by V. Holmes
“Dhoah?” Alea's heart pounded. Is that what Gluan meant when he asked if there was something more that ihal hid?
“She is the one that can bind the world again. I am not sure what the title means, exactly.”
“I was raised to pray to the gods, but we were not a devout family. I made offerings as frequently as any – mostly to Ikate, a goddess of the desert. I could never think of the gods as evil, hunting down their creators.”
Arman shook his head. “Many histories discuss the Division of the world. I am sure you could find a few in our library. It might do you well to understand how we see things here.” He stood abruptly and left without another word.
Between Gluan's pointed questions and Arman nearly laughing at her naiveté, she was drained and irritable. Speaking of her faith, when Arman's and most of the Vielronan's clearly differed, made it worse. At home, when the heat soured her mood, she would lie on the cool stone slabs by the baths with Merahn. Here she was always cold, had more time than ever, and yet still felt anxious. Her hand clenched around the dough as waves of homesickness crashed through her.
Φ
The 8th Day of Valemord, 1251
The City-state of Vielrona
As the next days passed, the surrounding forest turned from gold to orange and crimson. Their flames dotted the hills with brilliance and lent warmth to the cold air. Alea found much in the historical accounts in the Guild's library, and after Arman's pointed remark, made herself familiar with them. There was nothing of current tensions, in the books, however. An older tome told of the Laen's nature and the history of the Division. This one she returned to each day. Finally, one afternoon she found a passage towards the back.
Before the world was divided the gods walked the earth as men do now. Their rulers were the Laen and their guards the Rakos. The fiery Rakos governed change and the gods lived under the teaching of whatever element each represented. The Laen were different. They kept the balance of life and death, peace and war, chaos and order.
The gods were inquisitive and wanted more than what they had been given. They captured Lynel, the Laen's leader. They convinced her that even the Laen's rule had to pass, forcing her to split the world. With the world divided they did not have to live under the rule of either the Laen or the Rakos. Weakened by the rebellion's effect on the world's balance, the Laen could not fight the onslaught.
Alea stopped there. She had heard the tale a dozen times. It varied with each telling, as all legends did, but she had never heard a telling so sympathetic to the Laen. What side is even right? She stared out the window. The balance of nature is important, but could we have lived this long if it was damaged that badly? She flipped forward a few pages, ignoring the violence of the war that followed the Division. The war that has begun anew. Finally she found a passage, written towards the end.
Now, when the Division is centuries past, tales tell of another Laen. She will be more powerful than all before her, for she will be the embodiment of Creation and Destruction. She will be called the Dhoah' Laen for her dualistic nature. She will restore the world. Her power will cause wonder and sorrow, her touch will give relief and pain. Her love will bring life, but also death.
The words chilled Alea's bones. She had known the Laen to be austere, but even in a gods-supporting city, she had not been taught the ferocity detailed on the pages before her. The image was haunting. That is what the Miriken were hunting when they attacked Cehn. They wanted her. She shook the idea from her head and shut the book with a snap. She was already late to help in the kitchen, and her thoughts were too dark for her taste.
Φ
Arman enjoyed working in the kitchen occasionally. The heat and clatter reminded him of the forge and he could sneak tastes of everything without his mother's reprimands. Tonight was different. When Alea arrived that evening he was toiling at the stove alone.
“Do you need help? Where is your mother?” She tied on an apron as she move to check the bread baking on the hearth.
“Please, if you're not busy. She went to help Mistress Connolin deliver her second child. You remember her – she had the brown cow that ate from your hand.” Arman glanced over. “Pass me the pot over there?”
Alea handed it to him. “Your mother is a midwife as well as a healer?”
“It was her profession before my father died. Healing was just part of it.” He piled plates onto a tray. “I'm going to bring these out, check that soup will you?”
Arman edged his way through the tables, balancing two trays of stew and ale. “Here, Guntar, but this is your last. I'm not carrying you home again.” He scowled at the heavyset farmer. “Your sick ruined my better breeches last time.” He gathered the empty mugs from their table and turned back to the bar. Most of the patrons chose the same tables, only a rare few sitting at the bar itself. It was usually home to the traders passing through. With winter so close the Cockerel rarely had such visitors.
