by V. S. Holmes
The blast leveled most of the castle. Alea was cocooned in a ball of writhing souls. She was beyond consciousness, beyond enlightenment, beyond death. She was an unborn child, fragile and infinite in its possibilities. Her hands were claws as she ripped the souls apart. Her fingers dripped soulblood as she tore into the barriers between the pieces of the world. She flung the humans’ souls into the void, followed by the gods, the Rakos, the Laen. Silver soulblood splattered her face with each violent gesture.
There were three darknesses that grew in the mind. The first was brief and flashing in its anger. But it was small. It was sand in the face of the wind, dust in the face of the rain, noticed only in its absence. The second was slow. It loomed on the edge, muttering and glaring. It was not acknowledged. It could be ignored. Still, it swirled around thoughts, biting them with bitter, savage teeth.
The third was a great law that could not be broken. It was a shadow that fell on a mountain side. It simply waited. It was the night at the edge of the firelight, patient and calm. It was peace. There are no monsters.
Only three Crowns hovered in her mind’s eye, burning white-gold, stinging bloody-copper and sparking silver-black. She grew or they shrunk, spinning into her palm. She clenched her hand around them absently, as if they were insects. There was stillness. Then the world trembled, shuddering within the fist of Alea’s power.
The void around her changed. Images flashed before her, thousands of people, thousands of lives, each imprinted on her mind. Her heartbeat raced, faltered, paused. Her mind was blank consciousness without feeling or judgment. Silence reigned for a second, for an eternity. Waves lapped at Alea’s skin, nudging her against a rocky shore.
Chapter
TWENTY-TWO
The 14th Day of Glasmord, 1252
The City of Mirik
BREN GROANED AS HE LIFTED the heavy lintel into place above the doorway. He shrugged deeper into the wool of his cloak. The air off the ocean was bitterly cold. It took days to lay the honored dead to rest in Athrolan. He arrived in Mirik a week before and began work as soon as his boots hit the cobbles. He pounded a fist against the heavy wood. In a few weeks it would overlook the entrance to someone’s home. Now it’s just a pain in my arse. In the glorious absence of war, Mirik’s new military traded swords for hammers. Bren had forgotten how much blisters burnt. It was close to evening now and the lintel was all that was left of his day’s work.
He hammered the last of the wooden pegs home, face knotted in concentration. The tool fell from his hands when the scream started. It was not a human scream, he realized, even as he rushed into the street. It was as if the air itself cried out. Lights flickered across the city below and the watchtowers blazed into life. The sea was choppy, like a cup of water, shaken. Great waves surged over the new stone breakwater. Thunderheads thickened from horizon to horizon.
The scream faded to a guttering sound, like pebbles bouncing down a slope. The ocean parted in the east, as if an invisible bowl pressed to its surface. The water roiled and black fog burst from the air above the depression. The sound of rending flesh was followed by a concussive wave of air that knocked him to the ground.
He wondered, briefly if this was the end. As abruptly as it began, everything stopped. Bren pulled himself to his feet. A soft breeze eddied about him, tugging as his cloak. Two islands stood where the ocean had been disturbed, within a long-boat’s journey from the cliffs. Faint outlines of buildings dotted the new islands. He found that he was shaking. He took off at a run. He finally stopped in the open air of the harbor, peering up at the sky. He almost expected the stars to have changed.
Others had followed him, the entire city spilling into the streets. “Sir, what is it?” Arik paused, panting, beside Bren. “The air.”
He lifted his nose. It was as if he had never smelled fresh air before, and now the soft, crisp breeze came from off the sea. “I know.” He thrust his fist into the air, letting out a wild shout. Around him, windows were thrown open, sailors climbed into rigging and guards tossed their helms into the air. They shouted with him, screaming joy across the ocean. Bren fell to his knees. “It’s over. She did it.”
Kemer wove through the crowd, her frown a stark contrast against the exaltation around her. “Sir!” She slid to a halt beside him. Her eyes glittered with tears that matched his, the ones they were trained to never shed. “Sir, my cousin found your sister.” She took his hand. “They just pulled her body from the water.”
