by Lana Nielsen
The Dimming Sun
Lana Nielsen
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
Publisher’s Note:
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are the work of the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance to real persons, places, or events is coincidental.
Solstice Publishing - www.solsticepublishing.com
Copyright 2018 – Lana Nielsen
To my sister, thanks for helping me spin my tales back in the day.
To my parents, thanks for the encouragement. Also for instilling a healthy sense of skepticism.
To my husband, thanks for the support and companionship.
Chapter One
The bones in Arithel’s fingers ached as she dipped her quill into the inkwell. Wind howled through the narrow alleys and twisting streets of Northglade, battering the heavy wooden door to the tax collector’s office. The door creaked and moaned, and shards of icy rain flew through the tiny space between panel and floor. Thunder cracked violently and the world beyond the windowpane seemed black.
Arithel’s employer, Sir Karidan, was scheduled to return at any moment. She quickened the pace of her final calculations. Working as a tax clerk was dull and tedious, but it kept a steady supply of coins jingling in her purse during increasingly uncertain times. Her country, Neldor, had been overwhelmed with bad weather, plague, and famine for the past year and a half, not to mention the political turmoil brewing as the influence of the Nureenian Empire and its ‘People’s Army’ advanced toward their borderlands. It seemed it was only a matter of time before Tiresias’s bloody, neverending revolution took root in her homeland, which would leave only pagan barbarian nations beyond the Empire’s grasp.
The whole continent of Linnea, perhaps even the whole world, had to be on the brink of some great, perhaps irreversible change. The air was heavy and thick; the sun itself had not shone in a year. Layers of swirling clouds and dust obscured its bright warmth day after day. This dimming sun was a bizarre phenomenon; in the first two months, many Neldorins had outright panicked. It caused even cynical Arithel to give pause and think of Agron or the old gods and spirits that had once wandered the land.
Arithel penned a description of a wool guild’s inventory, taking special care to write in the intricate calligraphic style required on all official documents. She sighed as she realized she had drawn some of her letters too large. Instead of starting over, she simply squeezed the remainder of the words onto the page—her employer would not notice.
She cursed herself as she wrote, as her thoughts drifted back to the time before she came to the capital, looking for work—back to when she had been a normal maid, just the bailiff’s daughter, growing up in the lazy fishing village of Portreath. It had only been three years, but those innocent, halcyon days seemed like lifetimes ago. She sighed, and blinked away the images of the incident hovering at the edge of her mind. If only she had handled things better…
A sudden pounding at the door startled Arithel. As she jumped up, her elbow knocked her inkwell onto her lap. It toppled over, and black liquid ran over the folds of her pale blue skirt.
“Damn you!” she swore at the sorry well.
The door flew open. Arithel tried to conceal the wasted ink. She didn’t bother to look up at her boss as he slammed the door. She stacked her papers together, feebly attempting to convey some sense of organization.
“I’m sorry, sir, I’ve yet to finish the accounts you asked for.”
When she glanced up to gauge his reaction, she was shocked to see that the man who had entered the office was not Sir Karidan Andrete at all. She had never seen this burly fellow in her life. His black coat was dripping, and his boot prints were stamped in mud on the red rug that occupied most of the room. His eyes were black and deep-set, and his face flat in appearance. He was foreign, no doubt—by the looks of him, an Ialorian mercenary, from the rocky steppes far to the east.
He could only be there to rob her.
Arithel stared at him, frozen with uncertainty. She said nothing as he locked the door from the inside and drew together the curtains. She tapped her fingers against the desk and stuffed her reports inside a drawer.
He pulled up a leather chair and faced her.
“What do you want, Easterner?” Arithel asked, noting the heavy sword at his back. All she had was the knife at her belt, more ornamental heirloom than practical weapon. She thumbed the ornate metal coils at its hilt.
Hardly thinking, she thrust the blade towards his sun-browned face, stopping just inches short of his nose. He did not flinch.
“I asked you a question. If you have no explanation for your presence here, I’ll gladly escort you outside,” she said.
Her blade was shaking.
The man smiled a bit and pulled a leather satchel from his pocket. He tossed it on the desk before her. Dozens of shining gold coins spilled from its mouth.
“I didn’t come here to threaten you, Miss Nicose.”
His accent was thick.
She lowered her knife.
“Very well. What’s the meaning of all this?”
“I came to ask a favor for my employer. He’s willing to grant generous compensation.” He nodded towards the coins.
“Aye, continue,” Arithel murmured.
“I’m a guard of Sir Enoch Vandive,” he said. Vandive was the most prominent arms dealer in the area. “He would appreciate it if you could make his revenue records disappear before the next collection date. He needs to receive a large shipment at short notice, which will be of great importance in the coming weeks.”
“I suppose these coins are my only reward for this treason.” She laughed, confounded by the suddenness of the proposition.
“We’re only asking you to destroy the records this once, to buy us time to make our purchase. Once we’re successful, which we will be one way or the other, you’re going to want to have been on our side.”
“I don’t want any part of overthrowing my king. You said yourself; it will happen one way or another. Tell your boss to forget it.”
