Authors: V. Holmes
He nodded, a satisfied look on his face. “Thank you, miss. I apologize for my brisk nature.” He turned to Arman. “And they came here?”
Arman nodded. “We found them sheltered in the manor's ruins. They tended some of the survivors, I think. We brought them here but they did not even stay the night. They told me to look for you. The woman who led them – Liane – gave me an image of you, a memory I think. That is how I knew you. I told them the best way out of the city. They went north, via the western gate. It is bad road, but few travel it.” He picked at the skin around his nails. “What color power does she have?”
The pale man looked out to the north. “I have never seen it, but it should be black.”
“She it, isn't she? She's the Dhoah' Laen.”
The man met Arman's gaze for a moment, but did not answer. “Thank you for your time, and your dedication. I will not forget it.” He paused in the doorway. He did not look at Alea, but his hand rested on her shoulder for a second. “I am very sorry for your losses. Know that they did not die in vain.”
Φ
Arman slumped onto a barrel with a sigh. Alea had gone to bed and the Laen's guard left shortly afterwards. Arman had not even thought to get his name.
He would have lied anyways.
The rest of the night had been busy, but the last round had left some minutes ago.
I don't know how Ma does this by herself so often.
As if called by his thought, Kepra breezed in.
She planted a tired kiss on his head and poured herself a mug of tea. “Thank you for taking over.” Her smile was wan. “It was a difficult delivery. All is fine now. They have a daughter.”
Arman frowned. Something tugged at his mind, but he could not place the memory. “I'm glad they're well.”
“You seem distracted, did anything happen tonight?” The lines on her brow deepened and she brushed curls away from his face.
“No.” He shook his head, still mulling over the night's events. “It was quiet.” He rose. “I'm feeling a bit ill, Ma, I'm going to bed. Everything is cleaned for tomorrow though.” He squeezed her hand absently and trudged up the stairs. Cold still flickered over his body. He had thought it would pass once he delivered the Laen's message. Candlelight shone from under Alea's door. He paused, frowning at the flickering glow and a memory thundered into his mind.
He peered through the crack in the door. His mother often told him off for spying, but curiosity had bested his will. His mother was cleaning the new baby, her eyes warm as she swaddled the child. “There, milady. You have a daughter.”
The woman on the bed was not Vielronan. Her black hair was streaked with sweat and her silver eyes luminous. She held her child as if the baby were her last tie to life. “Beautiful.”
“Milady, will you stay with us long?”
The mother closed her eyes tightly, as if in pain. “I must travel south.”
“You can shelter here, there is no need to run.”
“Do not pretend ignorance.” Her silver eyes flashed. “You know what I am. I cannot get far enough away from Mirik.” Her gaze softened as she smoothed the black tuft of hair on her daughter's head. “She will have the best chance without me.”
Arman leaned too far forward and stumbled. His mother whirled, brows snapping together. “Arman, sweetling, I told you to go to bed.”
Arman staggered against the wall, one hand over his mouth to muffle his short breaths. He told himself it was unlikely, that many dark-haired mothers came to his mother for help. It was denial and he knew it.
She was Laen. South could have been Sunam. Cehn. Lyne'alea does not remember the Laen's first visit because she was a baby.
He could only guess why she had been abandoned, why the Laen refused to acknowledge her. She did not feel the same as they had, and he wondered if she lacked power. Of one thing he was certain, however. Lyne'alea ir Suna was not human.
The 9th Day of Valemord, 1251
The City-state of Vielrona
ARMAN TUGGED HIS SHAGGY hair. He was prone to imaginative ideas, and a large part of him wondered if that is all this was. He leaned against his mother's doorframe, steeling himself.
“Just come in, Arman. I can hear you.”
He laughed softly and stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. Kepra sat at her vanity brushing her hair. Her thin shoulders were wrapped in a thick robe, but Arman could see how unkind the years had been. “I didn't mean to bother you.”
“What's on your mind, love?” She finished twisting her hair and sat on her coverlet.
He frowned. “I can't just want to say goodnight?”
“And do you want to be tucked into your blankets too? Arman you're not a boy.” She drew her legs up under herself. “What is it?”
“I need to ask you something, and I need you to understand that I have thought about it, even if it seems mad.” He perched himself at the foot of her bed. Something you said last night started me thinking. Do you remember one foreign woman you were midwife to? I was about four or five at the time. She came from the north and did not stay long.”
Kepra frowned. “I remember all the women I help.” She looked away, but he could see the glint of understanding in her brown eyes.
“Ma, please. I need to know where she went.”
“South, that is all she said. Arman what you are implying is incredibly dangerous. She seems like a normal woman to me.”
“South could be Cehn. Ma, her birthday was the 2oth.” He rested a hand on his mother's clenched fist. “I just wanted to know if it was possible.”
Kepra sighed and ran her knuckles gently down Arman's cheek. “It is more than possible. Her coloring, her features, they are familiar. More so now that her tan is fading.”
