Lightning and Flame

by V. S. Holmes

  The moon was still up, the cool light spilling across the dusty, scratched flagging. The doorway and the hall beyond were dark, barely distinguishable from one another. A shadow blocked the door. Was it there when I came in? Her eyes burnt as she willed them to see better. It could have been the stone moulding of the door. A cloud could have moved across the moon’s face. It could have been a thousand things, but her instinct screamed at her to hide. The doorway was only a few paces away and she sunk back against the wall by the study, biting into her knuckles to keep herself silent. She wanted to run, but she had to be certain the Crown was nowhere in the room. I’m not touching my power without knowing if someone’s there. Last thing I need is for them to know I’m not a captain.

  The night was still warm, but the breeze bore winter’s teeth. It whistled curiously through the broken windows, nosed around the crushed beams and eddied out to the hall. As it passed through the doorway, it lifted the vermilion edged cloak of the man standing just outside the moonlight.

  Her hand tightened into a fist. He was blocking the only door to the stairway. She would kill if she had to, with her bare hands if necessary.

  “I know you’re in here. Not sure who you are, but I heard you poking about.”

  She heard the leather of his boot squeak as he made to move. Without another thought she burst from her cover, pelting across the room and to the broad eastern windows. The stone of the sill was cold against her hands. She glanced down long enough to be sure the ground below was deserted before swinging herself over the sill. Her fingers burnt as she hung for a moment. She heard the man rush across the room. With a last look down, she clenched her teeth and dropped.

  Φ

  The City of Cair Athrolan

  Bren pounded on Alea’s door. He expected silence for a day, perhaps a night. This was something else entirely. He knocked for what seemed the thousandth time. “Alea, please!”

  “Commissioner Barrackborn?”

  Bren turned to see Narier jogging down the hall towards him. The soldier seemed to have just come from drills. “I’m busy right now, Narier.”

  “Trying to find you sister?” He drew up beside Bren and handed him a letter. “She left this for you. When the servants started gossiping that she’d abandoned us, I figured the game was up.”

  Concern writhed in Bren’s chest like a nest of snakes. “Where, by Toar, is she?”

  “She’s where she needs to be, sir.” Narier bowed a good bye and backed down the hall.

  Bren did not watch him go. His gaze fell to the thin letter in his hand. He shouldered open his door, hands shaking as he broke the seal and unfolded the parchment.

  Bren,

  I’m sorry I’ll miss the arrival of your men. I hope you’re pleased. I can’t wait to hear about it when I see you again.

  I’m to the east. If I find Le’yan’s Crown in Claimiirn there’s a chance I’ll return before you get this. If not, however, then I’ve gone to Neneviir. It’s the last piece before the battle, and I can’t fight Azirik or bind the world without it.

  I hope you understand.

  I love you,

  Alea

  Bren brushed her farewell with a gentle finger before folding the letter into his shirt pocket. Every step farther she took from him, the darker the skies seemed to grow.

  Φ

  The Ruins of Claimiirn

  Blood flooded Alea’s mouth as her teeth ground into her lower lip. It was better than screaming at the searing pain in her ankle. She remembered to crouch as she landed to absorb her momentum, but no amount of proper landing made up for uneven ground. She was tempted to make a mad, bumbling run for her horse, but knew the pain clouded her thinking dangerously. The sound of the man descending the stairs drifted through the broken windows of the stairwell. The footfalls paused. She shifted herself as quietly as possible. If he realized she was still there, she would have to run. She gathered her good leg under her carefully and readied herself to spring.

  “Don’t.”

  The voice startled her with its nearness. He must have been just paces away. She did not dare to move or respond, but the tone gave her pause.

  “I can’t see you right now. Keep it that way. If I see you, so will they and I’ll have to act.” The voice was low and steady, but hummed with energy. “Wait. The moon will set in just under two hours. You’ll have enough time to get away before dawn, if no one else finds your horse.”

  She shifted her weight again, letting her injured leg rest. She felt along her shin and ankle. The bone was straight and unbroken. It was sprained, but she could walk. She breathed a silent sigh and leaned back against the stone. Later she would wonder what he was doing. Later she might question why he let her go. Now there was no time. She had not heard him call for guards, nor had he brought any with him when he followed her upstairs.

  “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  She could run, she supposed. Even with an injured ankle, she might get to her horse. If I see you, so will they. Cold trotted up her back. The ground was damp and the stone behind her hard. The wind that had swirled through the room a minute ago howled through the ruins now. The air smelled sickly, as if something dead had been uncovered when the snow melted. Bren had been like this man, once. She drew a steadying breath. He sat above her, offering her a hand in peace and she was ready to spit in it. I’m not Arman. She was tired of paranoia. She was tired of running. “All right.”

  The silence tightened at her words. “I’ll stay with you, if you like, until the moon sets. I can’t be sure no one will come, but I’ll send them off if they do.” There was the sound of fabric against stone and a low sigh. “You must think this a trick or a trap. Let’s just say I’m tired, too.”

  “I didn’t say I was tired.”

  “I hear it in your voice. I recognize that fatigue. You’ve been fighting a while now, and hard. I’m not saying you’re right, but just for tonight, I’d rather talk than kill.”

