Smoke and Rain

by V. Holmes

  Turning she saw a new account. Between Desert and Mountain was a dry retelling of Vielrona's political sparring with Athrolan to the north and Sunam, to the south. She was about to close it when one of the illustrations made her pause. It was the Minister of Vielrona meeting with the ihal of Cehn. She traced the artist's rendering of her foster father's face. His eyes were calmer than that, and his hair was always bound back under his jahi. She almost smiled, though, at the familiar face.

  She shut the cover gently. She never appreciated history, preferring modern poetry and music. She chose a few volumes of nature-centered verses before retiring to the chair. There were several pieces she enjoyed, but by the time Arman arrived at midday, she was ready to return to the inn.

  Φ

  The 46th Day of Lumord, 1251

  Alea was absorbed in a book on Vielronan plants when the door opened abruptly. After close to a week visiting the library, Alea was familiar with the collection. It was close to supper and she expected Arman. Instead a tall, unfamiliar man blocked the door.

  He paused when he saw her, then doffed his cloak. “Forgive me, miss. I did not know this space was being used.” He stepped closer, allowing the torch at the door to illuminate him. Like most Vielronans he had pale hair and gold skin. His long locks were loose and threaded with gray. The lines of a life filled with sorrow and joy were etched around his broad mouth and fierce eyes.

  “I was just passing time,” Alea answered. “You are welcome to your business.” She turned back to her book, only to be interrupted again.

  “I know everyone in this city, by face if not by name.” His broad hands rested on the back of the chair opposite hers. “I do not think I am familiar with either of yours.”

  Alea closed her book carefully and straightened. “I am Lyne'alea ir Suna. I am staying with the Wardyn family.”

  The man regarded her searchingly before nodding. “When I said I was not familiar with your name or face, I did not mean I did not know them. I know where you came from and how you arrived. I'm glad you have found our city hospitable. Perhaps soon we can have a better conversation.” He lifted a roll of maps from a shelf flanking the hearth, and with a smile, headed back towards the door.

  “May I ask your name, sir?” Alea stopped him as he was fastening his cloak.

  He bowed his head. “I am Gluan Herdingman. Have a good night, miss.”

  Φ

  Alea barely listened to Arman's excited recounting of his day while they headed back to the inn. She glanced up, startled, when he asked what troubled her. “I'm just distracted. I met someone in the library today – Gluan Herdingman. He said he wanted to speak with me.”

  Arman's laugh was closer to a snort. “Milady, that was our Minister. His curiosity got the best of him, I think. He is a good man, if abrupt.”

  Alea paused on the bridge. The bells behind them drowned out most of the noise. It was as if the world had paused for breath. Her profile was lit by the sun setting in the south as she raised her face to the fresh wind gusting down the mountains. She leaned over the side of the bridge, peering at the dark water. The banks had been reinforced with thick blocks of dark gray stone. Small, scraggly shrubs had found hold between some of the older blocks and grew precariously over the river. “This is beautiful.”

  She must not see the sewage from the Upper culverts. He smiled. “You said the desert had no rivers?”

  “I read about Sunam's capital. Flood waters from the other side of these mountains meet the sea there.” Her eyes traced the path along the river and she glanced over. “What lies up there?”

  Gooseflesh rippled up Arman's arms at her words. “The ruins of the city Vielrona was built to guard.”

  “The Laen city?”

  He nodded. “Very few ever visit it. It feels like a grave.”

  She gathered her skirts and headed down the road. “Arman, you know the biggest difference between home and Vielrona?”

  “The sand?”

  She laughed. “Besides that. It's the layers.”

  “Layers?” He shoved his hands in the pockets of his cloak.

  “In Cehn, everything was layered. We wore layers of fabric, our doors and windows were layers of wooden lattice and drapes. Our hair was done up in curtains of braids and charms under our jahi. Even the sandstone of our buildings had layers of gold and red and brown. In Vielrona you have more colors, perhaps – green and blue – but it is simple. It is a different kind of beauty.” Her hands animated the descriptions.

