Authors: V. Holmes
Arman wanted to retort, wanted to tell Bren to take his Toar-blasted advice and shove it somewhere dark and painful. Except Alea’s brother was right. Arman looked away. Alea brought out the worst in him, often because she brought out his fear. She also brought out the best. Their entire friendship had been built on his assumption that he gave her everything she needed him to. He never paused to realize what she gave him.
She was laughter on dark roads. She was playful curiosity and unexpected crass humor. She was power, she was grace, she was immeasurable determination. Arman slumped back against the tent pole as the realization hit him. “Damn.”
“Realized you’ve been an ass?”
I’ve realized something much worse.
“You could say that.” Whatever other earth-cracking revelations he may have had stopped as Alea arrived. “Milady, you look like death.”
She swayed with exhaustion. The shadows under her eyes were darker than ever and her hands were chapped badly enough to bleed. She thumped down between the two men. “Not a way to win a woman over, Arman.” Her tone was gentle.
“How long did you work? You were gone when I rose this morning.”
“Guffe’s assistant came to me two hours before dawn. I thought the point of a siege was to weaken them. Instead I think they’re like hornets—odd, water hornets. We just keep making them angry.”
Arman snorted and took her hands in his. “Bren do you have any of the grease you use on your scars?”
Bren tossed over a small pouch filled with herb-smelling balm he had bought from the trail army. “Works wonders when old wounds stiffen with the cold and wet.”
Alea smiled tiredly as he smoothed a small amount over her knuckles, working it carefully into her abused skin. “Thank you.”
Bren poured a bowl of stew from their fire and offered it to his sister. “It’s a bit spicy, but better than tasting the mud.”
She glanced at it and sprang to her feet, hand pressing to her mouth. Her eyes were wide and she shook her head violently before disappearing into the maze of tents.
“Toar, what did I do?” Bren stared incredulously after her.
Arman shook his head, dumbfounded. “Damned if I know.” He pulled on his cloak and hurried after her.
Φ
Alea fought nausea high in her stomach. Afer so much blood the sight of food, even stew as good as that had smelled, made her chest tight.
How can they deal with this?
She stared at the faces of the men she hurried past. She did not even know where she was going, but suddenly she was in the center of the trail-army tents. She smelled wood smoke and alcohol over the pervasive scent of mildew. She ducked inside the first ale-tent she saw and sat at the row of camp chairs designating the bar. The heavy woman frowned at her, taking in Alea’s worn appearance.
“What can I get ye?”
Alea stared at her, unsure, not even caring that she was finally anonymous. “Something. Anything.” She rested her head in her hands.
What am I doing?
She always took things in stride. It was the Sunamen way—wear a brave face as the river sweeps you along. After meeting Eras, Alea had tried to emulate the calm leadership the general displayed.
When everything finally stops for a few minutes, why do I break?
A small glass of dark green liquid clunked onto the bar before her. It smelled bitter and sweet at the same time and she stared at it. There were barely more than two gulps in the glass. She took a tentative sip. The burning choked her at first, but she forced down the rest. She gagged, but resisted the urge to spit the liquor back up. Realizing the barmaid still stood in front of her with raised brows, Alea slid the glass over with a nod. She did not trust herself to open her mouth. Alea tipped the contents of the second glass down her throat as well. Her stomach warmed.
“Need a third?”
“I think she’s had enough already, thank you.” A calloused hand planted itself on the bar from behind her.
Alea turned to find herself face-to-face with Arman’s stern expression. The world continued to swirl and she steadied herself on his arm. “Arman.”
He helped her straighten and tossed a coin on the bar before leading her out. Once free of the confines of the tent he turned her to face him. “Fuck’s sake, what were you thinking?” His grip on her arms was almost strong enough to hurt and his teeth bared.
Her stomach roiled as the world spun again. “Arman?” She held his forearms.
