Smoke and Rain (31 page)

When Doric was finally hauled out of the water, his brown eyes were empty and Bren turned away. He knew how soldiers were buried during war, with their brothers-in-arms. There would be a short ceremony, maybe a call for silence, or a salute.

At the campfire, Bren avoided Alea’s questioning look. His personal pack rested at the head of his bedroll and he drew it over. Tucked in the front pouch was a battered and tarnished brass disk along with a small jar. He laid the disk on his bedroll and poured a dollop of the dark, oily contents of the jar onto the brass. He made a small slice on his forearm; as blood dripped into the oil, Bren began to whisper.

“From the earth of your land, from the oil of your temples, from my blood, I beg you to listen, Toar. I may not be a gods’ man any longer, but I do not pray for myself.” His words were soft, but he did not hear the divider between their beds rise and fall. “One of your soldiers passed today. Many did. This man, Wellir Doric, was young. He was a good man and tried to live a blessed life, as well as he was able. He does not deserve to roam without purpose, with only memories to haunt. Let him find peace in your halls.” He pressed his fist to his brow, then wiped the liquid from the disk with a cheap cloth before burning the fabric in his lantern.“Do you pray for all of us?” Arman leaned against the tent pole, his face unreadable. His arms were crossed.

“There is no harm in asking for another to be put to rest.”

“When you pray to those who wish your sister dead, I think there might. And you did not answer me.” Arman’s voice was low, but not angry.

“I do not pray like this every night. I pray in my head. I ask for peace when our allies pass and touch the symbol around my neck. You have seen me do this.”

“You just invoked the god of death. I think this is a bit different.”

“Arman, today I killed someone I used to lead. A boy.”

The fight left the Rakos’ body. “I find it difficult to imagine how you can support milady and still pray to the gods. But I understand your need for solace.”

Bren looked down. “It’s a habit. They have never answered me. You never prayed?”

Arman shrugged. “Not truly. Vielrona had all sorts, but we’ve always been a Laen city. My mother would often appeal to the fates, or our ancestors, but it was usually to make me mind.”

“Now what do you worship?” Bren found it hard to imagine a life without faith.

Arman’s mouth quirked, “I would think it would be obvious.” He jerked his head at the tent flap. “Alea is making supper. Join us.”

The 23rd Day of Llume, 1252

The Athrolani Camp at Fort Shadow

A SOLDIER THUMPED DOWN onto the stool beside Alea with a sigh. “You’re the last person I expected to find here.”

She glanced over and smiled. “Narier.” She gestured to the dirty bottles behind the counter. “Might I buy you something?”

“Allow the Dhoah’ Laen to buy my drinks? There must be a law about that.”

“If there is such a law, I could probably change it. And I only offered the one.”

He snorted. “Blood-ale then, if you wish.”

She ordered two then made a face. “Blood-ale? I’m trusting you, but it sounds atrocious. Please tell me it's from the color.”

“Probably. We use juice now, I think. It comes from the Northlands, though, so all bets are off about what made it red originally.” He was a simple looking man, with fine features dotted with pockmarks.

She eyed the deep red liquid curiously. “Does one sip this, or throw it down their throat?”

“I’m of the school that no alcohol should be ‘thrown.’ That’s a sin. If it tastes like Toar’s arsehole, then it's your duty to appreciate every horrid burn.”

Alea’s brows rose. “So if one were of the other schools, would they throw this?”

He laughed. “No, I don’t suppose so.” He clinked his glass against hers, “To your health.”

“And to yours.” The drink was served warm and burned like too-sweet honey as it slid down her throat. The nutty, bitter aftertaste rolled on her tongue. She smiled, eyes still narrowed. “I think I like your school better.”

“You didn’t drink much before this?”

“No. In Cehn we only used it for ceremonies, and it wasn’t strong or good enough for any casual purposes. I did try some Vielronan mead. And several nights ago I found myself tossing back something that smelled like a swamp. That neither began nor ended well.”

Narier shook his head. “More accomplished than I had expected, milady, I’ll be honest. I forget you weren’t raised… you know.” His eyes flicked back to her and warmed. They were the rich brown of worn wood. “Scum-runner. The green drink you had.”

She pretended to retch. “Fates, that’s one I don’t think I could ‘appreciate’ regardless.”

“Shall I buy you another? Blood-ale, that is.” His grin was wicked.

“I wouldn’t mind a hot cup of tea. Our camp ran out four days ago.”

“I doubt you’ll find any here, but we’ve got some at the officers’ mess.”

“Then might I walk you back? Or was your night just beginning?”

