Lightning and Flame

by V. S. Holmes

  Alea did not look away, but raised her voice. “Bren. If you wanted to say goodbye, now’s the time.”

  Bren crouched beside her. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “All of my apologies seem too small. You took over Mirik?”

  “I’m her Military Commissioner now.”

  Azirik’s sobbing laugh shook his body again. “You were never cut out for being a king.”

  “Neither were you.” Bren’s grin was awkward and faint, but Azirik returned it after a moment.

  “Are you ready?” Alea met his eyes. She watched him frown as he recognized their color, and the set of her face. He nodded. She rested her hands on either side of his face. “Thank you.” Before he could respond, her fingers dug into the twisted, burnt flesh and wrapped around the Crown. Her skin bubbled against the surface of the metal. She clenched her teeth and pulled. The metal popped free with a sickening crack, and she fell back, pieces of skull and blood still clinging to the metal. Azirik slumped onto the stone, blood and power pooling from his head.

  Bren staggered back, heaving up everything he had eaten that morning. “Is he gone?”

  “Yes.” She glanced over at him. “Are you all right?”

  His body shook. “That was my king. My commander. Everything I ever knew for almost thirty years.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He glanced up. “It wasn’t your fault. It was never your fault.” He edged back to Azirik’s body, closing the bloodshot eyes.

  Alea reached out and gripped his hand. “It wasn’t his, either, in the end.”

  Φ

  Bren blinked against the bright rays of sunset as he emerged from the hall. Smoke still drifted low over the burnt and bloody fields. Long graves carved the earth. Infirmary tents lined the base of the cliffs below the Athrolani camp.

  Alea glanced over at him. “I’ve got to get this to my pack. You’ll be all right?”

  He nodded and sank down onto the stairs. “In a minute.”

  Sorier crouched beside him, watching Alea go. “She’s terrifying.”

  “She’s my sister.”

  The lieutenant frowned. “What?”

  “Azirik’s second child.” Bren heaved a sigh. “Thank you for seeing sense when he did.”

  “I saw sense when you did, you know. War turns your guts, for sure, but killing the Laen? That was something else entirely.” He paused a moment. “We’re prisoners of war, now, I assume.”

  Bren shook his head. “No. I’m tired of violence and war, Sorier. Take your men, take all the men, and leave. Give it a few months then come home. I’ll have Mirik ready for you then.”

  “We heard there was new ruling there. You took her crown?”

  “No. She’s an oligarchy now. I’m Lord Commissioner of the Military, acting king until the war is done.” He laughed humorlessly. “I guess that’s now.”

  “Sir, there are prisoners, down in the Berrin camp. A patrol taken several months ago. They’ll need tending.” He stood. “I guess I’ll see you in Mirik.”

  Bren’s eyes were too tired to make his smile look sincere. “See you at home.” He listened as the man’s bootfalls faded into the low din of battle’s aftermath. Finally he pulled himself to his feet and tottered down the cliffs and across the field.

  A gallant paused as he jogged past him. “Lord Commissioner, good to see you. Thought you fell.”

  Bren glanced over at the Berrin camp. “There are prisoners in their camp.”

  “We found them, sir, already bringing them in.”

  Bren nodded and went to the infirmary tents. They were surrounded by cots and blankets for the hundred of wounded who did not fit in the tents themselves. Healers walked down the rows, checking breaths and wounds. More than once they murmured a few words and closed unseeing eyes. Bren had seen enough battles to be familiar with the screams and moans, but this was different. He led some of these men. He caught sight of a familiar figure as he turned towards the cliffs. Reka lay under a blanket, her skin pale and her braids dirty.

  Bren hurried over and crouched beside her. “Reka.”

  She turned towards his voice. Her eyes were a bloody mess of angry sockets, thin slashes running through them and across her cheeks. A cut sliced through the wing of the butterfly tattoo on her nose. “Bren?”

  “How are you doing?”

  “I’ve been better, sir. I fared better than many of the men, if my ears serve me.”