  His words were like a journal she had forgotten she wrote. She may never know his name, but in that moment, she knew him better than anyone. “Me, too.” She eased herself onto the ground. “Just for tonight.” The moon was fat and still golden from summer. The naked hills beyond beckoned it down to bed, not yet lit by the sun. The silence stretched on, broken only by the pounding of her blood and the occasional sigh from above. “What did Azirik say to convince you to fight?”

  “My father upheld the gods for as long as I can remember. Fighting for them did not seem like a choice. What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “What did they tell you—the queen, the Laen, whoever. Are you Athrolani?”

  “No. I’m not really much of anything by birth or raising. Lots of children are like that during war I think. They told me nothing really, nothing I didn’t already know. It did not seem like a choice for me either.” The ground under her was hard and cold. She had no feeling in her lower legs save for the lancing pain in her ankle whenever she shifted. The sky was a deep blue-green, only a few wispy clouds drifting across. Her breath puffed silently from between her chapped lips. The moon hung low, as if tired from the effort of climbing the dome of the sky. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Doing what?”

  “Keeping me company while the moon sets.” Saying that he was letting her go seemed too dangerous an accusation.

  “Perhaps because I finally realized I had a choice all along. I want to make up for all the pain I’ve caused.”

  Alea heard her own words from months ago echoing through the broken window. “It is the fault of Mirik, the fault of fate, even the fault of the gods, but it is not yours. No one person is so powerful as that.”

  The moon slipped happily between the trees, silhouetting their branches. An owl perched on one, feathers ruffled against the cold. It occurred to her suddenly, she had not watched the sky in months.

  Finally the plains fell into darkness. The voice above her cracked into use again. “There. The guards
should be hard pressed to see you now.”

  Alea paused, then rose, sensation rushing back into her limbs with agony. She winced and stumbled a few steps before finding her footing. She jogged through the ruins to her horse, heart pounding. She did not dare turn around, but it felt strange to not thank the man.

  Φ

  The 19th Day of Lumord, 1252

  Rocks dotted the bare hills surrounding Claimiirn. Alea’s horse picked its way through the mess of stones and scrub grass. Though not mountains in their own right, it was a hard climb. Beyond them, somewhere, was the tundra of the Northlands. Its short summer already passed. The hills all looked alike to Alea, and even with An’thor’s carefully penned map, she became turned around twice. They were like the great undulating waves the wind drew in desert sand. Perhaps long ago some great beast breathed life across this world and these hills are the marks its breath left.

  The clack of hooves on stone was monotonous and wearing on her nerves. Two days of riding and she seemed no closer to meeting the Ageless.

  A particularly large hill rose ahead, a tall post erected on its crest. Alea’s eyes narrowed. She pulled up, peering through her borrowed spyglass. Each of its four sides bore symbols, like a massive mile marker. She had never seen a mile marker made of iron, or reaching several dozen paces into the sky. She grinned and urged her horse faster.

  The door set into the hillside was closed. At first it looked like blackened wood, but as she drew closer, she realized it, too, was iron. Though the hills continued to roll gradually higher, the Ageless seemed to have done even more to hide themselves from the world. Alea riffled through her pack for a moment before drawing out the instructions An’thor carefully detailed to her. A broad circle in the center of the door was polished from countless hands. She laid her hands over the marks, pressing steadily. It receded with a grind. The center was still raised, its edge notched with tally marks. Alea twisted it to the left until it clicked twice, then to the right, listening for five clicks. Lastly she turned it left again for seven. Heavy thuds resounded form within the door as tumblers slid back and gears ground the door upward. Of course, even their doors wouldn’t open normally. She was beginning to understand An’thor better. He’s like a child with a talented and prideful older sibling. The door finally thumped to a halt.

  A long tunnel burrowed into the mountain, dissolving into darkness. A trough jutted from each wall, and a quick inspection with her fingers told her it was filled with animal fat. She lit it quickly and climbed back into the saddle. The light hissed down the trough, but only made the tunnel seem longer. She nudged her mount inside, her murmurs more to reassure herself than the animal. Several paces inside, the horse’s hooves clacked over an iron plate and the door ground closed behind them. Next time An’thor gives me directions they will not have any tunnels, or narrow halls or dungeon treasuries!

  She steadied her breath and forced herself to recite the poems from her childhood. The tunnel did not curve once, the eerie straightness adding to the illusion that she made no progress. She had worked up to the poems she read in Vielrona when the tunnel ended abruptly. It was another door, but this one was three times the height of a mounted man and equally as broad. The air was noticeably cooler. The circle and tumbler mechanism were the same, though the number of clicks for each direction had changed. Bitter wind squealed through the widening doorway. Beyond were iron gates. The building was unlike anything she had seen, but the pennants and guards dotting the walls told her it was a garrison.

  When the door clunked to a halt, she rode through, keeping her shoulders back and head up. I’m Captain Lenna Grayhill. Though the brown and grey landscape was stark, the fort ahead was far from deserted. Warriors manned the blood-colored walls, shouting orders and jokes back and forth. Each wore horned helms. Whistled alerts bounced from tower to tower as she approached. No weapons rose to greet her. Either they already expected her, or she was deemed harmless. She hoped it was the former.