“But she's not one of them, so what is she?”
Kepra shook her head. “I don't know. Arman this conversation does not leave this room. Am I understood?”
He felt like a scolded boy again, and rose. “Yes, Ma.” He stopped. “She's strange and probably dangerous, but for whatever reason I can't give her up to fate.”
Kepra's face softened finally. “I would have raised you wrong if you could.” She flicked her fingers at him. “Now let me rest. Next time you come knocking late at night you best be asking to give my ring to Veredy.”
Arman knew he could not sleep. His thoughts were too strange, too violent. Instead he grabbed his cloak from the hook by the door. He flipped his hood up and strode off towards the tavern lane. Alcohol would help. A wave of warmth broke over him as he stepped into the Crook and Candle. He could already hear Kam's boasts from the corner of the dim alehouse. Arman flopped onto the bench beside Wes, his characteristic grin creeping onto his face. “Which story is it: the four trained assassins or the broken-hearted young widow.” Arman's voice was low.
“I think it's seven assassins now, but he's detailing the fight on Box Corner.” Wes ignored the sour look Kam shot at him. “How goes your strange noble woman?” The words were not unkind, but neither were they respectful.
“Still recovering. It's strange to have someone else in the inn. It's been just Ma and myself for so long.” He jerked his head at the bar. “I finished that hilt you asked for today – buy me a mug. I need a drink.” While Wes gestured for another round, Arman scanned the crowd. He disliked the tone of Wes' words, but he knew they were well founded. Alea was nothing like the city-folk here. Even picturing her at their ale-sticky table was laughable.
A woman slid onto the bench beside him and he felt guilt bloom in his chest at the familiar hazel eyes. “Master Wardyn, I do not believe we've met before,” Veredy joked.
He had barely seen her since the survivors arrived. He placed a hand over his heart with false dramatics. “It wounds, that you cannot remember my face.”
Despite the jesting, Veredy's expression was guarded. “You have been busy, I hear. How does the lady fare?”
“Well, I suppose. You should meet her.”
Veredy nodded, fingering the jeweled pin that held up her fine locks. “Perhaps you should bring her out one evening.”
Arman recognized the pin as one he had made for her and his guilt intensified. “Do you want to walk?” He offered her his hand suddenly. They ducked out under the cover of Kam's ruckus, and if Wes saw them go, he said nothing. Veredy tucked herself under Arman's arm with practiced familiarity. “I missed you.”
“And I you.” He squeezed her slightly. “How is business?”
“Good.” She steered them down a quieter street, walking towards the Rattles. “I prefer selling in the stalls, though. Do you think she will stay?”
Arman asked, even though he knew. “Who?”
“Your strange noble woman.”
“She's not mine,” he retorted. “And I have no idea. Ma enjoys her help.” He sighed. “I have not seen you, though I go out often enough. Were you avoiding me?”
Veredy nudged him with her elbow, but she smiled. “Maybe. I was uncertain how to deal with your new lady guest.”
Arman snorted. “You have never been uncertain in your life.” He kissed the top of her head. “Anyways, I do not think anyone knows how to deal with her. The Sunamen are odd.”
“Would you like some tea?”
Arman realized they stood before the door leading up to her room. “Tea would be perfect.” He followed her to the small space she called home. Like many, it sat above the store she worked. He had spent many evenings there and it was as familiar as his own home. He peered out the window, taking a deep sip of the liquor-laced tea Veredy poured. “You have lived here a long time, now.”
“Several years.” She leaned against the tabletop. “When will you find your own place?”
“When I have a woman to share it with.” He smiled at her and sat at the table. “Do you think you will take over the shop?”
Veredy made a face. “I hope I can have my own. Mistress Hughen drives me mad. I can only imagine what it would take to buy the place from her.”
Arman took her hand, rubbing his rough thumb over her work-worn fingers thoughtfully. “A lot has changed since we were young, you know.”
She laughed. “We still are young by most counts. You still dance around subjects like a prairie hen.” She leaned over and kissed him.
He smiled against her mouth. “You are not mad that I didn't see you?”
She moved to sit on the edge of her bed. “You're here, aren't you?”
Their tension lasted only until he toed off his boots and dropped his belt with a metallic thump. He crawled under the coverlet with her, smiling as she tugged off his shirt. She laughed softly, but Arman swore he saw sadness in her eyes as she pulled him against her.
Φ
The 10th of Valemord, 1251
The kitchen was quiet without Arman's usual morning boisterous monologue. Alea peered into the kitchen curiously. “Where's Arman?”
Kepra shrugged as she measured out cornmeal. “He went out late and did not come home.”
Alea tied on her apron, alarmed. “Is he well?”
Kepra laughed. “Neither Wes nor Kam blazed in here in the small hours of the morning. They always have when Arman finds trouble. I trust he's safe.” She gestured at a package sitting on the bar top. “He sent that over this morning for you.”