“Your actions could make things much easier for us. Sir Vandive would remember you for that. Maybe you won’t have to face the mob that will come for the other tax collectors.”
“This is all wild speculation.” She crossed her arms. “Which I could get Enoch Vandive arrested for,” she added, though she knew it was probably wasn’t true.
“I see you’ve made your choice. We’ll find other means to compensate for the money lost in collection this month.”
He picked up the purse from the table.
“Wait!” Arithel croaked as the stranger approached the door. “Enoch Vandive of Gull Harbor, right? I worked on his accounts today…” She opened the top desk drawer and flipped through the crumpled scrolls until she found the right one.
Without second thought, she flung the report into the fireplace. She grabbed the poker that lay atop the mantle and stoked the flames.
“Karidan won’t notice it’s gone until the king’s guard arrives. He’s not very thorough. You have a month of leeway as opposed to just a week,” she said.
The parchment quickly dissolved into smoke and ash.
“Sir Vandive thanks you for your service.” He tossed her the purse.
The bag was a little lighter than before.
The foreigner was gone before she could take a second look.
“Agron be damned,” she whispered.
Sh
e returned to work. The clock above the mantle ticked hypnotically as she scribbled out the remaining reports with a furious fervor.
Not fifteen minutes had passed when Sir Karidan finally walked through the door. Arithel’s stomach turned. Her eyes flashed towards the fireplace one last time.
There is no reason to act suspicious, she assured herself.
Karidan sighed as he shut the door. His hair was soaked and fat raindrops rolled off his purple coat. He strode towards the hearth and collapsed in his cushy leather chair, the same chair the foreigner had sat upon.
Arithel completed the final table of the day, Edwin Brasher’s imports of Nureenian soap. She gently blew on the fresh ink.
“Some storm,” Karidan said as he leaned his head against the back of his chair.
“Aye, it’s relentless. I hope you didn’t have too much trouble out there.”
Karidan retrieved a small silver flask from his pocket. “Of course, I had trouble, but it wasn’t the weather that caused it. I had to visit the villages past the western outskirts of the city. Normally that’s Sir Drake’s domain, but he’s disappeared. An old woman chased me off her property with a broom. Some cursed bunch of peddlers’ brats followed me around, lobbing rocks whenever they got the chance. And my guards— worthless!”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Arithel said.
It sounded half-pleasant compared to the times she had gone on collection duty.
“It’s expected when dealing with the crofters. That was not what has depressed me, though.”
“What has?” Arithel asked as he guzzled from the mouth of the flask. The scent of the liquor was so strong it burned her eyes.
“A yeoman — a respectable man, a friend of mine, even. He offered me his own daughter as payment of his debts.”
“I’m sorry,” Arithel searched for the proper response. “These are twisted days we live in.”
“Indeed, they are.” Karidan slumped further into his seat, his form pathetically shrunken and lost among the grandiose folds of his clothes. Gold buttons glistened in the firelight. “I can hardly take it anymore. I feel like a monster every day I do my work!” He sniffed. “It’s a mess out there. I wish the king would grant some sort of relief, even if only temporary.”
“It will make no difference,” Arithel stated matter-of-factly. “You should not feel guilty for simply doing your job. You are acting upon the king’s orders and helping to maintain what little stability is left in this country. If not for people like us, Neldor would be under the Nureenian yoke by now.”
That was what she told herself on bad days, at least, days she had to watch the guards ransack small cottages, strip-searching and even beating uncompliant tenants. That’s what she reminded herself when children wailed as their parents were hauled off to the debtor’s prison…
Karidan nodded in acknowledgement. He took another sip of his drink and grinned. “You’re level-headed, Arithel. You remind me of your father.”
“He’s better person than I,” she replied, in a more serious tone than she intended.
“Don’t sell yourself short. You’ve been a wonderful worker for nearly three years, far superior to the old clerk.”
“Thanks,” Arithel said, overwhelmed by the compliment.
“The old clerk tried to steal from under my very nose. Your loyalty and honesty have certainly not gone unnoticed.”
“Er, uh, thank you,” she stammered. “Only a fool would attempt to steal from the king’s reserves.”
“Lisette even liked you. Lisette didn’t like hardly anyone.” He cracked, moisture welling in his eyes.
Arithel felt uncomfortable.
“Lisette was one of my greatest friends here in Northglade. She always made me feel welcome. I’ll never forget her tea, her conversation.” Arithel made a feeble effort to console her boss as he sat there drunkenly half-sobbing. She couldn’t blame him. It had been only four months since his wife had died. The plague had swept over the capital so suddenly; Lisette was all he had.
“I forgot to tell you about something important this morning.” Karidan reached into his pocket and tossed a scroll towards her. It landed in her lap and was tied with a green ribbon.
“What is it?” Arithel asked as she gently unfurled the paper.
“Lisette would have wanted you to have it, I know,” Karidan declared somberly.
Arithel quickly scanned the heavy black text.
“This is a land deed,” she remarked incredulously, her surprise quickly fading into a deep sensation of guilt.
“In the Lost Isles. It belonged to Lisette.”
“Eight hundred acres,” Arithel whispered. “Why are you giving this to me?”