Φ
The 17th Day of Vurgmord, 1252
Bren leaned his brow against the cool, un-hewn stone of the temple. It was the only such building left standing. The past three mornings he found himself within its enveloping darkness. What he felt could not be called grief. He could not pray, for there were no gods, and he could not talk to Alea. She lay in the palace, barely breathing. After a month of watching her lifeless form, he stopped visiting. Now, instead, he sat in a forgotten temple and talked to her. The black stone seemed to listen.
He turned at the rapping on the stone. “Yes?”
“We were told to ask you about work and housing.” The man was roughly Bren’s age, though his skin and hair were far darker. A woman stood a pace behind him, smiling tiredly as she murmured to the baby in her arms. “I was told Mirik welcomed refugees. Might you know where to find Brentemir Barrackborn?”
“You already have.” Bren held out his hand. “I’m Commissioner Barrackborn. Where was your home?”
“Vielrona.”
Sorrow settled around Bren again. “Ah. You’re Arman’s friend. You’re welcome here. Find the stone building on the corner. Talk to Commissioner Oland. He’ll set you with a proper house.” Bren called through the door as the man turned away. “Did you hear of him?”
“I heard he gave himself for his lady. Good day, sir.” The dark man’s words were tense and pained.
Bren felt suddenly guilty he did not mourn Arman as deeply. He turned back to the altar. His previous offerings of flowers wilted in the cold. Midwinter was only a week away. His eyes pinched closed at the soft cough behind him. This was his only privacy in the day, and it was precious.
“Am I interrupting?”
Bren’s eyes widened. The slight woman was silhouetted by the faint morning sun. He rose to his feet, unable to turn away, even blink. His words stammered from him. “I thought—”
“So did I,” Alea answered. Her smile was faint, almost shy. She glanced at the temple. “I heard you, you know.”
His own smile eased across his features. He caught her up in his arms, lifting her off the ground. Her arms were hard around his neck and her body thin. “I missed you. I love you.”
“And I, you. The city looks wonderful.” Her voice faltered. “Bren, the islands, were those my doing?”
“Yes.” He pulled away. “It was weeks after the battle and I had begun to wonder.”
“Weeks?” She shook her head. “I fought the gods for a long time, then.”
Bren squeezed her hand. “It was terrifying here, during the joining. I thought the world had ended.”
“It did. At least, the world we knew.” She seemed to stare at the flowers, but her focus was far distant. “I was in a dark, strange place, beyond time and sense. I remember it like a dreamer remembers the true world during sleep.” She glanced up at the words Bren had carved above the altar during his first visit. “Why did you dedicate a temple to me?”
“When you joined the world, after the terror, there was joy. I can’t explain the relief and happiness. It’s my experience that people need something to believe in. The hole you left by killing the gods needed to be filled. I felt it fitting you be the one to fill it.”
Alea pulled a bag from her belt. She handed it to him. “Did you look in this while I was sleeping?”
“No. I don’t think anyone did. Most were too scared.” The bag was heavier than it should have been. He untied the strings and peered inside. The crown was a hard, dark metal. He recognized the black glass embedded a
round the edge. “You made this?”
“That’s the Crown for this world. Whole. It is not for me, just as this temple is not mine. It is for whomever comes afterward.” The expression flitting about the corners of her eyes was both grieving and relieved.
“Afterward. The battles are over Alea. Life can start.”
“I can’t stay here, Bren.” She looked down. “I’m leaving today. I’ll go to the mainland, maybe south. I’m not sure, but I need to see this world a bit. I need the earth under my toes and the sun on my hair for a while.”
He wanted to yell at her to stay, beg her to stand with him when he made Kemmer his wife. He wanted to weep until she promised to never leave again. Instead, he sighed. “I’ll walk you to the harbor.” He took her hand and allowed her to lead him into the sunlight.