“People are fools when they drink. I would know. But you? You’re blundering into a tent of lonely drunk soldiers, none of whom recognize you covered in blood and dirt! Who knows what happens to your power when it mixes with alcohol—you could be unable to defend yourself or destroy the entire camp!” He drew a rattling breath.
“I wasn’t blundering, and while you may not recognize me covered in blood, most of the men here would—I don’t wear ball gowns to sew their wounds! And if I get hurt, fault the lonely soldiers not my drinking.” She wished she could storm off again, but the ground seemed less steady than before. Instead she closed her eyes and sighed. “Are you angry with me?”
“Yes!” His voice cracked on the word and he crushed her in an embrace. He took another breath. “No. Not truly. You scared me is all.” He pulled away. “Why did you run?”
“Bren’s stew looked like what I held in men’s stomachs today.”
Arman winced. “No stew then. You need to eat, though, and soon, before whatever you drank hits harder.”
“It was green,” Alea noted as he steered her back to their camp.
Bren looked up as they stepped inside the ring of firelight. Relief washed his face. Alea waved excitedly. Her whole body was warmer than it had been in days. Her chapped lips were pleasantly numb.
“Milady, sit down.” Arman kept his exasperation in check. He pulled a cushion up for her. “And for fates' sakes, stay put.” He unwrapped the strip of meat he had bought on their way back, spitting it over the fire.
Alea sat, then flopped onto her back and stared at the sky.
Bren watched incredulously. “Arman, tell me I am very much mistaken in thinking my sister—the Dhoah’ Laen—is tossed.”
“Wish I could.” Arman glanced over at her, watching her eyes roam over the stars. A smile twitched his mouth. “She had a hard day. I think she thought the numbness of alcohol is learned in one night.”
Bren leaned forward with a wicked grin, “Sistermine, I’ve never seen a traditional Sunamen dance.”
Alea sat up excitedly, but Arman put a firm hand on her leg. He glared at Bren. “Be nice.”
Bren shrugged good-naturedly. “So, how do you feel?”
“It tasted like fire and...ugh.” She shuddered.
Arman laughed and after a minute handed her the meat. “Careful.” He watched her eat. “You’re lucky, milady. The first time I drank was with Kam and Wes. I think I drank my purse empty.”
“You think?”
“Well I don’t remember and couldn’t find it the next day.”
She offered him her half-finished dinner. “I think I’m done with this.”
Arman handed it to Bren. “I’ll get you into bed. Dawn will come too early.”
When she stood her vision tunneled and the blood roared in her ears. She stumbled with a yelp and caught herself on Arman’s outstretched hand.
Bren laughed. “Hurry, Toar knows which of her powers comes out with alcohol. Three coppers it’s not Creation.”
“Five it is!” Alea shot over her shoulder as Arman half-ushered, half-carried her through the makeshift flap that separated her bedroll from theirs. She tugged off her boots before dropping her bloodstained jerkin and overskirt on the chest beside them.
He handed her a dry cloth for her rain-soaked hair and wrapped a blanket over her shoulders. “I’m sorry I yelled at you.” He helped her slide into the bedroll on her cot. He pressed a hand to her shoulder and turned to go.
“Arman?”
He glanced back.
“Can you stay until I fall asleep?”
He sat at the foot of her cot and leaned back against the wall. She curled onto her side and rested her head in his lap.
“Why were you scared?”
“What you did tonight is unlike the Lyne’alea in my head. You are stronger and wiser than she, and I never expected her to drink to forget.” He sighed. “I forget that you’re human, sometimes. If you’re just a title, just a figure in a legend, you cannot drift somewhere I can’t reach, somewhere where I can’t protect you. Why did you need to forget?”
“Guffe has me do more to help, asks me to tend the worse wounds. I’ve not seen violence like this since Cehn. I held a man’s hand as he passed today. I had not tended a stomach wound before. It brought the horror back.” She glanced up at him, “I never told you, but I was about to marry my foster-father’s second eldest son, Ahren.”
