by V. Holmes
CHAPTER SEVEN
The 39th Day of Valemord, 1251
The City-state of Vielrona
ALEA IGNORED THE KNOCK that afternoon as she had the others. She did not answer each time Kepra brought food up. She simply sat on her bed and stared at her hands. Now the pounding persisted.
“Milady, it's Arman. Open the door please.” When no response came, his voice grew firm. “I can break in. Open it or I'll pick the lock.”
She dragged herself off the bed and cracked the door.
“May I come in?”
She wrapped her robe tighter and stepped aside, returning to perch on the bed. Arman's brows rose at the sight of her room. Clothes from the attack lay crumpled on the floor. She had not tidied herself either and she could only imagine how she looked.
“I only just left my room today, too.” His words were soft.
Alea just stared at him. He cleared his throat then picked up her clothes, examining them. “I doubt the blood will wash from these.” He dropped them in the tin barrel used for waste. He dipped a facecloth into the stale water of her basin and held it out to her. “Veredy did her best, but you still have blood on you.”
She made no move to take it. She could hear his words, understand them, but she was too deeply buried in her own mind to respond. He hesitated, then dabbed the blood away, wiping the dirt from her cheeks and brow. When her face was clean he took the metal comb on her bed-stand and freed her hair of snarls and blood. Her hair tidied, he shifted awkwardly. “I do not know how to braid.” She was silent. He knelt to peer into her eyes. “Are you in there, somewhere?”
The tenderness finally reached her. She slid from her seat and wrapped her arms around his neck. Her words came out in a tumble close to nonsense. “I thought I was nothing. I thought I was just a foster-child saved by my ihal's kindness. I was the reason the Laen came the first time. I was the reason the Miriken attacked, even if none of us knew it!”
Arman gingerly patted her shoulders. “I know.” He pulled back and took her by the shoulders. “I've suspected for weeks. My mother helped a woman deliver a baby – a baby she took south to abandon. But she was not a human woman. She was Laen, and you are her image.” He caught her startled gaze and smiled. “This will take a long time to accept, and you could do with some food. I'm headed to the library, but perhaps afterward we might talk?”
She nodded haltingly and pulled away, suddenly embarrassed at her condition. When he had gone, Alea glanced at herself in her mirror. She gasped, horrified. Her hair and face were dirty despite—or due to—Arman's tending. She quickly finished washing and changed into a clean dress. The ordeal the other night seemed unreal and distant, but the blood on her clothes was not imagined. Kepra bustled downstairs, but Alea could not bring herself to leave the room. Here I am safe. She lay back on her bed, eyes closed. Between these walls I am only Alea.
Φ
The Guild's library was deserted. Arman breathed a sigh of relief when we saw the quiet room. He had never actually come to read for himself before now. He left his cloak at the door and found the older historic tomes and scrolls. Several had been recently thumbed through, he noticed. They were those concerning the Laen. Someone is curious. He shook the sensation of being watched away. They have a right to know what stayed—stays—in their city. He did not flip to the lengthy pages about the war or the gods, nor did he seek the histories of men. He was looking for the Rakos. His old book of tales rested heavily in his pocket, and he wondered how much of it had been true.
He found a few promising options and retreated to one of the plush chairs. He opened the first and flipped through the pages. Towards the middle was a rough copy of the painting adorning the cover of his book. A Rakos guard of Vielrona, as illustrated by Druca of Berr. Arman's brows rose. The image was old—the last of the Laen guards had disappeared centuries ago. He turned to the page opposite the portrait.
The Laen did not oversee their world single-handedly. Of their creation they picked the most beautiful and powerful—the great fiery monsters known as the Rakos—and gave them the ability to take a form similar to the Laen, to the gods, to mankind. The Rakos were all male to the Laen's female and were everything they were not. They were chaotic and progressive and passionate. Each bonded to a Laen, guarding her and upholding her wishes.
