Smoke and Rain (12 page)

His jaw still ached and he tasted traces of blood.
Up there, somewhere, was a city of her people.
His eyes followed the line of the river through the notch in the mountains. He pushed himself upright suddenly and strode back over the bridge. He swung a leg over the wall along the river and dropped down. Moving was better than sitting still and thinking.
I could talk to Ver.
The voice in the back of his skull nagged. He did not know why he avoided her. Wes and Kam would bombard him with questions, but Veredy was different.
How can I explain this? How can I tell her another woman's voice came into my head. Laen or not, it's strange.
The stone blocks of the riverbank became rocky shoal. His boots hissed on the moist, rough sand. He ran a hand along the rocks piled at the bends, feeling the thrum of rushing water. Soon he emerged into the steep valley of the notch. Before him lay what had once been Elanal. The buildings were toppled, most submerged or flooded. At the head of the valley a building had been carved into a cliff face. A spark of hope lit Arman's heart.
Perhaps I could find something here, something that will help her find a guard, find her people.
He skirted the ruins nervously. They were less grand than he had expected, and no surge of cold or heat struck him. He could still feel their consciousness. He edged along the base of the cliff, picking out where the doorway stood beside the cascading water from higher up.

Perhaps the Rakos have simply been hiding, been sleeping until she needed them.
He snorted at the thought. The room beyond was dark and smelled of mildew. It was empty, save for a few smashed pieces of what may have once been a chair. Opposite was another doorway. This one led to curling, crumbling stairs. Arman's feet faltered on the steps.
This is ridiculous.
The accounts were all legends, mother's tales to teach children values and history. The stairs crunched beneath his boots. He finally skittered into a large room. The weight of the little book on his breast pocket seemed to burn over the handprint scar. At the end of the hall stood two statues. They were not fine, made of precious metals or gems. They were simply carved from stone. The woman's hand was raised, the other outstretched towards the ground. She stood in a water-stained basin that had long since gone dry. The man beside her stood on a bed of coals gone cold. A groove ran around the woman's head, though the adornment was gone. Arman stepped closer to the male statue and fell to his knees. Resting on the man's carved curls was a gold crown.

"Please, she needs you now." He did not stop to think he sounded stupid. It felt right. "If you ever loved the Laen, come back." Silence filled the hall and Arman sighed.
Thank fates I didn't tell her I was coming here, hoping to find something. I couldn't bring more disappointment.
He moved closer, crouching on the rim of the brazier. The statue was familiar—the set of his jaw and the curl of a snarl on his mouth. Arman fumbled with the book. Sure enough the likeness of the Rakos of the cover was similar.
Do you have a name?
He flipped the book open and with a silent apology to his father, slit the silk lining. The painting was the original, signed with Berrin symbols. He froze when he saw the subject's name.
Kierman Wardyn 657 Vil Ronna.
He glanced up at the statue.
Wardyn?

Heat raced up his back and he realized where he had seen that expression.
It's mine.
He grabbed the statue's outstretched hand and hauled himself on the pedestal. He reached up and slid the Crown from the stone head. Blood flooded his mouth as new teeth emerged between his dogteeth and incisors. Itching heat pulsed and his bloody mouth curled into a wolfish smile.

Alea had her guard.

The 39th Day of Valemord, 1251

The City-state of Vielrona

ADRENALINE CARRIED ARMAN UNTIL he re-entered the city. Excitement and certainty left his body in a rush and he had to steady himself on a lantern post. This was so far beyond the mistakes he had made as a boy. This was different than beating someone. This was even different than promising to marry Veredy when he was grown.
I can never, ever go back from this.
Even as the thought faded, he realized it had not really been a choice. Something had called him and he had answered. His blood had answered. If Alea was leaving the city then he would follow.
No,
he corrected himself
, When the Dhoah' Laen leaves the city her Rakos guard will follow.
He was not sure if there was a distinction between the two, but imagining one made his heart beat slower.

He ran his thumb over his teeth again. It was becoming a nervous habit. The new teeth were sharp enough to scrape his calloused finger and longer than any human teeth had a right to be.

He had to tell Wes and Kam something, had to explain himself to Veredy.
Fates, a few days ago I was going to ask her to be my wife – in earnest.
In the darkness of his confusion it felt as distant as summer. Whatever relationship he had with Veredy would be different now, and would have to wait again. It was fully dusk now, and Arman was too tired to face his friends. He had one more task left, however, before he could retreat to home.

The Farrow house was a small cottage on the edge of the Uppers, but it bore the marks of old wealth. It took two knocks before the door jerked open. Confusion, fear and anger shadowed Thada Farrow's features. “What is it?”

It was an expression Arman was far too familiar with. “Evening, Mistress Farrow.”

She blinked at him, then recognition flitted across her face. “Arman, gracious I didn't even recognize you.” She ushered him inside, her face falling back into darkness. “Can I take your cloak?”