  Something in his chest twisted. She would live by her ears and hands now. “I’ve got to see to my men, but I’ll be back.” He squeezed her hand briefly then headed back up to the officers’ tents. He paused at the general’s and rapped on the tent pole. “It’s Brentemir.”

  “Come in.” The commander’s voice was quiet. Bren ducked in. Raven sat at the camp table, head in his hands. Several officers and Asai ranged about him, all equally stoic.

  “Commander, sir, I—”

  “We’ll work till dusk, bringing the wounded and bodies in. We have wagons for the dead. The honored ones at least, to bring them home. The rest we bury here. Fates willing someday we can erect a monument.” Raven turned to Vinden. “Keep the men moving until we’ve finished this.”

  Bren swallowed. “I’ll help.” He glanced at Narier. “Where is Alea?”

  “Resting, I think.”

  A soldier burst through the tent flap. “Colonel Hamacad, sir, we found the general.”

  Raven’s face paled and he stood, interrupting Hamacad’s order. “Bring her here. Lay her in state.” After a moment he cleared his throat. “We’ve little daylight left. Let’s use it while we can.”

  Bren helped the soldiers in their morbid duty, hauling the bodies of soldiers he never knew. Each was laid to rest beside its companions. The pallor of death fell the same over each, whether human or Asai or Nenev. The evening wound on, grey and cold. Bren staggered to their campsite late. Alea’s tent was deserted, the three Crowns perched in their box on her desk. He hung his cloak on his tent pole and ducked inside.

  The lit lantern hung from the ridgepole and Kemmer sat on his trunk in the corner. “Lord Commissioner, I just came from the infirmary.” She looked down. “Aldac died. He was doing all right for a while, but I think years in the city weakened us. I was with him, when it happened. He said he was honored to have served you, even for such a short time, made me promise to do well by you. He didn’t need to, I already would have.” It was the most Bren had ever heard the woman say at once. She jerked her head to the east. “You kill him?”

  Bren shrugged. “The Crown was part of him. He couldn’t survive the removal of it.” He sat on his cot. “You’re promoted now.”

  “General?” Her laugh was a hoarse cough.

  “Captain of the Guard.” He grinned wearily. “But drop the Lord Commissioner bit when we’re alone. I need friends now, more than anything else.”

  “I’ll try, sir.” She raked a hand through her tangled hair. “What now?”

  “Home. It’s time to rebuild.”

  Φ

  Alea left the general’s tent. It was close to midnight and her body was exhausted. Her mind refused to rest. The battle was only half done for her. What remained would be infinitely harder. The air around her hummed. She repacked her armor in its chest before changing into clean clothes. Her hand froze at the box on her desk. The Rakos Crown glimmered with the others. “Arman?”

  She reached out, feeling for the brilliant white-gold spark of his life. There was only darkness. She snapped the box shut and tucked it into her pack.

  By the time Bren stopped to check on her, the tent was deserted and she had disappeared into the forest.

  Φ

  The 11th Day of Valemord, 1252

  The City of Ceir Athrolan

  Winter sunlight pierced the naked, white branches of the trees. A journey that took the army almost a week, Alea made in just two days. Now she drew up at the tree line. The formerly pristine slope down to the city was churned and scarred. War machines crouch
ed between the tree trunks. Alea’s eyes narrowed. The ropes were frayed, the wood rotted. Rust enveloped what metal remained. But for the raw wounds in the stone walls of the city, she could have looked on a battle centuries old.

  A hole punched through the false sun of the palace’s dome. The walls were breached in three places that she could see. The city was quiet, smoke rising from both cook fires and smashed lanterns. Alea’s heart twisted at the sight. Athrolan was pillaged while her warriors protected me. Something more tugged at her mind. There was an undertone to the smell of the sea, to the chill of the winter morning. Laen. She nudged her horse into a trot and towards the battered gates.

  They had yet to open for the morning, though she would be surprised if they did not remain closed for days.

  “Halt!”

  She shielded her eyes and peered up at the ramparts. “I’m Dhoah’ Lyne’alea.” A low conversation ensued atop the wall before the gate finally opened. Alea dismounted and tugged her horse into the city.