  Arman wondered if she knew how well her words described the difference between the Vielronan people and her own. They stepped through the gate to the Cockerel when a sharp voice came from the doorway.

  Arman raised his hand in greeting. “Farrow, I've not seen you since last winter. How has the clerk's life treated you?”

  “Well, so far.” The man was older than Arman by a few years, his hair closely cropped. His cream tunic bore the city's insignia on the right breast. He was well groomed, but scars peppering his hands and a long mark over his left brow designated him a former common lad. “When the Minister had me draw this up, I offered to run yours myself.”

  “Glad I could see you.” Arman turned and motioned Alea forward. “This is Lyne'alea ir Suna. Milady, this is Maren Farrow, an old friend.”

  Farrow nodded to her, his gaze reserved as he handed her a folded letter. “This is for you, miss.” He glanced at Arman. “Might I speak with you?” Arman stepped aside to allow Alea past. When the door shut behind her Farrow looked down. “Watch yourself.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The world is not the same and you are only making it worse.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “First the Laen in your inn, now you're keeping her about? Her family sheltered them, Arman. There's already talk.” He rested a hand on Arman's shoulder. “Think of Veredy, if nothing else.”

  Arman shook the hand off. “It was good to see you.” He watched Farrow retreat up the street before stepping into the inn. Alea perched on a stool, the letter open before her.

  “I'm sorry about that.” Arman jerked his head at the parchment. “What is it?”

  “A summons to appear before the Guild with the other survivors tomorrow morning.”

  “May I?”

  Her hands shook as she handed him the letter. The words were carefully neutral and made no mention of any rumors, but it still made Arman's skin crawl with unease.

  Later, Arman dug through the chest at the foot of his bed. His family was not wealthy, but his father had often read to him from one of the few books they owned. It was Arman's favorite as a child, and he suspected they were his father's favorites too. At the bottom of the chest was a slim book wrapped in several layers of cloth and stuffed in a pair of boots he had long outgrown. He unwrapped it carefully, callused fingers catching on the soft material of the cover. It was beautiful. The plain brown was detailed in gold and green. A small portrait was inlaid in the cover underneath a thin sheet of clear mica. The man in the picture glowered at Arman with eerie yellow-green eyes.

  Arman thumbed through the pages as quickly as he could without damaging the delicate parchment. “Page 18,” he reminded himself. Finding the page he sat on the bed and reread the words. He almost had it memorized once.

  “Laen are powerful, creators of gods, made of sea and storm, ice and lightning. Beside them stands another race, as mighty as the Laen are calm. Guards made of fire and earth, filled with the rage of earthquakes. They are the Rakos. The Laen marked their hearts and claimed their souls.”

  Under the passage was a note by the scribe. It mentioned that the Rakos were all but extinct. Wholehearted defense of their Laen came with a cost. Most died in battle. Others disappeared into the wilderness. Some bred with humans, but their children were unremarkable. As the Laen dwindled so did their protectors.

  Arman turned back to the image on the cover. The man could pass for human if one did not look closely. It was something in the set of
his mouth, the depth of his eyes that gave his monstrous nature away. Arman could see how many thought Vielronan people might have more than a bit of the Rakos in their ancestry – the gold hair and ruddy skin echoed the deeper tones of the portrait. Ancestry or not, your blood is all but useless. He shook his head. You can't even inspire faith, and when the Laen need you most, you're gone.

  Φ

  The 47th Day of Lumord, 1251

  A quiet knock made Alea jump, the end of her braid swinging under her black scarf. She was used to her simple routine and the sudden turn of events frustrated her. She was concerned about the hearing, certainly, but only in the most abstract sense. It would be inconvenient to find a new place to live. She knew little about travel and what she did know she had never practiced. Besides, the news—and superstition—of the attack would precede her. Rumors flew faster than a horse could run.

