Smoke and Rain

by V. Holmes

  Arman picked at the tar coating the back of his hand. “After I killed my first man, in Vielrona, I lost my lunch. I don’t know what’s worse—that I was sick then, or that I no longer am.” Scouting with the others ended in skirmishes more than once. Twice the army had tried to mobilize at night and both times the Berrin had known long before much progress had been made. “You should have stayed in the city.” The familiar litany held more sorrow than frustration now.

  Φ

  That night the campfires were low and the soldiers quiet. Despite the calm of the evening, Bren could not sleep. Though each had their own tents, Bren had layered them into one large rain screen surrounding the campfire. It warded off the worst of the damp and cold. He tossed in his bedroll, unable to lie still. He glanced over to see Alea’s bright eyes on him. They were surrounded by tear-smudged dirt and ash.

  “Alea?”

  “Go back to sleep.”

  “I couldn’t sleep anyways.” He propped himself on an elbow and inched closer to her. “What is it?”

  “I’m the reason all these men die.” Tears leaked from the corner of her eye and trickled into her ear.

  Bren reached out a blunt finger and swiped it away. “I wish I knew how to comfort you.”

  “How could anyone love me, fight for me, when all I leave is death in my wake?”

  Bren wrapped his arms around her. “Alea, in wars men die. Men will die for you even if they’ve never met you. They will fight because they know you fight for them too. If they protect you, even with their deaths, their families will survive. You gave up the home you could have had in Vielrona and will give a life in Athrolan to protect this world. That’s something worth loving.”

  Her tears soaked into his shoulder and he held her tighter. “That’s why I love you. That is why Arman loves you.”

  “Arman tolerates me. He’s friendly enough, but I’m just a duty he’d rather not have.”

  Bren frowned. He was fairly certain Arman’s feelings were far more complicated—and stronger—than she thought. “I think you’re more than that. He warned me in Hero that loving you was dangerous, but he would be much more so if I crossed you. How would he know it was dangerous if he didn’t love you?”

  “He might have started as a friend, but he was forced into a bond—a soul bond.”

  Bren’s eyes widened. No wonder his mood wavered between loyalty and frustration. “Perhaps this war will let you understand one another better. Death does not care about titles, and when faced with it we often learn to feel the same.”

  “Perhaps afterwards we can learn to be friends.”

  Bren shrugged. Whatever relationship she had with Arman, it would be far more complex than friendship. Besides, I know what comes of “afterwards” and “maybe later,” and it’s never happiness. Waiting bred regret.

  Φ

  The 1st Day of Llume, 1251

  Days bled into weeks more literally than any cared to admit. The trail army provided much of the diversions with their makeshift bars and brothels. Alea, for the most part, steered clear. Her work in the infirmary left little energy for much else other than sleep. Bren, however, spent much of his time among the trail-army tents, learning about the people he had come to call his allies.

  He sat on one of the low chairs scattered around an ale tent when Reka slumped down beside him. Her braids matted into thicker locks and stains marred her leather armor.

  “Skirmish?”

  She took a deep sip of his ale, then another smaller one before answering. “Third damned one I’ve seen in the past two days. Your way of fighting is stupid.” She motioned for her own mug.

  Bren had grown used to her blunt speech, but the Bordermen still baffled him. “What other way of fighting is there?”

  “A single fighter against another. None of this army deershit. Strength against strength, skill against skill.”

  Bren stared at her, incredulous. “Your people have no armies? No united force?”

  “There is no honor in fighting together. A warrior must stand alone.”

  “You are a very different people. Mirik would never allow female soldiers. Athrolan does, clearly.”

  Reka shrugged. “Our people are just people. If a man or woman chooses to change roles there is a ceremony called the ruak. It changes our role, but not our value or sex.”

  Bren nodded. “I suppose that makes sense.”

  “Can you explain your obsession with massive forces?” The wooden beads at the end of her braids clacked as she tipped her mug back.

