The Dimming Sun

by Lana Nielsen

  Next was the ‘Green Man,’ a kind of tree entity, covered with grey bark and dozens of spider-like limbs shrouded with leaves and vines. It had the face of a wooden owl, which Glorun assumed was some kind of mask rather than flesh. It was taller than the troll.

  “Its roots encircle and strangle its prey, whose life force is then absorbed into the wood. Blood feeds it as well as water,” Morden explained.

  The next creature was the worst of all. It was the only one that seemed real, like more than just some grotesque image captured in glass.

  “An elf.” Morden smiled a little.

  It was like a man, only taller and slenderer. Its pale skin was tinted gray, and its narrow face was dominated by enormous, lidless black eyes. Its hair was bound into a long braid. Unlike the other monsters, it was wearing clothes—some sort of armor, tight-fitting as hose, with no seams or breaks. It was like quicksilver had been poured onto the creature, then hardened into a shell.

  Glorun furrowed her brow. Elves did not look like this. People in Paden, in Kaldemar, and Ilsey, even in Agronian Neldor had seen elves just a few generations past. Great-grandmothers told stories of them. Elves were beautiful, with voices so sweet their songs could lull a man to sleep for a hundred years. This thing was not lovely. It was uncanny, unsettling. It looked more like the demons the Agronians were so obsessed with.

  Nils, seemingly channeling Glorun’s thoughts, said, “That is no elf. I have seen an elf maid, in the woods of Kaldemar. She was so fair-faced she made me weep. They still go to the surface there, at night, during the new moon. Trust me, Doctor. That thing is no elf.”

  Morden looked annoyed.

  “It is a different kind of elf. An older breed, a wiser breed. The ones who helped build this city.”

  There was uncertainty in his voice.

  “How do we free them? I should make this Baranchuk my head general.” Wulfdane laughed, running his hands over the cell.

  “We can’t. They are dead. They were left here when the gods departed for the otherworld. I suppose when the gods see fit to return and come through the door.” Morden dramatically pointed at the crystal portal. “These creatures may be revived.”

  “Or we could call a necromancer, and get on with it,” Wulfdane said. “I’m sure there are still some in the provinces near the ice wastes. They haven’t lost their magic up there.”

  “Maybe we could break the glass and see what happens.” Nils brandished his axe with a wild grin. “The Nureenians need to meet our friends. Can you imagine? Their hearts would stop from shock; they’d renounce their tedious god and throw themselves and their black-haired women at our feet.”

  “Perhaps,” Morden said. “But we should wait until we finish the excavations. There are more creatures, more treasures, deeper down. I’ve even seen a dragon, in my dreams.”

  The mountain rumbled. It was a brief stirring, no more than half a minute. Glorun curled into a ball and covered her ears until it was over, fearing that the ceiling of the cave would collapse on top of them and that the massive stalactites overhead would rain down like daggers.

  No rock broke loose, but the pickaxes the slaves had left behind did fly about the place. The worst part of the quake was Malina’s piercing scream just as the rollicking stopped.

  When Glorun looked up, there was blood pooling between the Queen’s legs.

  ***

  In the morning, Fallon insisted upon purchasing Arithel’s horse for her. He told her his father needed a new one anyway. She protested politely but was secretly grateful, considering she would need most of her remaining cuplets for the voyage to the Lost Isles. The stablekeeper ripped Fallon off, but he didn’t attempt to haggle. Arithel supposed for a young lord like Fallon, money was no issue.

  He helped secure her trunk behind her saddle; the scrawny mare sagged under the weight. Arithel swore that the horse’s golden eyes were brimming with hatred as she mounted it. The horse gnawed relentlessly at her bit, but she was afraid to loosen her grip on the reins. She noticed that Fallon, like most nobles, was at ease with his horse, gently stroking its neck and whispering in its ear whenever its pace faltered. When Arithel attempted the same, she only succeeded in irritating her animal.

  She hated the skittish beasts, always had.