  She found her way to the Guild complex without mishap, thankful that Arman had shown her the library. The double gates to the largest building in the Guild complex were open and a guard stood by the door. The interior was dark and cool with a hall reaching off from both sides of the foyer. Several servants milled about, but Alea noted only small differences between the classes.

  A man poked his head through a door directly opposite. “Are you here for the hearing?”

  Distant dread landed heavily in Alea's stomach at the word. “I am.” Fourteen others waited in the small room. Alea scanned the faces. The familiar deep tan of Cehn people was a warm breeze to her weathered spirit, but none of their faces were those of her family. They greeted her with nervous smiles to match her own, however, and she was reassured. Seeing their own borrowed clothes, Alea was glad Kepra lent her a clean dress. Though farther north corsets were in style, Vielronan women wore broad canvas or leather belts instead. The one that Alea wore was cream stitched with gray. She suddenly missed the comforting weight of her cloak.

  Many minutes later the man returned, holding open a different door for them. Alea's brows rose as they entered. Everything spoke to the city's rough strength. She had expected riches and finery, a hall where she could barely see the Minister. Instead it was a narrow stone room. It was beautiful in the way the mountains were beautiful due to their might and ferocity. The warm gray walls were unadorned, save for a single banner at the rear of the room. Smokey waxen torches burned against the stone. Beneath it a long table stood along the wall. The dozen men who sat awaiting them were the strangest mix Alea had yet seen. Half were the tanned-and-blonde combination she had learned was typical of old Vielronan families. The others were a mix of people from each nation Alea had ever read about. Vielrona really is a trade city. She noted that two of the headmen were actually women and smiled. Her foster-father had understood a woman's wisdom was vital to governing, but not every city agreed.

  “Order.” The man that spoke sat at the center of the table. Other than the small medallion around his neck, he was unremarkable. He leaned forward and fixed the survivors with a pointed stare. “I am Minister Gluan Herdingman of Vielrona.” His tawny eyes were like those of a hawk. “I formally offer you asylum in our city, but I would like to hear what each of you will gift us with in return. What skills do you bring to Vielrona?”

  A man she recognized as a gardener stepped forward. “I tended the ihal's plants in his personal garden. The plants here are different, but I would gladly work in the fields or in the Guild's personal garden. I studied with Burhen the Green, a great botanist of my people, and could bring much to your farms and fields.”

  Many of the headmen scratched notes as he spoke, but Glaun's gaze did not waver from the speaker. When the man was done, the Minister gestured to the city folk who were gathered to watch. “And do any Vielronan speak for this man?”

  After a moment an older woman stepped forward. “Minister, sir, my husband was crippled two months ago during planting, and with only two boys to help us, harvest has been difficult. We would provide room and board to this man if he helped us in our fields. It is not work as glorious as gardening, but it would be a start and we sorely need the help.”

  As one of the last to fully recover, Alea was towards the rear of the line and watched eight people find a place in their new home. The proceedings impressed her. Some of the survivors had little to offer, or did not have anyone speak for them, but the Minister found a place for each, even if it was only as a messenger or laborer.

  “And you, miss?” Alea stepped forward, clasping her hands before her to hide their trembling. “Minister Herdingman, sir, I am Lyne'alea ir Suna. Firstly I wish to thank you for your kindness towards us. I am literate, and worked as a governess to the children in the ihal's household since I was fourteen.”

  Her next words were halted by the Minister's hand. “Miss, I will hear you skills, but I need other information first. Am I right that you were among the ihal's household during the attack?”

  “Yes, sir. I am foster daughter to ihal Ahme'reahn ira Suna.”

  “How did you survive when the city fell?”

  Alea's body grew cold. This is not how the conversations with the others had gone. She could hear whispers from the watching crowd. “I remember very little of the attack. I fled towards the outskirts of the gardens. Perhaps the Miriken had already swept through that area. There were certainly enough bodies.”