  “What one man cannot accomplish, many can. If you think of it simply as an invasion, yes it seems unfair. But to protect your people? Does it not seem worthwhile?” He waved for a second mug for both of them.

  Reka leaned back and rested an ankle on her knee. “Our children are born with knives in their hands.” The corner of her mouth quirked. She was adopting the smile of the Athrolani, but only just. “It is the warrior’s duty to care after children and whomever nurtures them. If she or he cannot, then they would not be granted their mark of strength,”

  “The butterfly?” Bren pointed to her nose. “That hardly seems the symbol of strength.” His tone was teasing, and he gestured to one of the other Bordermen in the bar tent. “Even the crow’s wings on Irer there seem more intimidating.”

  “Not all strength is brawn.” She gestured to her muscled frame. “If it were, many would not be warriors. Irer’s wings are not those of the crow, but the stork—notice the gray. The stork remains in place, waiting for the frog. It is a wonderful hunter, for he can stalk anything for hours. My butterfly is for the strength of spirit through change.”

  “Apropos considering your choice to join us while others did not.”

  She waved a hand. “Enough of my people. Tell me of your time with Azirik. What is he like?”

  Bren shrugged. “You mean other than a mad man? Serving under him was unpredictable. He was volatile and impulsive and tireless. He was more general than king. I think he saw himself that way as well, maybe it saddened him.”

  Reka’s eyes narrowed. “And your own tale?”

  Bren explained army life and his childhood with soldiers. It was late and cold when they returned to their tents. Alea was already tucked into her bedroll and Arman dozed by the campfire. Bren stared at the quiet tableau. Sleep seemed the only peace any of them had now. He wished he had half of Reka’s strength.

  Φ

  The 4th Day of Llume, 1251

  Horns sounded since dawn, cutting through the hiss of rain with aching regularity. Alea crouched beside a man arranged on a cloak spread across the ground. They had long run out of cots. His eyes were vacant and his breath uneven.

  Guffe stopped in passing. “How is he?”

  “His mind is gone. His breath rattles.” She pushed her hair back, not caring that she left a smear of fate-knew-what across her brow. “How much leaf do we have?”

  “Little. One more unopened package and a third leftover from yesterday.” The leaves came from a mountain bush. Chewed, they gave strength or energy. Such use was frowned upon, but when made into a poultice it relieved pain.

  “Save it then and we’ll hope he’s beyond pain.” She pressed a hand to the dying man’s. Putting her heart into the work took a heavy toll. She had been up long before dawn and there were hours of work left. She was not often there when men passed, and had yet to witness a patient’s death first hand. This soldier had been under her care for three days. In his few lucid moments they had spoken about his family. She waited, hand over his, until his chest did not rise. His heartbeat faltered under her fingers, then ceased. Her grip on his hand tightened. Suddenly a faint copper-red glow appeared inside the man’s chest. It crept to the surface, then down his arm. It melted into her hand. There was a flutter in her chest, then sadness.

  She backed away, heart hammering. Their souls. When they pass their souls cross to Le’yan through me. She shuddered. All this time I have been feeling their death. She closed her eye
s briefly then turned to the apprentices at the door. “We’ll need a burial team.” She rose with a sigh and moved to the next man.

  Φ

  Arman rested against the pole of tent, just out of the weather. Frequent messengers between the capital and the camp brought orders, news and mail. The last bundle held three letters for him. The first two were from Wes and Kam, the former mostly discussing business and city news. Arman slit open Kam’s curiously. It was the locksmith’s first letter, though Arman had written twice. The first line made him laugh.

  Arman,

  Wes convinced me to write you, since your Ma and he were both sending things. So hello. How has the journey been? Wes reads aloud what you write him. I can’t believe you saw the Orn de Galin. Lucky arse. Things here are much the same as ever. Remember Celly Orean? Gluan’s headwoman? We’ll be wed at the beginning of the month, the 1st of Llume. It would be grand if you could be here, but I doubt you’re able.

