by V. S. Holmes
She froze in the doorway of the manor, not answering. Portraits and art were gone, and what was left of the furniture had been covered in drapes. Everything personal was gone.
“I believe he left something for you in the study, Dhoah’. I’ll be here if you need anything.”
Alea ascended the stairs in a rush, thoughts turning, and pushed opened the study door. The empty bookshelves seemed to echo. A single tome and sheet of parchment waited for her on the desk. She unfolded the latter warily.
Dhoah’ Lyne’alea,
I apologize for not receiving you myself, to explain everything, but I have gone home to my father’s estate. My forethought for my country was misinterpreted and thus I must leave my titles and power in Ceir Athrolan for another. The events of the past few days have given me much to think on—your decline of my proposal, Her Majesty disinheriting me and my ultimate return to the country.
I wish to apologize for my bitterness during our last visit. I expected a refusal due to your feelings for Arrowlash. I could have understood that—what human man truly competes against a Rakos? My pride was wounded when your choice was based on other concerns. The pain of that wound caused my bitterness. I wish I was through with those thoughts but I am just a man and still frustrated that things did not go as I planned.
I left you this letter in part to explain myself, but also to tell you my thoughts on your problem with the gods. You mentioned your bond with Arrowlash was a soul bond. If the gods’ powers are tired to their souls, perhaps you could make them bleed soulblood. Would their powers lessen? This book contains a section on the gods’ various powers—I thought it might help prepare you. It is the only copy in North Athrolan, and my personal one, so I would take it as a kindness if you keep the stains of tea or god-blood from its pages.
I am sorry for my poor attempt at humor, and I wish you well. Perhaps we can meet when this is over. I’m sorry, once again, for how I acted and my assumption about our relationship.
Best wishes, Dhoah’,
Daymir
Alea lowered the letter slowly and ran a hand over the cover of the tome. It was a thin one and the canvas-covered wood was new, as was the parchment. I forget that being the foster-daughter of an ihal was not nearly as privileged as I thought. Daymir is wealthier than I realized, to pay for a new scribing of a text—one of which there are few copies. She tucked the tome and letter carefully under her arm before showing herself out. She would respond, but later, when everything was clearer. Instead, she returned to her room, thoughts running amok.
She was so distracted that she tripped over a trunk in the middle of her room. She frowned at it, rubbing her shin. The chest was made of new wood and decorated by the seal of the palace smithy. She paused, taking a breath. My armor. The lid rose easily. The breastplate shone muted silver. The metal curved simply, and two tapering lines decorated the front to show her form. It buckled at the shoulders and waist to a backplate. Beside it were matching greaves and rerebraces. The metal was polished, but not to a high sheen, and the soft glow made Alea smile. He knew what I meant when I said understated. She laid the pieces on her bed. Underneath the oilcloth in the trunk was a mail hauberk, treated with a wash that made the metal glint blue in the light. The sleeves reached her elbows and the split skirt to just above the knees. It was heavier than she expected, but not too bad.
She drew it out and placed each piece of armor on the stand that in a normal woman’s chambers would hold her best dress. Rulhan’s work was beautiful. The backplate had simple swirling designs on its surface, ones she recognized from old Sunamen runes. Sandstorm. Death. Life. She reached out, eyes spiraling silver and her skin marbled black. Her fingers traced the patterns of the armor, mentally stitching power into each hammer mark. She withdrew after a moment, guilt uncurling at her actions. This isn’t selfish. If I die, the world goes with me.
Feeling suddenly restless, she rang for Giire. The woman arrived after a moment, a large bag under her arm. She flashed Alea a grin. “Dhoah’, I found what you wanted.” Her brows rose at the sight of the armor as she entered, but she looked quickly away. She laid her finds on the bed. The wig was dark blond, the curls stitched up around the crown and the lower half left free. Giire had also found a dress more suited to a night in a tavern than Alea’s other outfits.