  The road was soggy as expected, flooded in a few spots. By midday it had left the riverbanks and plunged deep into the heart of the forest. As the path narrowed, Arithel kept a constant eye out for marauders. Every rustle of an overhanging branch, every squirrel skipping across leaves made her think of the ferryman’s warning.

  As evening fell and the shadows of the Yavenwood grew taller, Fallon slowed his horse and turned to face her.

  “I wanted to let you know that we’ll be home very soon, if we press through a bit of nightfall.”

  She prodded her horse into a canter.

  “I suppose this is it?” she looked at Fallon, her dark eyes meeting his blue ones.

  “What do you mean?”

  “After tonight, we’ll part ways. We’ll be unlikely to cross paths again.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Oh, come on. What are the chances you’ll find yourself in the islands?”

  Fallon chuckled to himself. “Are you so hell-bent on going there?”

  “I’d rather be there than on the mainland after the coup.”

  “How do you know there’s going to be a coup?” he asked her, his expression grim and troubled.

  She was startled that he was surprised she knew. Surely the impending coup was the only reason a Veselte girl would soon be entangled with Ronan Drostenorde. Surely the coup was why it was necessary for Lord Faldros to ‘craft new alliances.’

  “I have my ways. I do work for the King, after all,” she said.

  She omitted the part where she burned Enoch Vandive’s tax records so he could make an arms shipment for said coup easier.

  “You shouldn’t worry about the coup’s effects on the Southwestern Marches,” he said, as if to reassure himself. “The Veseltes will rule our lands as always. It will all be cemented after Friday’s wedding. Nothing shall change in Darothmere.” He referred to his duchy by its official name.

  “I guessed as much. You Veseltes are a shrewd lot,” she said.

  “When my father passes and my business in Paden is finished, I’ll go back home to take care of the duchy. You’ll probably grow bored of the Isles, it’s so empty there. We may yet see each other again.”

  “We’ll be middle-aged. Years upon years will pass. Face it, Fallon, our paths are diverging for a good long while.”

  He shrugged. “I suppose they were always meant to.”

  “I suppose.” Arithel sighed. “It just seems so strange for it to be a reality yet again. We knew each other so well once.”

  “I know.” He laughed gently.

  “Why are you laughing?”

  “It seems so absurd now, recalling that I was madly in love with you before I left for Nureen.”

  Arithel grinned. “I knew it.”

  “How?”

  “How could I not? I was the only girl you were ever around.”

  It was more than that, of course.

  “It’s embarrassing to think of,” he muttered.

  “It shouldn’t be. It is what it was and nothing more.”

  “You know what, Ari?” He used the term of endearment once more. “You should come to my sister’s wedding. I know you’re not particularly fond of Ronan and I’m not particularly fond of my little sister, but perhaps it would be nice to say goodbye in finer surroundings?”

  “I would like that. Promise you won’t be too busy with your noble cousins to speak to dear old Ari?” she joked.

  “Promise,” he said, and before they realized it, they arrived at the outskirts of Portreath.

  Chapter Four

  The Nicose family was at supper when Arithel arrived. She barged through their door without knocking.

  “I’m back!” she announced, noticing tha
t her sister, Anoria, was absent from the family table.

  “The prodigal daughter returns,” her brother, Alarius, muttered under his breath, barely glancing up from his bowl of soup.

  “Oh, Arithel, you’re well! It’s been so long!” Her mother, Thalia, embraced her, kissing her twice on both cheeks. “We’ve heard such terrible things about Northglade and Lochwynne.”

  “Arithel is the most resourceful of our three. Of course, she’s fine,” Bergon, her father, said.

  Arithel knew her father; his comment was more criticism of Alarius than it was sincere praise of her.

  She almost felt bad for her little brother.

  “Thank you, Father. It’s good to be back where I am well-loved. I’m glad to see you again, too, brother.” She made a point to acknowledge Alarius.

  He had grown like a weed since she last saw him. He now had an awkward, long-limbed, and wide-eyed appearance. He nodded a cursory response to her greeting before slipping away to another room.

  “Where’s Anoria?” Arithel asked.

  Bergon didn’t bother hiding the disappointment in his voice. “She took her vows in Spring. She’s at the convent now.”