Arman sat back. Bonded? A seed of certainty put down roots within him. He returned to the text, reading how the Rakos offered their piece of the world to protect mankind after the Division. In the absence of the Laen, some took lovers and their powers were bred out. Most simply disappeared. There was a small map in another book that detailed where each Rakos garrison had been located. Each guarded the only road into a Laen city. His finger brushed the grayed dot that illustrated Vielrona and her sister, the Laen city of Elanal. We were once so great. His thoughts were bogged down with all he had read, and his mood was still dark from the other night. He returned the books to their places and shrugged on his cloak. He was not ready to go home, or for the conversation with Alea. It would change everything, of that he was certain. She needed his strength, but beyond that he was lost. I thought the Dhoah' Laen left weeks ago. I thought I sent their guard after them. Now I find she has been in my home, she has learned from me, danced with Wes. He shook his head, trying to settle his thoughts into some sort of order. He found his feet had followed the familiar path to his and Wes' forge. He could do with some work.
The smell of hot metal and charcoal filled the air as Wes hammered a blade. The smell was like home to Arman. He shouldered the door open. The heat of the forge fires rippled in the cold air. Wes stopped when Arman entered, his gaze flicking to the empty doorway behind his friend, as if checking for Alea. "Good to see you."
Arman nodded. He could feel the tension in the room and shifted. "How's work been?"
"Slow. I need an extra set of hands. I'm thinking of asking Farrow's brother. He's been eying our stall."
Arman frowned. "What do you mean? I'll be back tomorrow."
"For how long?"
"If you have something you need to say, then say it. Don't dance about. That's my territory." The joke fell short and Arman's words just sounded childish.
Wes shoved the blade in his hands back into the coals before it cooled too much. "We need to talk." He wiped his hands clean and leaned back against his anvil. "Do you have a few minutes?"
Arman shut the door and hung his cloak up before drawing up a chair. "What is it?"
"Will you be straight with me? What happened that night?"
"It was a blur. We were attacked by those men. I don't remember much else."
"Arman, I dealt with the bodies. I cut them to make it look like they had fought each other and killed one another. You owe me the whole story, not just lies and tidbits. You're no hero and I don't think she's your lover."
Arman looked down. "I can't say, Wes. I told Kam the same. I can't tell you, either of you."
Wes slammed his heavy fists onto his workbench. "Dammit Wardyn! This is no longer just about you! This is not about the women you helped flee the city, this is not about Alea! This is about the city, this is about your damned friends. For fuck's sake this is about your home!"
Arman sat back, speechless. He had never heard Wes yell. The man had certainly been angry from time to time, but it was a quiet disappointment. It was never a rage. Arman met his friend's eyes and realized the truth. He's afraid. He's terrified. Arman sighed. "I'm sorry. You're right. I've gotten blind in all of this, and you deserve the truth. All of you do." He stood. "But I still can't tell you. Not until I know the truth myself." He grabbed his cloak and strode back outside. He expected Wes to come barreling after him, expected the door to slam. The silence that followed instead hurt far worse.
Φ
Alea had resorted to mentally reciting poems—even her least favorites—and listing her favorite flowers. Her thoughts continued to encroach on her peace. It was childish and she knew it.
A twisting tendril of Red Tearin
g
Sticky sweet on the lips then searing
Bunch of Bitter Knot bright and baleful
Can't find Cat Thumb, must be careful
Little pinch of Jani's Lute...
She searched for the rest of the line, her brow creased. A quiet knock scattered what was left of the midwives' recipe. "Who is it?"
"Arman. Had you any plans for the rest of the day?" He smiled when she opened the door and held up a tray of tea and food. He teetered on the threshold, as if uncertain whether he was welcome. "May I?"
She stepped aside and ushered him in. "How was your day?"
"Interesting." He slid the tray onto her bedside table and took one of the mugs for himself. "Ma said you'd not been down, so I thought I'd bring you something." He peered into his tea as if it would answer his every question. "We need to have a talk, milady."
"I know."
"What happened?"