Giire paused as she smoothed the skirts. “Dhoah’ Lyne’alea, aren’t you worried about going out alone?”
Alea shrugged. “You said yourself that I was a warrior.” She turned, already binding her hair up. Her grin was wicked. “Besides, I thought you could come with me.”
Giire’s eyes widened. “You barely know me.”
Alea stammered to a halt. The woman was right. Giire probably knew Alea much better than Alea knew her. She was not even certain whether the other woman liked her at all. “I’m sorry. I forgot what it was like to work behind everything. I don’t know you at all.” She echoed her thoughts. “I’m not even sure of your opinion of me.”
Giire wrinkled her nose. “You’re a bit dark-tempered for my tastes, and I have little interest in weapons or war or healing, like yourself.”
Alea turned away, taking her hair down. It had been a stupid idea, and her face flushed with embarrassment. “I’m sorry, Giire. I did not mean to offend you.” The hand on her hers was firm. She turned about.
Giire’s smile was gentle as she held up the wig. “You like dancing, Dhoah’ and that is something I can appreciate. Why don’t you come with me to my favorite tavern at the end of the week? We can see if there’s anything else we have in common.”
Φ
The 5th Day of Lumord, 1252
Arman’s every muscle was tense. He knew he needed to focus, but his mind spun wildly off topic. If I’m not careful, I’ll slip and fall to my death. Days had passed since he rested. He had intended stay a night or two in Vielrona, visit his mother, drink with his friends.
He shoved himself deeper into his thoughts, aiming for the narrowed, taunting eyes in the back of his mind. Eana. I’ll find you. He flung his mind out, spreading his consciousness over the land. Humans were glittering red pinpricks, tiny fireflies scattered on a bleak landscape. He faltered, wondering briefly at the color.
Eana’s answer clattered through his musing. Fear. Find me.
His response was closer to a snarl than actual speech. If you stopped the damned riddling maybe I could! It’s like you don’t even want me to find you. He threw his power after his mind, pouring himself into the search. A white-gold flame bloomed on the edge of his mind, and another and another. Four brilliant lights dotted the land ahead of him, leagues apart. No wonder they think we’re dead.
He dove, spinning east toward the Berrin border. The rolling plains of the Felds became hills separated by shallow streams. In the south were the grey waters of Berme’s Eye, the lights of Berrinal bobbing with the swells. As a child he had wondered about the floating city, but after living through so many of the legends he read, he was disinterested. Spindly, stilt-rooted trees covered the great mounds punctuating the flooded lowlands. He flew lower, startling a pair of strange birds half his height. They took off, clacking their red beaks in protest.
One hillock burnt in his mind and he wheeled towards it. It was larger than the others, great stones covered with vines and crumbled by prying roots. This was a temple. One of ours. He recognized the statues flanking the caved in doorway, the upheld hands. They matched those in Elanal. He skimmed the ground, weaving along the streams until he materialized at the base of the temple. The ground was rocky and marshy in turns and it took a moment to find a suitable place to camp.
He gathered a few pieces of damp wood and flicked fire at them absently. I’m here. It’s your turn to come and get me. He settled himself onto the ground and pulled his mother’s letter from his shirt. The envelope was charred on one corner and stained. The ordered writing on the front was achingly familiar and he swallowed hard before slitting it open.
Dearest Arman,
Yo
ur letters are a joy and your adventures amazing. I can hear in your words that you’re changing. We heard rumors about your allies—the Athrolani for one—and your descriptions are beautiful. I wish I could see everything with my own eyes.
Your latest letter said you never had the chance to explain certain things. Something about two ancient bloodlines. The latest news from the north includes a man of the Rakos. It said his given name is Aud’narman. I pretended it coincidence, but there were changes in you even before you left, changes even a mother cannot deny.
I hope you found happiness. I hope you found love. The more your life changes the more I understand you’ll not come home. At least, not as the man who left. Sometimes I wish it was not so, because you are my baby, my son. If you found contentment, then I am glad.