  We heard about the attack on an Athrolani post—Fort Shade or something. I hope you’re keeping your lady safe. Come home soon, will you?

  Kamrit

  The familiar distracted tone made him more homesick than he had expected. They’ve been wed for a few days now. The realization that weeks passed while the letter found him made him wonder how long news of something serious would take. Kam’s ignorance of names and locations that were now common to Arman made the distance seen greater. Shaking his head, he turned to his mother’s letter.

  Arman,

  It’s getting warm here. I always love summer best. Kam and Celly are to be wed. They let a house on the corner now. He has a better head on his shoulders and runs business out of a building by Wes’.

  We miss you. How have you been? We get news from the travelers. Most are moving south, away from the war. There is a siege to the northeast, though it’s far from us. I hope you’re well away from that mess. You were not born for battle. You must have made Athrolan’s capital by now. What news of your return?

  All my love,

  Ma

  Arman hung his head. His last letter had been lighthearted and sent from Athrolan. How can I write anything without being dishonest? Each time they beg me to go back. He tugged his writing kit over and wrote a short response to Kam and Wes. He paused on the first line to his mother. Bren glanced over from across the fire when the quill-scratching paused.

  “Writing home?”

  “Damned if I know what to say.”

  “Not the truth. The few of Azirik’s men who kept families never told the truth until they were safe in their wives’ arms again.”

  Arman laughed. "I was thinking of including every detail. ‘Mother dear, nice to hear from you! Not dead yet, though I’ve been close six times now. Alea is the Dhoah’ Laen, I forgot to mention, and I grow scales when ticked. How goes the inn?'”

  Bren laughed, running a hand through his hair. “I suppose that would go over poorly.” He frowned suddenly. “Scales? You grow scales when you’re angry?”

  Arman sighed, eyes rolling. “Of course not, but the Rakos did. Those are probably the only tales she knows of them.” He scratched a few more lines. “It’s odd. My friend back home married two days ago.” He could not determine how to explain the heaviness in his chest.

  “The world goes on without you, even if it seems to have stopped here.”

  Arman finished the letter wordlessly, folding and sealing it before tucking his kit away and moving closer to the fire.

  “Arman, when was the last time you spoke to Alea?”

  Arman shrugged, “This morning. Or perhaps it was last night. Who can tell in this weather? She asked if we’d run out of tea.”

  Bren sighed. “I meant actually talked with her.”

  “I talk to her all the time.” Catching Bren’s stern look, he amended his words, “Honestly, it was over a week ago. We talked about growing used to bloodshed. Why?”

  “I don’t rightly care that you were forced into a soul-bond. It’s shite, I’ll give you that, but she’s your duty. If she doesn’t trust you or confide in you, your task will be much harder. Stop thinking of her as the Dhoah’ Laen. Stop thinking of her as the naive Cehn refuge. Look at her. All of her. She’s a woman and at least a little bit human—glowing eyes and black-snaked skin aside. Treat her thusly.”

  Arman wanted to retort, wanted to tell Bren to take his Toar-blasted advice and shove it somewhere dark and painful. Except Alea’s brother was right. Arman looked away. Alea brought out the worst in him, often because she brought out his fear. She also brought out the best. Their entire friendship had been built on his assumption that he gave her everything she needed him to. He never paused to realize what she gave him.

  She was laughter on dark roads. She was playful curiosity and unexpected crass humor. She was power, she was grace, she was immeasurable determination. Arman slumped back against the tent pole as the realization hit him. “Damn.”

  “Realized you’ve been an ass?”

  I’ve realized something much worse. “You could say that.” Whatever other earth-cracking revelations he may have had stopped as Alea arrived. “Milady, you look like death.”

  She swayed with exhaustion. The shadows under her eyes were darker than ever and her hands were chapped badly enough to bleed. She thumped down between the two men. “Not a way to win a woman over, Arman.” Her tone was gentle.

  “How long did you work? You were gone when I rose this morning.”