“Just beginning, but I had few plans.” He rose and handed her cloak over. “Besides, finding tea for the Dhoah’ Laen is a worthy task.”

The officers’ mess proved less grand than implied, but they had a heavy chest full of dry goods. He rummaged through it for several moments. “We’ve the traditional Athrolani bergamot, and some spicy thing that only Metters likes.” He held up a green tin triumphantly. “Ha! I can’t pronounce the name, which means it must be a fine blend.”

Alea laughed. “Athrolani is fine.” She watched him put the kettle on the fire and ready two mugs. “Where are you from?”

“Ceir Felden originally. My parents own a little sheepfold there. I was never one for the flocks, though. Luckily they had four boys before me, so my joining the army wasn’t much of a loss. It’s beautiful in a gray way. Much of the coast is. I don’t think I’d mind settling there, though. Maybe when I’m too bent to walk straight.” The kettle squealed and he shook his head ruefully. “Look at me, prattling on like a hen.” He poured her mug and handed it over. “We ran out of honey a week ago, I’m afraid.”

“I prefer it this way.” She smiled, “It should be appreciated, even when bitter.” She stared into the tea thoughtfully. She missed conversation.

“Are you still with me?”

She nodded. “I was thinking how much I’ve missed talking to people. Arman and Bren worry about me too much to let their guard down.”

“I’m far from tired. Would you like to talk?” Narier grimaced, “I suppose your guard will be worried for you.”

“Arman’s got shift and Bren is wrapped around Reka.” Though the words sounded harsh she was not sure why. “I’d be happy to talk.”

He smiled and raised his tent flap. “I promise to not mention sheep for the rest of the night.”

She stepped in, peering curiously around. It was roughly the size of hers, but he was well used to the space and knew how to use every corner efficiently. A stack of missives lay forgotten in a pile on his desk. They were wilted from the rain and some had begun to grow mold.

“So was Cehn very different?”

“In many ways. It is odd how it’s not the obvious things, but the little things. How one combs one’s hair or expresses love. Those are the things I miss the most. It’s lonely, despite—or perhaps because of—what I am.”

“You don’t seem like the Dhoah’ Laen right now. You seem like just a woman.”

Alea’s chest ached at his words. She was suddenly human again, allowed to be afraid and happy and drunk. She glanced at his camp cot and at the tent flaps to the empty officer’s mess. “Would you mind if I stayed the night?”

His eyes widened, following the path hers had taken. “With me, you mean? Here?”

She looked away.
This was a bad idea!
“I’d like to be ‘just a woman’ for a little while longer.”

His expression softened and he set down his tea. “Of course you can stay.” He stepped closer and reached out to brush her face. His touch was careful, but not fearful. He moved past her to roll down the thick tent liner over the inside of his door. When he returned, he was smiling, “May I call you Alea?”

She smiled back, “I’d like that.” She doffed her cloak and hung it beside his before turning back. He was unlacing his jerkin. She rested a hand on his. “Could I?” Her fingers hummed as she untied the leather. When she was done, her hands followed his movements as he unbuttoned the back of her dress. His hand was cool against her bare shoulder and she jumped.

He paused. “Is this all right?”

“Yes, just cold. I’m not used to this. But I like it.” Her words were a jumble, so she glanced back with a smile.

Realization dawned on his face, “Oh, Alea, I didn’t know.” He continued unfastening the buttons with new focus. “We’ll take our time then.”

It was not exactly as she had expected. The tent was cold and the air damp, but they burrowed under his blankets. She had expected the pain, but not the smiles and certainly not sharing laughs. Afterward, she lay on her side, blanket pulled over their heads for warmth. “This is much better than drowning my thoughts in drinks.”

He laughed. “I would agree.” He cocked his head at her, “Though I could argue the drinks brought us here.” His tawny skin was peppered with dark hair.

She gestured to her own pale skin. “Do I look like the Dhoah’ Laen now?”

He pretended to examine her critically. “I’ve never seen one naked.”

She flicked him. “Silly, you still never have.”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve seen me unclothed, but naked is different. Few people are ever seen naked.”

“Ah, you mean the soul-bared honesty part.”

She nodded. “In Cehn one was never seen naked by anyone, save for their spouse. I always thought they meant the clothes. Now, I think it was more likely the emotions. It was rare anyone was seen without masks in place.”

“Do you think anyone will see you naked?”

She shrugged. “I hope that is in my distant future.”

“Well,” he pulled her closer, “In the meantime, I’m happy to see you unclothed.”