Alea brushed her hands off and unfolded the bundle of cloth. The wool cloak was thick, the dark green newly lined with matching linen. Tucked under the new, wrought silver clasp was a note.
I know you are used to the desert and it is getting colder. I had my best one cut down for you and I made the clasp myself. I am sorry for keeping you out in the cold the other night. I have something to ask you over lunch today.
-A
His abrupt writing echoed his frank speech, and she smiled. After hanging the cloak carefully by the door she set about the morning's tasks. She was so absorbed in her work that Arman's arrival at noon startled her.
She flashed him a bright smile. “Thank you for the cloak.”
He smiled back, but she could see the circles under his eyes. “I'm glad you like it.” He dug around in the pantry. “Ma? Where do you keep your ginger tea?”
Kepra breezed in from the kitchen with a frown. “Arman you ought to bring some with you if you're going to continue to drink to excess.” She handed him the packet of herbs.
“I'm not hung-over, I just got very little sleep.” He poured himself a mug and slid onto one of the bar stools. “How has your morning been, milady?”
Alea perched next to him. “Good. I think I am settling in more.” She fixed him with a curious stare. “You said you wanted to ask me something?”
Arman frowned, then his expression brightened. “Ah, yes. You have seen violence, and though you are safe here, I thought I could help you feel safer.”
“What do you mean?”
“Have you thought about learning to protect yourself? Archery, hand-blocks and the like?”
Alea stared.
It is wrong to bear weapons.
“It is wrong to use weapons. If I carried a weapon it would be seen as a challenge and I would be attacked. My ihal
taught us that. None of his family ever learned combat.”
“What?” Arman looked incredulous. He drew a breath. “Milady, with all respect, they did not carry weapons and Cehn was still attacked. Perhaps if they had they would be here now.”
Alea's chin was set in a stubborn line. She picked at a splinter on the bar top. “It is childish, but I'm disappointed. I think part of me thought the hero would rush in and save the innocents. If I cannot hold onto that hope, what is left?
“You're thinking of the wrong part of the story. In the beginning the innocents are not saved, the hero is not the hero. He is a child, ignorant of the world. He loses something dear to him and that sets grief into his heart. The fruit of that grief is borne in the mind. Depending on the story, that fruit is vengeance or justice or hardened resolve.”
“What do you mean?”
“This story has just shattered you. You must wait for the pieces to be gathered and the flames kindled before you are reforged.”
“Reforged into what?” Curiosity warred with culture and made her heart race.
Arman just smiled. “There are training halls in the Lows where many of us practice defense and weapons when we may. You could meet me at our stall tomorrow afternoon.”
“I suppose I just think it is better to use our minds and our words to fight, not our hands.”
“And you’re right in that, but it takes a long time to train our minds to fight that way. Learn to protect yourself with your hands until you can fight with only words.”
“I will learn. I’ll let you teach me,” her words were little more than a whisper, “but I do not think any weapon could have saved them.”
Φ
The 12th Day of Lumord, 1251
Alea followed the glint of polished steel through the market. She recognized Wes sitting in the rear of the stall, watching Arman with amusement. He tossed three daggers in the air, juggling them in a silver blur. After a few turns he laid them aside with a flushed grin. His eyes caught Alea's and he raised a hand in greeting. “I am glad you did not change your mind.”
“Were you expecting me to?”
He grinned at her barb and nodded in the direction of the Lows. “Shall we?”
Alea was grateful the speed necessary to keep up with his strides warmed her muscles. The barns that served as training halls lay behind the market, bordered by the stone walled fields to the north and east. She followed him through the door nervously.
The floor was covered in sawdust and a shed in the back held worn weapons. A row of targets hung on one wall, a line of straw dummies stood at the other. Arman beckoned her over to a small bench where a bow and wrist guard sat. “I thought we could start with the bow. You need not be close to do damage.” He showed her how to fasten the wrist guard. “When the string snaps back it can catch your skin, so you ought to wear this. I will go slowly.” He handed her the bow and sat beside her to explain how to string the weapon. “Loop it over in a fluid motion.”
Her smile was broad when, after several attempts, she succeeded. The motion was awkward and far from fluid, but it was a start.
“Now again.” Arman instructed her several more times before finally pointing to a target. “Are you ready?”
Alea's heart pounded in her throat. She took a steadying breath and rose. Arman stood next to her, another bow at his belt. “Which is your strong hand?” When she held up her right, he gestured to her legs. “Stand with your left leg forward, right back. They should be the same distance as your shoulders. Toes farther forward.”
She felt foolish. “Arman, my body is not made for this.” Her face flushed at his amused look.
“Having a slight build is better for archery.” He paused, his gaze suddenly concerned. “Do you wish to stop?”
Alea looked at her hand. The wood was warm in her palm.
The world you adhere to is gone,
she reminded herself,
This is your new one.
She resumed her stance, turning her head to face the target.
“Good. Hold the bow in your left hand – it is more precise and your right has the strength to draw the string.”