and fruit and the like. I admit your tea is different, though.” The heir’s company was too biting to be pleasant, but she decided it was better than sitting alone. “Have you ever had Sunamen food?”

  His smile was grateful. “No. I hear the flavors are complex. I enjoy the fruit from Ban. Did you get a chance to meet the Banis ambassador?”

  “No, though I got the impression that your alliance with them is tense.”

  “It’s not much of an alliance. They trade in slavery and have become rich in doing so. I know the city-states to their southwest slave-trade with them.”

  Alea shrugged. “Sunamen did. We only used felons, though. It kept crime incredibly low, actually.”

  Daymir looked down. “At any rate, we disagree. They are an interesting people and their land is rich. I hope to visit the forest to their west one day—they only have two seasons and the trees grow taller than the mountains, and are so large that other plants grow on their branches and never touch the ground.”

  Alea laughed. It was a beautiful image, but one out of a child’s story. “I think you have been reading fantasies, Lord Daymir.” She glanced out the window, at the sun climbing high in the sky. “Would you like to take your midday meal with me? You could tell me more lies about Ban.”

  He gave her a tiny, joking bow. “Nothing would please me more than to fill your head with nonsense.”

  Their food arrived shortly and Alea wrinkled her nose as she gathered the meat and bread onto her plate. “Are the Banis as barbaric as you, or do they actually use utensils to eat?”

  Daymir shrugged. “I’ve heard they have so many slaves that they don’t even feed themselves.”

  The dry humor tugged a laugh from her chest fi
nally. “Perhaps I should get a few of my own.”

  “I was thinking, Dhoah’ Lyne’alea, you seemed to enjoy the ball during your first visit. I thought I might suggest Her Majesty hold another one, heralding your return and our future victory against His Majesty King Azirik.” He paused, frowning. “What do we call him, now that Bren has reformed the government out from under him?”

  “I think Mirik is now two factions—Azirik’s military monarchy and Bren’s oligarchy.” She paused to dip a slice of meat into the heated bowl of gravy and herbs. “I see the sense in holding a ball, but I cannot agree with it. I’ll celebrate when I’ve won.”

  Daymir frowned. “I thought you would like to have some happiness.”

  Her eyes flicked up to his. “If I need you to spend hundreds of crown on a single night of excess, I’ll let you know.” She sat back. “I do like going to a ball, Lord Daymir. I enjoy the music and the food and the conversation. Dancing is wonderful. It’s like sparring. Between the steps and conversation I’m too distracted to think about anything more important. This journey, the siege, has been one long, distracting dance.” She fixed him with a pointed stare. “Now the ballroom is empty, the music has stopped.”

  Φ

  The 45th Day of Lineme, 1252

  Arman crouched on his window ledge, watching the fading light. His lamp remained unlit, and even in the early summer, his room sweltered. The sounds of conversation next door had finally faded an hour ago, but he still seethed. He was past caring that he brooded. He was past caring about most things. Only his anger consumed him. He had been frustrated with Alea before, afraid for her and of her, but never outright angry. Her return only made things worse. Several of the things in his room were broken or burnt from his half-dozen outbursts.

  What would she think, seeing you like this?

  He snarled at the inner voice. “I don’t give a damn what she would think. I know enough of that to fill a lifetime!” His rage rose, like a wave approaching across the ocean. He whirled and began going through his old training exercises. With each block, fire erupted from his forearms and fists, the flesh protected by the scales marching up his skin.

  Would she think you pathetic?

  He ignored the voice and let fire roar through him. It was not enough to cover himself in flames. It was not enough to singe his rugs with each stamp of his bare feet. The abrupt heat dried the walls of his room, cracking it along invisible faults in the stone. His arms smoldered white-hot. He thought of Alea, the rage and frustration and despair he felt when he saw her. There was another emotion under them all. Something vast and peaceful, but he did not remember its name.

  The reddened back of his eyelids flickered with images. It was like reading the Berrin man’s mind on the road so many months before, but now the only mind before him was his own. Some pictures he recognized, others made little sense. Memories from Vielrona and the road north scattered among visions of a thin young man ascending the Athrolani throne, the sights of a terrible battle, magma flooding a barricaded city district. Arman drew the power tighter to himself. The cresting wave of power and rage broke over him then. Suddenly he was above a battlefield. Fire covered the ground and chaos crashed in titanic rumbles around him. The ground rushed up to meet him and his body flooded with pain. His chest seized and his consciousness guttered and suddenly there was nothing. His mind was at peace with whatever led him to that end. His body was numb and his vision black.

  He dragged himself away from his power, rising back through it until he opened his eyes onto his room, more destroyed than ever. Every textile was burnt, the bed a charred skeleton of former finery.

  Do you believe your power now? You believe you are not just Rakos?

  He had nothing to say to the voice. The numbness from the vision had been replaced by agonizing tingles. “I’ve felt that before. I know what that is.” He was distantly aware that a dozen emotions stormed through him. His anger was now tinged with poignancy. “I’m still angry, but not enough. I’m her guard and this is my fate. I chose this. And I would choose it again, and I choose it now.” He had seen the battle and it was terrible, but his faith was unwavering.