Φ

The 25th day of Llume, 1252

Arman groaned and changed course as an alert went up. He wanted to speak to Alea, but she would be busy tending the wounded from the new attack. Horns sounded again and Arman slid to a halt.
Those aren’t attack alarms.
He turned down a narrow alley between the mess tents and headed towards the center of camp. A throng gathered by Indred’s tent. Bren already stood among the officers, holding a serious conversation with Narier. Alea appeared moments later, still wearing her blood-drenched apron. She flashed him a smile and craned over others’ shoulders to see.

“What is it?”

He shrugged, “I only just realized it wasn’t signaling an attack.”

The crowd parted for the approaching riders. The clean Athrolani uniforms of the new soldiers looked almost foreign next to the weathered tabards of the camp’s soldiers. General Aneral took in the mess of tents and mud. She raised a hand in greeting and drew her horse up. Though her mouth softened in a brief smile at the relief in the tired soldier’s eyes, her gaze was hard. Her lips thinned when her boots splashed into the muck.

Indred shouldered his way through the crowd and saluted her quickly, “General, you are a welcome sight.”

“What the fates happened here?” She tugged her gloves and helm off. “The last missive you sent was written two weeks ago. I arrive only to find starvation and blood. I ordered you to lay siege on the Berrin, not yourselves!”

“The siege—if you can really call it such—has done as much harm as good. The Berrin are weak, but their resolve is not.”

Eras waved his words away. “Call a council, save the reports for then.” She shot her squire several orders before striding over to where her tent was being erected. Moments later the call for officers went out, though most still milled about the circle around the general’s troop.

As the council tent filled, Eras edged around the table to where Alea sat. She grasped Arman and Bren’s arms in greeting and bowed her head to Alea. “I’m glad to see you whole.” Her eyes lingered on the shadows under the young woman’s eyes and the hollows of her cheeks. “You have been learning the details of war, it seems.”

“I have.”

Indred slumped into his chair with a weary sigh. At Eras's gesture he leaned forward, “We estimate their numbers are 1700 or so, but ours are over a hundred less than that. They have yet to take the advantage, which makes my skin crawl. It’s like waiting for a man to bleed out. We’ve tried to mobilize but they counter before any ground is gained.”

“What of the scouting missions in the forest.”

Indred pointed to the map, “The Berrin erected ditches and walls, makeshift, but manned and armed. The rear door is repaired. They have three lines of men camped back there, with guards and such, as much as a hundred paces into the tree line. We have been unable to discover much else about their camp—visibility is horrid in this weather and the river has risen enough that crossing is almost impossible.”

“Where is Kerin? He should have no problem scouting.”

“Dead, ma’am.”

She sighed. “Send another scouting party before dawn, river be damned. If the Bordermen agree, I’d like them to go.” She rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Five minutes here and I’m frustrated. I admire that you’ve lasted weeks. This would be so much easier if we could just torch them.”

“Why can’t we?”

Her copper eyes flicked to Bren. “In this rain the oil just washes away, and we’d need a fortune of it to burn anything so wet. Otherwise they’d all be burnt in their boots. This damned campaign already threatened to drain the military coffers.”

Arman leaned forward, a thought making furrows in his brow. “What about potash?”

“You want to grow a garden to feed ourselves?” Vinden’s comment drew chuckles. Even poor jokes were appreciated after the bleak weeks.

Arman ignored him. “Hass Orean’s barn exploded after being struck by lightning.”

“A barn exploding? That’s the most you can give us?” Indred sighed and turned to Eras.

Narier cut off whatever comment the gallant planned. “He’s right, sir. Barns get struck all the time, but the most they do is burn usually. When Potash gets wet it turns to stone, so we have to keep it dry, usually with metal bins. My Da used my old armor usually.”

Eras's brows rose, “Lieutenant, you realize armor is the property of the kingdom.”

“Not the point, ma’am. The only barns that exploded were those with potash in them. Not sure why, but every few years it would happen. If the stuff wasn’t so good for growing, we’d have done away with it years ago.”

Arman nodded his thanks at the man. “We’ve been burning grasses and trees for weeks now. Raid every campfire here and we’ll get enough.”

“And how do you propose we cover the Berrin camp in ashes without being seen? Last I knew, none here can fly.”

Bren grinned. “General ma’am, permission to go visit my old comrades?”

Φ

The 26th Day of Llume, 1252

Wood smoke and fates knew what else tangled Alea's hair. She raked her fingers through it, exasperated. "I swear if we're here for much longer I'll cut this mess right off!"

Narier glanced over with a smile. He was perched on his camp chair, scanning recent missives. "I like it down. I mean, your braid is nice too, but with it down you look more...."