“Thank you, but no. I can't stay long.” The clean, lively house he remembered from boyhood was dim and cluttered.

She drifted into her kitchen. “Forgive the state of the house. I can't seem to find the energy, not after Meckil....” She shuddered. “He was such a good boy, I can't understand what happened.”

Dread rooted itself in Arman's stomach.
Farrow's dead. He didn't want the survivors here and now he's dead.
Even with strong denial, Arman knew the truth. “I was horrified to hear the news.”

She glanced over at him, as if she had forgotten he was there. “Certainly. You two were close as boys. Not as much recently, but he always spoke highly of your family.” She gave him a weak smile.

“I'm actually here to see his brother. Is he in?”

She nodded. “He's taken it hard, but he's a strong boy.” She leaned up the stairs. “Hiram? Arman Wardyn is here to see you.”

There was a long pause, then a door opened softly upstairs. Hiram was the image of his older brother. The shadows on his face matched his mother's. He gave Arman a smile that did not reach his tired eyes. “Hey, Wardyn.”

“Hey.” Arman held out the note he had hastily written before knocking. “I'm sorry about your brother. He was a good man.”

“What's this?” Hiram peered at the paper but did not open it to read.

“"You're interested in the smithy, and we could use some help. Bring this to Wes and he'll find you some work." Arman shifted awkwardly and heaved a sigh. "Very well, I should be going." He paused at the door. "I'm so sorry, Mistress Farrow. Really, I wish there was something .... I'm so sorry."

Φ

The knock on his door startled Arman. He contemplated pretending to sleep. He was not ready to face his friends again, let alone Veredy, and his mother's compassion would break his tentative composure.

"Arman, are you there?" Alea's voice was gentle.

He opened the door, leaning on the doorframe. He knew he looked a mess. "Are you feeling any better?"

She frowned. "I'm doing well. You look like something the vulture's pecked over."

He glared at her with mock anger. "That's a new insult."

Her smile was more open than he'd yet seen. "Do you need to rest, or may I come in?"

He opened the door wider and ushered her in before flopping back onto his bed. "I'm sorry I'm not a better host right now." He watched her take a seat. "This is an interesting reversal—you checking on me while I lie depressed in bed."

"I had just lived through a massacre, Arman, what is your excuse?" Her eyes glittered with wry humor.

He realized at some point she had changed into breeches and a short dress. The look suited her. "I went looking for something to help you. What I found was unexpected, but pieces fit where there were only questions before." He held the roughly repaired book of tales out to her. "What do you know of the Rakos?"

She took it, but only looked at the cover. Her gaze was suddenly reserved and thoughtful. "They're dead, I thought. That is why the Laen... my people... have struggled so much lately."

"Well the man in that painting there is Keirman Wardyn. He lived in Vielrona when it was still a Rakos garrison. I hoped I could wake him, or call him somehow. In a way I did. You need a guard, Lyne'alea, and I am it."

"Arman, your loyalty is astounding, but this is a great weight to bear and it's not yours." Her words stopped when he drew something else from under his pillow. It was a hammered gold crown. Green, veined agates and ivory studded the side. Its beauty, like Vielrona's, was in its simplicity and strength.

"It's our weight, together. I'm not choosing to act as your guard. I
am
your guard. My blood is bound to yours. This is the Crown of this world and it is mine to bear."

The fear and pity in her eyes burned. "Are you all right?"

"I don't know. I feel powerful and whole. And a bit odd. My damned teeth hurt and I feel fevered." He sighed. "I'd imagine you understand. I still feel a bit lost, though my path is fairly clear."

"Trust your instincts, Arman. At least hear me— I trust them." She held the book up. "Mind if I borrow this? I'd like to learn more about the strange creature protecting me." Her smile was gentle as she left, but her words echoed ominously in his mind.
Am I a creature now? Is it possible to be only partly Rakos, or does the chaos consume you?

Φ

The 40th Day of Valemord, 1251

The Village of Marl Mere, Athrolan

The road ahead was overshadowed with clouds. An'thor had spent so many years traveling, both as hunter and hunted, that he did not know how to stop. Albi'giran had disappeared a week before and being left alone with his thoughts was worse. Now there was only one place left he could think of to go. The lights of the town ahead glittered in the dusk, a speck of warmth in the cold landscape. It had been a decade since he had last ridden this way, but the gravel sounded the same under Theriim's hooves.

Marl Mere was half the size of Marl Kess, but nestled in the mountains south of Athrolan, it was far less exposed. He supposed this was why Elle had chosen it. Her house was on the edge of the village. It was closer to a hovel than a house, he supposed, but home was home. He dismounted under the overhang that served as a stable and woodshed. As he removed Theriim's tack he began to whistle
King's Wrongdoing.
The silence inside the hut sharpened. "Aye, it's me, girl."