  “What? By Agron, I knew I should’ve come home more often. Did no one try to talk her out of it?”

  “We couldn’t,” Thalia said. “Mother Cecilia made sure of that.”

  She and her parents stayed up for hours beside the hearth, exchanging stories, catching each other up on events of the past year. Arithel told of her wild experiences on collection duty, her chance meeting with Fallon, and the mercenaries prowling the streets of Northglade. She told them about her new estate waiting in the Lost Isles. They refused her invitation to journey, just as she expected.

  “We’re too old to pack our whole lives away,” Thalia said.

  Her parents seemed suspicious as to the circumstances by which Sir Karidan gifted her the deed, but wished her luck nonetheless. Arithel had hoped they would say they were proud of her and her new fortune, but it was no surprise when they didn’t. They likely hadn’t forgotten how embarrassing it was when Ronan had broken his betrothal to her.

  ***

  Arithel didn’t wake until nearly noon the next day. Her bum and thighs were so sore from riding she could barely get out of bed. Her head ached and pounded. She downed an entire pot of tea along with a tray of honeyed pear tarts her mother had left out on their kitchen table. Arithel had not tasted anything so sweet in months. Why did I ruin myself and leave home? she asked herself while lounging in a chaise on her balcony. She listened to gulls call while she watched lazy waves lap the sandy shores of the bay. The food, the weather, the smell—it was all better here than in the grimy, crowded capital.

  When she finally ventured into town to buy a new dress for the wedding, Arithel heard no shortage of gossip about her former fiancé. His name was on everyone’s lips in the market square and at the tailor’s shop. The tales of his military prowess grew taller with each mention. To her chagrin, it seemed his winning of young Corinne Veselte’s hand had rendered the butcher’s son into something of a folk hero. It was amazing how functional, how ordinary Portreath seemed despite the troubles ravaging the rest of Neldor. No one seemed too bothered over the dimming sun, and the population even appeared to have grown a little.

  Although Fallon had said the coup would not affect Darothmere, it was noticeable that there were many soldiers, all at arms, milling about. They were not Faldros’ guardsmen, either; they wore livery from across the country. Were they there to threaten the Veseltes or protect them? There was also a great deal of traffic flowing in both directions on the road to the Veselte estate, many carts and wagons overflowing with trunks and boxes, just barely concealed by folds of canvas.

  Something was going on. Would the coup turn into something like Nureen’s revolution and depose most of the nobles? Were the Veseltes planning for the worst, moving their treasure to safer harbors, or was this simply preparation for the wedding, and the eventual violence in the coming weeks would turn out exactly as Arithel expected—the toppling of a weak, inept king in favor of a new, more down-to-earth leader who would become the new king, old order mostly intact but with the hierarchy of the various lords and generals and leading merchants shuffled around a bit.

  ***

  Before making the trip back home, Arithel decided to stop by the monastery and see Anoria. She was a bit nervous as she approached the white walls on the southern side of town; she had not been on the grounds in five years, since her grandmother’s funeral. Though she often told herself she did not believe in Agron nor the saints nor heaven nor the deepest hells of the otherworld, she somehow knew that as soon as she stepped on the cobbled, hedge-lined path to the temple, she was vulnerable—all her sins and misdeeds would gather like shadows around her and press on her head and chest until the air she breathed became stale. The changeling woman would appear again and menace her until she confessed what she had done to the high priest.

  Of course, she calmed herself by the time she arrived at the threshold of the temple. She stopped to admire two multi-story windows that stared out like colored-glass eyes; both depicted scenes of golden-haired Agron banishing the old gods and their demons to the otherworld. She had forgotten how beautiful the building was.

  Arithel walked around the back to reach the nuns’ quarters. She was surprised to find the nuns lined up in rows, meditating in the yard. She was unsure if it was appropriate to interrupt them. She waited, enduring the repetitive sound of their chants in the vowel-heavy Nureenian tongue. They all knelt before an altar in the middle of the green. At the top of a limestone block was a crude-looking wooden statue of Agron driving a sword through his own heart. Arithel always found it peculiar that they worshipped a suicidal God; the Agronian faith was complicated, to say the least.