Φ
The 21st Day of Vurgmord, 1252
The City of Ceir Athrolan
Alea rode higher into the hills. Her horse’s hooves scrabbled on the frozen earth. The clearing opened before her, barren and black. The trees were scarred by fire. She dismounted, and as soon as her boots thudded onto the baked earth, she knew this was where Arman discovered his power. She ran her fingers along a tree trunk, scraping ash from the wood. She pitched her tent facing south, overlooking the Felds beyond. She laid her bedroll carefully, every movement collected, as if a sudden motion would shake the tears from her clenched heart.
The fire she lit was small, and she did not bother to set any soup to boil. She crouched beside the flames, exhausted. She would not rest, though. She had rested enough for a lifetime. The clatter of dry leaves across the hard ground seemed almost like foot falls, almost like speech.
She found herself replying. “I wish we’d said more, that night. I wish I could have been there for you. I’m here now.” She lay against the ground, frozen dirt scraping her cheek.
The nervous snorting of her horse woke her. She pushed herself up, blinking to clear her vision. It was dark, the fire nothing more than burning coals. The woods were silent. The horse paced around its picket, eyes rolling. A familiar sensation tickled the back of her mind, but she could not place it. She rose to a crouch, stirring the coals into flame. It was then that she saw the eyes.
They were low, like those of a wolf, and burning yellow. She reached for her bow behind her and nocked an arrow without taking her eyes from the predator. She raised it, breathing like Arman taught her all those months ago. She would never be able to say whether it was the color of the eyes or the heat in them as they met hers that gave her pause, but she relaxed her hold, tilting her head as she peered back. The campfire burst to life between them, casting the trees into bright contract with the dark woods.
Gold scales plated wiry shoulders, and a great bony crest parted the yellow hair down the crown of his head. A clawed hand worked in the dirt, clenching over and over. The scales over his heart fluttered with each beat, flashing the silver of a handprint scar. “Sun.”
“No.” Her knees gave out and she sat back on her bedroll. “Not this. You thought you’d die. You thought you would fall to your death.” She reached out a shaking hand. This was worse than death.
“Sun.” The word crackled from his chest again and again.
Even if she had pressed her hands to her ears it would not have blocked the sound. His eyes held none of the familiarity that made him Arman. She moved to touch him but he skittered back. “It’s Alea.” She inched closer, her words low and careful. “And you’re Arman. We met in Vielrona, where the moss turned the rooftops green.”
He did not move, but let her creep closer.
“You taught me to shoot and fight and drink there. We stood together in Athrolan’s throne room and allied ourselves with her queen, your voice and mine.” Her hand stopped beside his and she spread her fingers on the cold ground. The longest one brushed his. The scales there dimmed, retreating to the first knuckle. The skin left behind was pale under its tan, but unmistakably his. The darkness faded as dawn approached.
“We rode north together, just you and me and the white sky in winter.” She continued murmured to him. Her fingers slid over his hand, the scales rough and warm against her cool skin. The scales rolled back up to his forearm.
“I’m Alea and you are Arman. I broke the laws of the world to bring you back when you died. It wasn’t so you could protect me. I just couldn’t imagine saving a world without you in it.” Her arms slid up his and over his shoulders until their noses were just inches apart. Her words were barely more than breath. “I am Alea and you are Arman. We danced on the cliff tops at Claimiirn and all of our enemies trembled at the sound.”
His skin was sickly-pale and his hair and beard were overgrown. Angry scars peppered his back. His eyes burnt into hers. The eerie glow faded from his body then, and he was suddenly human. He shoved himself away from her. He scrabbled in the dead leaves, vomiting up stone dust and dried blood. He collapsed on the ground and shuddered. “I need sun.”
“The sun will be up soon.” He shied from her touch when she reached to help him up. She followed his unsteady gait out onto the outcropping overlooking the dark fields. The sky was grey. He pressed himself to the cold stone, face tilted toward the dawn.
Alea sat a few paces away, watching his chest rise with each breath. His color returned with the day. The faint warmth of the winter sun eased over muscles and skin, chasing madness and darkness from his face. It was afternoon when he finally opened his eyes. They blinked once, twice then swiveled to look at her. “Alea.”
