Smoke and Rain

by V. Holmes

  Alea’s steps down the aisle were measured. Pens scratched against parchment as scribes detailed the scene. We are making history. Arman was announced as she ascended the dais, the nails in his boots clacking against the stone. Even his boots sound cocky. The humorous thought brought a smile to her face as she turned to face the queen.

  “On behalf of the kingdom of Athrolan, I welcome you to our city.”

  “We are honored.” Alea hesitated, unsure of how to proceed. Arman’s hand was feather-light on her back. “We are pleased by your agreement to an alliance, Your Majesty.”

  Tzatia gestured to the podium, where a long sheaf of parchment sat, weighted at the corners. The herald brought it forward. Burned into the wood above the declaration was the symbol for honesty and honor, encircled with script. The queen placed her hand over it and read the vows of alliance, though she surely could have recited them. “I, Tzatia of the North, Queen of Athrolan, Lady of Ceir Athrolan, swear to defend you as I defend my people. I swear to respect you as I respect my family. Your enemies shall be mine, and you allies will be counted among my own. Your losses will be felt as ours and your victories will be our victories.” The herald dripped wax over a loop of turquoise and white ribbon at the bottom. The queen imprinted it with the ring on her middle finger. “In the name of Athrolan, I swear an alliance to you and your cause, Dhoah’ Lyne’alea.”

  Valadai brought forward a chest inlaid with gold. “May I present to you this gift to show our gratitude?” She held onto it a moment as she turned to Arman. “It has been safe-kept in our treasury, but it belongs to you.”

  Arman bowed and took it in one arm. Nestled within was a long, brown leather whip. The handle was curved slightly and gold-washed. He lifted it out carefully. He flexed his fingers, feeling the weight. Handing the chest back to Valadai, he hung the whip on his belt by the ring on the hilt. “Your Majesty, I thank you for this most noble gift.” The sincerity in his voice kept the words from sounding trite.

  Alea stepped up to the podium then, placing her hand over the symbol and repeated the words the queen had spoken. Her voice faltered at “losses.” Her chin trembled.

  Arman placed his hand over hers, his low voice helping her finish. “You losses will be felt as ours and your victories will be our victories. In the name of the Laen, I swear our alliance to Your Majesty Tzatia of the North and your kingdom of Athrolan.”

  The wax was melted again and a black ribbon looped through it. Alea reached out and pressed a fingertip to the hot wax. Her heart thundered. She should reciprocate the queen’s gift, but was scared of losing control. She closed her eyes and brought her power up the way she had practiced. Just a layer, she thought, just a shell, for protection. She held her free hand out, towards the queen, beckoning.

  Tzatia stepped closer until the Dhoah’ Laen’s palm was inches away. Black power curled from her hand. “Your Majesty, I offer a gift to your people. Of my power, Destruction is the best known, but there is also the gentler side. With the might of my power, I promise that none shall ever wear Athrolan’s crown whom does not hold her highest in his heart.” The black fog curled around the crown jewel above Tzatia’s brow, weaving into the heart of the stone and around the metal binding it. “I swear that as long as I draw breath, I will keep your people, our allies from harm.” The power sunk into the crown and disappeared. The silver and black faded from her eyes and she stepped back.

  Tzatia took her hand and spoke the words that had bound pacts for as long as they had been made. “So it is said.”

  Φ

  The hills behind Athrolan rolled away into the distance. Standing atop the southeast tower, Arman could not see where they became the barren expanse of the Felds. The new weight of the whip at his belt was warm, but far less than the pointed consciousness of the Crown in his room below. Daylight faded over the ocean behind him, and he pretended the lights of the town on the southern horizon were those of Vielrona.

  The journey north had been exciting, bizarre, and horrible in turns, but he was ready to go home. Crops would be planted soon, and Wes would pick up additional work mending plow-blades. Veredy would mend summer dresses. Her tan legs would be bare as she waded into the river on warm days.

  “Enjoying the view?” Narier leaned against the parapet beside him.

  Arman glanced over at the lieutenant. “Wishing it was a different one, more like.”