"I don't know. They attacked me, said I wouldn't leave the city alive. They couldn't risk word getting out that the Laen were here. I thought one of them might have been Tomas, the cart driver. I wanted to fight them, like you showed me, but I froze. Then you appeared and took down one of them. When you were wounded and they came for me again, I realized something."
"You wanted to fight."
"I wanted to live." She looked down. Her hands were remarkably still. She had spent the past months uncertain of who she was. Now she knew. It was unexpected, unwelcome, even, but it was a start. A darker part of her whispered that now she had power to avenge her family's death. "My body was cold, and suddenly black fog came out of me. It choked them, filled their lungs." She shook herself."The thought should make me sick, but it doesn't."
"I was dying. By the time I was home, I had healed. Can you explain that?"
"You don't remember?"
"I remember fine, doesn't mean I understand it any better."
"I don't either, really. I just put my hand on you, to stop the bleeding. Something rushed from me, but this time it mended your wound. I think I was overwhelmed after that. I don't recall anything else."
"You fainted. I must have too, because the next thing I remember is Wes dragging me from the water and Veredy shrieking that we were dead. We brought you here and Ver helped clean you up a bit." He fixed her with a pointed stare. "The power was black."
"Yes." She refused to meet his gaze. She knew what he was getting at. "That man mentioned black power."
"Do you think that perhaps you were the reason for the Laen's first visit to your ihal?" He leaned forward, but did not touch her. "You know what you are, and you know you need protection. Appeal to the Guild. Demand they shelter you."
Alea finally looked at him, her gaze burning. There was only one option left for her and she hated it. As much as she had disliked Vielrona at first, it was the only thing she had left. "They would throw me out on my ear. Any city that protects me will be in danger. They might protect me if I begged, but I will not."
Arman sat back, realization dawning. "You're leaving?"
I have to. Don't you see, if I stay here you will die. All of you will. I'll not cause that again. "I've thought a lot today. I tried not to, but many things became clear." She glanced out the window. Her mind roiled with confusion and fear, but outwardly she was nothing but calm.
"Where will you go?"
"I have no idea. That man mentioned a town—Marl Kess? Perhaps I will go there and try to find him. I may be the Dhoah' Laen, but I need help." Tumbling from her lips was the terrifying truth that changed everything. She held out her hand, black power marbling her skin for a second before it disappeared. "I am the Dhoah' Laen."
Arman ran his tongue over his teeth thoughtfully. "I know." He offered her a faint smile. "Or some part of me did."
"I am sorry for what I've done to change Vielrona. I'm certain I will do far worse." She smoothed her coverlet. "Have you told your mother what happened?"
"No. She heard us return, but she assumed we were drunk. I suppose my antics when I was younger have bought us some time."
"Are you going to tell her?"
"I don't know how. There's something else, something beyond what you are, that I cannot explain." When she made no move to interrupt he rubbed a calloused thumb over his teeth. "I think you are like a river over rocks—one eventually changes the shape of the other. I think you are changing me." He paused awkwardly for a minute. "I don't know what to tell Wes or Kam. Damn, I left Veredy at a poor time."
"Tell them the truth. I will be gone before long. Perhaps then things will return to normal for you. I would hate to disrupt your world any more than I already have." Her smile was genuine, but sad.
Φ
Arman did not know where he was going. He let his feet trace old paths of his childhood while his mind wandered. Two months ago he was certain of everything. Two days ago he was certain of one thing. Now he was certain of nothing. He paused on the bridge and leaned on the rail, looking south. The river was sullen and gray, the shrubs along its banks pitiful in the winter cold.