  A woman stood in the center of the rubble-strewn city street. Her clothes were covered with burn holes and stone dust settled on her shoulders and graying hair. “Lyne’alea.”

  Alea stopped to survey her mother. “Elle.” She nodded to the city. “What happened?”

  “Athrolan fought your battle, so we fought hers.”

  “We won.”

  “Yes. I know. So did we.” Elle shifted her weight. “You should rest. We can leave for Mirik in the morning.”

  Alea shook her head. “I can rest on the ship. The world has waited long enough. I have waited long enough.”

  “What will you do?” Elle tilted her head.

  Alea reached out a tentative hand. “Something terrible. Something necessary.” When her mother took her hand, Alea squeezed it. She did not care that her grip twisted bones and ground Arman’s ring into her knuckle. With the brief moment of contact, Alea saw the gravity of what she was about to do. “I’m so sorry.”

  Elle frowned, her face paling. “I don’t understand.”

  “You don’t need to. Just be with me. For now.” Alea suddenly wished they had the time to be mother and daughter.

  Elle looked down. “If you will not wait, then we can at least get this over with.” She sent a whistle arcing over the city and palace walls. The other Laen appeared, as tattered as she. Some bore bruises and wounds of more direct battle.

  “Together, we can bring you home.” She laced her fingers with her daughter’s, others coming to take Alea’s hand or brush her shoulder.

  “Don’t waste your power,” Alea protested, but her voice was soft. Silver fog writhed around their bodies, threaded between feet and curling across shoulders.

  Elle smiled. “Really, Lyne’alea. What do we have to save it for? It may be terrible, I might not understand, but you will not be alone.”

  Φ

  The Isle of Le’yan

  Le’yan had changed little. The sky still crackled with its ceaseless energy, and the grasses still waved in the distracted breeze. Alea blinked and turned. She stood on the steps of the great hall. The Laen ranged about her, more exhausted than ever. The rumble of their arrival rippled through the village below and she saw lantern light bloom in the windows of those who had not made the journey to Athrolan.

  Alea pushed open the door to the hall. Her feet would not cross the threshold. How can I turn my back on them with a promise of a victory when they will never see it? “Elle?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Tell Mera to pack her books. The most important, the best, the rarest. Where I’m going, you can’t follow.”

  “I’ll tell her. And I’ll see you when you’ve won.”

  Alea met her mother’s eyes. There was defiance behind the older woman’s lie, a strength Alea recognized. She drew a steadying breath and stepped into the hall. The door at the end was still propped open and the stairs unchanged. She did not stumble in the darkness, her feet forgotten as she descended into the bowels of the earth. She refused to think beyond her next action, refused to listen to the screaming in her mind.

  She emerged into the cavern, her boots whispering on the stone as she approached the swollen globe of wounded souls. She knelt, opening the box and laying the Crowns on the ground before her. She stripped her clothes off, raking her fingers through the snarls of her hair until it hung loosely around her. She gripped the Crowns against her naked stomach, relishing the sting of metal against her cool flesh.

  First I fight the gods. Then I bind the world. The actions seemed so simple when put into words. She wondered what would be left of her. The Laen would not be there to return whatever it was to Athrolan. Bren would never know what happened to her, down in the darkness of Le’yan and the blackness of her soul.

  She clenched her teeth and stepped into the souls. The screaming grew louder and the darkness closer. She gripped the gods’ Crown, sinking through the connect to their world. It was akin to the dizziness when she left her body to resurrect Arman. Whistling filled her ears. A beach appeared quite suddenly around her. The air was almost balmy and the rough sand beneath her feet ground as she stepped back. Most of the island was overrun with jungle. Behind her the ocean was flat calm, not a single wave lapped at the strand, even when an eddy of wind caught Alea’s hair. She had the distinct feeling that the entire landmass had turned to look at her. She shook it away and moved up the overgrown path before her.