Arman looked down. “What was he like?”
“Kind. He would have made a good husband. We were friends.” She paused. “I saw him gutted. His last act was to cut down the man attacking me, while holding—” her breath hitched “—holding everything from spilling out through the wounds in his stomach.”
Arman rubbed his thumb over her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
“I had forgotten the details until today. I loved him. Not romantically, perhaps, but it was love.” She took Arman’s hand, pressing it to her brow. “Promise me something?”
“Of course.”
“Promise me you’ll be my friend—not just my guard. My mind won’t make it through this without a friend.”
“Promise.” He was silent for a moment. “I don’t think I would have gone.”
She hummed questioningly at him.
“Home, I mean. Even if you stayed in Ceir Athrolan.”
Her eyes fluttered open to look at him. “You were so sure you wanted to go.”
“Wanted to, sure. It was desperation, though. Veredy said there was no place for me there, and I fear that. But I would not have chosen this path if I wasn’t certain I could see it through.”
“You only chose to ride with me.”
“Actually, that’s not true.”
She turned to look at him, forcing her eyes to focus. This was important. “But my mother—”
“Forced me to do nothing. She asked. She asked and I agreed. It was a choice. You are wonderful and powerful and precious and I chose to protect that.”
There was nothing to say to that. That he had chosen this was more terrible in her mind than being forced. The trust and faith that choosing her took was terrifying. She buried her face against his hand and closed her eyes. She would take care of them. If nothing else, she would make his choice worthwhile.
Φ
The 9th Day of Llume, 1252
Bren slumped against one of the reinforced banks, not caring that he was as damp as if he had swum in the river. He had relieved Arman an hour before, more out of force than need. The Vielronan man’s stamina and devotion bordered on eerie. Had it not been so useful, Bren would have been nervous. He pulled the amulet from under his tunic, staring.
“Ey! Barrackborn!” The shout drifted along the barricade. “Guard change on the edge of the Vale camp.”
Bren pressed the charm to his lips before rushing after the others. They took full advantage of the confusion of guard-change. Bren crouched at the foot of the ladder that led up and over the barriers. A volley flew overhead, allowing the Athrolani to surge over the embankment with less danger. Bren skidded down the rough wood and onto the partially submerged rocks and sandbags in this shallower stretch of river. He lifted his sword with a growl as they smashed into the Vale guards. The enemy camp responded, soldiers rushing to defend. Within minutes, bodies were underfoot and blood covered weapons and armor. The fighting pushed into the river, half the wounded drowning before injuries claimed their lives. Bren shoved a man down and thrust his blade into another when the call for retreat sounded. He stumbled back when a hand gripped his booted ankle in a vise grip.
“Lieutenant?”
He glanced down to see a pale face and bright red hair under the helm. “Doric?” Bren lifted the man’s shoulders from the water. He had hoped to never see the men he led under Azirik. Now one of his best lay at his feet. Bren could very well have put him there.
“You defected?”
“You would never believe the story.”
“You could have let us come with you.” Blood leaked from the young man’s mouth, smearing on his freckled cheek.
Bren ignored the shout for him to get behind the embankment. “You would have been killed, Doric.”
“I have been anyways.” He winced. “Get out of here. My men will come get me.” He shoved himself away from his former officer, dragging himself up on a rock.
Bren stumbled to safety, but he watched from behind the shield of the barricade, cursing his luck. Doric had followed Bren as if he was a hero. Though irritating, the earnest boy had a quick humor that grew on Bren.
He deserved better than this. Better than death by a treacherous officer he worshiped.
He could have told himself the boy’s wound was not from his sword, but it would be a lie. He felt sick, cowardly as he waited for the Miriken to retrieve their wounded and dead. It was stupid to wish he could have brought the boy back.
He would face torture here, be a prisoner if he lived at all. He deserves to die a battle death.