His jaw still ached and he tasted traces of blood. Up there, somewhere, was a city of her people. His eyes followed the line of the river through the notch in the mountains. He pushed himself upright suddenly and strode back over the bridge. He swung a leg over the wall along the river and dropped down. Moving was better than sitting still and thinking. I could talk to Ver. The voice in the back of his skull nagged. He did not know why he avoided her. Wes and Kam would bombard him with questions, but Veredy was different. How can I explain this? How can I tell her another woman's voice came into my head. Laen or not, it's strange. The stone blocks of the riverbank became rocky shoal. His boots hissed on the moist, rough sand. He ran a hand along the rocks piled at the bends, feeling the thrum of rushing water. Soon he emerged into the steep valley of the notch. Before him lay what had once been Elanal. The buildings were toppled, most submerged or flooded. At the head of the valley a building had been carved into a cliff face. A spark of hope lit Arman's heart. Perhaps I could find something here, something that will help her find a guard, find her people. He skirted the ruins nervously. They were less grand than he had expected, and no surge of cold or heat struck him. He could still feel their consciousness. He edged along the base of the cliff, picking out where the doorway stood beside the cascading water from higher up.
Perhaps the Rakos have simply been hiding, been sleeping until she needed them. He snorted at the thought. The room beyond was dark and smelled of mildew. It was empty, save for a few smashed pieces of what may have once been a chair. Opposite was another doorway. This one led to curling, crumbling stairs. Arman's feet faltered on the steps. This is ridiculous. The accounts were all legends, mother's tales to teach children values and history. The stairs crunched beneath his boots. He finally skittered into a large room. The weight of the little book on his breast pocket seemed to burn over the handprint scar. At the end of the hall stood two statues. They were not fine, made of precious metals or gems. They were simply carved from stone. The woman's hand was raised, the other outstretched towards the ground. She stood in a water-stained basin that had long since gone dry. The man beside her stood on a bed of coals gone cold. A groove ran around the woman's head, though the adornment was gone. Arman stepped closer to the male statue and fell to his knees. Resting on the man's carved curls was a gold crown.
"Please, she needs you now." He did not stop to think he sounded stupid. It felt right. "If you ever loved the Laen, come back." Silence filled the hall and Arman sighed. Thank fates I didn't tell her I was coming here, hoping to find something. I couldn't bring more disappointment. He moved closer, crouching on the rim of the brazier. The statue was familiar—the set of his jaw and the curl of a snarl on his mouth. Arman fumbled with the book. Sure enough the likeness of the Rakos of the cover was similar. Do you have a name? He flipped the book open and with a silent apology to his father, slit the silk lining. The painting was the original, signed with Berrin symbols. He froze when he saw
the subject's name. Kierman Wardyn 657 Vil Ronna. He glanced up at the statue. Wardyn?
Heat raced up his back and he realized where he had seen that expression. It's mine. He grabbed the statue's outstretched hand and hauled himself on the pedestal. He reached up and slid the Crown from the stone head. Blood flooded his mouth as new teeth emerged between his dogteeth and incisors. Itching heat pulsed and his bloody mouth curled into a wolfish smile.
Alea had her guard.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The 39th Day of Valemord, 1251
The City-state of Vielrona
ADRENALINE CARRIED ARMAN UNTIL he re-entered the city. Excitement and certainty left his body in a rush and he had to steady himself on a lantern post. This was so far beyond the mistakes he had made as a boy. This was different than beating someone. This was even different than promising to marry Veredy when he was grown. I can never, ever go back from this. Even as the thought faded, he realized it had not really been a choice. Something had called him and he had answered. His blood had answered. If Alea was leaving the city then he would follow. No, he corrected himself, When the Dhoah' Laen leaves the city her Rakos guard will follow. He was not sure if there was a distinction between the two, but imagining one made his heart beat slower.
He ran his thumb over his teeth again. It was becoming a nervous habit. The new teeth were sharp enough to scrape his calloused finger and longer than any human teeth had a right to be.
He had to tell Wes and Kam something, had to explain himself to Veredy. Fates, a few days ago I was going to ask her to be my wife – in earnest. In the darkness of his confusion it felt as distant as summer. Whatever relationship he had with Veredy would be different now, and would have to wait again. It was fully dusk now, and Arman was too tired to face his friends. He had one more task left, however, before he could retreat to home.
The Farrow house was a small cottage on the edge of the Uppers, but it bore the marks of old wealth. It took two knocks before the door jerked open. Confusion, fear and anger shadowed Thada Farrow's features. “What is it?”