  The chief nun, Mother Cecilia, rang a set of bells to signify that the ritual was complete: “After ye finish dusting, supper will be waiting in the mess hall.” The fat of her double chin wobbled beneath her wimple as she spoke.

  “Many thanks, Mother Cecilia,” the nuns all said in deferent unison. They bustled towards the temple, their heavy white robes swishing over the grass. Arithel spotted Anoria’s willowy, slightly hunched figure at the back of the group.

  Arithel caught up with her. ”Hello, sister,” she said, startling Anoria.

  Anoria laughed in disbelief and faced her. “Arithel?”

  Her dark green eyes protruded from her face more than normal and her cheeks were a bit hollow. No doubt she was undergoing some ridiculous fast.

  Arithel hugged her. “I’ll only be here a week. After that, I’m headed to the Lost Isles.”

  “The Lost Isles? What on earth?”

  “I need to talk to you alone about that.”

  “You can’t just make demands all of the sudden. I’m busy; I have chores to do.”

  “You don’t have a little time for family?”

  “Is there a problem, Sister Anoria?” Mother Cecilia waddled towards the girls, staring at Arithel with her smug little eyes.

  “No, Mother. Arithel just wanted to say hello. I’ll be in temple in just a minute,” Anoria said.

  “We don’t have a minute, Sister. The pews aren’t going to dust themselves!” she scolded and beckoned for her to come along.

  Anoria walked stride for stride beside the nun, away from Arithel.

  “This is madness, Anoria. You know you don’t belong here with all these rules! I’ve got land now, as much as the Veseltes themselves! Journey with me and start over!” Arithel half-shouted, drawing the attention of some nearby monks.

  “I’m sorry,” Anoria excused herself and quickly walked back to Arithel as Mother Cecilia stood there gawking.

  “Has it not occurred to you that I actually like it here?” she hissed at Arithel.

  “Come on, Anoria, you and I both know you have more spirit than this place. Don’t you want children one day? I’m afraid Father was depending on you to carry on ou
r line. Alarius—you know he isn’t reliable, and me, well…”

  Mother Cecilia tapped her foot impatiently.

  “As a nun, I’m mother to all of Portreath. I can do more good here than I ever could on my own. There is time for reflection, for reading… it quiets the soul. I know even you see the world is changing. Debauched material things like land and legacies are becoming irrelevant and will serve us no good in the coming spiritual battles—”

  “Think clearly, Anoria.”

  Anoria shook her head. As she attempted to leave, Arithel grabbed her wrist.

  “Anoria,” she pleaded one last time. “This is what we’ve dreamed of. We’ll be rich, with a great house all to ourselves and acres and acres for crops. We could have a vineyard, build you a library, anything we want. It’s ours.”

  Anoria frowned and broke free of Arithel’s grasp.

  “Not we, you. It’s your dream. I suspect the only reason you’re badgering me is because you’re scared of going alone.”

  “No, it’s just that this opportunity—” Arithel said.

  “I’m perfectly happy here, Arithel,” Anoria cut her off with an obnoxiously serene smile. “Tell Mother and Father I hope to see them in temple soon.”

  Arithel groaned. Why was Anoria so stubborn?

  Mother Cecilia scuttled towards Arithel and grabbed her upper arm. The nun’s fat fingers pinched at Arithel’s flesh.

  “Yowww!” Arithel curled her lip with unexpected pain.

  “You stay away from here, miss, if all you came back to do was cause trouble again,” Mother Cecilia warned gravely.

  The nun stood eye-level with Arithel in spite of her stooped, blubbery back.

  “Fine,” Arithel said. “You need not worry. I’m leaving for good after tomorrow.”

  ***

  On the morning of the wedding, Arithel overslept again. She rushed to get ready—the ceremony was set to commence around high noon. She looked forward to experiencing the lavish splendor of a Veselte celebration and showing off her lovely new gown of grey-green silk. Mostly, though, she looked forward to seeing Fallon again. She hoped he would reveal more about his time in the West.