  “There are concerning rumors – I assume you have heard them – about the reasons behind the attack. Was the ihal sheltering more than the Laen?”

  "Forgive me, I don't understand your meaning. He hosted six Laen. That is all. He said they had come to him before, but I was too young to remember their first visit.” She wondered what she would have said had there been more to tell. Perhaps she would have lied.

  Gluan finally sat back. “Very well. Thank you for your candid answers. Do tell us of your skills.”

  “I can do maid's work as well, and know a bit about cooking, though perhaps only enough for scullery work.” She was confidant that Gluan would find a place for her, though she did not look forward to meeting another family.

  “Do any speak for this woman?”

  “I do. My mother owns the Ruby Cockerel.” Arman did not look her way, but his hand behind his back fluttered a greeting at her. “She often needs help, though she does what she can. Miss ir Suna has stayed with us throughout her recovery and has helped much in the past two weeks. I ask that she stays on to help my mother. We would offer her room and board in exchange for her work.”

  “And you are willing to take responsibility for her in Vielrona until she finds her own way?”

  “I am. Vielrona is her home now, and I gladly welcome her.”

  Φ

  Alea's steps on the inn's stairs were light. She stopped, horrified, however, when she opened the door to her room. The bed was stripped and all the effects she had come to consider her own, even if they were borrowed, were gone.

  Kepra emerged from a room by the base of the third-floor's stairs. “Miss, I've moved your things. If you're to be living and working here, you deserve your own space.” Her expression softened at the concern in Alea's eyes. “Arman spoke to me last night after you went to sleep. He wanted it to be a surprise. I know it isn't much, perhaps, compared to what you are used to, but this can be home for as long as you need.”

  Alea could not trust her voice, but crossed the hall with hurried strides to embrace the older woman. It occurred to her, as Kepra held her gently, that she had not touched another person in weeks. She pulled away before her composure truly broke, and gave Kepra a smile.

  “You could never know how much this means.” The usual simmer of bitterness dimmed with momentary excitement. She was grateful, surely, but behind her icy walls there was only exhausted relief.

  Kepra's eyes crinkled with a smile very much like Arman's “I'm glad you're happy. There's a purse on your nightstand with your wages for your work. I'll pay you each week.” She made a shooing motion. “Go explore your room, but be in the kitchen before third bell –
I'll need your help tonight.”

  Alea was rolling dough for dumplings again when Arman peered through the kitchen door. “Did you see your room?”

  “I did, luckily, or else you would have spoiled the surprise.” She met his eyes. “Thank you. For the room and for today at the hearing.” She turned back to the dough with a frown. “I feel as if far more was said, however, than the words we spoke.”

  Arman sighed and slumped onto a stool. “You must understand we have survived this long by being direct, shrewd, and firm. He was not antagonizing you, simply wanting the truth.”

  Alea pursed her lips. “I don't understand why he is fixated on rumors. Surely a few Laen cannot make a large difference.”

  Arman stared at her, as if at a loss for words. “You are what, seventeen?”

  She drew herself up. “I turned nineteen on the 20th of Lumord.” A frown flickered across her features. “I was unconscious at the time, I suppose.”

  Arman bowed his head, just kindly enough that it did not seem mocking. Nevertheless a grin tugged at his mouth. “Forgive me, milady.” He sobered quickly. “What do you know of the war?”

  Alea looked down. “I learned a little about the Laen. Mostly it was history. I heard my ihal speaking enough to know there was active war beyond our borders and I knew the Laen were hunted and that was part of it. I did not know how bad it had become.”

  “The Miriken have destroyed the Laen.” Arman's voice was very soft, as if he hoped by speaking quietly his words would be less true. “Those that still live are old and hiding. The youngest pose a threat simply because they could birth the Dhoah' Laen.”