  “Guffe’s assistant came to me two hours before dawn. I thought the point of a siege was to weaken them. Instead I think they’re like hornets—odd, water hornets. We just keep making them angry.”

  Arman snorted and took her hands in his. “Bren do you have any of the grease you use on your scars?”

  Bren tossed over a small pouch filled with herb-smelling balm he had bought from the trail army. “Works wonders when old wounds stiffen with the cold and wet.”

  Alea smiled tiredly as he smoothed a small amount over her knuckles, working it carefully into her abused skin. “Thank you.”

  Bren poured a bowl of stew from their fire and offered it to his sister. “It’s a bit spicy, but better than tasting the mud.”

  She glanced at it and sprang to her feet, hand pressing to her mouth. Her eyes were wide and she shook her head violently before disappearing into the maze of tents.

  “Toar, what did I do?” Bren stared incredulously after her.

  Arman shook his head, dumbfounded. “Damned if I know.” He pulled on his cloak and hurried after her.

  Φ

  Alea fought nausea high in her stomach. Afer so much blood the sight of food, even stew as good as that had smelled, made her chest tight. How can they deal with this? She stared at the faces of the men she hurried past. She did not even know where she was going, but suddenly she was in the center of the trail-army tents. She smelled wood smoke and alcohol over the pervasive scent of mildew. She ducked inside the first ale-tent she saw and sat at the row of camp chairs designating the bar. The heavy woman frowned at her, taking in Alea’s worn appearance.

  “What can I get ye?”

  Alea stared at her, unsure, not even caring that she was finally anonymous. “Something. Anything.” She rested her head in her hands. What am I doing? She always took things in stride. It was the Sunamen way—wear a brave face as the river sweeps you along. After meeting Eras, Alea had tried to emulate the calm leadership the general displayed. When everything finally stops for a few minutes, why do I break? A small glass of dark green liquid clunked onto the bar before her. It smelled bitter and sweet at the same time and she stared at it. There were barely more than two gulps in the glass. She took a tentative sip. The burning choked her at first, but she forced down the rest. She gagged, but resisted the urge to spit the liquor back up. Realizing the barmaid still stood in front of her with raised brows, Alea slid the glass over with a nod. She did not trust herself to open her mouth. Alea tipped the contents of the second glass down her throat as well. Her s
tomach warmed.

  “Need a third?”

  “I think she’s had enough already, thank you.” A calloused hand planted itself on the bar from behind her.

  Alea turned to find herself face-to-face with Arman’s stern expression. The world continued to swirl and she steadied herself on his arm. “Arman.”

  He helped her straighten and tossed a coin on the bar before leading her out. Once free of the confines of the tent he turned her to face him. “Fuck’s sake, what were you thinking?” His grip on her arms was almost strong enough to hurt and his teeth bared.

  Her stomach roiled as the world spun again. “Arman?” She held his forearms.

  “People are fools when they drink. I would know. But you? You’re blundering into a tent of lonely drunk soldiers, none of whom recognize you covered in blood and dirt! Who knows what happens to your power when it mixes with alcohol—you could be unable to defend yourself or destroy the entire camp!” He drew a rattling breath.

  “I wasn’t blundering, and while you may not recognize me covered in blood, most of the men here would—I don’t wear ball gowns to sew their wounds! And if I get hurt, fault the lonely soldiers not my drinking.” She wished she could storm off again, but the ground seemed less steady than before. Instead she closed her eyes and sighed. “Are you angry with me?”

  “Yes!” His voice cracked on the word and he crushed her in an embrace. He took another breath. “No. Not truly. You scared me is all.” He pulled away. “Why did you run?”

  “Bren’s stew looked like what I held in men’s stomachs today.”

  Arman winced. “No stew then. You need to eat, though, and soon, before whatever you drank hits harder.”

  “It was green,” Alea noted as he steered her back to their camp.

  Bren looked up as they stepped inside the ring of firelight. Relief washed his face. Alea waved excitedly. Her whole body was warmer than it had been in days. Her chapped lips were pleasantly numb.