“I have no one else to grant it to. I have no desire to take it myself; it’d be too far from Lisette’s resting spot. We have no children, as you already know, and no relatives that she was particularly fond of. It seems a perfect fit for you. You’re capable enough to make something of it.”
Arithel beamed with pride. This estate was only a dozen acres smaller than that of the Veseltes, the nobles who ruled the lands near Portreath. The Veseltes were one of the oldest and most pedigreed lines in Western Neldor.
“The islands do have a favorable climate in the summers,” Arithel said. “You could grow anything.”
“Aye, you can do whatever you like with it. I have been there once, shortly after our marriage. It’s a beautiful place, a stone house atop rolling green hills. The sea churns before you, past the edge of tall cliffs.”
Arithel sighed giddily, pondering how she would announce this great fortune to her family back home, how she would gloat to all the meddlesome gossips and scolds in Portreath. She was overcome with excitement, then gratitude, followed by the ugly gnawing of guilt.
“I thank you for your offer, immensely, profusely and one thousand times over. But I can’t accept it. It should be yours. You’re not too old to go.”
“Take it, Arithel. If I were as young as you, I’d get out of the capital as fast as I could. Neldor is going to erupt at any moment.”
“I know that, but it’s still home.” She searched for an excuse.
“A provincial can never really be at home in the capital,” Karidan observed. “I know why you left Portreath. You’re a bright, attractive girl—you can start over, forget your unfortunate past. If the folk in the Lost Isles ask questions, tell them you are my niece.”
Arithel frowned. She rolled the deed back into a little paper cylinder, retied the ribbon, and handed the document back to Karidan.
“I don’t want it back no matter what,” Karidan threw his arms up and shook his head. “You keep it. Even if you don’t end up going, just ponder the opportunity. It’s not one most get.”
Arithel nodded slowly without looking him in the eye: “That I can promise. You’re a good man, Sir Karidan.”
Chapter Two
Dusk fell as Arithel was dismissed from work. The afternoon storm waned into a gentle rain, leaving the streets riddled with standing water. She lingered outside the candlelit window of a tavern, pondering what might happen to Karidan if and when the coup succeeded. The Easterner’s ominous words about the mob reverberated in her head. She shuddered as a cool wind lifted her hood off her hair.
She smelled bread baking and mutton roasting. She was hungry, but didn’t want to eat. The foreigner’s coins burned too big a hole in her mind and pocket. She kept seeing the face of the Easterner in every passerby.
She started walking again and something hard hit her shoulder blade. It did not hurt, but she turned around to see the source of the projectile. A lad stood behind her, his bare feet covered with murky rainwater up to his ankles. He was short and scrawny, probably not older than fourteen.
“Excuse me?” Arithel laughed and picked up the small pebble he had chunked at her. “I think you lost this.” She tossed it back at him. The boy stepped to the side instead of catching it. He rushed towards her, brandishing a broken wine bottle.
Arith
el sighed.
He rattled the end of the bottle at her face, pointing the jagged glass in as menacing a fashion as he could muster. There was a wild, hungry look in his grey eyes.
Arithel stood before him unflinchingly, her hand resting upon her hip.
“Well, go on!” the boy’s voice wavered. “Open up that purse of yours.”
“Not tonight, boy. Go home.”
He looked surprised at her refusal to comply.
“I’ll cut you if you don’t open your bag right now!” he shouted.
“Aye, aye, all right then. Please don’t hurt me.” She feigned terror, fished around the inside of her purse, and said in a meek voice: “If I give you all my monies, will you leave me be?”
The boy nodded quickly.
Instead Arithel reached with her other hand for the dagger at her belt. As she pretended to retrieve coppers and cuplets, she whipped out the steel blade and thrust it towards his skinny throat. The boy’s eyes widened and he lowered his comparatively pathetic weapon.
“Now,” she stated coldly, touching the edge of the knife to the boy’s dirt-crusted cheek. “Fuck off.”
The boy scurried into the shadows.
“I might have given you a copper if you had asked, you know!” she yelled after him.
***
Glorun stood behind her brother, Wulfdane, as he announced the decree. Her other brother, Meldane, knelt at the bottom of the grey stone steps. Disheveled strands of tawny hair hung in front of his eyes and his hands clasped around the hilt of his blade. His thrall, Zander, stood three paces behind him. Lord Morden, Wulfdane’s favorite doctor and advisor, was standing behind Wulfdane’s throne, his hand resting on the top of the chair. He cast disparaging glances towards Glorun as the king continued to read the proclamation to court. Glorun avoided Morden’s gaze; his icy violet eyes were disconcerting and contrasted unnaturally with the deep tan of his face.
Wulfdane stroked the furs arranged over the throne’s simple wooden frame. His other hand rested on a wyrm’s head wrought into a silver sceptre he liked to fiddle with as he conducted official business. It was a ridiculous, pointless ornament, but Morden had encouraged him to wield the thing, despite the fact that no Padenite King had used it for anything other than coronation ceremonies in centuries. After all, Padenites had long been a plain, practical people—nothing like their many southern enemies with their perfumed, gilded halls.