  Her journey was quiet and uninterrupted. Her thoughts turned inward. What steps have I taken to bring me to these? What path did I choose to bring me to this? Though her hands were unadorned and her body bare, she felt the warm squeeze of the ring on the middle finger of her physical hand. What friends have I lost to save the world? At any moment the gods might rain fury upon her, her blood might be drained to stitch the world together.

  The trees fell away and a castle rose before her. It was built from the same brown stone that made up the island itself. The wooden gate was barely taller than she, and the double doors carved only with the stylized mountain sprouting a twisting column of smoke that was the gods’ symbol. She pushed the doors open carefully and her heartbeat rose to a thunder. Torches lined the brown stone, guttering in the stillness. The hall she followed ended in an arched doorway to a spiral staircase that led up into the dark heights of the castle. The similarity to the stairs she had just descended in Le’yan was not lost on her. She lifted her chin and began the ascent.

  The castle’s rooftop was large and open. The plants had taken over, tangling across the stone. Some vines and leaves were held back, a path carved through the vegetation to the open, sunken hall in the center of the rooftop. Chipped, worn pillars held the dome protecting it from whatever weather no longer battered the island. The floor of the hall stepped down into the center, where the gods’ symbol rested. Scorch marks marred the copper inlay of their symbol. The pieces of what once had been fine chairs were scattered across the stairs. Only one stood, whole, at the bottom, facing the marred symbol. A man sat, waiting for her. There were others, standing in the shadows, seated on the stairs across from her. She caught herself counting the bloody sparks in her mind. A dozen, two hundred, it does not matter. Everything that had brought her there thundered to life in her mind. The months of running, the lives that were lost and changed and the rage that fueled her every step.

  “Desmondu!” The ground trembled and plaster rattled from the ceiling at her voice.

  The gods turned to stare at her. Desmondu rose. His hair was pale copper and hung in loose curls to his shoulders. A brown robe covered his crimson tunic. His piercing amber eyes narrowed. “You are alone.”

  Alea smiled. “You’ve been without us for far too long if you think that matters.” She stepped carefully down into the hall, her bare feet hissing on the warm stone. “You know why I’m here. It can’t have escaped your notice that the world is unraveling. It’s my duty to sew it together. The power that makes your world, your magic, will change.”

  “It will end.”r />
  She laughed, but it was not the sound of mirth. “Nothing ends.”

  “You will destroy us.”

  “If you fight me, yes. I just thought you might like a warning.”

  “You will fall, torn apart, burnt until nothing is left but a mark on the ground. We will fight you until there is nothing left of you to bleed dry.” His words rattled like husks on the ground. The other gods rose, converging on his throne. Their eyes were wary, afraid, exhausted.

  Alea picked out her brother’s oft-invoked god of death, Toar, and his consort, the goddess of the desert mirage Ikate. There were others that she recognized from the temples of her childhood, or from stories. “Very well.” She beckoned. The gesture was gentle, almost tender.

  Desmondu’s laughter faded as copper mist emerged from the floor. It rose slowly, picking up speed as Alea’s body filled with blackness. Her irises bled silver until her face shone in the light emanating from orbs brighter than any sun. The mist thickened as she pulled the energy of the gods’ realm from the world.

  Bolts of bubbling bloody brown exploded against her skin. She ignored the burning. Desmondu shrieked in fury and rushed her. His fist, encased in power, descended on her skull. Something uncurled in the depths of Alea’s soulblood, where her heart lay in her physical body. It was gold and scorching in its anger, and familiar as her own power, but it was not her. It raced to the surface, bursting from her skin in an explosion of white fire. She heard nothing through the ringing aftermath in her ears, but the message was unmistakable. I’ll protect you. Do what you must.

  She dragged power from the earth, swallowing it with her own, forcing it into the Crown waiting, clutched with the others in Le’yan. All that was left was their souls. The only thing binding their power to the world were tentative tendrils curled around everything that kept them alive. Tears, held captive in the corners of her eyes, froze. Her fingers sprouted lightning. It writhed, branching myriad times and rooting itself in the chest of each god in turn. Electricity burrowed into their pulsing copper centers and she pulled. Their souls tasted of blood.

  Φ