  The soldier’s expression softened with understanding. “As beautiful as the city is, it sure isn’t home, I’ll agree with you there. You didn’t strike me as the homesick type. I thought the Rakos lived and breathed the Laen.”

  “We do, but I wasn’t always Rakos.” He looked down at his hands on the worn stone. Veredy claimed there was no longer a place for him in Vielrona. She was wrong. Even if the world’s bones shook and he forgot his own name, Vielrona would be home. “I have someone waiting for me.”

  Narier’s brows rose, “Now that is unexpected. Does she know?”

  “Know what?” I miss her? I’m soul-sworn to another woman? I’m a monster?

  “That you might not come home.”

  Arman stared at the man. “Milady is allied. She will stay here and learn what she can before traveling to Le’yan. When she is ready to battle the gods, I will be there. Until then, I’m going home.”

  Narier looked away, his expression guarded. “There are words for what you’re feeling right now. Fear is one. Denial is another.” He pushed himself upright and turned to continue his watch. “Tell yourself what you must to sleep at night, Rakos,” he shot over his shoulder, “but once war gets her teeth in you, she doesn’t let go.”

  THE RAINS OF SPRING

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The 32nd Day of Vurgmord, 1251

  The City of Ceir Athrolan

  PAIN FLUTTERED IN ALEA’S chest. Each tremor drove air from her lungs. The sensation built, fear filling her mind. She lunged upright, gasping for air. Her stomach was in knots and tremors of pain and anger wracked her body. She scrambled to the privy and brought up everything she had eaten the night before. Finished, she sat shakily on the couch, blinking at the faint light streaming in her window. The sensation in her chest was still there. It was not physical, but still very real. Sadness echoed each flutter. What is this? Waking strangely from dreams was not unusual, but the feeling usually vanished when she awoke.

  She washed her face and changed before knocking on Arman’s door. He did not answer, and she was about to leave when he rounded the corner. He had clearly been up for far longer than she.

  “Milady?”

  “Something woke me—a terrible feeling in my chest.” She felt foolish.

  His expression was grim. “Fort Shadow—it lies on the edge of the Hartland, across a river. A message came a quarter of an hour ago. The Berrin massacred them.” He frowned. “Do you think that’s what you felt?”

  Alea shrugged. She was too tired to deal with massacres and strange sensations. “Perhaps. I’ll wake Bren. I suspect Her Majesty will call a formal counsel.”

  “She has. An hour before noon.” He gave her a sympathetic look before ducking into his room. “I’ll see you there.”

  Alea’s steps to Bren’s door were slow and thoughtful. How could I feel that? She had felt pain and fear and sadness, but from where? She knocked loudly on her brother’s door. When there was no answer she tried the latch. Finding it unlocked she opened it. “Bren, of all times to sleep like the dead—” She stopped in the doorway, jaw dropping. Her brother was curled around Reka’s tanned and bare body. At Alea’s voice, the woman sat up.

  “Oh, good morning, Dhoah’ Lyne’alea.” Her eyes smiled and she rose to collect her clothes. She paused in her dressing. “Bren.” When he grunted in response, she continued. “Your sister is here.”

  Bren yelped and sat up, pulled the blankets far higher than necessary. “Toar, Alea! Don’t you knock?”

  “She did.”

  Alea just stared at the floor, stammering an apology. “I am so so
rry, Bren! I just found out about the attack and wasn’t thinking you might spend the night with someone. I thought you were asleep. I’ll be in my room.” She turned to go, but Reka was leaving and the prospect of meeting her at the doorway was incredibly awkward. She stayed where she was, eyes glued to the floor.

  Reka’s eyes crinkled again. “Stay. I heard ‘attack.’ I suspect I’ll see you both when counsel is called.”

  “An hour before noon.” Alea echoed Arman’s words faintly.

  “Thank you, Bren.”

  Alea blushed again as the door shut behind the warrior.

  “Wait a moment. I’m going to dress. Then we can talk.” Bren grabbed clean clothes far more hastily than Reka had and dashed into the privy. He was silent, then called through the half-open door. “I didn’t mean for you to see us.”