The enclosed was the ring with which I married your father. It now belongs to whatever wife you may find on your journey. Live your life, ride your adventures, love your woman, but never forget us here, who love you and who will always keep a lantern lit for your return, whenever it may come.
I will love you, always,
Ma
Arman upended the envelope over his palm. The ring fell into his hand, heavy and glinting in the firelight. Simple twisted gold held an unpolished sapphire. He slid it onto his smallest finger before returning the letter to his shirt. It was as if she had known. I’ll see you soon. His dour thoughts were interrupted by a low keening noise. It was too guttural to be a bird, too metallic to be a dog. His gaze flitted between the scraggly trees. No motion caught his eyes. He turned to look at the collapsed temple. If I were a fallen titanic monster, where would I hide? The cry came again. It almost sounded like a word, but so crippled and changed it was unrecognizable.
He scrambled to his feet and began to climb the broken stones. His hardened fingers scraped against the cracks, his scales scoring the stone as he passed. Boulders all but closed the temple’s door. Arman rapped on the rocks, letting power fill his skin. “Who’s home?”
The call came again, clearer now.
“I’ve come to find you all. War’s not over yet.” He squeezed through the opening, blinking rapidly to adjust his eyes to the darkness. “Hello?” The noise came again, a rapid hiss that pierced his ears and echoed off the stone. A figure rocked in the shadows, faint light glimmering off the white scales. The angry yellow eyes glowed orange through the lace of bloodshot vessels.
“Came here before, begging, asking, look what happened. Lookie, lookie, begging begging. Came here before but nothing to be done, nothing.”
“This time we’re not alone. What’s your name?”
“Aral once and Aral again, but not if you ask, not if you beg. Aral, Aral.” Arman saw that the creature’s left leg ended in a scaled stump. The lower half was rotting under one of the fallen ceiling blocks.
“Hey Aral. I’m Arman.” He unbuckled his cloak and pointed at the handprint scarred across the scales of his chest. “You know what this means? This symbol?”
“Laen.”
“That’s right. There are a few left, but mine, the one bound to me, she’s the Dhoah’ Laen. She’s real. It’s time to come out. Time to fight. It’ll be the last time. No one else will call you out of your peace, I promise, but now we need you.”
The rocking increased, “Nothing left. Don’t beg. Nothing left but fear, fear. No promise, no begging, too much fear, fear.”
Dread was a cold lump of lead in Arman’s stomach. This was a madman, not a soldier.
Φ
The 7th Day of Lumord, 1252
The City of Ceir Athrolan
Alea twirled around a lantern post at the corner of the street. “Is there a particular tavern you enjoy?”
Giire laughed. “My friend’s family owns one.” She wore an outfit similar to Alea’s, a colorful sarafan over bloused sleeves and frothy petticoats. A broad, stiff band held her hair back from her face. “Her husband is in the army, so she works it to keep her mind busy. It’s the Wise Hare, in the slums above the naval yards.”
“I’ve been there.” Alea kept pace, her worn boots clacking on the stone. She may not have looked Athrolani, but with the yellow wig, she could pass for Vielronan.
Giire snorted. “I can hardly picture that.”
Alea smiled. “I met someone there, I needed the anonymity.”
Giire glanced over. “I suppose that’s hard to come by. You said you’ve been dancing before. Not here, surely.”
“No. I spent a few months in Vielrona before realizing my power. They have fantastic dances—you don’t really need to know the steps, only enjoy yourself and skip a lot. What are they like here?” She followed Giire around a corner and down the narrow walk that edged the top of the tier’s wall. The view was striking. The city dropped away on one side, a glittering train of embers.
“Perhaps a bit more organized. Lots of stamping and clapping. Some skipping.” She shot Alea a grin. “Tonight they will have bards from other places playing, so there will be some new tunes.” She turned right and headed down the narrow, overhung alley that Alea recognized. The Wise Hare squatted at the far end. The bright lanterns were cheery, but showed the filth of the street. The sound of music and singing rattled through the cheap, old glass panes. Giire paused on the steps. “Ready?”