That was not what made Arman stare at the strange man seated at the end of the counter. His fur-lined cloak was tugged up, despite the warmth of the room and he wore a silk wrap around his head. Arman wound through the tables and delivered the empty glasses to the wash barrel, eyes never leaving the man. Noting he had only a glass of water before him, Arman edged over. “Could I interest you in some food, if you're not drinking tonight?” People who do not drink at inns are trouble.
The man glanced up. His eyes were solid black, like those of an animal, and they glittered in the dim light. “I'm looking for someone. But food would make waiting easier I suppose.”
Arman could only stare. The man's milk-pale skin was decorated with a winding tattoo. I'd bet my best work that his headscarf hides a set of horns. “Certainly, sir.” He took the man's request and returned to his duties, but he could barely concentrate. Each time he left the kitchen he checked to make sure the stranger was still there. If he leaves before I can speak to him I will never find him! Finally a lull came as the first wave of patrons tottered off to bed.
Arman removed his apron and slid into the seat beside the pale man. “I know who you are looking for.”
The man's closed expression darkened violently. “I am certain you do not.”
Arman rolled his eyes. “You want the survivors from Cehn. Not just any survivors, but six women with dark hair.”
The man's eyes widened. “Only six?”
Arman's eyes narrowed. “I told you. What do you need to know?”
“I need to know what happened in Cehn, and I need to know where they are now.”
Arman jerked his head towards the upper floor of the house. “Perhaps you would like to speak somewhere else? There is a porch on our third floor. I will meet you there in a few minutes.”
Arman ducked into the kitchen. Alea was adding onions and carrots to the soup. He knew she remembered very little, and what she did recall she wished she could not. One woman's peace of mind is not worth the world. “Milady?”
Alea glanced up. Her eyes were tired, but she smiled.
“I need to speak with you. Upstairs. Now.” He tried to keep the words gentle, but his own nerves lent them a hard edge. He was grateful she did not protest as he led her through the common room. The Laen's guard had already disappeared. At the door to the third-floor stairway, Arman stopped. “I need you to do something for me.”
Alea's gaze went from curious to wary. “Surely this can wait.”
“I'm certain it can't.” He pointed to the floor above them. “There is a man upstairs who needs to hear about what happened in Cehn. I know this is hard, I know you don't want to think about it, let alone speak about it, but he has come a very long way and it's incredibly important.”
Alea pursed her lips, but he could see the dread in her eyes. “If you ask me to do this, you need to tell me why. More than 'incredibly important.'”
He closed his eyes tightly. I will not tell a soul. “Why don't you come upstairs and I will tell you both.”
Finally she nodded. The man paced the sh
ort length of the porch, his head down and his fingers fiddling with something at his belt. Seeing them approach, he stopped, his glower falling on Alea. “I'd rather not tell the town gossip about this, boy, if it's all the same to you.”
Alea stopped in the doorway at his words. “I did not come up here to be mocked.” Her sharp gray eyes fixed on An'thor. “If it's all the same to you.”
Arman ignored the tossed barbs. “Milady ir Suna is a survivor from Cehn, sir. Her family was the one that sheltered your charges.”
Alea glanced between the two of them. “He's here about the Laen?” When both men tried to shush her, she sighed and lowered herself into the chair. “Where do you want me to start?”
“The beginning.” The pale man's words would have been comical if his expression was kind. “When did they arrive? How many were there? What did you speak to them about?”
Alea held up her hand. “I did not speak to them. They arrived two nights before the attack. They stayed in the children's wing – it was the safest part of the building. My foster-sister Merahn attended them. They arrived at night and there were seven of them. One was young, younger than me. They did not leave their wing, but ihal visited them. I tried to listen in, but I learned little. We all knew what they were, but none of us dared speak it. They were following up on a visit many years before, I guess. The attack came at sundown. I was putting the children to bed. I heard screaming, so I locked the doors to the wing and went to see what happened. By the time I was downstairs the entire southern wing—including the nursery—was in flames. The Laen were in the garden and I tried to reach them, tried to beg them to help fight, to protect us. Instead they surrounded themselves in power. I was several paces away when someone grabbed me. I remember nothing more.”
Arman could see her shoulders shaking, and he wondered if it was from the bitter cold or the emotions. “Thank you, milady. I know that was not easy.”
“Their power – what color was it? What color was the girl's power?”
“Gray. Silver maybe. The girl did not use her power. They protected her.”
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.
CHAPTER FOUR
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 stoppe
d. “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.”