  “Clearly.” Her embarrassment was fading into entertainment. “I wasn’t expecting to see her—any woman—bare in your bed.”

  He stuck his head through the door. “What do you mean by that?”

  She sighed, exasperated. “I did not mean it like that. I forget some people are more liberal with their affection and the display of it.” She paused. “May I sit?”

  “Of course.” Bren finally emerged from the privy. “I’m going to order tea—the shock of you appearing has worn off and my head hurts.”

  She smiled. “You do seem to enjoy the punch here a bit much.”

  He sat on the edge of the couch and ran his fingers through his hair. “I think I will stick to ale from now on.” The gaiety of the days before flew from his face at Alea’s expression. “What is it?”

  “The Berrin took Fort Shadow.”

  “I swear the Athrolani have the least imaginative names.”

  Alea smiled faintly. “There will be a counsel.” She frowned. “Bren, I knew about it before Arman told me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I woke up with this terrible ache and a fluttering in my stomach. It was like silk being pulled through me.” She shuddered. “It made me sick.”

  “Did you drink the punch?” When the jest fell flat, Bren took her hand.

  “It was as if I felt their anguish.”

  “You’re the embodiment of Creation and Destruction. It’s no wonder you feel such things when they happen on a great scale.”

  “Why did it happen now?”

  “You never felt anything you couldn’t explain?”

  She looked away. “Sometimes in Cehn, I would wake up feeling queasy, not knowing why. My ihal said some people had nerves. It often came when there were assassination attempts on our house.” The tea arrived and she sat back, taking a few sips to calm herself. She took a deep sip and looked up, “Bren, you and Reka—”

  Bren groaned. “Truly, Alea?”

  “I never guessed love between you two.”

  He laughed. “Alea, she and I are soldiers—warriors, not nobles. Our bodies are ours to do what we wish. If we both want company and warmth for a night or two, then so be it.” He glanced at her, having the decency to blush. “In Cehn things were different?”

  “I was betrothed before I was a woman.” She had not spoken of Ahren and she ran a thumb over where her betrothal ring used to rest on her smallest finger. “Our emotions were guarded, including love. They were seen as precious and it was a privilege to see someone express their feelings. Consequently I feel as if things were left unsaid. It must be wonderful to feel like you have such control and freedom over your body.”

  Bren frowned. “You were betrothed? When Cehn was razed…. I am so sorry, Alea.” He sat back. “You should feel the same freedom. If not with your, ah, love, then with your body. If you don’t control your body, how can you control your power?”

  Alea was wondering the same thing. “I have a battle to wage, I can’t be preoccupied with sex.”

  Bren laughed. “I’m glad you trust me, but I think this discussion would be less awkward had we been raised together.”

  Φ

  Mutters and frowns filled the council hall. Seated between Bren and Arman, Alea was stunned by the gathering. One of the men at the far end of the table rose and went to her.

  “Dhoah’ Laen, it is an honor to meet you. I arrived too late to meet you at the ball.” His dark eyes were friendly. Like most of the high-ranking officers, he was of middling age, raw bulk having given way to lean muscle. “I am Colonel Hamacad of Ceir Felden. I command the North Regiment.”

  She grasped his arm, pleased by his surprise at the gesture. “Well met, Colonel. This is my friend and guard, Aud’narman Wardyn, and my brother, Lieutenant Brentemir Barrackborn.” After both had greeted the man, Alea gestured to the men and women gathered at the end of the table. Are they all gallants?”

  Hamacad shook his head. “The woman with the curls and the green insignia is Colonel of the Mountain Regiment, Curiel of Ceir Mere, and the bald man beside her is Admiral Sedden of the Navy. The rest are commanding gallants, right enough, but there are seven more who are unable to leave their posts, along with the Colonel of the South and Admiral Fess.”

  Alea’s next words were interrupted by the arrival of the general and commander. The officers fell silent, rising and slapping their fists to their chests. Reka slid into place beside Bren. The crowd settled only to stand again as the queen entered with a bevy of scribes.