She was waiting in the doorway when he went around the front. He offered her a tired smile. "It's been a while. Missed me?"

Her hair was more silver than black now, and her eyes haunted, but her smile was bright. "An'thoriend Domariigo, I thought only the end of the world would bring you back to my doorstep."

His expression darkened. "You weren't wrong."

Grief flitted across her face, but she did not look surprised. "I suppose you should come in. Supper is almost ready." She locked the door behind him and helped him out of his cloak. "I don't suppose you'll want to exchange small talk and put the serious topics off until after we've eaten."

He laughed humorlessly. "You know me too well." He went to the fireplace and put the kettle on before rummaging through the cabinets for tealeaves.

"Please, make yourself at home." She smiled wryly and handed him two mugs. "And pour me some while you're at it." She sat back in the chair. "Really, you keep catering to me and I'll begin to wonder why I never married."

"Your son's father was a genocidal maniac who declared war on your race," he reminded her mildly. "Really, I'm amazed you keep forgetting."

She threw a narrow glance at him. "So why are you here? What's this about the end of the world?" Her face grew serious again.

An'thor paused in his tea making, but did not turn around. He had only said it the once, and was not prepared to do so again. "Elle, I need you to return to Le'yan. For good."

"I most certainly will not." Her tone had the old rebellion in it and he almost grinned. "They don't even know I'm alive. This is as much of a home as anywhere else, and I'm happy here." She looked away. "At least, happier than before."

"This is different, Elle." He set the cups out and poured the water before taking the chair opposite her. "I wasn't lying about everything ending. The other Laen found her. She was a little bit of a thing. The Miriken found us in Marl Kess. We made it to the edge of the Hartland, but they shot her. I tried, I swear, but she's dead." He glanced up at her. "Elle, the Dhoah' Laen is dead."

Her expression was carefully neutral when she met his eyes. "With all due respect, An'thor, you are wrong."

"Elle, her life's blood drenched my hands—I'm fairly certain I would know!"

"Surely that girl is dead, and it is a pity, but she was not the Dhoah' Laen."

"She was the youngest Laen left, and her power was different. She had Liane convinced."

"The true Dhoah' Laen was not raised among our people, An'thor. No one knows about her."

"How do you know then?"

"Because she is my daughter." Elle's silver eyes were luminous in the dark hut. "Because I was the one that hid her. "

An'thor realized he was leaning forward, clinging to Elle's words with desperation. "If you're lying, if you're just hoping, I swear my heart will not recover this time." He steadied himself with a slow breath. "And when did you bear a daughter?"

"Bren was six when his father was crowned. I was only a few weeks pregnant, but I knew this child was different. I could feel her. I had kept up the ruse of being human well enough, but I was scared for her. Azirik's paranoia was growing worse by the day. It was only a matter of time before he discovered me. I traveled south to deliver her, and found my way to Cehn."

An'thor stared at her, incredulous. "That is where Liane stopped two months ago. She thought it was a sanctuary."

Elle's brow quirked. "And why do you think they thought that?"

"You said they didn't know about the girl."

She shrugged. "They knew Cehn sheltered me. They did not know that when I returned north, I left something behind." Power lit her expression. It was easy to forget, in her little house, what she was. It was easy to chalk her dark hair and pale skin up to Athrolani blood. There was no questioning her race now.

"Fates, Elle, when were you going to tell me?" Her vast patience was incredible. She had kept the world's greatest secret for decades. He put his head in his hands. "Cehn was razed to the ground two months ago, Elle. There were barely a dozen survivors and they're scattered in Vielrona."

Her eyes blazed with cold and a smile twitched on her lips. "Then perhaps you should go back. I believe you forgot something."

Φ

The 41st Day of Valemord, 1251

The City-state of Vielrona

Snow decorated the wall along the river. It was a rare dusting, and Arman thought it a pity to brush it away. Still, he was not fond of wet breeches. He sat cross-legged and watched the water curl and burble under the thin ice. After a moment he heard low conversation and two figures approached from the market. When Wes and Kam drew up to him they fell silent.

Wes held up a folded piece of parchment between two fingers. "Got your note. When did you start sending message boys?"

Arman sighed.
This is already off to a brilliant start. Wes is ticked and Kam is silent.
"You wanted his help."

"I also didn't need to learn you murdered his brother from
him.
"

"That's what I wanted to explain, Wes. To both of you. You said you wanted the truth. Do you?"

Kam's eyes narrowed. "Why couldn't you tell us before now?"

"I needed to understand some things, and now I do." He brushed snow off the wall. "Will you sit?"

Wes's face was hard. "You want us to freeze our bollocks off?"

"I want to be sure you are the only two that hear this. Now sit, or leave." When they had both settled, he cleared his throat. "I killed one of those men. Only one."

"You said that blood was yours."