She jerked her head in a nod. “I’ll make us something to eat.” She rose with a soft groan. Her muscles were cramped from sitting still for so long. She scraped snow into a pot absently, every thought on the man sunning himself on the rock behind her. The water had been boiling for several minutes, Alea staring unseeing, when Arman finally approached. He crouched by the fire, heedless of his naked body.
Alea’s gaze flicked to him. “Your things are there.” She pointed at the tattered pack beside hers.
“I think I want to wash. There’s a stream down the hill.” He gathered the packet of noodles and meat and pressed it into her hand. “Water’s boiled.”
She took it and set about preparing the soup. When the soup was set she gathered more wood and unrolled the second bedroll. He recognized her, but more than that she did not know. The world that created them was gone and she was not sure where to turn. The tent was broader and the soup bubbling eagerly by the time he returned. He settled himself by the fire, near enough to touch without crowding her. They ate in silence, sniffing in the cold weather and shivering when a breeze was too insistent.
“That’s some faith you had to bring my things.”
She laughed softly. “You know far more about faith than I.” She poked at the coals to avoid looking at him. “The little piece of you that’s in me, it protected me. I knew if it was alive so were you.”
He frowned at the flames as if they had given him some great insult. “I thought I was going to die.”
“Madness is a kind of death.” Her gaze inched from the fire to his boots and up his body to his face. His eyes held understanding.
“I’m sorry we didn’t talk of little things that night before the battle.”
She drew her glove off and slid her hand to rest on her knee where he could see it. “You think this is such a little thing?” He stared at it, expression unreadable. Soul bared. Completely. She swallowed hard and barreled on. “When we were running, every night we slept in different places. We changed horses, changes plans. We even changed our names when we had to. Even my own idea of self changed. And you were there. I was broken and lost with no family in a world I did not know, and when I closed my eyes to sleep, you were there.” She slid her hand across the leaves, closer, like she had done the night before. “You are my one permanence.”
“And you have been mine, Alea. It’s not about finding someone who changes your world, or who molds you into a better person. It’s about finding someon
e that fits with the shape in which you built yourself. You fit. Each step of the way, even when it hurt to see you because what you were told me what I was becoming. We’ve changed, incredibly, but we’ve only grown together. You fit.” He took her hand and a smile bloomed.
Φ
It took Arman several heart-pounding moments to remember where he was when he awoke. Alea’s hand was tangled in his and he extracted it carefully before climbing from his bed roll. Their bodies were too exhausted and their minds too raw for anything more intimate than conversation. He tidied the camp and set water on to boil before slipping out into the forest to hunt. He was dressing the second squirrel when he saw the riders. There were less than a dozen and they rode easily up the hill. He marked the Athrolani uniform and wondered if they were searching for Alea.
His boots were silent as he returned, mind whirling. He did not want to go back to Athrolan. He did not want to see Tzatia and hear the story of war retold myriad times. He glanced at Alea while he packed. Does she want that life?
“Is that tea?” Alea sat up, rubbing sleep from her face. Her hair was a tangled mess and one lock sported a twisted dead stick.
He handed her a mug, debating how to ask. Giving her a ring was easy when he thought he would die. Asking her to run into the wilderness was something else entirely. “An Athrolani patrol is on its way up. They’ll be here in about twenty minutes.” He schooled any emotion from his features. He wanted an honest answer.
“We could live in Athrolan or Mirik. Bren wanted me to stay.”
“And live like a noble? Is that what you want?”
“Is there another option? We’re war heroes.”
Arman kept his eyes fixed on the fire. “If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you choose?”
Her silence was agony to his ears. Somewhere, below, a horse’s hoof rang off stone.
“There was that clearing in the Hartland where we stayed our second night after leaving Vielrona. I’d go there. I’d live away from people and memories of what I’ve been and done. I fear that I owe Bren, owe Athrolan to settle with them.”