Alea grinned and dashed up the stairs behind her. Warmth and light spilled out as they pressed their way in. The room was low and crowded, music pouring from one corner. Tables were stacked haphazardly along one wall to make room for the dancers. Alea wound back to find free stools for the two of them while Giire made for the bar. The heat and music made Alea’s head spin and she grinned. Everyone needs some chaos from time to time. Alea watched the feet of the dancers carefully. The steps were repetitive and simple, but fast. Her boots tapped in time, mimicking the moves from her chair.
After a minute Giire returned with Alea’s purse. “If you’re going to do this, you’ll do it proper. I ordered fire ale.” She pointed to one of the men who seemed the fastest dancer. “He’s one of the scribes from the Scribing Guild. Twice a week he performs dances on one of the stages in the warehouse district. He’s quite the mover.”
Alea glanced at her sidelong. “You fancy him?”
Giire snorted. “Along with half the slums. The other half fancies Bessel’s husband’s friend, Sousa. He’s a proper Athrolani.”
A heavily pregnant woman edged through the crowd, two foaming mugs in hand. She grinned down at Giire as she placed them on their table. “Hey there. Juss said you were here. Who’s your friend?”
When Giire stumbled over the question Alea held out her hand. “I’m Veredy. Came up north with family and Giire promised to show me about. My ma knows her da.”
Bessel shook the hand with a smile. “Good to have ye then. Let me know if Giire gets too rowdy. I’ve promised her sister to look after her.”
Alea grinned. “Promise.” When Bessel had gone Alea took a deep sip of the red liquid, wiping froth from her lip with the back of her hand. “I didn’t want you to lie to your friend.”
Giire glanced over. “You did that rather well.”
“Court antics are all just a series of well-coated lies and vague truths. I did come north with family.”
“It must be freeing, to be the Dhoah’ Laen and thus no longer an object of court.”
“It is a title, just as king or gallant or lady. Titles are no less constraining, regardless of their rank. It simply denotes a new set of rules by which to judge and objectify someone.” She finished a good portion of her drink before standing. “Now, show me how to make a fool of myself.”
The dancing was fast, as Giire promised, and Alea’s muscles ached wonderfully halfway through the tune. This is what freedom feels like. For tonight, one brief moment, I’m just a person, a woman like every other in this bar. The dancing circle widened and slowed as the best stepped into the circle to showcase their skills. Alea caught Giire’s eye and made her way back to the table. After a minute singers took turns s
tanding and singing a verse of the song, the entire crowd joining in for the chorus. Even Giire took a turn, her voice clear and lilting. It was impressive and Alea found herself humming quietly along. The city was large enough to have a hundred such communities. Everyone seemed to know one another, or know someone who did. It was warming and lonely at once. Alea sat back, running a finger along her mug’s rim.
“You don’t sing?” Giire slid into her seat, breathless and flushed.
“Never!” Alea waved a hand, as if to dispel the thought from the air between them. Her stomach burnt with the alcohol and her head felt pleasantly padded.
“I suppose the Sunamen don’t sing. It seems a terribly expressive recreation for so closeted a people.”
Alea raised her brows, surprised at the woman’s knowledge. “You know the Sunamen well?”
Giire giggled. “I knew one of their ambassador’s guards quite well.”
Alea snorted. “Well, the Sunamen sung often. It was one of the few times they were free to express.” She shrugged. “Unfortunately I have less than little talent. I can’t hear notes well enough to sing. They sound nice when played, but I couldn’t tell if someone was off key, or if the tune was unpleasant for others.”
“You’re note-blind.” Giire looked delighted. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to make fun, but it’s always encouraging to find great people have weaknesses just like us common folk.”
“You do realize nobles are no different than you, except in title?”
Giire made a face. “Rather I think we’ve got the better deal. Bed whom we wish, work for our coin, and have the freedom to spend it.”