  When silence fell, she leaned forward. “Greetings. Athrolan suffered a great loss at Fort Shadow. The attack came early this morning from the forest. We must act immediately. Shadow is far too close to Ceir Athrolan to let this wait. She was supposed to receive reinforcements in two days. This they must have known.” She looked to Eras. “General Aneral, what do you suggest?”

  Eras looked down at the table. “Sir Indred, would your men be ready in two days?”

  “They would, ma’am.”

  She turned back to the queen. “Indred’s outguard has long been our fastest and is among the greatest decorated. Speed and force, Your Majesty, are paramount. With your permission I will muster the army in the city, excepting those men previously engaged.”

  “Permission granted, general. Sir Indred, what do you plan when you arrive?”

  Indred pulled a map towards him. “Though it might give us advantage, we cannot move north and swing about. It is how they attacked and the woods will be rife with scouts.” He glanced at Eras, “Ma’am, how many did they number?”

  “About 2000.”

  He winced. “We will be hard pressed if we attack outright.”

  “Permission to speak?” Bren’s interjection was confident, if rude. At the queen’s nod, he leaned forward. “The Berrin are used to fighting in isolated groups, like they do on their ships. They are unused to organized combat on a large scale.”

  “So if we attack wholly we could have an advantage?”

  Bren turned to Eras. “General, I request to ride with the outguard. I could be of use, having fought alongside the enemy.”

  “And I have my dozen—more if I send word today.” Reka crossed her arms. “If rumor serves, Azirik and the Berrin have Bordermen allies of their own.”

  “Granted, both of you.” Eras made a note in a canvas field book before her. “Indred, ride out as soon as your men are able. Attack in the early hours if possible. We know this land better than they and that river may prove an ally in itself. Prepare, sir.” Indred and his men filed out.

  Alea turned her gaze to Tzatia. “This is not my vengeance,” she said softly, “but it is my war. I ride with them.”

  Raven’s hand clenched into a fist on the table. “Your Majesty, do not allow this. Her power—however well intended—is uncontrolled and unpredictable. I cannot let her wield it beside our men.” His hard eyes would not meet Alea’s.

  Tzatia thought for a moment. “I understand your worries, Commander, but Dhoah’ Lyne’alea is not mine to command.”

  Alea swallowed hard. “The commander is right. I am untrained. I hope to go, not to use my power, but to learn more about those we
fight against and beside. That knowledge may aid me once my power is fully controlled. I studied healing as a girl, perhaps I can be of use.”

  Arman turned to look at Alea. “You cannot be serious, milady. This isn’t a necessary journey across the countryside, this is war.”

  Tzatia’s eyes flicked from Raven’s glare to Arman’s worried frown, to Eras’ thoughtful gaze. “It is your choice to make. You would be safest here, but I cannot hold you.”

  “Then I ride out with Sir Indred.”

  Eras rose. “Your Majesty, I ask that we discuss the battles in the southern campaign. If Indred needs more men in a week or two, he should have them, but neither should Fort Floodbane or Ceir Felden lack manpower.”

  “What reports have you received?”

  Eras’ lips thinned. “The intelligence does not add the way I feel it should. Floodbane was attacked first and while there has been constant fighting, no headway has been made. The forces are almost equally Miriken and Berrin. They seem only interested in picking at our men, not overtaking. It could be due to close numbers. They have not exhibited weapons we cannot counter.

  “Felden was attacked within a week by twice as many. It worries me most. They are poor and small, and it’s a city, not a fort. There are elders and children there. It could turn ugly if we’re not careful. I sent word to Ceir Pardelan and Ceir Meron asking them to send men to Floodbane and Felden respectively, but with Shadow I fear the attacks are too close. Can we spare men? I called the non-commanding gallants and they will bring personal troops to aid us, but I think all are concerned about where the next attack will fall. Lieutenant Barrackborn tells us Mirik’s numbers are higher than we would have liked and the Berrin navy is unstoppable.”