  Chapter ELEVEN

  The 15th Day of Aeme, 1252

  The Hartland Forest

  ERAS’S SILENCE WAS NOT HER usual stoicism. She pushed the men hard and wondered if it was partly to cover her own nerves. They were well into their third week of riding. The road lay days behind them, abandoned shortly after entering the Hartland. The day before they picked up a dirt track too straight to be a game trail. Occasional stone pillars marked the distance. Whether it was how far they had come or had yet to go, none could tell. The symbols had long been worn away,

  Even at midday the sunlight barely filtered through the canopy. The dusky light dappled the twisted trees. The bent rough trunks were terribly tall and so unlike the smooth white trees of Athrolan. Sharp, grey rocks pierced the soil every so often and the track widened and turned to gravel. This area of the forest was familiar. Eras slid her bow into its case and rolled the knots from her shoulders. She drew up her mare when the gravel became paving stones. Two narrow pillars flanked the road. The gray stone was hung with tarnished medallions. The faint breeze clattered the decorations against the moss-covered markers.

  “General?” Vinden drew up beside her.

  She noted the tension in his back and the narrow line of his mouth. He lacked the skill of a gallant, but not the courage. If he was nervous, the other men would be afraid. “These are Espera’s gates. Guards stood here.” She nudged her mare forward, but at a walk. “Eyes sharp, man. We’ll reach the city just after sundown.” The road was overgrown, but had once been wide. The faint rustling of leaves and the crunch of decomposing stone under the iron horseshoes seemed deafening. After an hour, distant grumbling joined the sounds of men and horses. “Vinden, when we reach the river, half the men will make cold camp. You’ll bring the others with me into the city.”

  “Understood, mem.”

  The grumbling became the roar of falling water. Eras’s pace quickened. they emerged onto a riverbank carved from bedrock. Eras raised her hand, but the men had already stopped in awe. Years of water spinning stone against stone carved perfect circles into the bank. Some were the size of a fist, others large enough to swallow man and horse. They stood on the shore of a churning pool. Across the river, water from the mountains cascaded over low cliffs. They were nothing like Athrolan’s, but were broad and dark and dotted with hexagonal watch towers. The city itself was small and perched on an island at the foot of the waterfall. A narrow bridge of stairs connected the island to the shore.

  She dismounted, allowing the men their gawking for a moment, then barked orders to make camp before jerking her head towards the bridge. The designs carved along the steps were angular and repetitive, as much for decoration as traction. The boots of the half-dozen soldiers following her barely made a sound. Eras did not have to signal for them not to speak. It was evening and any city should have been bustling as it prepared for supper. The buildings were silent. A large tower marked the center of the island and Eras paused before the open doorway.

  Vinden placed a foot on one of the stairs, leaning on his knee and Eras surveyed their surroundings. “General, this is wrong. You said there were only a few Asai. I see none.”

  The lines of Eras’s sharp features deepened with concentration. “I’ve been gone for years. Almost a lifetime. Anything could have happened. The Asai are cloistered enough that we may never had heard of an attack.” She nocked an arrow to her bow, fingers curling around the string, ready to draw. “We’ll start here.” She stepped into the tower, motioning for her men to spread out. The halls were decorated with carvings, but it was austere. Few pieces were solely art. Each blocky design had architectural purpose. Eras knew her men would chalk her expressionless face up to her usual indifferent mask. It was honesty this time. Espera stopped being home a long time ago. The young soldier at her back tripped and whispered a curse,
then an apology.

  She ignored him and eyed the open double doors at the end of the hall. They should have been closed. She crept forward, instinct singing in her ears. This is wrong. This is all wrong. If they deserted, where is the dust? If they were attacked, where is the struggle?

  She stepped through the doors.

  “General, mem.” The soldier’s hiss was fearful. “You should look at this.”

  She froze in the doorway, heedless of the young man behind her. The hall took up a whole segment of the six-sided tower. The books that lined the walls were gone, only a few scattered pages left to mold in the moisture. Mist roiled in from the shattered window. The table in the center of the room no longer held maps. Now it held bodies.

  Eras did not bother to search for survivors. The chill of the river had kept some rot away, but the mottled cast and sweet smell of the air told her enough.

  “General.”

  She finally turned to the soldier.

  He crouched in the hall, peering at an arrow. “This is Berrin.”

  “It’s hard to say when they were attacked. The cold kept them better than usual.” She backed out of the hall and shut the doors. I should bury them. It would wait until tomorrow. There was little sense in digging graves in the dark. Her two-fingered whistle rebounded off the stone, calling for the others to regroup. She sat on the steps at the tower’s entrance to wait for the others.

  The soldier shifted nervously from foot to foot, earnest concern lighting his eyes. “I’m sorry, mem. Did you know them?”

  She glanced up, wondering briefly if he was as young as he looked. The other men treated her as an expert on the Asai, but distantly, as if she had studied them as a hobby, not been raised in their culture. The boy before her was either too honest or too inexperienced to do the same. “Probably some. Long ago. Not well.” She heaved a sigh. “Thank you, though.”

  The rest of the men arrived from within. Vinden’s nodded greeting was grim. “Berrin attack.”

  She rose. “Agreed. Deserted?”