  At the gate she halted and raised a gloved fist in greeting. “I’m Captain Grayhill from Athrolan.” Her shout carried over the wall, loud and sharp in the cold air. “I must speak with your commanding officer.”

  A smaller door in the gate creaked open and a warrior stepped out. “You come from Domariigo?”

  “I do. I trust you received his letter?” She had listened to General Aneral enough to know fewer words were best.

  The woman nodded and jerked her head at the fort. “Very well.”

  The gate rose with a lurch and within moments Alea was dismounting in the courtyard. The building was built in a square, the walls only wide enough to allow a walkway at the top. The only obvious living quarters were a row of rooms along one wall. The rest was open to the elements. What looked like a stable ran along the rearmost wall, steam billowing from the narrow windows cut into the rusted iron. The warriors along the walls watched for a moment before turning back to their work. Alea laughed softly. The horns she thought decorated their helms actually grew from their temples. Seeing An’thor with his head covered so often made me forget.

  “Athrolani. You’re the officer An’thoriend sent?” Everything about the man approaching spoke of the tundra. His furs and leather were thick and battered, as was his snowy skin and ivory ram horns. Like An’thor he wore a tattoo, his of a sword’s hilt on his throat and collarbones.

  “I am.” She offered her arm. “Captain Grayhill. You’re the officer here?”

  “I’m the one sent to fetch you.” He took the arm, his wholly black eyes scanning her face and packs. “Tennic Odrene. We’ll take you presently, just loading up the carts.” He gestured to the stables. “Come.”

  The brisk treatment required adjustment after Athrolan’s hospitality. Alea expected to stay the evening at the fort before heading further north. As frustrating as traveling was, however, she had missed the constant movement of the road. She fell into step beside him, leading her horse. “This fort, what’s it called?”

  “Garrison Kaliim, Captain.” He stepped through another mechanized door and gestured to the line of stalls. “Leave your horse here then meet me out back. We don’t have time to waste.”

  Alea hurriedly unbuckled her horse’s tack and checked the grain and water before shouldering her pack and heading through the door Tennic indicated. The structure of the fort was odd, and the doors alien, but nothing prepared Alea for the sight before her.

  They were under the vaulted ceiling of what seemed like a hall. The stacked chests and freight boxes, however, made it seem closer to a ware house. Two parallel bars of iron set into the ground ran the length of the hall, disappearing through a massive open door at the rear. A great contraption crouched on them. It was twice the height of a tall man and made entirely of iron and brass. Clouds of steam billowed from the short chimney at its front. The small cabin behind the steaming chamber was closed off with thick glass windows. The mechanism churned to life as she approached.

  Steam drifted from beneath as well, glowing in the light of the oil lamps along its length. Three iron-bound wood carts of almost equal size were clipped behind the iron machine. The middle one bore a narrow staircase leading inside.

  Alea hung back while Tennic held a quiet conversation with one of the several men hurrying around the thing.

  A boy sidled up to her while she watched the chaos. “You’re Athrolani?”

  She nodded, still staring at the contraption. Giant pistons on the wheels hissed suddenly. The fresh, smoky smell and the dim lights seemed unreal. “What is this?”

  “A steam engine. It runs on heated water and can pull our heaviest freight without effort. We’ll ride in that middle cart there.”

  “You’re coming with us?” She finally looked over at the boy. He was milk-pale and had long white-blond curls. The tattoo of a circlet around his brow was bright and new. His temples bulged out with new growth of horns.

  “I’m training under my father’s men.”

  “Tennic is your father?”

&nbs
p; “No, Edrodene is.” He offered her his arm. “Mel’iend Domariigo.” He pointed his thumb at the cart. “Come on, I’ll get you settled.”

  She followed him onto the middle cart, feeling like one of the horses they had loaded on minutes before. Narrow wooden benches were bolted to the floor along the sides. Mel’iend grabbed a bundle from a box by the entrance. “You’ll need these. I’ll pop out while you change.”

  Alea glanced down at the bundle, then undressed quickly in her spare privacy. Silk leggings and shirt went under her borrowed uniform. She found a seat on the bench and donned silk gloves under her leather ones. She felt like a sausage about to split its skin and despite the cool air she started to sweat. Heavy steps heralded Tennic’s entrance, followed by half a dozen other warriors and Mel’iend. The boy handed her dried meat and a cup of water. The meat had enough pepper to make her sneeze, but she was hungry.

  Alea’s head was swimming. There were too many new faces and new objects to catalogue in her mind, and with her fabricated name, she struggled to find her place amidst it all.

  “Was she terrifying?”

  She glanced over as Mel’iend slid onto the seat next to her and brandished a belt riveted to the bench. “Who?”

  “The Dhoah’ Laen. You must have seen her in the city.”

  Alea swallowed hard. She had not thought of this. “Only from a distance. She was away in Le’yan for much of the time I was stationed in the city. I saw a good deal of her guard though.”

  “Mel’iend, leave our guest alone.” Tennic’s voice cut through the thick air.